by Melody Grace
She set off for home, waiting an age for the subway to Brooklyn, and then trudging another ten blocks to her apartment building. She lived in a tiny studio on the fourth floor, and as she hauled herself up the final flight, she was greeted with a blast of loud music from the apartment next door.
Heavy rap. At 1 a.m.
She banged on the door as she passed. “Turn it down!” she yelled, reaching into her bag for her keys.
The door swung open, music thumping even louder. “Shut the fu— Oh, hey baby.” Her neighbor, Sal, leaned in the doorway and looked her up and down. He was an over-tanned hardbody who was always inviting her to CrossFit, to “work on those buns.” “You’re looking good.”
“Liar.” Summer sighed, unlocking her door. “Any chance of letting me sleep?”
“Sorry, babe, I’ve got company.” Sal winked. “But you’re welcome to join us.”
Eww.
Summer slammed the door in his face and dropped her bag to the floor. The music was somehow even louder inside, shaking their shared wall with a heavy bass, but she tried to ignore it as she crossed to her tiny excuse for a kitchen and put the kettle on the stove to boil.
She needed a new place to live.
It wasn’t bad by New York standards: four hundred square feet, crammed to the ceiling with her baking equipment, a bed against one wall. Sure, there was a patch of damp in the bathroom that was smelling worse with every passing month and the water ran hot only every other day, but it was all she could afford right now if she wanted to put part of her paycheck away in the savings account marked Dream Bakery.
The music next door went down a notch, and Summer let out a sigh of relief—until the thumping bass was replaced by the sound of a thumping headboard, and Sal’s motivational sex cries.
“Yeah baby! Dig deep! Feel the burn!”
She closed her eyes. Not for the first time, she thought about packing up her bags and leaving it all behind—for Europe again, or Australia. Somewhere far away from Chef Andre, and her mother, and all the noise.
But she couldn’t just take off, she reminded herself. She was a grown-up now, working to build a life, and a future in the industry. She’d never prove she had what it took to be a great chef if she quit at the first (or second, or third) sign of trouble.
She had a dream, and she just had to hold onto it, for as long as it took.
It was clear she wasn’t getting any sleep, not until Sal’s workout was done, so Summer poured herself a cup of tea, changed out of her work clothes, and began to collect ingredients from the over-stuffed cupboard. She’d forgone a dining table in favor of a small butcher’s block countertop, and now, she set out her stand mixer and favorite blue porcelain mixing bowl. The recipe was deceptively simple, and she knew it by heart: just cream the butter and sugar until fluffy; add a couple of eggs and the flour. She still had the lavender she’d picked stashed in her bag, and she scattered some of the delicate blossoms into the creamy yellow peaks of finished batter; dropping dime-sized dollops onto a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper, and sliding them into the oven.
It didn’t take long for the scent of butter and lavender to start wafting through the room, and fifteen minutes later, she pulled out the finished sheet. Wafer-thin, fragrant and rich, just the way Madame Celine had taught her.
Summer took one right off the sheet, before they’d even cooled. She popped it in her mouth and closed her eyes, letting the light, delicate taste transport her far away. Baking was her therapy, her escape. But this time, instead of conjuring the blue skies and wide valleys of Provence like it always did, a different scene came to life in her mind.
The old stone cottage in Sweetbriar Cove.
Except, it wasn’t the way she’d found it, derelict and falling into disrepair. In Summer’s mind, the big windows were polished and gleaming, filled with a delicious display of cakes, and out front, a cluster of little bistro tables seated people enjoying their morning croissant, or a decadent tarte aux pomme.
She could see it all, as clear as day. She stepped inside the front door and found the floors freshly swept, and a long countertop filled with cake stands, each more tempting than the last. It was warm and homey, full of sunshine, with a chalkboard menu and mismatched china, old cookbooks stacked on the shelves, and happy people sighing with pleasure over their next bite of heaven.
Her bakery.
She’d always pictured it here in the city, with sleek displays and critics lining up to name her the new hot chef in town. New York was one of the toughest places to launch a restaurant in the world, and Summer had been determined she would do it one day—and prove her mother wrong.
But what if she didn’t have anything to prove?
What if her dream was the escape plan, all along?
The bakery on Blackberry Lane.
Summer opened her eyes, her heart pounding. It was crazy. Hadn’t she just been saying she couldn’t just run away and leave her life behind?
Except this wasn’t running away. She’d be running to something: the dream she’d been working towards all these years.
Summer felt a shiver of excitement, that champagne bubble in her veins. Poppy had said the town would be overrun with tourists all summer. Tourists who would love a place to stop for cake or fresh bread on their way through . . .
Was she really considering this? But now that she had that picture in her mind, it felt within reach, so close, she could almost reach out and touch it.
Think. Details.
Summer crossed to the bookcase and pulled down her binder, stuffed with loose-leaf sheets and magazine tears, and covered with recipes and polaroids of her best dishes. For years, she’d filled it with all the information she’d need to open her own place: mock business plans, sales projections, interviews with other successful chefs, and more. Now, she sat cross-legged on her bed and flipped through, her excitement rising.
Could it work?
