I made it back to my apartment and fished the extra key out of the loose cedar shingle near the door. I had several hours before I was due to open the shop for the day—I wasn't even going to think about the condition I left it in yesterday—but I was too edgy and overwrought for sleep. That was the smart choice but it was too late to start with that now. Not when I could flip on The Great British Bake Off, drool over baked goods I'd never seen before, and tune out the world. I needed to forget a few things this morning.
I happened upon the Bake Off last winter. I didn't watch much television and couldn't justify spending money on a monthly cable bill, but I'd turned to public television after three weeks of mega snowstorms that shut down the seacoast. I was out of books to read, as impossible as that seemed, and I was going crazy in my little attic apartment. I found this charming import from the BBC that featured a dozen amateur bakers competing in a trio of challenges each week. It lacked all the snark and sass of most reality programming and focused instead on the baking itself.
To that point, I hadn't baked more than some Duncan Hines brownies on my own. I was Italian-American and I bled my grandmother's red sauce, but the kitchen had never interested me. It always felt like an event that belonged to my mother and older sisters, and never me. I was always too young to help, and when I wasn't too young, I was too clumsy, too disorganized, too something. If ever I was involved, they made sure I knew what I was doing wrong.
My mother and three sisters had their world, and I had mine. I didn't begrudge them anything, but that was always the way of it. That was the strange price for being the youngest by eleven years when my sisters had a year or less between them, all born before my mother's twenty-first birthday. If anything, they'd all grown up alongside my mother and spoke in a shorthand I didn't understand. How could I? They shared too many common experiences for me to reach their level. They were English teachers at the regional junior high school, their classrooms all together in a row. At one point or another, every kid in this area had one of the Cortassis.
But it was more than the years between us and my decision to get a degree in teaching but never use it. My parents had three girls in quick succession and they wanted a boy. My dad had taken over the family plumbing business from his father, and while he'd never turn one of us girls away if we wanted to partner up with him, he had it in his head that he'd pass the business on to his son. Cortassi and Son. That was how it went. Except…it didn't go that way at all.
They waited until they could afford another kid, an addition on the house, and a year off from school for my mother. They waited for a boy and that was one challenge I'd never best.
To be fair, my parents didn't lock me in the cellar because I didn't come with a penis. They didn't do much of anything. I wasn't abused or ignored, but I wasn't what they'd hoped for and that was plain to see. They cared for me and loved me in their own stilted, unsatisfied ways, but even when I was a child, I had the sense I was a consolation gift…and a problematic one at that.
They looked at Nella, the oldest, with pride and affection. She was smart and well-spoken, and even though a thick mean streak ran through her, she was always ready with clever ideas.
Then there was Rosa, the one they often called the middle child, and she was beautiful. She had other qualities but she didn't need them. She could live a long, happy lifetime on her appearance alone. That knowledge left her a bit vain, a bit self-absorbed, a bit cruel.
Lydia was the youngest of the original three, and they adored her feisty, outgoing nature. She could strike up a conversation with anyone and make that person feel like the center of the universe. But Lydia was terrible to people behind closed doors, tearing them to shreds over the slightest offenses.
My parents had a smart one, a pretty one, and a chatty one. That left me as the difficult one. I wasn't explosively rebellious or anything, but I had ideas that differed from my sisters' and parents'. I preferred getting lost in books to anything else, and my sisters went to book club gatherings for the wine. I had to make my own mistakes, and my sisters were content to take direction and advice without question. I liked the rustic village of Talbott's Cove, and my sisters and parents were quick to move several towns away for newer construction, Dunkin' Donuts drive-thrus, and better shopping. I wanted to be my own boss, and my sisters and mother believed I was denying my destiny as an English teacher. I rotated between preparing the same four meals for dinner every night, and my mother and sisters once compiled a cookbook based entirely on family recipes for a church fundraiser.
Anything from the kitchen was the domain of Mom, Nella, Rosa, and Lydia. It was surprising, then, that I'd latched onto the Bake Off. But it was a distant relative of my mother's ricotta cheesecake or tiramisu. This show was about slightly obscure tortes and unusual pastries, and other creations that didn't know a home in my mother's Italian kitchen. It sucked me in, and not long after those winter storms cleared, I started experimenting with recipes. My apartment had a postage stamp of counter space but I made the most of it. I'd gained a few pounds in the process, but I considered them fun, happy pounds.
I watched as the bakers organized their ingredients for a new challenge but couldn't keep my mind from wandering back to Jackson. I had to do something about this. About him. He'd come into the shop a few times since his arrival this past spring. He was polite but reserved, like he was only coming in to make sure I wasn't cooking meth in the storeroom. We'd talked about books—he liked sports memoirs—and he'd always left me with some pointers about security or safety issues he'd noticed. It was easy and free of complications such as unwelcome ass-grabbing or stripteasing.
Of course, I'd noticed he was attractive. He went running on the beach at sunrise. Shirtless. It was impossible to miss him and his orange shorts. And it wasn't just me, it was everyone else in a thirty-mile radius.
