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Chapter 9
“What do you think?” Anne took a step back to appreciate her work. She tilted her head to one side, then the other, as if she was examining a canvas.
“Looks great as always, Annie,” Bert said, wiping his hands on his apron. “It looks just like the book’s cover. And that wand and the scarf are perfect.”
“I had to make the glasses twice. The first ones didn’t look geeky enough.” She was happy with the Harry Potter theme cake.
“Lucky kid,” Bert said. “They’ll pick it up in three hours, so I made room in the new refrigerator.” That fridge was two years old, but they still called it the new one versus the one that had been there for twenty years.
They needed it for the line of theme cakes that had been born after she had returned from San Francisco and people had seen the Jane Austen books pile cake that she had designed for her mother’s birthday. She had picked that work again when she returned home from Cincinnati. The years had made a difference; the designs now were more complex, but she loved doing them.
“Anne, I have the final list for Halloween.” The swinging doors were pushed open, and Linda entered, her face buried in her phone. “We had four total. It’s going to be a madhouse here. You’ll have to start two days before.”
“I was planning to. We have the special Halloween boxes for the food project, and I’m preparing those for early distribution. Everything should be finished by four, so I’ll take Halloween afternoon off.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful! They’re going to love it!” Linda finally raised her eyes and gestured toward the cake. “I forwarded you the requirements and phone numbers in case you have questions.” She then snapped a picture of the cake. “For our Facebook page.” She looked at her phone again. “Uch, that moron.”
“A cancellation?”
“No, it’s that idiot on the fan club.” Linda used Facebook for the sole purposes of the bakery and engaging with other Austen fans online.
“Mom, when is it considered too old to fight with strangers on the internet?”
“Never. Not when they don’t understand the first thing about what a good adaptation is.”
“Okay, have fun. I’m meeting Bella.” Anne wiped her hands then removed the apron.
On her way out of the bakeshop, her phone rang.
“Eddie, hi. Should I come to pick up the paintings?”
“You sold two. I want to leave the third, and could you bring the one we kept as a maybe?”
“Really? Which ones sold?”
“The Swimmer and The Man in the Garden. For the marked price.”
“Five hundred each?” She stopped in her tracks on the way to her car.
“Yes. I told you we should aim for what we really want and not compromise.”
“Can you tell me who bought them?”
“A couple from Wayford bought the Garden and The Swimmer was purchased by phone. He said he’d be picking it up later.”
“Do you remember their names?” she asked, though she just needed the name of The Swimmer’s piece.
Eddie mentioned the couple’s name and then said, “The Swimmer buyer, let me see … a Freddie Wentworth.”
Her heart bungee-jumped in her chest. She knew who had bought the painting even before Eddie had said that, but now she realized what he’d done—sent her yet another message.
“Anne?” Eddie said when no response came from her.
“Yeah. Thanks, Eddie. I hope we sell the third one, too, and I’ll drop the maybe one later this week.”
Frederick Wentworth and Anne Elliot, the severed lovers who got a second chance after years, despite family objections. Suddenly, her mother’s choice of a middle name for her sounded like fate. A prophecy maybe.
