Page 20 of The Goat Next Door

It’s drifting out from under a faded green awning about eighty yards down the block. I look up and see a weathered wooden sign swinging in the morning breeze: Suncrest Hollow Bakery.

The sign itself is a visual tragedy—a muddy, ‘dried-gravy’ brown with typography that looks like a war crime. It’s an affront to every design principle I’ve ever paid tuition to learn.

“Oh, you poor thing,” I whisper to the wood.

My stomach lets out a betrayal of a growl—a loud, demanding reminder that I haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come out of a box in forty-eight hours. I push the door open, the bell chiming with a cheerful sound that feels entirely too optimistic for this town.

The bakery is small, clean, and lined with glass display cases filled with magnificent, golden-brown pies, towering loaves of sourdough, and rows of perfect, frosted cinnamon rolls.

Behind the counter stands a tall, imposing, older dark-skinned woman with sharp, piercing eyes and a crown of beautiful, silver-streaked hair pulled back into a neat bun.

She’s wearing a crisp white apron over a dark blue denim shirt, and she is currently wiping down the stainless-steel counter with a level of intensity that suggests she is trying to scrub the molecular structure out of the metal.

Her name tag reads MARGE.

“Good morning!” I say, stepping up to the counter and resting my hands on the clean glass. I slide my sunglasses completely off, letting them hang from my collar. “Wow. It smells like actual heaven in here. I think my soul just left my body for a second.”

Marge stops scrubbing.

She folds her wiping cloth into a perfect, precise square, sets it down on the counter, and looks up at me.

“You’re the city girl,” Marge says, her voice a deep, resonant alto that doesn’t hold even a hint of a welcoming lilt. “The one who bought the Gilded Goat and ran over Chief Lawson’s mailbox on your first day in town.”

“Word travels fast in the valley,” I say, my laugh sounding a little tighter than I intend. “And it was a very minor, highly collaborative altercation. Brooks and I have already established a verbal maintenance agreement.”

“Brooks is too polite for his own good,” Marge grunts, crossing her arms over her white apron. “His mother raised him to be a gentleman, which means he spends half his life picking up after people who don’t know how to drive a truck. Now, what do you want? I’ve got three batches of sourdough coming out of the oven in ten minutes.”

An older couple sitting at a small laminate table in the corner stop chewing their bear claws. They lean in slightly, their eyes fixed on my back.

The level of local surveillance in this town is truly unparalleled.

“I would love a cinnamon roll, please,” I say, keeping my tone warm. “And a black coffee. If you have it.”

Marge doesn’t say a word. She reaches into the case with a pair of metal tongs, snatches a massive, perfectly glazed roll that looks like a work of art, and slides it into a brown paper bag. She pours a cup of coffee from the industrial pot behind her, snaps a plastic lid onto it, and sets it on the counter.

“Four fifty.”

I slide my credit card across the glass. Marge looks at the piece of plastic, then looks up at my face.

“We have a five-dollar minimum for cards,” she says flatly.

“Oh! Perfect,” I say, my brain instantly pivoting into high gear.

This is my opening. This is the market opportunity I’ve been looking for.

“In that case, let me add something else. Actually, Marge… can I ask you a question about your visual identity strategy?”

Marge’s left eyebrow climbs about half an inch toward her silver hair. “My what?”

“Your sign,” I say, gesturing toward the front window. “The pastries in here are a masterclass in culinary execution. Seriously, those croissants look incredible. But your external brand communication is… well, it’s actively misrepresenting the quality of your product. The muddy brown color palette is dampening consumer appetite, and the lack of proper kerning on the word ‘Bakery’ is causing a significant visual bottleneck at the street level.”

The older couple in the corner stop chewing entirely. The man in the high-vis vest looks at his bear claw like he’s trying to see if it has a visual bottleneck.

Marge stares at me for three long, agonizing seconds.

“My sign,” she says slowly, “was painted by my brother-in-law. It tells people there is bread inside. They come in, they buy the bread. The system works fine, Miss…”

I stare at her.