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Page 16
Jake glances at me, and my pulse jumps. Dear lord, he’s cute up close. “Just can’t get the recipe right,” he tells me. “It’s missing something.”
“The cookies don’t have to be perfect.”
“I know. But I like making perfect cookies.” He shoots me a quick grin and nudges my shoulder, and I’m standing in Jake Kaplan’s kitchen, and he’s grinning at me and nudging my shoulder. “Plus,” he continues, lowering his voice to a whisper, “maybe a perfect cookie will save the store.”
I swallow hard as his eyes stay focused on mine. Once Upon might just be a job for Jake, but it’s so much more than that for me, and it feels indescribably nice that he wants to make a perfect cookie to save the place I love so much.
I duck my head down, then scoot forward to the counter. “Can I help?”
“Yeah, can you taste it?” he asks.
Oh, I can definitely taste it.
However, Jake’s mind is not next to mine in the gutter. He scoops out cookie dough with a fresh spoon and hands it to me. I take a bite, and there’s sugar and cinnamon, so of course it’s delicious, but Jake is eyeing me like he’s waiting for some sort of culinary breakthrough. “Um…” I close my eyes and really concentrate on the flavor, channeling The Great British Baking Show Come on, Mary Berry. Speak to me. When I open my eyes again, Jake’s steady gaze is still on me. My skin tingles as I suggest, “Salt?”
He stills for a moment, and I hold my breath, expecting him to knock down the suggestion, but then he smacks his head. “Wow. I forgot salt. How did I forget salt?”
I grin. “Ten hours of bookselling during the holiday season can do that to anyone. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Right, thanks,” Jake says, and grabs a container of kosher salt from the pantry. He adds it bit by bit, mixing it in with care. Watching Jake bake might be the most relaxing thing I’ve ever witnessed. Maybe he should be a YouTuber, a channel called “Jake Bakes,” but then everyone might think that channel is about smoking weed… though I bet stoners would actually love watching Jake bake cookies.
“Shoshanna,” someone suddenly whispers behind me. I jump at least a foot in the air. Okay, I jump, like, half an inch in the air. Then I turn to find Lola, and she’s grinning real hard and raising her eyebrows, which I’ve just noticed are also pink to match her hair. “You were staring, a lot, just FYI.”
My neck heats, and I glance around to make sure no one heard her or saw me Fatal Attraction–staring, not that I’ve ever watched Fatal Attraction, but I’ve got to assume there’s creepy staring at some point in that movie. Thankfully Jake is focused on his salt, and Daniel and Ms. Kaplan are rolling out the first batch of cookie dough. I grab Lola’s hand and pull her into the living room. “Was it obvious?” I ask.
She straightens the Oxford collar of her dress. “Er, kind of. But hey. Nothing to be embarrassed about. He’s cute, and he bakes. You should go for it.”
I should go for it. But I don’t really know how to go for it. And what if he doesn’t want to go for it? What if I’m just the funny, different girl to him? And suddenly I understand how nervous Cheyenne felt because it’s really freaking nerve-racking to like someone, really like someone, and not know if they return the feeling.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Definitely,” Lola says.
We return to the kitchen, and for the next two hours, it’s baking and Temptations singing and cookie frosting, and even though I’m exhausted and nervous as heck about tomorrow, I’m also happy and smiling more than I have in ages.
Finally, the finish line is in sight. We frost the last batch of cookies, while Daniel washes the dishes. The mug of spiced apple cider Ms. Kaplan served an hour ago hits my bladder with a sudden vengeance, and I excuse myself to use the restroom. After washing my hands, I leave the bathroom to head back to the kitchen, but that’s when I notice a cracked door with soft lamplight filtering into the hallway. I stop in my tracks and stare.
Don’t snoop. Don’t snoop. Don’t be a snooping snooper.
I take a step toward the cracked door and then another.
Shoshanna, go back to the kitchen. Frost cookies.
I nudge open the door with the slightest bump of my elbow.
