The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

by Kellie Hailes

  Even if she didn’t, he was certainly keen – anything to settle the skitter-skatter of nerves that had risen on and off throughout the day whenever Josie had come to mind.

  Seeing her vulnerable, seeing her wear her heart on her sleeve, and how unharmed it was, considering her childhood experiences, had made her more than just an attractive face. It had only emphasised the qualities he’d seen in her. Her kindness, her self-assurance, the quiet strength that saw her get on with things.

  It had been a strange thing to admit to himself, but he liked her. Could imagine chatting with her, the way they had at the café, on a regular basis. He’d enjoyed spending time with her. Getting to know her.

  And that frightened him.

  As irrational as it was, part of him felt being attracted to another woman was akin to cheating on Abigail. Something he’d never done, never even contemplated doing, when she was alive. He’d loved her so much. He still did.

  The front door opened with a bang as the frame hit the doorstop, and a cheery ‘yoo-hoo’ filled the shop.

  Margo. Of course.

  She always had a way of knowing to pop in when he needed someone most, but had no intention of asking for help, or advice.

  Except maybe, just this once, he needed to put himself out there. To ask for help. To seek her advice.

  ‘There you are.’ Margo appeared in the doorway, a warm smile on her face.

  Without waiting for an invitation to come into the kitchen, she made her way to the bench and pawed through the picnic basket.

  ‘A bottle of wine?’ She looked up, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Is this just for you? Or do you plan on sharing it with someone special?’

  ‘Just with Josie. If she wants some. She might not. I wasn’t sure. Maybe I should have got that pink wine. Women like that, right? At least the mummy bloggers I follow on the internet seem to. I should bring a bottle of water, too. Do you think she’d prefer fizzy water or still?’ Callan, aware he was rambling, squeezed his eyes shut as he noted Margo’s lips quirking to the side. The twinkle in her eye turning into a proper sparkle.

  ‘There’s nothing “just” about our Josie. At least not from the way you’re talking.’

  Warm hands enveloped his, and Callan forced himself to open his eyes. To not hide from the emotional turmoil that surged through him.

  ‘And there’s nothing wrong with having feelings for someone, Callan.’ Margo jerked her head out to the shopfront. ‘Shall we take a seat and have a wee heart to heart?’

  Callan blew out a long breath and nodded. ‘I think I might need one.’

  He followed Margo out, took a seat, shoved his hands in his pockets and took in the view outside. The sky was a sea of blue ombre, as the sun began its meandering descent. Not a cloud marred its perfection.

  Callan half-wondered if the weather was in cahoots with Cupid. Compelling him to take Josie out – even if he had used Mia as the excuse. That had been something of a fabrication. It had been he who’d asked Mia if she thought it was a good idea to invite Josie to watch the sunset. Not the other way round, as he’d led Josie to believe. He hadn’t wanted to admit it was him doing the asking. He wasn’t ready to put his heart on his sleeve.

  Margo stood beside him, her finger raised, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘A talk like this needs cake.’

  She made her way behind the counter and pulled out a piece of hummingbird cake. She placed it on a plate, grabbed two forks from the tray beneath the counter and brought the plate back to the table and set it down between them.

  Callan took the fork offered to him, but didn’t dig in. He was afraid that eating the cake Josie had made earlier that day would somehow emphasise his feelings. Grow them. Again, irrational. But then whoever said emotions were rational things?

  Margo speared the slice and pulled away a chunk of the moist, pineapple-rich, cake, brought it up to her lips and paused. Her gaze grew distant, like she were travelling to another time, another place.

  ‘When John passed away I couldn’t imagine ever being attracted to anyone again. Let alone loving someone. It felt like if I were to develop any kind of feelings for another man it would be a betrayal of the love that John and I shared.’ Margo placed the cake in her mouth, closed her eyes as she chewed, then swallowed. ‘A woman could get used to eating cake like this. It’s divine. Dig in, please, before I scoff it all.’