Summer quickly looked up the cost of rent around Sweetbriar, and almost cheered when she saw the results. It was barely one tenth of even the most run-down space in the bad part of Brooklyn! And if that cottage had been used as some kind of restaurant before, then maybe the kitchen would already be equipped . . .
She ran the numbers, trying to keep her hopes in check. She’d been working and saving for so long, she couldn’t afford to get it wrong. If she took off on a whim and crashed and burned, then there would be no second chance.
But if it worked . . .
She wouldn’t have to wait. Working, and hoping, and saving—all for some point on the horizon that never seemed to get any closer.
She could make her dream happen, right now.
Hadn’t she been wishing she could be wild and spontaneous again? Well, it didn’t get much more spontaneous than this.
She leapt up, tied her hair back, and looked around.
She had a lot of packing to do.
5
Grayson woke with the sunrise and padded barefoot to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee of the day. He drank it on the back porch of his farmhouse as usual, enjoying the misty-morning silence as the fog cleared over the orchard and the ocean glinted in the distance. The apple trees were blossoming, and hydrangeas, too, and the tomatoes he’d experimented with planting last fall were already creeping up their trellis, ready for a summer crop.
He hadn’t known a thing about horticulture when he’d arrived; the whole plot was growing wild and neglected. A full couple of acres, if you counted the poor excuse for a vegetable garden he’d found hidden under a particularly ambitious strain of chickweed. A weaker man might have left it be, or razed the whole thing clear, but he was a firm believer that chaos could be contained, all it took was a little determination and elbow grease. Grayson had plenty of that. He read up on pruning techniques, took a couple of online classes, and consulted some of the old-timers at the hardware store, then set to work. It had taken a few years of careful suggestion, but order was restored: neat rows of shady apple tress
, and a vegetable garden arranged not just by species, but variety, soil type, water demands, and more.
You didn’t fight the chaos, you nudged it in the right direction. A little clearing here, some strategic planting there, and soon, everything was working in harmony, just the way it should be.
Well, almost everything.
He looked past the orchard, to the distant outline of the shop that sat on the very edge of his land. The last tenants had moved out five years ago, around the time he’d moved in, and the place had fallen into a state of disrepair. What with the orchard and bookstore, he’d kept pushing it to the bottom of his list, but perhaps it was time to bring some order to the chaos. A project for the summer. That sounded about right to him.
With the thought in mind, he changed into his track pants and left on his morning run. Three miles along the back roads and through the woods to Blackbottom Pond. A swift, bracing dip—too early for any neighbors with a wandering eye—then home again in time for his second cup of coffee and breakfast with the newspaper, same as every other day. He was showered, dressed, and at the bookstore to open up by nine, ready for another morning spent with his feet up on the desk, reading.
Except this morning, he was barely through his first chapter when the bell over the door dinged an interruption. Debra, one of the retired locals—and a world-class gossip. She’d been helpful with some pruning techniques for the orchard, so he held back his automatic scowl when she walked in.
“Debra,” he said. “There’s a new box of romances in the back. I haven’t unpacked, if you want to take the lot and save me the trouble.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, her shock of grey hair tied back with a bright purple bandana today. “And I have something for you, too. A tenant, for that shop of yours.”
Grayson lowered his book. “On Blackberry Lane?”
“That’s the one. Poppy was calling around, trying to find out who owns it. A friend of hers has their eye on it, I said you were the man to talk to.”
Grayson paused. A tenant? That would solve the question of what to do with the place, as long as they were the right kind of renter. Quiet, low-maintenance, and no trouble at all. A reclusive artist, maybe. Or a stamp collector.
“It’s not exactly in great shape,” he warned her, and she waved away the objection.
“Oh, I said, but they don’t mind. They like the idea of fixing the place up. It would save you the trouble,” she added, and Grayson’s curiosity was piqued.
“I guess I should meet them. Tell them to give me a call later this week.”
“No need, they’re already over there waiting for you.”
“Now?” Grayson was perturbed.
“I told them you wouldn’t have anything on this morning.” Debra gave a pointed glance around the empty, silent bookshop, and Grayson couldn’t exactly argue with that, so he got to his feet and flipped the sign to Closed.
“And I just picked up some muffins from the coffee shop,” she added. “You could bring them, make a good first impression.”
Grayson wasn’t worried about his impression—they were the ones who wanted something, after all—but he made it a rule to never look a gift muffin in the mouth.
“Sure. Thanks.” He took the bag and stepped outside. “Any idea what they want with the place?”
“Hmm, didn’t mention it. You’ll find out soon enough!”
Debra had an odd twinkle in her eye, but Grayson didn’t see the harm in meeting these prospective tenants. Poppy seemed to have her head screwed on straight, so hopefully, her friend would be just the same. Another writer, maybe, wanting silence and isolation to finish their next book. That would suit nicely.