This is disrespectful, immature, and—
I peek inside the room. And, yes, it’s Jake Kaplan’s bedroom.
His bedside lamp is on, bathing the room in soft yellow light. His bed is made, barely, a rumpled navy comforter pulled up over his pillows. The floor is clean, mostly, with a few pairs of shoes and socks tumbling out of the closet. His desk—his desk looks like mine. It’s consumed by papers and pens, a level five, mad-scientist disaster zone of creative glory. My feet take control and step into the room. I walk over to the desk and find a dozen scattered recipes, ideas for everything from the cinnamon snap cookies we made tonight to Bubbie’s shepherd’s pie to deconstructed babka. His handwriting is terrible. Absolutely awful. Scratchy and almost illegible.
I love it.
I want to steal of scrap of it and hide it in my wallet.
“Toilet’s in the other room,” a voice says.
“SORRY!” I both scream and jump, then squeak, then turn to Jake as I slap my hands over my extremely red cheeks. “Sorry. I’m terrible.”
He grins. And is it just me, or does Jake’s cute grin become a sexy grin when it shows up inside his bedroom? He takes a couple of steps toward me, and I consider dying, or flinging myself onto his bed, or running from the room and never returning to the mall again. But before I can do any of that, he says, “You’re fine. I’d be curious too.”
“Are you saying you’d sneak into my bedroom?”
“Better keep your windows locked.”
We both stare at each other for a long beat.
“That was—” I say.
“Creepy—” Jake says.
“Seriously creepy.”
“Insanely creepy. I don’t know why I said that.”
We both laugh. Jake rubs a hand over his jaw, then leans back and throws open his arms, casting his gaze around the room. “So. What do you think of the place?”
“It’s cute,” I say.
“Cute?”
“I like the recipes. And the elephant.”
Jake groans. “Was hoping you wouldn’t see that.”
I almost didn’t. But in the corner of the bed there’s a yellow stuffed animal elephant. It looks well-worn and loved, like it’s been living in that bed for years. “Does he have a name?” I ask.
“Her name is Elle.”
“Elle.” I nod. “Elle the elephant. Creative.”
“I was four. My dad, uh.” Jake clears his throat and starts moving around the room. “My dad got her for me the year he moved out. Okay… actually, that’s really embarrassing, isn’t it?” He crouches down to organize the shoes spilling out of his closet and is basically muttering now. “Note to self: Don’t keep the stuffed animal from your dad on your bed when a pretty girl is coming over.”
Did Jake just say I’m—
I step forward. “Did you just say I’m—”
“Jake!” Ms. Kaplan screams from the kitchen. “We need another batch of frosting!”
Jake stands back up and shouts, “Coming!”
“Great lung capacity in the family,” I observe.
He looks at me with this kind of funny smile that makes me feel like I’ve been pumped full of caffeine and chocolate and maybe even a couple of narcotics, and then he shakes his head, and then he says, “Shoshanna, you’re—”
“Jacob Mordechai Kaplan!” his mom shouts again.
“I said I’m coming!” he screams back. Then softer to me, “Come on, frosting emergency.”
I’m what? I’m what? I want to ask, but I follow him out of the room and back into the kitchen, and he whips up a final batch of frosting, and we finish the cookies, and then it’s midnight, and we’re all yawning, and Ms. Kaplan has changed into her pj’s and says, “I love you all, but get out of my house.”
I file outside with Daniel and Lola. Jake stands in the doorway as we walk to the car, and when I glance back, I see a bit of frosting on his cheek, and I want to wipe that frosting off, and then maybe kiss that cheek, and maybe Lola is right, maybe I should go for it.
And maybe tomorrow I will.
* * *
“You’re up late,” I tell Mama.
We’re both up late. It’s past midnight, and Daniel just dropped me off at home. But when I walked into our house, I noticed the back porch light was on and went to investigate. I lean against the doorframe now, head heavy and thoughts drowsy after the long day. “Waiting up for me?” I ask.