  ‘Well, with a recommendation like that, it’d be rude not to at least have a little.’ Callan pushed his reservations aside and dug his fork in, marvelling at how the tines slid through it like it was softened butter. ‘So is that why you never met anyone else? Why you’ve kept your own company all these years?’

  Margo laughed. ‘Such a polite way to put it. What you’re really asking is if that’s why I never dated anyone? Hooked up, as the youngsters call it?’

  Heat hit Callan’s cheeks as Margo’s laughter grew.

  ‘I may be in my fifties, darling Callan, but I’m not ancient. And not oblivious to the rest of the world, either. There’s still a part of me that feels like an 18-year-old. She’s just hidden away by a bit of face-creasing and age-appropriate clothing.’

  Callan forked the cake into his mouth to stop any chance of his second foot making its way in there.

  ‘The answer to your question is … it’s complicated. A bit of yes. A bit of no. Initially I was like you. I went into my shell. Hunkered down. Spent time with the kids. Tried to make up for them not having a father by going over and above what I’d done in the past. Ice cream for breakfast. Trips to the cinema. Little gifts just because.’

  Callan swallowed his mouthful and nodded. He knew exactly what Margo was talking about. He had done, was still doing, that exact same thing. ‘Mia’s collection of dolls and teddy bears has exploded.’

  ‘It can’t be helped. It’s natural to want to smooth over their pain. To fill in the sinkholes of hurt.’

  ‘It’s a pity that ice cream and dolls can’t do the same for us adults.’

  ‘You’re right, ice cream and sweets and saying yes when you should say no might help the little ones, but the only thing that can help us deal with our grief is connection. Love can be … cloistering. In the best way. But when that love is taken from us we need to reach out, find new connections, foster friendships. Not ignore the opportunity of new love, should it present itself.’

  Callan caught a note of sadness in Margo’s tone. Sadness, regret, maybe even a touch of remorse.

  ‘Is this coming from someone who passed up a chance of falling in love again? And feel free to stab me with your fork if I’m crossing boundaries by asking that.’

  ‘I’ll spare you this one time.’ Margo set the fork down and propped her elbows on the table, then settled her chin into her open palms. ‘About eighteen months after John died there was interest from another gentleman. He would pop by to see how I was going. Offer to fix anything in the cottage that might have deteriorated. We’d have cups of tea together, which progressed to going for walks along the river. The odd lunch out. It was the gentlest courtship one could imagine.’ A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. ‘Nothing like the heady rush of first love, where you spend your time counting the minutes until you’ll see your beloved again, where you’ll do anything and everything to keep them happy. And they you. The second time around love looks different. There’s not as much of the heart racing or the stomach twirling or the itchiness you get when you’ve not seen or heard from them in a while. The pace is slower, gentler. There’s not the rush to fall headlong into the affair.’ Margo pushed the plate towards Callan. ‘The rest is yours. Talking about my mistakes does nothing for my appetite.’

  ‘I take it things didn’t work out? Did he want too much too fast? More than you were able to give?’

  ‘No, he was wonderful. So patient. Thoughtful. A good man. It was I that pushed him away.’ Margo rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Kept it there. Hiding her feelings from him. ‘I got scared. The moment I knew it might be more than
just friendship, the moment I felt a hint of the affection for him that I felt for John, I called it off. Explained that I appreciated him, but that I wasn’t ready for anything more than friendship.’ Margo’s hand fell from her eyes, revealing a world of regret. ‘Then I made a point of avoiding him completely. Well, as much as is possible when you live in a village. Horrible person that I am.’

  Callan reached for Margo’s hand and held it in his own, gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Not horrible. Human.’

  ‘Kind of you to say, Callan, but it was gutless of me to avoid him. Then and now.’

  ‘Is that why you won’t go to the pub?’ Callan raised his brows, and waited to see if his suspicions, which had been growing as the conversation went on, were correct.

