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I sit in Mr Thompson’s reception area, staring at the artwork on the walls whilst I wait to be called in, trying not to think about all of the reasons that I am now sitting here, taking a step I am not sure I am ready for. A few minutes later, I am called in, and once the pleasantries are done with, Mr Thompson fixes on me with a kind smile.
“I was expecting you, Abby, but not quite so soon. Your grandmother suggested that this might take a while for you to come to terms with.”
“Um, well, to be honest, Mr Thompson, my circumstances have kind of changed.” I am reluctant to explain everything, but I know I need to be honest with Nonna’s kind solicitor. “I really don’t know if I am ready to take on a business, even if it is one I have always dreamed of, but I have just been made redundant and am pretty much homeless as of today.” I don’t add that I am pretty much the cause of my own situation.
Mr Thompson nods and waits for me to continue. “I mean, I don’t want to just walk in there and start taking charge. I wouldn’t even know where to start. But then would the staff want me around if I don’t know what I am doing? They probably don’t have time to teach me the ropes.”
“Abby, let me stop you there. When Clara bought the business, it was with the proviso that the staff would help you as much as you needed. Both Beatrice and Andreas have already expressed to me their willingness to assist you when you felt ready to take up the challenge. I am guessing you are jumping into this a lot sooner than you otherwise would have. But maybe this way is a bit easier, huh?”
I swallow nervously and then ask softly, “Would you be able to take me there and introduce me?”
“Of course. My diary is free for another hour, so I can take you now, if that suits?”
Knowing that there is no time like the present, I nod before gathering up my bags and following Mr Thompson out. The journey is quick, too quick, really, to give me a chance to calm my nerves, and by the time I am standing outside the shop entrance, I feel like a quivering wreck. Sensing turmoil, Mr Thompson squeezes my shoulder and reassures me that no one bites, the humour in his voice helping me to relax a fraction.
I step into the bakery, and the first thing I notice is the amazing smell. My stomach growls, reminding me that I have been neglecting it of late. As I glance around, I take in the large counter and the wooden shelves running along the back, filled with different loaves. A couple of large wicker baskets hold fresh rolls ready for people to pick and place in the paper bags hanging up. It is carb heaven and I am loving it.
A trim lady in her early fifties, wrapped in a pinny, steps forward, and I realise I recognise her from Nonna’s funeral. She was one of the many who came up to me offering their condolences, and I remember wondering who she was.
“Hello, Abby. It is nice to meet you finally under different circumstances. I am Beatrice, but all my friends call me Bea.” She holds out her hand, and when I take it, she draws me into a hug. Despite my earlier reservations, I find myself warming to Bea immediately as she takes my arm and starts chatting excitedly about the shop and Nonna, relaying little stories and incidents that have me chuckling.
A couple of minutes later, a man pops through to find out what all the chatter is about. At well over six feet, Andreas completely dwarfs me, but his kind smile hints at the gentle giant I suspect he is. When Bea finally introduces us, he envelops me in a great big bear hug that leaves me a little breathless.
“Andreas,” Bea chides, “you aren’t supposed to kill her on her first day. Whatever will she think of us?”
I giggle, feeling for the first time that maybe everything will work out okay. Mr Thompson clears his throat gently, reminding me that he is still there, and when I turn to him, I notice the satisfied smile on his face. He hands over a set of keys with instructions to settle in and a request to make an appointment to sign some papers later in the week. I give him a quick hug as I express my thanks, something he seems a little shocked by as he rather awkwardly pats me on my back.
Before I know it, Bea is popping out to the kitchen to make us a cup of tea and Andreas is giving me a quick tour of the shelves and what breads he has made for today. I notice that each basket has a little wooden chalkboard with a quirky description of each variety of loaf, and when I look more closely, I can’t help but chuckle. “Who comes up with the descriptions? I love them!”