Sheriff Lau was the topic of conversation at my mother's Easter dinner after he'd visited the junior high to speak to the students about the dangers of four-wheeling in the woods. The way my sister Antonella—she went by Nella with family, Antonella with everyone else—told it, teachers were swooning left and right. Some of them were contemplating low-level crimes to get his attention. It was generally agreed upon that Sheriff Lau could stop and frisk any of them, any time.
But he wasn't just attractive. Anyone could be attractive. That didn't make them kind or respectful or compassionate, and Jackson checked all those boxes. I hadn't put conscious effort into cataloging his qualities because I'd had my eyes on Owen and other dead ends, but my entire life revolved around this town and the people in it. I knew Jackson mowed Mrs. Mulcahey's lawn when her husband broke his arm two months ago, and her grandson couldn't do it until after his college final exams. I knew he helped the Fitzsimmonses get their son into one of the good opioid treatment programs in Portland. And he took me to his home when I was drunk and sad.
"Muffins," I said to the empty room. "I'll make him some muffins."
I had blueberries because it was July in Maine and everyone had a barrelful of blueberries right now. Two bushes grew wild in the space behind my shop, and I wouldn't be able to eat them all if I tried. But I could cram them into these muffins until they were more molten blueberry, less cake. And there was nothing sexy or suggestive about a blueberry muffin. Not even a perfect blueberry muffin. They were safe and simple, and the most neighborly of the muffins. Neighborly was the closest thing to "sorry about sexually harassing you last night" as I was going to get with blueberries, flour, and sugar.
I threw myself into baking, first doubling and then tripling the recipe as I decided to load up a basket with muffins and walk it over to the station. It wasn't a gesture for Jackson's benefit alone but all the law enforcement officers and firefighters there. They were going to be double-fisting those muffins and all would be right with the world. Maybe then I'd be able to stop thinking about his lips on mine, and the way it felt when I was certain he was kissing me just as much as I was kissing him.
&nb
sp; Drunk memories were liars. They told stories and invented truths, and I couldn't rely on them. But…he'd pressed me against the refrigerator—maybe a cabinet or a wall, I wasn't sure—and kissed me. Really kissed me. Like he'd wanted to kiss me and he wasn't merely putting up with crazy drunk girl antics. He'd held me, too, and more than the steadying hand of a man who dedicated his life to looking out for others.
Drunk memories were liars but Jackson Lau's touch was the truth.
When the last tray of muffins went into the oven, I stared at the mountain of dirty dishes in my sink. It should've been a reminder that for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction—and I had to deal with my damn reactions—but all I could think about was caramel sauce. Sauce meant for drowning thick, chewy, cinnamon buns. With pecans. And caramel sauce, too.
Without giving another thought to the dishes, I dug into my refrigerator for the chunk of dough I'd left in there a few nights ago, and then cleared off my two-seat kitchen table. It wasn't ideal for stretching dough the way good buns deserved, and neither was storing dough indefinitely, but they did the job well enough.
I didn't have enough dough to make a full pan, but I was happy with the limited edition. If the muffins were for the first responders, the buns were all for Jackson. The thought made my heart leap with anticipation, and I had to fight back a grin while I coaxed the sugar into caramel. I wanted him to have this, something I'd made all by myself, and I wanted it to say a million different things.
Thank you for giving me a soft place to land. Sorry about rubbing my ass all over your house. I hope we can be friends even though I attacked you. Thank you for shutting down all of my attempts at seduction. Have a muffin; now please forget all the things I said when I was drunk. Did you mean to kiss me back? Would you do it again?
While the muffins and buns cooled, I stepped into the shower. Like everything else in my apartment, it was tiny. This space was little more than a converted attic but it was plenty for me. I didn't need a soaking tub or proper closets or full-size windows. Those things were all nice to have, much like retirement plans and stand mixers. But I could make do with what I had.
When I was finished, I toweled off and wrapped myself in a short robe printed with flamingos. With my damp hair falling across my face, I thumbed through the greeting cards I hoarded in an old boot box. I had a serious compulsion where cards were concerned. If I saw something cute or thoughtful or punny or emotional, it didn't matter whether I had a need or purpose. I had to have them.
Of course, there was no greeting card appropriate for my current situation. Not even the blank ones with art or photographs on the front were right for this. Every card invited too many opportunities for accidental symbolism. Flowers were too sensual, too suggestive. Driftwood on the beach was just as bad. The one with a bowl of glistening cherries and a wooden spoon made my cheeks heat with embarrassment, among other things. Abstract art was out of the question.
Close to losing my patience and ready to blow off the entire muffin plan, I found a package of recipe cards. I wanted to believe I'd get into the habit of writing recipes down on nice, orderly cards rather than scribbling notes on the side of printouts or relying on my phone, but I'd never followed through on that plan. Now I had one hundred cards trapped behind shrink wrap, waiting for a reason to exist.
Kinda like my vagina.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I tore into the plastic and carefully slipped one card free from the deck. Then I thought better of my ability to get it right on the first shot and pulled out two more. With my flamingo mug filled with coffee and sugar, the cards, a pen, and a hardcover book in hand, I climbed out the window and settled onto my sliver of a deck. It was big enough for me, a beach chair, and a handful of terra-cotta pots. I'd only managed to keep the mint alive but I was still calling this a kitchen garden.
