Contents
Peace, Love, & Macarons
Dedication
Rights
- Bitter Tarts
- Full-Fat Frappe
- Cherry Pie
- Crepes
- Coffee Cake
- French Torte
- Pound Cake
- Rocky Road Bars
- Cookies 'n Cream Cups
- Pineapple Upside Down Cake
- Wedding Cake
- Don't Forget!
- Also By Jessica Gadziala
- About the Author
- Stalk Her!
Peace, Love, & Macarons
--
Jessica Gadziala
DEDICATION:
To the people who can actually make macarons:
You are my heroes <3
Copyright © 2017 Jessica Gadziala
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.
"This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental."
Cover image credit: Kwanbenz/Shutterstock.com
Bitter Tarts
Maddy
I was raised to always be sure of three things: always put money in your savings account; never rely on a man; and know that no matter what, you can always come home.
Had I maybe heeded the ingenious advice of the former two, I wouldn't be suffering the humiliation of the latter.
So, I was going home.
Not for a visit.
Not to take care of a sick family member.
No.
I was going home because I had been an epic fool and screwed up my life and I had nowhere to go but home.
Did I mention I was twenty-seven?
Also, did I mention that the truest sign of failure in life was having to move home at twenty-seven after successfully living on your own since you were eighteen?
But I was out of options.
See, my story starts with a cliche.
I had been young and in love. It went to follow that I was also stupid. It is a law to the universe that you can't be young and in love without being absolutely, mind-numbingly freaking dumb. When you gave up a piece of your heart before the age of twenty-five, apparently a giant piece of your brain went with it. That was just how it was.
I had met Richard Elliot Alexander Martin III. Yes, he was a third. I bet you can already guess he came from one of those families too. He totally did.
I hadn't known that when I met him though. To me, he was just Richy who could do a one-handed keg stand, sing every last word of "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" by The Darkness in key, had hypnotic light blue eyes, and called me freaking pumpkin when he talked to me. Yes, pumpkin. After years of 'baby', let me tell you, 'pumpkin' was a sweet and welcome change.
He had just been like any other frat guy in college.
Maybe it should have been a red flag to me that he drove a car that I was pretty sure cost more than my childhood home and that he had really nice watches and that he was in school studying, of all things, finance with a minor in project management.
But I was too busy swooning over the lilies he sent me to my door and the post-it notes he stuck with God-awful, but charming as hell, pickup lines to my textbooks when we studied together.
Is your name Google? Because you have everything I'm searching for.
It's lucky I have a library card because I'm totally checking you out.
Do you like raisons? How do you feel about a date?
I know this seems like clickbait, but if you and me dated, you wouldn't believe what happens next!
Richy was charming.
Richy was handsome.
And, the coup de grâs, Richy actually treated me right.
I know, right? A college guy who treated his girlfriend like gold? It was like finding a unicorn who guarded the doors to Narnia and could give you directions to Hogwarts.
But that was how it was.
I had been twenty-two. He had been twenty-three.
And it simply... worked.
For five years.
Five years was forever in your twenties.
Five years meant he finished college and went to work and then I finished college and opted into doing an internship at a really prestigious bakery since Richy had a good job and covered the bills and told me not to worry about it, that relationships were about supporting each others' dreams and that I would never get an opportunity like that one again.
So I took it.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I had no income. I had no place that was mine.
All I had was a man I loved and his promises.
Unfortunately, when a man came from one of those families, it often followed that being privy to their good graces and deep pockets meant there were conditions.
Up until that morning, I had liked his family. They had given me every impression that they liked me. Granted, they were big city socialites and I was from a nowhere town in New York state where I had been raised by a single mother who just barely made the ends meet every month. But still, I was no backward country bumpkin. I was educated and cultured and could hold my own in their conversations from art and literature to politics and finance.
So when Richy gave me an unexpectedly giant ring and asked me to spend the rest of my life picking up his socks that couldn't seem to find their way to the hamper, I had been absolutely elated.
That joy lasted one day.
Because the next morning I woke up to find an uncharacteristically solemn Richy standing in the kitchen of our apartment. He had been in a suit for work and, judging by the time, was running late. His eyes moved over me and landed on my left hand, letting out an audible breath.
My belly had done a sinking thing, but again, young and stupid, I had shrugged it off.
But then he laid it out there.
He told me he called his family to tell them the good news and that they hadn't given him the thumbs up he had expected. No, in fact they threatened to take back the car and apartment and the monthly allowance I hadn't actually known he got. Money wasn't something we talked of often because it had simply never been an issue. So I had no idea that his job hadn't been what supported us.
