Tessa’s trying to control the chaos. She’s laughing. She’s given up on control.
Trace and Patrice are here with Brooklyn, who is interested in the pastry cases. She’s pressing her chubby hands against the glass and making serious noises at the croissants. Patrice’s watching her like she’s worried Brooklyn is going to press her face directly into the glass and lick the display case. She doesn’t. Brooklyn is surprisingly dignified for a toddler.
Marvin stops by briefly. He doesn’t stay—he says he’s got another run to make, but he wanted to see the opening. He brings a bottle of expensive vanilla extract, which is both themost practical gift and the most perfect gift all at once for a baker. I hug him, which I don’t usually do with people I don’t know well, but he flew in specialty vanilla beans and he came to my opening, so he’s automatically my friend.
The supplies delivery arrives. The flour supplier gets delayed but calls to confirm they’re coming tomorrow. The coffee roaster from two towns over shows up in person to see what I’m doing with his beans. It’s organized chaos and it’s working.
Jax takes it upon himself to give an impromptu toast at eleven-thirty. He stands up on a chair—because he’s absolutely that kind of person, the kind who doesn’t ask permission to commandeer attention—and starts talking loudly about change and community and salmon croissants that shouldn’t work but do anyway.
“To Sugar and Flour!” he shouts. “To a woman who came to town looking for an escape route and ended up building a destination instead! To the best bakery in Ashwood Falls, which is saying something because we didn’t have any bakeries before and now we have one and it’s incredible! To Gabby, who makes croissants that change lives!”
Everyone cheers. It’s embarrassing and wonderful and I’m blushing so hard I can feel heat in my face.
I scan the crowd looking for Jace. He’s in the back of the bakery, near the kitchen, watching. His jaw is tight. He looks like he’s feeling something specific and the effort of not expressing it is physically present. I catch his eye across the room and he nods at me, just a small acknowledgment, just acknowledging what he sees: You’re doing this thing. You’re making it work.
It’s the perfect moment.
Then the math hits.
The 60-day clause ends in less than two weeks. Only days. And then I have to choose—negotiate with the attorneys to stay and take in my inheritance, or go through with the sale thatI promised I’d consider. I’ve been so focused on the opening, on the bench, on Jace, on building something, that I haven’t actually thought through what the next two weeks mean. I haven’t let myself think about it.
Two weeks and then the decision becomes real.
The party is still happening. People are eating. The dogs are playing. Old Al is still snoring. Birdie is talking to one of the customers about sourdough starters. Piper is taking photos and probably narrating them to the internet. Ryder is directing traffic. Tessa is laughing at her dogs. Patrice is making sure Brooklyn doesn’t destroy the pastry case. Jax is still talking loudly about unprecedented demand and economic trends. Jace is standing in my kitchen watching me like he’s memorizing this moment.
But I’m standing in the middle of my successful grand opening doing complicated math about what comes next.
Dotty appears at my elbow. She’s always appearing at elbows. It’s a trained skill, probably developed over years of managing a café and knowing exactly when people need intervention.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says quietly.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you’re looking happy while you’re panicking about failure. You’re not failing. Look around.”
The bakery is full. Empty cases. Happy faces. Sunlight on flour dust. The mugs that Dotty made are arranged like art. The flowers are beautiful.
“I have less than two weeks,” I say to Dotty. My voice sounds small even to me.
“Before what?”
“Before I have to decide if I’m staying.”
“Oh,” Dotty says. “You’re thinking about that.”
“The 60-day clause was always the deal,” I say. “Jace knows. You all know. After 60 days, I either sign the inheritance paperwork or I sell and go move to Portland.”
“What do you want to do?” Dotty asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. And it’s true. I don’t know. I don’t know how to choose. “I don’t know how to choose between the life I planned and the life I’m living.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Dotty says, gently. “You could plan differently. That’s allowed. You could decide that this—” she gestures at the bakery, at Jace in the back, at the chaos of a community showing up to celebrate something I built from nothing —”is worth changing your plans for.”
“I’m terrified I’ll resent him,” I say. I’m being honest with Dotty in a way I haven’t been honest with anyone except maybe Jace. “That I’ll stay for him and eventually hate him for making me choose something different than what I planned.”
“You’re not staying for him,” Dotty says. It’s said with the certainty of someone who’s watched a lot of people try to build relationships and has opinions about what works and what doesn’t. “You’re staying because you love baking in this kitchen and you love living in this town and you love the person, sure, but you’re not staying for him. You’re staying for you. There’s abigdifference.”
She goes back to the register, already counting cash, because Dotty doesn’t do anything halfway. She’s a person who commits fully.