Beautifully Baked: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

by Holly Kerr

  “I was away. You knew I was touring—that’s why we ended things. Which you were happy enough to do.”

  “You didn’t give me a choice. And there are things like phones, texts—you could have sent me a bloody email!”

  “I actually don’t know your email.”

  I grit my teeth. “Are you going to give me any explanation for why you didn’t tell me that I have a child?”

  Abby shrugs. “Can I get a drink of something? You might need one, too.”

  This time I grind my teeth. “It’s barely noon.”

  She smiles blithely. “It’s happy hour somewhere in the world. And you don’t have to judge me because I’m not breastfeeding.”

  “I’m not judging anything. I just want to know why.”

  “Which is why you might need a drink. There are a few things we need to discuss, Clay.”

  “I think there’s more than a few things, Abby.” But I rise and head to the kitchen, taking the time to settle my temper, curb my impatience. Why? How? What’s going to happen? How will it change things?

  M.K.

  My heart sinks as I remember her, my first thought of her since I opened the door to Abby, since I heard about my son. The woman who had constantly been in my thoughts since I met her had been completely overshadowed by a twelve-pound baby boy.

  My baby boy.

  I pour two shots of ice cold vodka in glasses, drain one and then refill it. I add soda to Abby’s, leaving mine as a shot.

  I’m not sure what good it’s going to do, but I need something. With a deep breath I head back into the living room.

  “So.” I hand Abby her glass. “Tell me. Everything.” I sink into the couch, staring at Theo, who is still asleep. I finally turn to Abby, trying to keep the glares of resentment to a minimum.

  She sips delicately before meeting my eyes. “This was over a year ago, you have to remember.”

  “And a lot of things have changed since then. But Abby, you should have told me.”

  “Do you even know why I started dating you?”

  Her abrupt question throws me. “You liked me?”

  Abby snorts. “You never bothered to ask about my past, you know. You had no idea that, before you, I’d been with a man who wanted me to quit dancing and settle down to marry him. He wanted serious, but I wasn’t ready and we broke up. Then I met you, and it was nice and easy because I didn’t love you. I wanted nice and easy because it had been intense with David. I loved him, and you had no idea.”

  “Why are you telling me that? I know we weren’t serious. It was fun and—”

  “We weren’t intense,” Abby interrupts.

  “Because neither of us wanted that. We were nice. Fun.”

  “Because that’s how you kept things. Always. With everyone you date. Fun and nice.”

  “Nice got you pregnant,” I point out.

  “Yes, nice did, which was unfortunate.”

  I rear back and stare at her. “Unfortunate? Are you going to sit there and tell me Theo was a mistake? You regret giving birth?” Theo’s hands twitch in his sleep, fisting like he’s grabbing on to something. I lower my voice. “You had options, Abby. Not ones that I would agree with, but options.”

  She toys with her glass as she watches Theo settle himself. “What would you have done if I’d told you I was pregnant?”

  “Married you.” I don’t even have to think about the question. It’s how I was brought up—to take responsibility for my actions. It’s what I would have done then, and what I should do now.

  My heart sinks at the thought.

  “You would have married a woman you didn’t love?” Abby asks skeptically.

  “I would have wanted to give my son a family. A father.”

  She sighs, the sound frustrated and annoyed. “I didn’t want that. I didn’t want that with David, so why would I want it with you?”

  “Because there was a baby involved. Theo…” My voice softens as I say his name.

  But Abby shook her head. “Theo doesn’t make marriage an option. That’s why I didn’t tell you because you would have forced me to do something I didn’t want. To be honest, he was a mistake, a regretful mistake. I didn’t realize I was pregnant in enough time so I could deal with it and when I did, it was too late.”

  “How’s that possible?” I ask with disbelief. “You’re a smart woman, Abby.”

  She shrugs. “Dancers’ bodies can be irregular. A new tour, I was overworked, exhausted. Or I thought I was because of the new tour.”

  I tap my fingers angrily on the table. “So you had the baby and didn’t tell me because you thought I would want to marry you?”

  “I didn’t think, Clay; I knew it. I knew you well enough. I had the baby, alone. It happened. Get over it. We have other things to discuss.”

  I jump to my feet. “How can I possibly just get over it? He’s my son, who I just found out about. Why did you text me a few weeks ago, if you didn’t want me to know?”

  Abby lowers her head. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was a bad day. Anyway, it’s over.”

  I’m amazed by her coolness. How could I have ever found that attractive? I ignore the little voice telling me, before M.K., Abby was exactly the type of woman I looked for. Not warm and funny and sweet—cool, and controlled, and contained.

  I’d missed out on so much.

  “If you won’t talk about that, what do you want to discuss?” I ask coolly.

  Abby takes a healthy swig of her drink, her gaze darting around the room, never once meeting mine. Never once glancing at the sleeping baby.

  “Well?”

  She drains the glass in one final gulp, setting the glass on the table beside the car seat. The baby stirs in his sleep, his face contorting like he’s having a bad dream. I fight the urge to gather him into my arms, surprised at how much love has opened up inside me for such a little creature.