It was only a ten-minute walk over to the property, so he made the journey on foot, strolling the winding country lane. Most shops in Sweetbriar were clustered around the town square, but Blackberry Lane was set a little ways out, surrounded by open fields and woodland above the bay. It was probably why he’d never had any other inquiries about renting the place, even though the Cape had seen a boom in tourists, all of them wanting souvenir T-shirts, local crafts, and somewhere to enjoy the fresh saltwater taffy. The summer people were already showing their faces in town, opening up the beach houses that had lain dormant all year, and stocking up on fresh supplies and paperback books for the beach. He hoped the prospective tenant was a summer person, too: twice the rent for half the hassle, it sounded good to him.
He rounded the corner and found the house just as he remembered: paper peeling from the dirty windows, and the door in need of a good clean. It wasn’t exactly screaming out to be rented, but you never knew with these eccentric writer types. There was already a car pulled up outside, but he couldn’t see anyone around.
“Hello?” he called. He checked the door, but it was practically rusted shut. “Is anyone here?”
“Coming!” A woman’s voice came, breathless from around the side of the house. “Sorry,” it continued, getting closer. “I couldn’t resist nosying around to take a look. God, these bushes need some work. I just need to—OWWW!”
Grayson startled. “Are you alright?” he called, peering through the bushes. Whoever she was, she was right: the place was overgrown and in dire need of some strict pruning. But that didn’t give her the right to go wandering around. “Hello?” he tried again.
“Sorry! Got caught back here,” the reply came. “These brambles are prickly little assholes, aren’t they?”
Grayson didn’t smile. “They help keep out trespassers,” he said pointedly, his patience wearing thin now.
“Just a sec . . . nearly through . . . Ah!”
The woman came fighting her way out of the blackberry bushes like an explorer hacking her way through the jungle. “Free at last!” she beamed.
Grayson blinked.
It was her. The brunette from the wedding. Dressed in a wisp of a summer floral dress that looked like it might blow away on a strong ocean breeze, with a stray twig in her hair, and her lips already parted in a delighted smile.
Trouble had found her way back to him.
And even worse, he was rather happy to see her face.
Summer couldn’t believe her luck. First, that Poppy had been able to use the Sweetbriar gossip network to track down the owner of her cottage in barely thirty minutes. (Because, even though she’d just laid eyes on it, it was completely, and inescapably hers). And second, that the owner turned out to be her tall, dark, and very handsome stranger from the wedding.
Talk about a sign. It almost made up for the bramble scratches all over her body, and the fact she didn’t even know if she’d packed up her life and moved to the Cape for a run-down cottage that might not even be hers to take.
There was only one way to find out.
“Hi!” she exclaimed, dropping down to meet him. “We never got around to introducing ourselves, but I’m Summer Bloom. And you must be Grayson, the owner,” she added, with her most dazzling smile.
Grayson stared back evenly. “That’s me.”
He didn’t exactly look thrilled to see her, but Summer wasn’t deterred. “Small world! Or rather, small town. Poppy said everyone knows everybody else around here, and now I believe her. What are the odds?”
“Slim,” Grayson said with a wry look in his eyes. He was just as handsome as she remembered: still sporting that scruffy winter beard, but looking much more relaxed than at the wedding, in jeans and a faded sky-blue button-down shirt. She quickly patted down her hair—which probably had half an actual bird’s nest nestled there instead of just resembling one—and hoped her dress hadn’t torn.
Or if it had, that it tore in just the right places.
Focus, Summer. The store.
“So this is your place?” she said brightly, like she hadn’t just crawled out of the bushes. “It’s so charming.”
“You mean old and run-down.”
“That too.” Summer grinned. “And the gardens! There’s lavender back there, fresh thyme, even some apple trees.”
/>
Grayson looked marginally more interested. “Really? I thought it was all weeds.”
“Ninety percent of it, yes. But there’s some good stuff hidden underneath. It would be great to have an herb garden right here,” Summer said longingly. “It’s always a drag trying to find fresh herbs for my recipes, but it’s like this place was meant to be. I meant look at it.” She took in the big windows and the old shutters. “Can’t you see it: the Blackberry Lane Bakery. It even sounds delicious!”
Grayson frowned. “Wait a minute. A bakery?”
“We would have tables out front, a little counter inside . . .” Summer’s vision had solidified with every passing mile, and now it seemed more real to her than even the dirty, faded cottage in front of them. “What’s the kitchen like? Is there an apartment upstairs? Do you have the keys?”
Grayson looked taken aback, and Summer had to remind herself to slow down. She may have had a few hundred miles of dawn driving to fall in love with the idea, but he was hearing it for the first time.
And from the dubious look on his face, he wasn’t sold yet.
“I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.” She took a deep breath, even though her heart was racing with nerves and anticipation. “Why don’t we go inside and take a look around?”
Grayson unlocked the door and heaved it open, the hinge squeaking in protest. “The last tenants moved out years ago,” he explained. “I’ve been meaning to clean it up, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“That’s no problem,” Summer said brightly, even as she wrinkled her nose at the smell. Dust, and age, and who knows what else? But that was nothing a good cleaning and some fresh air couldn’t fix, she reassured herself as she stepped inside, and looked around the dim room.
“Looks like the electricity’s blown,” Grayson said, flipping the switch, so Summer went to the windows and peeled back the crumbling newspaper. The room flooded with sunlight.
She felt her heart skip a beat.
