by Brea Viragh
I remembered that long-ago night, not long after graduation, the four of us teenagers in a run-down trailer at the end of a dead-end road. Three gorgeous guys who’d caught the attention of every girl in the graduating class. And little ol’ me, strangely out of place, an insignificant speck in comparison to their charm and magnetism. Somehow I’d wormed my way into their good graces and received the invitation in a whisper. How crazy it would have been to deny the cool kids anything. Besides, Isaac had said he would be there. I wanted to think he was doing it for me, had agreed to join in when he’d heard Trent and Brad had extended the invitation in my direction.
The boys had hollered and whooped, enjoying their temporary freedom with boisterous, unrestrained abandon. The sort of elusive feeling prevalent in your teen years when you felt as if you were invincible. It wouldn’t last though, because college and adulthood beckoned. But for the moment, it was a party.
No one suspected how quickly it would all fall to pieces when police stormed the property. The click and slap of handcuffs, each of the three boys dragged from the premises—and me running out the back door into the dark woods. Running and running until there was nothing but silence. And my own remorse.
How did I know Isaac would hate me? Anyone would after being in jail for three years.
And I was the one who’d put him there.
CHAPTER TWO
I was fifteen when I woke up to the fact that this was the boy who would change my life. We’d all met in kindergarten, gone to school together straight through to high school, where the teachers had the distinct pleasure of having taught our parents in the classroom as well. Grandparents too, for all I knew. Which meant they expected and were prepared for a little attitude and a whole lot of sass. I was an only child. It showed. By the time I was thirteen, I was anxious to be an adult, to leave my less than satisfactory childhood behind, ready to break hearts and anything else handy. Including my collar bone when I was in ninth grade.
Even then, I hadn’t considered the repercussions of my actions. Any of them. I went from a gawky preteen with braces and a slight lisp to a girl on the cusp of womanhood. I wanted to hang with the boys, knowing I was able to keep up with anyone and everyone. There would be no more thin, nervous Essie with the headgear and smattering of acne to go along with her freckles. Boyfriends began to pop up with some regularity. Years went by and there was one in particular I couldn’t get close to.
Isaac Howard.
He ran with a different crowd. The class prankster and consummate joker, Isaac was the one who stayed behind for detention twice a week for unscrewing the wheels on the teachers’ chairs. He did whatever he could to get a laugh, and despite the constant detention, he got good grades and was well liked by students and faculty.
Then after graduation he got arrested on drug charges.
The incident had cost me more self-respect than I wanted to admit and hardened parts of me I did not share. No one else knew I’d been at the trailer too when the police raided. No one else knew I’d been pushed through the back door into the night. Isaac made sure no one would suspect my involvement.
But he knew. Sweet, considerate Isaac, who pushed me out a door and pushed himself right into a jail cell. To cover my mistake.
Instead of dwelling on the past, I had focused my energy on a tangible goal. College. Business courses. An associate’s degree in due time, and then a license to operate my own bakery. There were plenty of people in Heartwood who liked to throw parties, or who needed a cookie to satiate a sweet tooth. I rented an old brick building in town and had cleaned the floors and walls and windows to a glossy sheen before flipping the sign to open.
Essie Townsend, the shy child turned rebellious teenager, had opened her own business in a pretty mountain town with a single stoplight. Now I had my crew, my work ethic, and a clear picture for my future. I was in control. I called the shots. I was the driving force behind my projects, involved down to every last detail.
My friends told me I did this to feel better about myself. Because I was afraid of losing control. My friends told me I would burn out and find a rut instead of fulfillment. I hoped they were wrong.
I’d promised myself to make it up to Isaac. His selfless deed wouldn’t go unnoticed. Unfortunately, I’d yet to give my due. And now he was out and the time of reckoning drew near.
Anxiety ricocheted off the walls of my lower intestine. Waiting for the hammer to fall. I placed the finishing touches on a paper bag of chocolate chip cookies and handed them off to my first customer of the day.
