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Chapter 3
“Thank you. Have a great afternoon.” Anne waved at the last customer leaving the bakery and continued rearranging the bread baskets on the display tables. The sun was still high in the sky outside, and she expected another wave of customers to arrive shortly now that the fair outside was being dismantled.
“I’ll see you at home, Bert.” Linda appeared from the storage room and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. She then stepped from behind the counter and stopped next to Anne on her way to the door. “Are you doing rounds tonight, dear?”
“Yes. I hope there’s enough left when this day is over.” It was her turn to distribute the food donations that used the bakery’s and other shops’ daily unsold goods.
“The Mean Bean had a lot of traffic, too. I hope they’ll have spares,” Linda said, brushing a hand over her daughter’s arm. “Treat yourself to a hot bath and a glass of wine after you’re done. That’s what I intend on doing, Jane sweetie.”
Her mother, a Jane Austen enthusiast, had named her after her favorite author and her favorite heroine by that author, and she had always switched between the two names when addressing her. That was how Anne had gotten the idea to go by her middle name. Linda didn’t mind, probably because Anne had never told her about the Plain Jane nickname.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I have plans.” Anne kissed her mother’s cheek. She planned to work on some paintings instead.
“Remember, we have to work on the job description tomorrow,” Linda added, shouldering her bag.
In preparation for her parents’ retirement at seventy-two, they had to hire a baker who would replace her father and join Connie Latimer, the original owner and baker, in that capacity. Though Anne had pretty much grown up at the bakery, she was no baker. She could bake, but she lacked her dad’s and Connie’s magic touch. Her department was the decorations and the specially ordered cakes. Connie’s children weren’t in the business either—Gabe was a graphic designer in L.A., and Libby worked in Riviera View’s Social Services department and, as such, was involved in the food donations initiative.
“If you’re home before ten, they’ll be airing Miss Austen Regrets on Masterpiece.” Linda stopped at the door.
“I’ll catch it another time.” She had enough regrets of her own; she didn’t need Jane Austen’s, too, namesake or no namesake.
“Okay, sweetie, drive carefully, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Working at the bakery six days a week, Anne tried to take some of the load off her parents. That was why she had left Cincinnati. She withdrew as little salary as possible, enough to pay for the green Kia that she had bought especially for the food project, and the mortgage for buying off her aunt’s half of the little house that she lived in, which was the twin sisters’ inheritance. To satisfy the restless artist in her and save for the second reason that stood behind her decision to return home, she sold her paintings on Etsy, mainly to other sellers who used them in their products. In Cincinnati, she had taught art in community centers and small group private lessons, but here, she painted at home and sold her work online.
“I’ll be in the back, Annie,” Bert announced, ducking his head at the doorframe that led there.
She had taken his height but, thankfully, not his bulkiness. As much as she ate from their pastries, she remained slender, which was ironic because, growing up, her gangly stature used to bother her and make her the target of jokes. As she had matured, people had commented on it and perceived it as an advantage. Jane wasn’t so plain anymore, she thought.
After the bustle of the morning and early afternoon, which were great not just for business but as safeguards for unwanted thoughts and feelings, she didn’t welcome the silence that now enveloped the bakeshop.
As she sorted the table with the boxed cookies, someone blocked the sunlight that washed in through the glass door. Her gaze caught the shade slanting on the floor next to the display shelves just as the bell above the door behind her rang.
“Jane.”
She closed her eyes for a moment then turned.
“It’s Anne now, Finn, as you know.”
“You’re always Jane to me. Even when you’re Anne,” he said, reminding her of similar words he had once said and had later written on that first sunflower card that he had left in her mailbox on November eleventh. Her mother had sent it to her in Cincinnati without knowing who it was from.
Sometimes her mother had waited to send her those unsigned annual birthday cards along with Avery’s Christmas cards. The latter contained thinly-veiled braggings for select family members and friends that Avery thought should know about her successes. The recent one had pronounced her as the fastest adjusting to promotion to vice principal in their school district and Max’s grades as the top sixth of his class.
He was the only one, except for her parents or sometimes her aunt, who still used that name. It was the name spoken softly so only she could hear it in family gatherings, as if he couldn’t hold their unspoken past alone anymore, the secret undercurrent that bled between them, carved into their hearts, threatening to turn into something more every time they saw each other.
It had the same effect now.
“Where are Avery and Max?” she asked, purposefully bringing reality back into the picture.
“Went home. He’s with her this weekend. I only came because he asked me to be here for the fair. He wanted to buy gifts for his new swim team.”
It was the longest private conversation they’d had in years. If they had found themselves separated from the rest in an event, one of them would walk away, knowing instinctively it wasn’t a good idea.
“That’s kind of him. He’s a good kid,” she said. She was impressed with Max whenever she did see him, which wasn’t too often. She liked him. He was different than both his parents—he seemed introverted. “Can I get you anything?” She waved a hand across the display.
“You know why I’m here,” he said, piercing her with eyes the color of a summer storm.
“No, I don’t.” She knew, but it was a desperate attempt to defy something that was perhaps inevitable.