“Bea, mostly, but sometimes I have a flash of inspiration,” Andreas says, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper at this last part, “though Bea will tell you it is all her.”
“It is all me, and don’t you be telling her otherwise, Andreas,” Bea chides, coming back through with a tray holding three tall mugs, some slices of bread and a little dish of butter. “I thought you might like to try some of Andreas’s masterpieces, fresh from the oven.”
The smell is tantalising, and my stomach growls, reminding me how little I have eaten of late. I take my cup of tea and tear off a corner of focaccia and smother it liberally in butter, letting out a small groan of delight when I pop the taste sensation in my mouth. “Hmmm, this is delicious, Andreas,” I say in between mouthfuls as I try a little bit of everything.
Andreas gives me a shy smile and tells me a little about each loaf, and I get a real sense of his passion. His feelings for bread mirror mine for cakes and desserts, and I can tell that we are going to be firm friends, even though he is the same age as my dad.
The bell tinkles over the shop door as a wave of customers floods the shop, and Bea immediately goes to serve them, answering questions about the different loaves with a knowledge that makes me smile. She obviously loves bread as much as I do!
Andreas finishes his cup of tea and then offers to take me upstairs to my new home, and despite everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, I feel a small ball of excitement in the pit of my stomach. I give Bea a small wave, letting her know where we are off to, and follow Andreas down a small corridor that leads to a back door into a small alleyway. I glance to my left and notice another door, which Andreas tells me is mine.
I am not sure what to expect as I fit my key in the lock and make my way up the small, narrow staircase, but when I arrive on the landing and take in my surroundings, I simply feel a sense of coming home that I can’t quite comprehend until I start looking around more carefully. To my right is a small kitchen, which is even equipped with a fridge and a washing machine. To my far left, I spot the bathroom, and from what I can see through the doorway, it has an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. In front of me on the right is a small living room, with a bedroom next door on the left.
Andreas leaves me to it, heading back down the stairs to carry on baking for a big event this evening, and I find my feet carrying me into the bedroom. I gasp when it finally dawns on me that I am looking at my bed, the actual double bed that I used to sleep in every time I stayed over at Nonna’s growing up and which had mysteriously disappeared a couple of months ago. I run my hand over the carved headboard and take in the familiar quilt that had kept me warm and snuggly on so many nights. As I glance around the room more carefully, I take in the dressing table, the chest of drawers and the large wardrobe that are as familiar to me as breathing.
I make my way into the living room to find Nonna’s sideboard acting as a TV stand and my favourite wingback chairs, the chairs that had apparently been sent to be reupholstered, in each corner. The wooden floor is covered by one of Nonna’s Persian rugs. I sink down into one of the chairs, curling my legs up under me as I have always done when reading, as I try to take everything in.
So this is what Mr Thompson had meant when he said that Nonna had been disposing of her possessions. She knew, she just knew, that I would be living here and somehow, even with everything going on, had made sure I was looked after, just like she had done all my life. I don’t know how long I have been crying for, but the silent tears cascade down my face. My grief is like a ball of nails in my stomach, and I simply don’t know how I am ever going
to get over losing my rock. Sure, my heart has been shattered by Taylor, but losing Nonna is not something I think I will ever fully recover from.
I don’t know how long I sit there wallowing, but eventually I force myself to move. I grab my bag, which is sitting on the landing, and I take it into the bedroom to unpack. As I put my meagre possessions into the wardrobe, I notice spare towels, blankets and linen; at least I don’t have to go buy any now. Nonna really did think of everything. I put my small collection of toiletries in the bathroom, making a mental note of things I need to buy, before heading into the kitchen to explore.
I open cupboards and find the basics, like plates and cutlery, but I know I will need to visit my favourite cookshop to buy some baking bits.
Suddenly I hear a knock and then feet on the steps, and when I poke my head round, I see Bea. “Hey, sweetie. I hope you don’t mind, but the door was unlocked, and I wanted to bring you something to eat as I know you don’t have any food here and you must be starving; lunch was a lifetime ago.”