No.
His parents supported us.
And they did not, in any way shape or form, support the idea of me becoming a permanent part of the family.
And Richy, in a move I never could have seen coming if it was a neon flashing sign in my face, broke it off with me, demanded the ring back, and suggested I be moved out by the time he got home from work.
"I really did love you, Madeline," he said, voice deep with a meaning I no longer believed.
"Not enough," I snapped, raising my chin as I ripped off the ring and tucked it into his front pocket.
Then he left.
I packed.
And I did the only thing I could, I called my mom.
Being my mom, she hadn't asked me to tell her my sob story or discussed rent or asked how long I thought I would be there. No, she had just said her door was always open then told me she was bringing up bus and train schedules.
Then we planned a route that meant I would have several stops in nowhere to
wns before the final bus would drop me off right out front of the one and only bar in my hometown. From there, all I would have to do was walk down about five storefronts and there I would be out front my mother's bakery: Madeline's Boulangerie. Yes, Madeline's. Named after me. Because being from possibly the only single mom in the entire small town didn't make me stick out enough. But it was flattering. It almost made up for the fact that she named me after a cookie.
Almost.
So the next morning after being mostly awake for twenty-four hours and after multiple stops in different towns in the rain between sitting next to various forms of smelly, chatty, and mucus-filled passengers, I finally climbed down off the bus, carrying my duffle because everything else was being shipped since I couldn't bring it with me.
"Heads up," someone's voice called from behind me, making me turn and face the bus again, seeing the guy who had been sitting beside me and talking my ear off for over an hour called, flinging something at me just before the doors closed.
And me, well, I could bake a Mille-feuille aux fraises that could make you cry. But I had about all the coordination of a baby giraffe trying to stand for the first time.
So whatever it was he threw flew directly past me and made me do a comical Matrix-type backbend thing so it didn't hit me.
But that move had me slamming back into something that was solid and decidedly human with a very charming, I was sure, grunt.
"Don't worry, saved your cell," a voice said behind me. A voice that was likely attached the the solid arm that was suddenly around my belly.
"My cell?" I parroted, rushing to get steady onto my own feet and yanking away, my big city mistrust rearing its ugly head. In the City, the only reason men on the street put their hands on you was to grope you or steal your wallet.
"Yeah, the guy threw..." he started as I whipped around then cut off suddenly, jerking back slightly like he hadn't expected me.
"He threw my phone?" I hissed, brows going together. "Seriously? Who throws a cell? And after I listened to him talk about how he home brews his own beer that he probably filters through his bath hair catch..." I said, exhaling hard, reaching up to run a hand through my wavy brown hair. "Thank you. For saving me a very long, annoying conversation with the Verizon people. For the fourth time this year," I said, giving him what I hoped was a passable smile despite my very broken heart and my very travel-weary body.
"New to town?" he asked, looking at me for a long minute.
It was about then that I realized I didn't recognize him. And I knew everyone in town. But I would have remembered him. He was tall. Where I was a good five-seven in flats which I very rarely wore, he was at least six-three with wide shoulders, strong arms, and a lithe but fit center that you could see through his somewhat tight black tee under his open gray and black flannel shirt.
Then, well, there was his face.
Richy had been what I would call classically good looking. He had one of those faces they used in watch ads in magazines- very Roman, very aristocratic.
This man, he was ruggedly good looking. He had a strong, wide jaw that was covered in something more than a stubble but less than a beard and the same rich mahogany color of the hair on his head that he left just a tad too long. He had strong, manly brows over warm brown eyes that had tiny little crows feet beside them, suggesting he found reason to smile a lot.
Yeah, I didn't know him.
"If you're asking that then you must be new to town. I was born and raised here," I provided, taking my phone when he offered it to me.
"Must have been gone a while," he hedged.
"Nine years, give or take."
"Here to visit?"
"Are you the local welcome wagon now? Did Hank suddenly retire?" I asked, meaning the very openly gay and adorably flamboyant man who owned a local pet store and was in absolutely everyone's business.
He smiled at that, extending his wide-palmed hand to me. "I'm Brant."
"Brant?" I repeated.
"Brantley Dane," he clarified as I slipped my hand into his.
"Madeline St. John," I admitted, knowing it would take him all of two seconds to make the connection.
"Related to Alice?" he asked, head cocking to the side.
"Her daughter."
And then was the inevitable, "No way."