  It’s like he filled a hole I never knew was there.

  He has my full attention, so it’s a moment before I realize Abby hasn’t replied. Tearing my gaze away from Theo, I glance back to see her stand up. “Where are you going? You can’t just leave. I only found him.”

  “You want him? Great. Because I need you to take him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  M.K.

  I’m still smiling when I leave Pain. Adam and Nikki shoo me out right at when we close and for once, I listen to them. I’ve also taken Adam’s advice and stopped worrying about things. Clay wants me. Clay wants to live with me. That’s all I need to think about.

  I need to make a plan.

  The cats greet me by the door. I haven’t been home in a few days, save for quick trips to feed and water them and I spend some time making up for my neglect, sitting on the floor with Gulliver in my lap, telling him and Scarlett about my plans to decide on a real estate agent, and what I need to do to the house to make it ready to be sold.

  I love my house, but I love Clay.

  Pennywise sits a few feet away. He’s very stingy with his affection, especially if he’s mad. I wiggle my fingers at him, trying to get him to come closer but no luck.

  “Clay really likes you,” I say to the tiny white cat. “You’ll go with us. But maybe not sleep on my bed. I don’t know if his allergies can handle it. Should we get a new bed?” I ask Scarlett, as if the cat will answer. “Flora got a new bed after Thomas and it helped.”

  Maybe Clay and I should get a new bed.

  I’d really like to call Flora, but I know she’ll be working in the garden until the sun sets, trying to get it ready for the Canada Blooms contest she’s entering. I don’t want to bother her, but if I don’t tell someone about this, I might scream.

  I hear the baby’s cry from next door. I should make sure real estate agents only show the house when the baby isn’t there. I won’t miss the crying when I move out.

  With a resigned sigh, I get to my feet, Gulliver tumbling out of my lap with an offended meow. There’s only one person other than Flora that I
need to tell my news to, and I’m not sure what the reaction will be.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  It’s been a few weeks since I’ve spoken to my mother, mainly because I haven’t wanted to tell her about Clay. It was too soon, too private—and if I’m honest with myself, I didn’t want to jinx it.

  But now if we’re planning on moving in together…

  My hips do a happy sway as I cradle the phone against my shoulder.

  “Moira?”

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “What’s the matter?” she demands.

  I stifle my sigh as I hit the speaker button. “Why does something have to be the matter?”

  “Because you never call me.” Her voice fills the kitchen and even the tinniness of her tone over the speaker can’t mask the maternal guilt she’s so good at throwing on me.

  “Well, I’m calling you now.”

  “Do you have a reason? Because you never call just to chat.”

  She’s in fine form today. I need to bake to get through this. I pull my mixing bowl down from the shelf along with my measuring cups. Double-chocolate muffins with hazelnut and pecans, I decide. I need something decadent.

  “I do have some news I thought I’d share with you. I met someone,” I say quickly before she starts to play the guessing game.

  “A man?” I can picture the gleam in her eye.

  “Yes, a man.” For a moment, I wonder what she would say if I said a woman. I’ve been tempted more than a few times over the years to tell her that I met a nice girl who was cute and funny and smart, just to stop her from tormenting me on my lack of a love life. But the fallout from that wouldn’t be worth it. “His name is Clay.”

  “Clay? What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s a name, Mother. Clayton McFadden.”

  “Why don’t you call him Clayton? It’s a much nicer name.”

  “He goes by Clay.”

  “I’m calling him Clayton.”

  “You’ll have to meet him to be able to call him anything.” And the way this is starting out, it’s not going to happen for a while.

  “When will I meet him? When did you meet him?”

  “I met him—” I can’t tell her I met Clay in Las Vegas because then I’ll have to go into why I was there, and that would give her more ammunition against Flora. “I met him through a friend of Flora’s.”

  “What kind of friend of Flora’s?”

  “A nice friend. Dean is very nice. He’s a baseball player.”

  “Is Clayton a ballplayer?” The scorn in her voice is as loud as the thump of the flour container on the counter.

  “Clay plays baseball, but Dean is a professional.” Almost. “Clay works for FoodMart. He’s a VP of marketing,” I add quickly before she can screech a question about me dating a man who returns the carts to the store.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, except to my mother. She wouldn’t be satisfied unless I was dating the head of the company. And even then, the company wouldn’t be good enough.

  “Hmm,” she says after a long pause. “How long has this been going on?”

  “A while,” I say carefully. “I didn’t want to tell you until there was something to tell.”

  “And my daughter spending time with a man isn’t something to tell? The fact that your romantic life has been nonexistent, according to you, because you spend so much time at your little bake shop—the fact this has changed isn’t a worthy reason to call?”

  “I’m telling you now. And I call it a patisserie. Pain au Chocolat patisserie, in case you’ve forgotten the name.”

  “Don’t be pert, Moira. So what does this Clayton think of it? I’m sure he won’t want you to spend so much time there.”

  “He loves the idea that I run my own business.”

  “Hmm, he’ll get tired of sharing you with it. Just like your father.”

