Pulling out the tray, Audrey further dismisses me by turning to place what looks like gingerbread house pieceson a cooling rack. “Your scarf’s on a coat rack, to the right of the door when you enter.”
Nodding even though she can’t see me, I make my escape from the provoking smells.
On the stairs, as the scent of Audrey’s baked goods fade, a thrum of curiosity and anticipation hits me. While I may have scoffed at Making Whoopie’s holiday decor when I arrived in Hideaway, I’ve since come to enjoy it. Tasteful and homey, just like the goods Audrey bakes.
So I’m curious to what her own personal space looks like. I half expect garlands, twinkle lights, a tree covered in tiny whoopie pie ornaments— something evenmorefestive than the bakery below since Audrey wouldn’t have had to worry about the décor getting in the way of her baking.
But when I open the door and find the scarf right where she said it would be—hanging neatly from a coat rack by the door—nothing else is as expected.
No tree. No garland. No lights. And definitely no mess.
I take two steps into a small living area on the left: denim loveseat, coffee table, TV. Behind that, a small kitchen as immaculate as the bakery’s at closing time—but without the cinnamon sugar scent.
The tiny island that doubles as a dining table is spotless, except for a stack of cookbooks with a legal pad tucked between them like a makeshift bookmark.
It’s the opposite of downstairs, where—in the front of the shop—every surface glows with holiday cheer and the air is sugar-scented. Audrey’s apartment is basic. Functional. Like she’s poured every ounce of herself into the bakery and left nothing for her own space.
Something about that… lands. I know exactly what it’s like to live entirely at work and leave the rest empty because you’re never really there.
Feeling as if I’ve seen something private, I start toward the door to grab my scarf when a framed photo catches my eye. Audrey, hair short, in a chef’s coat, and a woman who looks like a slightly older, blond version of the younger Audrey next to her standing in front of the Ritz in New York. I know the building. I’ve stayed there more than once. And whereas the woman—probably her mother—is smiling widely into the camera, Audrey is smiling at the woman.
I pull the scarf from the hook, but the image sticks with me.
CLOSE-UP
Audrey
The Chowder House Rules smells like butter, corn, and impending regret.
I fidget with the bottom of my pale blue sweater while Jack sits back after ordering a bowl of said chowder, scanning the mixture of blue and cherry wood paneling like he’s filing away the details. His gaze lingers on a porthole mirror and the carved wooden buoys strung above the kitchen pass-through. “I like this place. If the food’s good, I wouldn’t mind eating here again.”
“This is a work lunch.” The votive lit inside a Mason jar flickers violently from the bounce of my restless leg beneath it.
When I asked Jack yesterday if we could review where I stood with the cease-and-desist order, I pictured us spending my day off at the bakery.
I could get ahead on tomorrow’s orders and this weekend’s gingerbread competition designs, and he could speak fluent legalese without me nodding off. Win-win.
But no.
After last night’s snowfall prevented him from getting to the bakery this morning for coffee and pastries—something I always have in supply—Jack insisted on a lunch that wasn’t delivered or microwaved. Unlike the frozen entrée army currently staging a coup in my walk-in freezer.
One brow lifts. “I’m aware.” He breaks off a corner of cornbread, the warm squares bleeding butter into their napkin nest. “But if I’m going to tell you what I’ve been doing on your behalf”—he leans in, forearms braced on the table, voice pitched low enough to curl heat up the back of my neck—“I won’t have you distracted by batter or an oven timer.”
A burst of laughter rises from a table near the bar, blending with the muted clink of silverware against ceramic. Somewhere behind us, the kitchen door swings open and releases a puff of briny steam that smells faintly of buttered lobster.
I grab a piece of cornbread, more to keep my hands busy than to eat. “And what exactly have you been doing?”
His fingers drum once on the tabletop, like he’s choosing where to start. “First, I established the date Making Whoopie—the one under your ownership—began operating. In business terms, that’s your first use in commerce.” Jack pauses, as if making sure I’m following. “Second, I found invoices, supply orders, and even the article inThe Almanacfrom your opening week. All of it proves you’ve been using the name longer than the other guys.”
I frown, thinking back to two years ago and my foray into small-town life and entrepreneurship. “Did I actually keep that article?”
A faint shake of his head. “No. But that’s what your reliable Internet connection was used for.” The curve of his mouth lands somewhere between smug and infuriating.
The warmth in my ears spikes.
“You didn’t really think I was just squatting in your bakery for Wi-Fi so I could scroll social media, did you?”
I answer by not answering.