“Maybe.” Mama turns away from her easel to look at me. She taps her watch with a smile. “You did say before midnight, and it’s five after, missy.”
“I’m such a rebel.”
“Sure you are.” She winks and then flicks her gaze back to the easel. Her blond hair falls smooth against her back, like she just combed it. “What do you think? Does it need to be lighter?” I walk farther into the screened-in porch. Two space heaters whir with concentrated effort, holding the cold at bay. Mama twirls a paintbrush as she gazes at her beautiful mountain landscape, a crystalline lake shining at the bottom.
I step up to the painting and inspect closely. Mama’s body radiates heat, and my thoughts feel even drowsier now, dreamlike, spun up in cotton. “A little lighter,” I say. “Maybe some pinks in the sky there.”
“Good idea.” She nods and then swipes her brush into her paints. “Yes, right here.” She blends in the color with a few simple strokes. “Thanks, darling.”
“Sure.” I crack a tiny yawn and stretch one arm in front of my chest. “No problem.”
She adds one more swirl of color as she asks, “So tell me again, why were you out baking cookies at midnight? You said there’s a holiday party?” She finishes with the adjustment, then puts down her brush and motions to our rocking chairs, a pair of wicker ones with a table and potted plant between them. “Come on. Sit with me a little.” Mama cinches her knitted cardigan as she takes a seat.
It’s late, real late, and I’m tired, real tired, but that means my mind is too sleepy to make decisions on its own. Besides, it feels nice here out on the porch with the space heaters and Mama’s soothing voice. I sit down next to her and rock a few times, eyes half closed as I tell her about the holiday party—and then—and then I tell her why we’re throwing the holiday party. There’s a catch in my throat as I reveal Once Upon might close, as I see the surprise, then the empathy in Mama’s eyes. I know the secret will be safe with her, and I need to talk about it with someone.
Being out here on the porch tonight feels like a bubble, safe and tranquil, not unlike the world of Time Stands Still. Yes, the town was under a curse, but there was also something comforting about being frozen in time, about living in the before.
We’re still in the before now. Mom and Mama are still married. Once Upon is still open. I like things as they are. I don’t want them to change. I’m not ready to live in the after.
“I love Once Upon,” I say. My voice wobbles, my fingers twist together—it’s not the thought of Once Upon closing that knots my stomach the tightest. “I don’t want to lose it.”
I don’t want to lose our family.
Moisture pricks at my eyes as I yank on the sleeves of my cardigan. “Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m being too sensitive.”
“Too sensitive?” Mama asks, confusion etched into her tone.
“Yeah. Like I’ve been too emotional about stuff.” I wave my hand, try to make my voice light. “Crying too easily. Too sensitive. I’ve been all over the place lately.”
“Shoshanna,” Mama says. Her eyes lock with mine, and her gaze is warm, protective, like a heavy blanket on a cold night. “I love that you’re sensitive. It means you care. That’s a good thing.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah?”
She nods, and I realize there are a few tears in her eyes, and I laugh because you don’t have to be related by blood to inherit something from your parent. “Yeah,” Mama says. “It’s like a superpower, caring about people the way you do. Look at Geraldine and Cheyenne. Not everyone has friendships like that because you need to nurture relationships, care for your friends as deeply as you care for yourself, and that’s what you do, and I know they do the same for you.”
“I do have great friends.” I pause. My gaze flicks to my feet as I try to form the next words without crying, even though we just established crying is okay. I take a shaky breath and then admit, “I’ve been worried about you and Mom. Not knowing what will happen. It’s scary.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Mama glances out the window. In the moonlight, we can just see the silhouettes of our bare trees. “It upsets me, too. But I promise we’ll figure something out.”
“Something” is a very vague word.
“You know,” Mama continues, her tone more relaxed. “This might come as a surprise, but your mom and I aren’t perfect. No one is.”