  “Not every man is like Dad.”

  “Hmm. I’ll find out soon enough. When will you bring him home? You missed Thanksgiving, you know.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. And I have no plans on bringing him down yet,” I say, hoping my voice stays firm. “I’m only calling to tell you I met someone. And that we’ll be moving in together.”

  “Moving in!” Her screech sends Gulliver racing from the room. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “It makes sense since we spend every night together.”

  A long, dangerous pause comes from my phone. My mother can’t honestly believe that I’m still a virgin, but she’s never been one to openly discuss sex. Every other part of a relationship is fair game but never the physical aspect of it.

  This is another ramification of my father’s affair with a younger woman.

  “Moira Margaret Donnelly, you know I don’t like talk like that. It must be Flora’s influence.”

  Blaming Flora only adds fuel to my fire. “Flora has never once influenced me to have sex with a man. I do just fine on my own.”

  “Moira Margaret!”

  “My name is M.K., Mom! Call me that.”

  “No, because it is not your name. It’s childish, and I don’t understand why you insist on it.”

  This time I don’t bother hiding my sigh. “Well, I wanted to call and tell you about Clay.”

  “When will I meet Clayton? And have you talked about the wedding?”

  I run a hand through my hair looking at the ingredients spread out with dismay. Why did I ever think I could do two things at once? Talking to my mother exhausts me. “I don’t know.” I ignore her question about the wedding because I can’t stomach that argument tonight. Or any other night.

  “I expect you to bring him to the house for dinner soon. Your sisters will expect it. Have you told them?”

  I give a bark of laughter. “I thought I’d tell you first.” Like there wouldn’t be hell to pay if I told Molly first.

  Sometimes I imagine doing just that, like I pretend telling her I’m a lesbian. It helps during the more tedious conversations.

  But I’m a good daughter, so I’ve done nothing of the sort. “I’ll pass on the invitation and let you know what day works for Clay.” I already know there won’t be a good time. My visits to Niagara-on-the-Lake have been few and far between and take place during my days off. I haven’t had one of those in a while, and I don’t think I’ll want to waste it on a trip to see my mother.

  The good daughter in me bristles at the thought. I should make more of an effort. She’s not going to be around forever.

  “I’ll talk to Clay and let you know,” I concede.

  “Do you love him?”

  This is a surprise question because my mother talks about love even less than sex. It’s been like that since my father left, like her heart was turned to stone as soon as he walked out the door. I’ve forgiven him for a lot of things, but not that.

  Which is why I answer honestly. “I do.”

  “Hmm. Bring him down,” she instructs.

  Clay

  I have a son.

  Abby leaves Theo with me.

  I protest halfheartedly, not because I don’t want him, but because I don’t want the baby to be upset when he wakes up and finds her gone.

  “You take him for tonight. Get to know him. I’ll stop over tomorrow with his things.”

  “You can’t just give him to me.”

  “Well, I can’t take a baby on this tour, and I’m not giving up this chance.”

  Abby’s been offered a job in the national tour of The Lion King. She’ll be moving across Canada for the next twelve months: an impossible task with a baby.

  I close my mind to her selfishness and open it to gratitude that I will be able to get to know my son.

  I refuse to consider what I’m taking on, how my life is going to change. The impact this will be.

  I only think of Theo. Everything else will work out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  M.K.

  I make the muffins while I wait for Clay to get back to me.


  He knows I close at four, that I’m usually gone by four thirty unless I make puff pastry. Talking to my mother and recovering from the conversation, as well as the muffins, keeps me busy until almost five thirty.

  I hop in the shower at five thirty. He doesn’t call, doesn’t text.

  I give him until six.

  What time should I come over?

  There’s no response. I wait until six thirty, thinking that maybe he’s planning something, that his planned dinner has gone awry.

  Is everything ok?

  Six forty-five.

  Are you working?

  I get to seven o’clock by staring at a baseball game on television and sitting on my hands so I don’t text. I’m worried, I’m annoyed, and I’m disappointed.

  Plus I’m hungry.

  I make it to seven oh five.

  Are we still doing something tonight?

  I get a response to that ten minutes later.

  I’m sorry, I lost track of time. I’m not feeling

  great and laid down for a bit. I have to cancel

  tonight. I don’t want you to get sick.

  My heart sinks—not only that I won’t see him tonight, but because it’s probably the lack of sleep that’s made him sick, caused by me.

  Of course, rest and feel better. Do you need

  anything? I can bring soup, juice…whatever.

  I’ll just sleep. I’ll be ok in the morning.

  No I’ll miss you. No xos. Just that he’ll sleep.

  Since I have no choice, I grab one of the muffins and settle in with the cats. I find a series on Netflix and empty the bottle of red wine left over from four nights ago when Clay was here. I pull the blanket over my legs, missing Clay’s warmth against me. The house is so quiet without his voice. Even the silences between us aren’t really quiet.

  I don’t want to think about how I’m going to sleep tonight.

  I want to text him again to tell him I miss him, but that might sound needy, and he should be resting.