  ‘Poor Brendon,’ sighed Margo. ‘He really is a good man. And part of me – a rather large part – wishes I’d handled things differently. Been brave. Willing to take a chance on him, rather than keep myself secluded away.’ Margo laughed, a short, hard, derisive bark. ‘I convinced myself initially it was the best thing for the kids. That I didn’t want to bring change into their life when they’d already experienced so much. Then they grew up and made their way into the world, leaving me to rattle around in the cottage. At least until I bought the place next to yours and told myself that a cosy, simple life with just my shop and myself to care for was enough.’

  Callan picked up the last bit of cake and pondered Margo’s predicament, and how it related to him. Was he looking at his own future? Would he end up alone, and not okay with it? Because Margo clearly wished she could turn back time.

  And if he did one day feel it was time to see someone else, when would be the right time? It hadn’t even been a year since Abigail passed, and he still missed her. How would it be fair to another person to spend time with them when his wife still held so much space in his soul?

  He forked the cake into his mouth, held it there and tasted its comforting flavours of spice, sweet and a hint of tang. The crumb so fluffy and moist it almost melted on his tongue. Soothing and sweet. Rich, with depth. And entirely moreish. Like he could spend a lifetime enjoying it and never tire of it.

  ‘I told you it was good. Better than good. It’s excellent.’ Margo sat back in her chair, all hints of moroseness gone. The sparkle in her eye had returned, shining as brightly as ever. ‘That Josie is a keeper. I’d have to have a stern word with you if you ever let her go.’

  ‘So you’re telling me I should keep her on? As the house baker? For as long as she’ll stay?’ Callan knew exactly what Margo was getting at, but wasn’t willing to fully admit she was right. Or that the reason he’d been so preoccupied with making Josie happy – ensuring the picnic was perfect – wasn’t because he wanted to keep his employee happy, but because he wanted to make Josie, the woman, happy. Because he liked her. Very much so. And, as much as it scared him, as much as a voice deep down kept saying ‘it’s too soon’ on repeat, his heart was warmed by Josie. In a way that indicated she was more than just a friend.

  ‘Callan Stewart, I think you know exactly what I’m getting at.’ Margo pushed her chair back and stood, then shot him a cheeky wink. ‘You have a nice time tonight. She’ll love the wine.’

  ‘And you make sure you pop into the pub, sooner rather than later. Brendon keeps asking after you. Time may have passed, but I don’t think his feelings for you have.’ Callan picked up the plate and forks, stood, and made his way over to Margo. ‘Thank you.’ He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and brought her in for a half-cuddle. ‘You’ve been so good to our family, to me. For a long time now.’

  ‘And I’ll continue to be so for as long as you need me.’ Margo returned the hug, her head angling to the side as she heard the pitter patter of feet in the room above. ‘And the wee pet, too.’

  Callan opened the door for Margo, not really seeing her leave, or hearing the excitable shouts of ‘Daddy, Daddy’ as Mia thumped down the stairs, ready for the evening’s event.

  What had Margo told him? Love looks different the second time round.

  Did it look like a woman who made cakes so delicious they’d see the toughest man crumble? Whose smile lit up the room even on the gloomiest winter’s day? Whose heart was so big even the harshest rejections life could throw at her hadn’t soured her good self? A woman who went out of her way, when she didn’t have to, to make sure he didn’t swallow himself in self-pity and take his daughter down with him?

  It would be so easy to listen to his fears, to believe them, to put his life on hold … not just ‘for now’ but for good.

  But where would that get him? How would his life have turned out had he listened to that same voice when it had told him to stay in London. To do as his family told. To be who they wanted him to be. Instead he’d ignored it, and his life had opened up, bloomed, into something more wonderful than he’d ever dreamed possible.

  They said fortune favoured the bold, and for the first time in nearly a year, Callan was feeling bold.

  Chapter 13

  Josie tossed her latest brainstorm fails into the faintly glowing embers, watching as the flames flared for a second then died down as the scraps of paper containing good-for-nothing Christmas cake competition ideas, blackened and crumbled.

  ‘Come on brain,’ she muttered. ‘Now’s not the time to be giving out on me.’

