by Libby Klein
Aunt Ginny put a papery hand on my arm. “I know how much this means to you, Poppy Blossom. I wish you had just gone to culinary school instead of that fancy college. I want you to slow down and enjoy every minute of it. Even working with Gigi.”
I groaned. The thought of Gigi, Tim’s cute little incessantly perky mentee, was irritating enough to blister a melon. “I will. I’m not going to let Gigi get to me this time. I feel like my life is finally taking a good turn. Like I’m going to make something out of myself after all. If I had a beret, I’d throw it in the air.”
Aunt Ginny cocked her head. “You’ve made plenty out of your life. What do you call the Butterfly House? You’ve turned this old Victorian into a beautiful bed-and-breakfast.”
I taped up a box and glanced at the chipped crown molding and the scuffed baseboards. “We’re almost there. We’ve had a rocky start, but I think in the spring we’ll be ready to officially open for guests. If I can ever get Smitty here to finish up.”
Aunt Ginny crossed her arms. “Thank God for the off-season. Lord Jesus help us come Easter.”
I took one last look around. Christmas was packed away for another year. It was time to turn some daydreams into reality. Today I become a chef, even it if was for only a week. I looked at my phone again.
“It’s time.” I gave Aunt Ginny another hug. “I’ll see you in a few hours after the Meet and Greet.”
A shaking rumble to our left caused me to pause and listen. “Did you hear that?” It happened again.
Aunt Ginny let out a loud sigh and pointed to the box by my feet. It was moving.
I ripped the tape off and Figaro popped out like a deranged jack-in-the-box covered in tinsel.
“This is why Pastry Chef Pierre Hermé doesn’t have a cat.”
