Page 33 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter Twelve

Jinnie

––––––––

THE BAKERY’S KITCHEN hums with activity as I pipe delicate swirls of lavender buttercream onto a fresh batch of cupcakes. I’m never going to be a cake boss or anything like that, but I love to try. It’s fun. And it’s not like I’m making wedding cakes in here. Stephanie, my boss, does that. Me and Lisa do some of the simple birthday cakes.

“These look incredible,” Stephanie says, peering over my shoulder. “The lavender really pops against the purple frosting.”

I step back to admire my work. “Wait until you see them on Instagram. I’m doing a whole ‘Spring Fling’ series this week.”

“But it’s summer,” she says.

I laugh. “I know, but for next year. Or just inspiration.”

Stephanie grins. “You and that social media magic. We’ve had three custom orders already from your last post.”

Pride flickers in my chest as I snap a few test shots with my phone, adjusting the cupcakes to catch the morning light streaming through the bakery windows. This part of the job—the creating, the styling, the way a perfectly composed photo can make someone crave a dessert they’ve never tasted—it lights me up in a way I never expected.

Stephanie flips open her notebook and taps the page with her pencil. “So, in two weeks, I’ve got a big one—three-tiered wedding cake. The bride wants a ‘rustic elegance’ vibe. Lots of naked cake layers, fresh flowers, and gold leaf accents. It’s going to be stunning.”

I lean against the counter, still holding my piping bag. “Sounds gorgeous. You need me to prep anything for it?”

“Not just prep,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “I want you to take the photos. You’ve got that eye for the details, and I want this cake to look like it belongs in a magazine. The bride’s thrilled to have it on social media—said she’d tag us like crazy.”

My heart skips a beat. Wedding cakes are Stephanie’s domain—she’s the artist when it comes to those. Me? I’m just the girl who posts cupcakes and cookies. “You sure? I mean, I’ll do it, of course, but you don’t want to handle it yourself?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “You’re better at this than I am. Plus, I’ll be too busy making sure everything’s perfect to worry about staging photos. You can capture the magic.” She grins and nudges me with her elbow. “This could be your chance to show off what you can really do.”

I bite my lip, trying not to let my excitement show too much. “All right, I’m in. Let me know when.”

“I will. I’m headed out. I’ll be back this afternoon. Keep up the good work.”

“Thanks, Steph. I will.”

I spent a few minutes coming up with cheeky captions that make people smile. The afternoon rush hits, stopping any social media posting. I have to focus on the people in front of me. Work does provide a needed distraction, but it doesn’t stop the running ticker tape going through my mind.

I can’t stop thinking about the looming annulment trial, Sam’s ridiculous demands, the way my stomach knots every time I think about court dates and lawyers. I have no idea why Sam thinks he can get money out of me. It’s an absolute joke.

“Go,” Lisa says. “Take your lunch. You look like you need a break.”

“I’m starving.”

I grab my lunch from the fridge and sit alone in the back room. I chew my turkey sandwich and imagine my future. Sam’s not just contesting the annulment—he’s dragging it out, making absurd claims about “emotional distress” and “lost opportunities.” As if our three-month disaster of a marriage somehow derailed his brilliant life plans.

He insists the torture I put him through is worth something. If I had the money, I’d pay him off just to make this go away. But between the lawyer fees and my meager bakery salary, I’m barely keeping my head above water. He knows how much I make. We lived together. I don’t have any more money than he does.

For him to think I somehow owe him for the short-lived marriage is so astonishing. He’s acting like he was some prize and I have to pay him a fee for having the honor of being his wife. As if. The guy is a dick. An absolute asshole. If anyone owes anyone, I’m the one who should be getting a fat check. He lived with me rent-free.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

He hasn’t named a figure, but it’s obviously going to be more than I have. Hell, a thousand dollars is more than I have. And I know if and when Jack finds out, he’s going to offer to pay Sam off. I can’t let him do that. I can’t let my boyfriend pay off my husband.

I have to have some standards.

I dread telling Jack any of it, but he deserves to know. I promised him I would tell him about all things Sam. I don’t want him to think I’m hiding things from him.

I toss the rest of my lunch back into the bag and stick it in the fridge. I make my way out front, plastering on my customer service smile.