“You take care now, Mrs. Blevins. Enjoy them.”
“I always do, dear.” Leathery fingers patted my hand and bright eyes blinked beneath a fringe of orange hair. The color of the month. The color of a Halloween pumpkin. “My husband and I simply love what you do here.”
“I appreciate the kind words,” I responded, smiling wide.
The pink gums of her dentures stood out in stark contrast to the powdered white on her cheeks as I received a grin in return. One of my regulars, I could count on Mrs. Blevins every Sunday at noon on the dot. She returned for the consistency, the dependability that our products lived up to a promised standard. Since I appreciated her patronage, and her generous word of mouth, I aimed to please.
The cash register dinged as I made change for her twenty. “You have a great day, and ask your daughter how she liked those mini muffins.”
I exchanged a final wave before turning back to my wares. The majority of my morning time, aside from baking, was spent in lining up each set of sweets like soldiers in a straight line. Clean, organize, repeat. Left, right, left, right. Forward, march!
The center of the room boasted a cupcake tower with my logo shining brightly at the center tier. Frosting in different rainbow tones lined each layer and tugged the customers’ gaze. The rest of the room was spotless, down to the blindingly white baseboards I cleaned and polished by hand.
The shop had come out splendidly, better than I could have dreamed. It was everything I’d ever imagined for a local artisan shop and then some.
I’d spent hours on my sofa agonizing over design before deciding to keep the tones neutral, to let my confections speak for themselves. A white chair rail and wainscoting wrapped the perimeter of the room, with the rest of the walls painted a nondescript gray to compliment the white iron chairs and tiny tables. The space was reminiscent of a garden sitting area where customers felt comfortable lingering over pastries and a cup of tea. I hoped to expand the menu until we could give the French bistro and the local coffee shop a run for their money.
Sunlight filtered in through the two large windows at the front of the shop. Our opening to the outside world. Sometimes, when I stood still, I imagined those windows like eyes, allowing the casual passersby a glimpse into my inner workings. Although I didn’t consider myself fanciful by nature, I still loved the look of them. Open to let the light inside.
Essie’s Confections was my singular pride and joy. The culmination of everything I’d worked hard to produce over the last three years.
I’d been named after my maternal grandmother, and every morning when I drove to the building, I was reminded of her. Of those long-ago days where we struggled side-by-side in her cramped kitchen until I learned her secrets. We rolled out dough after dough so I could watch those bent, arthritic hands pass on their magic. Classic recipes fell to her expertise, with a pinch of something extra till old became new and I’d put on twenty pounds. She’d been a woman who lived the way she chose, said what she thought, and always had a moment to spare for her grandchild.
Losing Nanna as a preteen had cost me a huge piece of my heart. It marked the beginning of my downward spiral into disaster. Nanna had been my anchor, and now I felt not just adrift but abandoned. I was angry at life and saw no reason not to act out. Throwing off the chains of adolescence and throwing caution to the wind, incidentally, contributed a broken collar bone. I’d learned my lessons the hard way.
Was there any
other way?
“Did I see the hint of orange? Was Mrs. Blevins in for her daily fix?” a voice like honey-wrapped velvet called out from the rear room.
I adjusted a cookie jar of ginger snaps until it was aligned perfectly and nodded. “You betcha. First order of the day, a dozen of our finest chocolate chip cookies. I wonder how she’ll do with them.”
“You mean what, and the answer is...the same thing she does every day. She’ll sit in front of the television with the soap operas blaring and eat until she goes into a chocolate-fueled sugar coma. Did you at least tell her they were gluten-free?”
My associate bumped open the swinging doors with her hips, a tray of biscotti cooling in her mitted grip. With her help, I’d been able to expand my menu to the occasional bread and quiche instead of mere pastries.