  She shuddered, despite the warmth of the room, at the thought of not creating the winning, or even place-getting, entry for the Christmas Cake-off. She’d scoured the internet for information on previous years’ entries and the bar was set much higher than she’d expected. From simple but beautifully executed one-layer cakes to towering delights decorated to within an inch of their lives, many of the creations wouldn’t have been out of place on a television cake baking show.

  Pouring pressure upon pressure was that Callan’s wife had won every single year that she’d entered. Deservedly so. Her entries were works of art. Featuring everything from iced mistletoe that was so intricate it looked like the real deal, through to a sweet-festooned gingerbread house set upon a cake surrounded by gingerbread Christmas trees. And then there was the five-tier cake – each tier a Christmas present, the wrapping made from icing, the bows from fondant. The tiers were stacked upon each other in a way that was so precarious, Josie was amazed one of the ‘gifts’ hadn’t toppled over and fallen to the ground with a resounding splat.

  Not that she was in competition with Abigail, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. She just didn’t want to let Callan down. It was important to her that she created something that lived up to the bakery’s once stellar reputation.

  A series of beeps from her phone snapped her out of her lip-gnawing musings.

  Hot date with the hot boss still on for tonight?

  Josie rolled her eyes at Lauren’s text, and silently chastised herself for letting a couple of things slip after a few wines the night before: a) that she thought Callan was good-looking and b) that they were going to watch the sunset that evening.

  It’s not a date. And it’s still happening.

  She tapped ‘send’ on the message.

  A reply flashed up seconds later.

  You didn’t reject the hot bit …

  That’s because I’m not a liar. And you’d better not have told Will I said that I thought Callan was easy on the eye or I’ll cut off your cake supply.

  Josie grimaced at the phone.

  Your lusty crush is safe with me. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

  A winking emoji followed by a heart-eye emoji flashed up underneath the latest message.

  See you on the hill!

  Josie tucked her phone away, relief settling her swirling stomach. She shrugged on her coat, pulled her beanie low over her ears, wound her scarf round her neck, then shoved her gloves in her coat pocket for good measure.

  Callan was due any second now and she didn’t want to be late for the big event that the villagers had been buzzing about all day. Why they were so excited about watchin
g a sunset, she had no idea – the most she’d got out of them was ‘you’ll see’ and ‘if it’s you, you’ll know’, whatever they meant – but their enthusiasm was contagious, and she was strangely keen to see the spectacle of a sun setting, despite having seen many sunsets before.

  She made her way to the front door, opened it and ricocheted off something scratchy-woolled and heavenly scented.

  ‘Josie, are you okay? Sorry. I didn’t realise we were meeting you out the front. Though why we’d do that I’ve no idea. It’s already ridiculously cold out here. You’ve got gloves right? And please tell me you’re wearing some sort of woollen tights underneath those jeans? Can’t have my girl catching a cold.’

  My girl? A spark of warmth ignited low in Josie’s stomach at the term of endearment. Was that how Callan saw her? As more than just the bakery’s baker? As someone he felt protective over … maybe even affectionate towards?

  Despite the cottage casting a shadow over his face, she could see he’d turned a violent shade of beetroot.

  Callan squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I can’t believe I just said “my girl”. That’s so condescending of me. Totally patriarchal. I do apologise.’

  Patriarchal? Josie kept her lips as straight as she could, despite their twitching to lift into a grin. Anyone would’ve thought Callan had swapped parenting boards for feminist forums. Which, if he had, only made him more endearing.

  ‘Sorry. I’m tired. Not thinking straight. I had an old client of mine contact me the other day about doing his accounting again, and I agreed to it. Now that you’re here, it’s time I got back into what I’m actually good at. The problem though is that his tax is now late as he was waiting for me to “come right”, as he so charmingly put it, and didn’t want to use anyone else. So I was up far too late last night looking over his bits and bobs. And they seriously are bits and bobs. He brings in shoeboxes filled with receipts. They need sorting. Arranging. Then there’s figuring out his bank statements. I should really ask him to organise it himself, but he’s going on 80, refuses to retire, and well …’ Callan shrugged. ‘He’s been doing his taxes that way forever. And I’ve let him. Who am I to suddenly impose new rules upon him?’