"She was sixteen," I supplied, used to the disbelief. Put side by side, we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. We had the same long, shiny, wavy brown hair; the same oval faces with slightly cleft chins, high cheekbones, pale, smooth skin, and somewhat large stormy blue eyes. We were both also tall with long legs, subtle breasts, but nice asses. What could I say, I was a lucky girl to get her genes the way I did.
"Here for a spell?" he asked, irrationally grating on my nerves for no good reason.
Frankly, I was twenty-four hours into a breakup I hadn't even gotten a chance to grieve yet. I had been too busy packing and making plans and traveling. And no matter how much my heart felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it... repeatedly, I refused to be the kind of person who had a complete and utter breakdown while on public transportation. I didn't have much left in the world, but I did have my pride.
So his friendliness, to my frayed nerves, broken heart, wayward emotions, and over-tired brain and body, yeah, it just was hitting all the wrong buttons.
"Yes," I said, my voice clipped enough to make me wince and force a somewhat saccharine smile to make up for it. "But I am actually running a little late to meet my mom. Thanks for grabbing my phone. You saved me a lot of grief I don't need right now."
"No problem, Madeline," he said, rolling my name around his mouth in a way that seemed almost intimate.
Intimate?
Jesus.
Okay, I needed to sleep. After I cried and showered.
That was the only explanation for thinking the way someone said my name seemed intimate.
Hell, it never even sounded intimate when Richy said it when we were having sex.
Richy.
"You okay?" Brant asked suddenly, looking like he might reach out for me, like I possibly looked weak and pathetic enough to do something like faint in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Yes, sorry. Fine. Tired. It's been a long trip. Thanks again..."
"Brant," he supplied, brows drawing together. No doubt offended that I might have forgotten his name already.
"Brantley Dane, I remember," I said, giving him a small smile before turning and walking with purpose several storefronts down before I found the one that belonged to my mother.
It was cute, really.
While, as I got older or, as I dated Richy and adopted his tastes, I was used to things being more dark, streamlined, and clutter-free, I could always appreciate my mother's love of all things shabby-chic.
The front of the building had two large picture windows on either side of the front door (and, yes, it did have a bell on it if you were wondering). The rest of the front of the building was painted a sage green. The wooden sign for the store that hung from a long, elegant S-shaped hook so that it was actually over the sidewalk and you could see it from down the street, was framed in the same sage color with the interior a pink that was so light it was almost white. There was a small shell-shaped madeline cookie in the center with the two word name of the store on either side.
Cute.
It looked like the kind of place you wanted to go into for dessert.
I reached for the door, pulling and hearing the chime of the bell, a sound that used to bring peace to me as a child when I ran down the street from school and stumbled inside, ready for whatever sweet concoction she would allow me to sample that day.
Strange how things changed.
Hearing it then, well, it did nothing but remind me of my personal failures, my need to lean on someone who shouldn't have needed to take care of me anymore.
Guilt, a feeling most children of single mothers were familiar with.
She had dealt with enough raising me.
<
br /> But, there was time for that later.
"Madeline!" my mother's voice shrieked across the room, making my lips curve up automatically as she dusted off her hands onto her light pink apron, an action that would ensure that all the flour and sugar would get on me just like old times, and ran across the room toward me. "Oh," she said as she wrapped me up tight, reminding me that sometimes there was nothing that compared to a hug from your mom, no matter how old you were. "How long has it been since I saw you in here?" she asked, rubbing my back.
I took as deep a breath as the tight embrace would allow. "Three years, I think," I said with a nod. I didn't often make it home for long stretches on holidays seeing as I always had functions to attend with Richy's family as well. So I was always home the day of Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Mother's Day, when the shop was closed.
So that would explain why, as she released me and I got the chance to look around, my eyes caught on the right side of the building that used to hold a wall full of pastry books that were suddenly gone and replaced by a huge coffee counter. It matched the rest of the decor- sage wood, white and light pink accents with a huge white-colored blackboard on the wall behind with menu items listed.
Only, unlike the pastry menu, the coffee menu was not in the absolutely almost obnoxiously perfect dainty script my mother used.
If anything, it almost seemed... masculine.
My eyes moved around, finding people sitting at the small tête-à-tête-type tables, holding white mugs of steaming drinks that didn't have Madeline's Boulangerie written on them.
Oh, no.
While they were still the same color scheme on the logo, the name actually said Brantley's.
Brantley's.
I knew enough of my hometown to know that there was no way there was more than one Brantley among the sea of Johns and Brians.
As if I summoned it with my thoughts, the door chimed happily and I turned, a strange swirly sensation in my belly to see the one and only Brantley Dane step into my mother's bakery.
"Long time no see," he supplied easily, tucking his hands into his pockets.
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