“I tried. She wouldn’t hear of it. Said they tasted too good to be good for you,” I replied with a shrug. I wore an apron over my jeans and polo shirt, to keep from getting chocolate everywhere. One stain and I’d be in the bathroom for hours trying to get it out by hand. I wore my hair bound tightly into a bun, the way I always did when working, to keep it away from the food.
Digging my hands in the apron pockets, I turned to my partner.
Leda Cox–Whitaker was a wizard in the kitchen. I thanked God I found her before anyone else did. Or before she could convince the bank to approve her loan request and give me serious competition with another cupcakery in town. After dealing with inconsistent help from high school kids in the area, I was grateful to find an adult who knew what she was doing. Not just knew. Excelled.
Now we had a large, eclectic group of regulars and a budding catering arm. We incorporated a farm-to-table cooperation with local farmers, buying ingredients from them and in turn selling our wares at farmers’ markets across the county. All because Leda had pushed me to think bigger. To think better.
Where would a sugar-spun dictator be without her right-hand woman?
“She’s probably got the whole day mapped from one p.m. straight through the afternoon,” Leda said. “Figuring out how many cookies she can eat before Mr. Blevins comes in from doing the chores.”
Hands went to my hips and I turned to face my colleague slash friend slash part-time get-Essie-out-of-bed-when-she-oversleeps. “We’re going to have a good day today. And if I say it enough, I’ll believe it. Do you believe it yet?”
“If you insist.” Leda used her free hand to brush a strand of black hair away from my eyes in an overly familiar gesture. “Hey, are you all right? You look a little pale. It’s too early for cold season to start.”
I bent to sniff the biscotti. “I’m right as rain, don’t worry. I didn’t sleep too well last night and I’m paying for it. You remember how I get.”
She scoffed and moved to slide the tray into a rack near the display case. “Everyone knows how you need those nine hours to be your perfect self. Otherwise you’re a real bi—er, beast.”
“Exactly. These smell amazing. New recipe? Mmm.” I fingered the closest biscotti to get her off my case, playing on her pride and sense of achievement. Worked every time.
Indeed, when I looked over my shoulder, Leda was beaming. “Yes. Something I thought I’d try, a little tweak from the original recipe. They pair better with a dark cup of espresso for the more adventurous types. Assuming the frother on the machine isn’t on the fritz again, we may even be able to get back to making cappuccinos.”
“I can’t wait to see how your new batch of spinach cupcakes come out, too. I know people have been wanting them since the unveiling last week. You’ve really come a long way with your recipes.”
I forced a smile to my face. One small mistake and everyone would know about the knots in my stomach. The angry swarm of moths tickling my insides and threatening to burst from my throat. They would know about Isaac.
“Damn, those are fine cupcakes, if I do say so myself. I didn’t expect them to catch on so quickly, considering the avocado mousse I used on top.” Leda placed her hands on her hips, her posture mimicking mine. “But spinning those healthy cupcakes with the farm-to-table slogan helped a lot. I can hardly keep up with my neighbors asking me for my secret. I have to slap their hands away and tell them to come here instead. No more special giveaways except for weddings and showers. Your aunt is the worst. I still cut her hair and she always tries to get freebies.” Leda grinned. “Half the time, it works.”
“Delicious and nutritious in a single bite,” I said, still thinking about the cupcakes. “That’s how we’ll market them when we go to the food expo in a couple of months. I know a few foodies from the neighboring county who will be in town soon. If we can get them in here, it could expand our reach even more.”
A sudden loud squeal of brakes from the traffic outside set my nerves jangling. My eyes darted to the door.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” Leda ventured again. “You usually have a summer glow and a pep to your step. Today you seem sort of...well...blah.”
I scoffed to cover my nervousness. “Too much coffee late at night and not enough sleep. The combination tends to sap my pep, if you know what I mean.”
She pressed her lips together. “You had coffee on red wine night?”
Oh God, had yesterday been Saturday? Yes, it had been. For poop’s sake, I couldn’t keep track of my lies. Leda knew my schedule better than I did.