“Wow, thanks, Bea. I had no idea it was so late.” I offer up a bright smile, which Bea returns, handing over a bottle of water and a gigantic sandwich on a plate. “Really, this looks awesome. Thank you, Bea. This is really sweet of you.”
“Nonsense, Abby. We are pretty much family now,” she says with a wink. “We’ll leave you to settle in this evening, but tomorrow you are ours. Shop opens at seven, so pop down when you are ready and we can start going over things.”
“That sounds great, Bea. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Bea gives me a wave as she descends the stairs, and then once again I am greeted by the quiet of the flat. Checking my watch, I realise that I need to get out and get some shopping done; otherwise, I will have nothing to eat later. So I eat the delicious ham-and-cheese sandwich whilst making a list of everything I think I will need.
It takes a couple of hours, but I am pleased with my purchases when I finally return home, arms laden. As I pack away my groceries, I know that at least I have my basics, like flour and yeast, and I smile as I take out a couple of tins and cupcake trays. An indulgence, I know, but I think I deserve a treat.
I try to keep busy, so even though the flat doesn’t really need it, I scrub from top to bottom, all in an effort to keep my thoughts from wandering back to Taylor. I can feel the ball of anger that seems to be constantly simmering rising once again as my mind takes me back to Taylor’s office. I try to stamp it down, but at least the anger is preferable to the anguish of my broken heart and the feeling that a piece of me is missing.
I am so sick and tired of all this emotion that I make an effort to block everything out, imagining to myself the shattered pieces of my heart are being encased in ice. My visualisation seems to work, and slowly numbness seems to seep through me. When I can physically do no more, I take a shower to ease my aching muscles and then climb into bed, huddling under Nonna’s quilt as I take a measure of comfort from her scent that still lingers faintly.
I close my eyes but am immediately assaulted by memories of Taylor: his smile, his scent, the look in his eyes when he held me. I open my eyes and focus on the ceiling, trying to blot out everything else until I can feel the numbness descend again.
The Twentieth
At some point I must have slept because I wake with a start in the early hours of the morning. I realise the faint noise I hear must be Andreas starting up for the morning, so I lie in bed listening to the sounds, feeling less alone. When it is clear that I am not going to be able to go back to sleep, I get up and make a coffee.
I am tired but antsy, so I do what I always do when my life spirals out of control: I bake. Muffins are my friend this morning, so I find myself making several batches. I know I make mean apple and cinnamon muffins, but this morning I go further, adding lemon and poppy seed, carrot and pecan and savoury bran to my repertoire. I also make a couple of chocolate fudge cakes to take down to Bea and Andreas later as a thank you for helping me settle in.
Time flies and I realise that it is five to seven, so I put a selection of muffins on a plate and wander down to the back of the shop. The door is just being unlocked by Bea, so she ushers me in, chatting at a hundred miles an hour about her daughter who has run off with yet another unsuitable guy, and then disappears to make tea. I make my way into the kitchen and find Andreas pulling fresh loaves from the oven. The smell is heavenly, but my stomach rolls at the thought of eating.
Andreas gives me a warm smile in greeting, but it is clear he is busy, so I wander back to the front of the shop and help Bea set up. We are just about ready to open when Bea spots my plate of muffins. “Hmm, where did those come from?”
“Oh, I made them this morning for you and Andreas for breakfast. I was trying a couple of new recipes.” Bea pulls off a chunk of lemon and poppy seed and pops it in her mouth. Her groan of pleasure makes me smile. “Is it okay?” I ask, always nervous about how my goodies will go down.
“Seriously, Abby, that is delicious.” Bea replies before breaking off a piece of carrot and pecan.
“Hmmm…” The look of happiness on Bea’s face melts a little of the ice round my heart.
“I am glad you like it. I have fudge cakes for you and Andreas upstairs as well.”