This narrow parcel of outdoor living space was perfect. I could see for miles out here, and there was nothing better than an ocean breeze. And early sunrises followed by impossibly late sunsets were the best parts of summertime in Maine. The sun was bright, and already far above the horizon, though the day was young. The shop wasn't due to open for another two hours and the sheriff didn't settle into his desk until after his morning patrol for another three hours.
I knew that only because my shop was on Main Street, a stone's throw from the station, and I couldn't not notice. It wasn't just the sheriff; I noticed everyone's routines. Maybe that made me the town creeper but I didn't care. I'd rather be the kind of person who noticed everything than the kind who noticed nothing. That was my little way of being the change I wanted to see in the world. I wilted a bit whenever someone forgot the details I'd shared in our last conversation or asked the same questions every time we talked. Those exchanges always dimmed my shine and I always walked away wondering why I wasn't memorable.
Considering I made good observation my corner of the market, it was shameful that I'd failed to notice the most basic things about Owen Bartlett. It seemed I could notice things as long as they didn't impact me. And that—that was the wound I was feeling today. I wasn't aching over the loss of Owen as a love interest, probably because he'd always existed as a future prospect, a hypothetical. I should've stepped back and examined my flirtations with him ages ago, but it was easier to soothe myself with the idea that I'd always have Owen. Even if he was never mine.
I sipped my coffee and wished I'd brought a muffin with me, but I wasn't putting everything down and monkeying my way back inside now. Climbing out here was no simple task and I had a history of spilling coffee or cocktails in the process. And I was stalling. Putting off the sorry-and-here-are-some-muffins note I had to write. If I didn't, they'd be mystery muffins and the sheriff would march on over to my shop and demand to know the meaning of all this. Or he'd read all the way into those muffins and sticky buns, and we couldn't travel down that road today.
I'd sample my creations after I found the right words for Sheriff Lau.
My first attempt wasn't awful but it wasn't awesome either.
Sheriff Lau,
My deepest apologies for my behavior last night. I wasn't myself. Thank you for coming to my rescue. The town is lucky to have you.
The least I could do was bake some muffins and rolls for you to show my appreciation.
Best wishes,
Annette Cortassi
I reread the words with a scowl. They weren't right. They met the basic criteria for an apology note, and the overall message was appropriately concise, but the whole thing tasted bitter, like an over-ripe cucumber.
And that brought to mind the feel of Jackson's body pressed against mine, the hard planes of his chest, and the undeniable ridge of his erection.
I realized I wasn't scowling anymore. A breath parted my lips as I shifted through foggy memories of his hands on my naked body, his ragged breath in my ear, his hips rocking against me as he searched for a small dose of relief.
I did that to him, all of it. I'd also stripped down to my skin and thrown myself at him. I wasn't sure how much feminine pride I was allowed in this situation. He was a man, and as much as I loved and respected men, most were consistently reliable in their reaction to bare breasts. Hell, my tits were terrific. I would've been miffed if he hadn't popped some wood.
A small part of me wanted to acknowledge it. I wanted to signal to him that things took a turn for the intimate for both of us and I wasn't one hundred percent clear on my feelings there. I knew I was zero percent clear on his feelings.
On the one hand was the erection, the way he touched me, the way he kissed me back.
On the other hand were drunk memories, and they were liars.
"None of this is helping," I muttered to myself.
Shuffling the next card to the front of my pile, I started a new note. I was aiming for a personal tone, something that quietly said, "Hey! You've seen me naked! Maybe you liked that?" but striking that balance was tough.
Dear Sheriff Lau,
Thank you fo
r escorting me home last night. Unfortunately, it seems that I didn't make it to my home and I am sorry for any difficulty I caused you. I had a bad day and drank too much, and somehow that became your problem. I apologize for that. I don't like being anyone's problem.
I know muffins and rolls can't solve everything and they probably won't make you forget any of the inappropriate and invasive things I said and did last night, but they're the best I've got. I hope you enjoy them and I hope we can put this weird night behind us. I know you haven't been in town long but I can promise you, I don't get sloppy-and-stripping drunk very often. Or, ever.
I'm a grown-ass lady and I can handle my liquor except for when the guy I thought I'd marry (eventually) shows up at my store with his boyfriend. It's not fair to say I thought we'd get married. It was more like a backup plan. Like, a back-way-up plan. I thought we'd get together at a certain point if neither of us were married or in a serious relationship, but I'd never run that plan by him. I didn't want to be his problem. I wanted to be the girl who was there if he wanted me.
That sounds pathetic. That's even worse than sloppy-and-stripping. I'm not pathetic and I can handle my liquor. It was a bad day and I learned many things I'd been ignoring or pretending I didn't know. Thank you for being there when I needed someone, even if I don't like needing people. I doubt that matters to you. I was a hot, drunk mess and you kept me safe. I imagine this is all part of your job description and just another day at the office for you.
Enjoy the muffins.
Annette Cortassi
I barked out a mortified laugh as I read over this draft. This was personal but it was also awful. I could be embarrassed without being a sad, single girl cliché. And this was the saddest.
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