“I meant red wine. See? That’s how out of it I am.” The smile strained my cheeks and I tugged at the hem of my shirt. It was a deep green, designed to highlight the blue of my eyes. Black might have been more appropriate. Somber. More fitting for a funeral. “Maybe I should sneak in the back and take a nap,” I said.
“You never nap.”
“Today would be a good time to start.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“Do you know what they say about curiosity?”
Leda gave me a swift pat on the shoulder, her blonde bob swishing around a strong jaw. “Cheeky! I’ll be baking all day, filling some orders. If that won’t bother you, then go right ahead with your nap, Sleeping Beauty,” she retorted, face brightening. She knew it would bother me.
Today I wished she would stay in the front and run interference. However, of the two of us, Leda was the powerhouse. Built for speed. She could produce twice as many cupcakes as I could at any given time. Another reason why our relationship worked on multiple levels. She knew her way around a kitchen, while I was better at dealing with the practical aspects of running a business. Namely, books and organization. Numbers to crunch. My reign there was indisputable.
“You’re the boss,” Leda finished, with enough sass to down a rampaging werewolf.
I watched her leave and nodded, trying to convince myself. “That’s right. I’m the boss,” I told the glass jar of jelly beans next to the register. “I am the boss.”
It was Sunday, which meant a pop of business right after church let out. Most of the action in the mountain town of Heartwood occurred between Friday and Saturday, when the weekly jamboree brought people from their homes and the stomping of swing dancers and twang of banjos echoed into the neighboring counties. Lines of cars backed up at the single stoplight while all the locals broke out their best outfits.
Born and raised in the South, I appreciated the continuity. The slow, unhurried pace where everything happened in due time. My Southern accent matched my attitude and I was proud of it. Dadgummit.
Nope, too far.
I glanced around the as-yet-empty storefront and sighed. A few years spent at an in-state college getting my degree, and I was in business. I’d had the storefront picked out since my first day of high school, a lovely little brick two-story dating back to the early 1920s, shutters rotting on their iron hooks. Each passing year saw my vision solidifying until I’d finally saved enough to afford a down payment.
I loved being my own boss. There was no greater thrill in the world than walking into work every day doing something you loved. Right now, though, I wished I cou
ld take personal leave, which didn’t happen often when you owned the company. You’d think it would be easier, but no.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Requests came with a steady stream of locals passing through. Soon supplies dwindled and I was scurrying to our secret stashes for more. Leda and I worked in tandem like a well-oiled machine. We’d spent enough time in the kitchen together to learn each other’s habits, anticipate the other’s moves. In time, I found I would reach for an item at the exact same moment Leda would hand it to me. I appreciated her willingness to work hard, especially considering our age difference.
Most people did not like taking orders from someone younger than they were. But that mold was broken when Leda was made.
Yes, definitely luck on my part.
I sent Leda on her way an hour before closing time, since the customers had slowed to a trickle. Soon my eyes stayed on my work instead of the door, and my hands steadied while I worked the large mixer. It hung on the stand with eggs, butter, and sugar steadily whirling for a baby shower cake scheduled for delivery the next morning.
I hummed along with the radio, checking the clock to time the final round of éclairs. They’d need to be taken out of the oven within minutes or the batter settled and became gooey. I’d learned from that mistake with a swat on the behind from my granny and a vow to never waste ingredients again. You stay alert real quick with a painful incentive.
The machine chugged continuously. I dragged the giant industrial-sized bag of flour forward, my mind racing a mile a minute with the specials I planned for next—
“Boo.”
My heart lodged in my throat and I screeched, hair on end and flour catapulting into the air. It rained white when I spun around. Clutching my chest. Fingers numb and breath coming hard. Chest stilled, lungs seized, and, suddenly paralyzed, I knew there was no room to escape.
A glistening smile greeted me. The hello, you’re my next meal kind. With a little bloodlust around the edges. There stood Isaac Howard, leaning against the doorway, with his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.