“When on earth then did you sleep, Abby?” I shrug, and Bea comes over to me, staring at my face intently. I slide my eyes downward to avoid her scrutiny, but she doesn’t say anything more, and I let out a breath as she steps back. I am glad to avoid an inquisition.
The bell above door the pings, announcing the arrival of the first customers, so Bea moves forward to serve them and I head back to the kitchen to see if there is anything I can help Andreas with.
The day passes in a blur as I try to take in everything Bea and Andreas teach me about the business. I am also introduced to the regulars, who all seem to know who I am already. It is becoming clearer to me just how involved in the community Nonna was, and I can’t believe I didn’t know about this side of her. I recognise many faces from her funeral, and it gives me some comfort to be around people who obviously loved her and were her friends.
Closing time arrives before I know it, and I rush back upstairs to grab my cakes, which I find myself offering Bea and Andreas shyly. Both of them loved my muffins earlier, and even some of the regulars were offered samples, which they raved about, so I am hoping they will like the cake. “This is just a little something to say, well, to say thanks so much for helping me settle in. I know I am just this kid who inherited a shop, but I want you to know that I don’t want to…to take over. I just want to learn and help if I can…” I trail off, not sure what else to say.
Neither Bea nor Andreas say a word; they just simply pull me into a bear hug between them. I feel like I am about to cry, but I daren’t as I know if I start I won’t stop. So I focus on building the ice back around my heart, and gradually the numbness takes over.
The Twenty-First – Twenty-Third
I am an ice queen on the inside. I have perfected the art of preventing everything and everyone from seeing the inner me, which is ugly and black and numb. On the outside I smile and chat to customers, make small talk with Bea and Andreas, and do my best take in everything that I am being taught.
But when I am alone, the cracks have started to show. Baking is not even helping now. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat, and I know the dark shadows under my eyes are getting harder and harder to disguise, no matter how much concealer I layer on. I am avoiding Michelle’s calls because I know if I talk to her, I will finally break.
The rest of the week has been a testament to my determination not to end up in a ball sobbing over a man, and on some level I feel a misplaced sense of pride that I have managed to achieve just that.
Saturday is the busiest day of the week for Bread, and I am witnessing it first-hand as I help out Bea and Lorna, our Saturday girl. The same age as I am, Lorna is doing a culinary apprenticeship and works with us for extra money. We chat in between serving customers, and I find we actually ha
ve a lot in common.
I am amazed when my tray of muffins and cupcakes has all but disappeared by 10:00 a.m. After tasting my fudge cake, Bea and Andreas insisted I start selling what I made, as long as I used the professional kitchen to make them, to make sure all the health and safety stuff is covered. I tried to explain that Bread was, well, a bread shop and selling cakes would be a bit random, but Bea’s response was to laugh and say we could do what we liked as long as it fit under ‘baked goods’.
I have been testing the waters, making an eclectic range of treats to see what would sell and what wouldn’t, but so far things have really taken off, and I have even had a couple of orders for parties coming up in the next few weeks.
I am just returning from the kitchen with a basket of fresh muffins when I hear a familiar voice. My stomach sinks when I see Taylor’s sister, Nicola, standing there chatting to a couple of girls whilst they wait in the queue. “You have got to try the cakes here. Trisha brought one to class yesterday and they are amazing! It’s a new thing they are doing, apparently.” I smile to myself, glad that her attention is on her friends and that she hasn’t noticed me. I duck my head as I place the basket on the countertop and immediately turn to head back to the kitchen, hoping that I can escape unnoticed.
“Abby. Abby, is that you?” I turn around, knowing that there is no way to avoid talking to her. After all, none of this is Nicola’s fault.
“Hi, Nicola. How are you?” I ask politely.
“What are you doing here, Abby?” I can see by the confusion on her face that Taylor has clearly not updated his baby sister.
Book One: Thirty Days, Book 1 Page 16