I gasp and hold a hand to my chest. “Are you saying I, the magnificent Shoshanna Greenberg, daughter of yours, light of your life, am not perfect?”
She laughs, eyes brightening. “Afraid I am. I hope you can move past this great insult.”
“Only time will tell.”
Mama grins. “C’mon.” She stands, takes my hand, and tugs me out of my chair.
It really is nice out here, snug as the heaters battle the cold air pressing in against the screens. We finish Mama’s painting together, cozy and content. And it’s true. Only time will tell. And there’s no stopping time. The minutes slip by into tomorrow, and we begin to live in the after.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ll do it!” I offer.
“No problem!” I say.
“On it!” I call out.
For the next few hours I volunteer for every task, whether it’s as menial as re-alphabetizing our shelves or as gross as changing the liners in our trash cans (freaking ew to the person who dumped out an entire congealed bowl of Panera’s broccoli cheddar soup). I do anything possible to help the store and prepare for the Bookmas event—because the second I stop moving, a panicked feeling vibrates through me, growing more and more wild until I find a new task to fling myself at.
So when Daniel group-texts and asks who has time to hide the book vouchers, I volunteer immediately. And then my phone chimes with another text, one from Jake: I’ll go with her
“If that’s okay with you,” Jake adds, and I spin to find him behind me, eyebrow arched and nine books stacked in the crook of his arm. He’s getting, aggressively, good at that.
Mom drove me into work today, so I’ve barely seen Jake this morning. You might say my eyes now hungrily sweep over him, taking in everything from his plaid shirt, deep purple and black today, to the curve of his jaw to his scuffed boots. He smells like buttered croissants.
With flushed cheeks, I finally reply, “Of course it’s okay with me.”
He smiles. “Good.”
I shrug and smile back. “Good.”
Ten minutes later, the vouchers and some extra flyers are stuffed into my tote bag, and we venture out into the mall. It’s creeping toward noon, and the place seems to have hit full capacity, like Black Friday–level crowds.
Our e-mail blast was a success. A ton of our regular customers said they’d stop by for the party. Ms. Serrano said she wouldn’t miss it for the world, and the Murillos offered to host a holiday-themed story hour. I’m just praying we can rope in all of these other shoppers, get them to participate and buy books. This event could be the tipping point between Once Upon staying open or closing.
Our flyers list all the book titles with hints about where they might be hidden, but we’ve only picked store locations, not specific hiding spots. Our first stop: the bedding section of Macy’s for our Goodnight Moon voucher. As we walk, the crowd jostles us like balls inside a pinball machine. I ask Jake, “How are the cookies this morning?”
“Artic-level cold,” I agree. “Thank you for helping. And thank your mom, too. It was a lot of work, and you guys didn’t have to do it.”
Jake shrugs, then stuffs his hands into his pockets. “We wanted to help.”
“I don’t want to distract you from winning the bonus.” I nudge him and tease. “I know you’re in need of all the help you can get if you want to beat me.”
“Ha, ha.” He eyes me with a smile. “Are you so confident you’ll win?”
“Kind of.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Now I’d feel weird about keeping the money if I do win. Though I doubt it’s enough money to keep the store open. But at the same time, it’s a lot of money. I guess money is weird that way. It can mean so much and so little depending on the circumstance. I could really use it.…” I trail off.
“To fix Barbra?” Jake asks.
“Yup.” I sigh. “Poor girl is gathering dust in the driveway. I swear this morning I saw a cobweb claiming territory on one of her tires.” We make it into Macy’s and take an escalator down to the home goods section. “What do you need the bonus money for? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind.” Jake runs a hand through his hair as we descend. He’s on the step before mine, and I may or may not be creeping on the back of his neck, which is apparently on my list of top-five places to creep on Jake. I clench my hands tightly around my tote bag so they don’t get any ideas. “I’m going to use it to help buy a plane ticket,” he answers.
“Oh,” I respond as we step off of the escalator. I’m not sure what I expected, but I feel some level of surprise. “To see your dad?”