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I look up at the monitor and see Christine and her daughter, Kirsten, waiting in the front of the bakery. Frustrated, I slam down my measuring cup and rush to greet them. “Yes, I’m here.”
“What happened to Madeleine?” Kirsten asks with wide eyes.
Good question, kid. “She doesn’t work here anymore,” I say.
“Oh.” Kirsten looks sadly at the sprinkle cookies.
Christine pats her daughter’s head. “That’s all right. I’m sure we’ll see her around. And the cookies still taste the same.”
“It’s not the same!” Kirsten wails. “I don’t want a cookie now!”
Her mom looks back at me and laughs nervously. “I’m sure she’ll want one later. We’ll take six sprinkle cookies.”
I bag them up for her, avoiding Kirsten’s death glare. They pay for the cookies and wave good-bye, and the smell of burnt cookies reaches my nose.
“No!” I exclaim and rush back to the kitchen. Yanking open the oven door, billows of smoke surround me and make me cough. I wave an oven mitt around, trying to clear the air, when the smoke alarm goes off.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Thankfully, I have an advanced system that allows me to ov erride the alarm with an app on my phone.
Which I left in the front of the bakery.
I jog to the front and find I’m not alone.
“Hello, Mason,” my mom says calmly over the loud alarm. “Everything going smoothly?”
I grunt and open the app to shut off the alarm. Done. The silence is a blessed relief, but the smell of burnt cookies still permeates the air.
“I see you’re having some trouble now that Madeleine is gone.”
I huff and head back to the kitchen, knowing she’ll follow me there. I start scraping the burnt cookies off the tray and throwing them in the trash.
Mom puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I set down the tray with a sigh.
“It’s been awful,” I admit.
She pulls me into a hug, and even though I tower over her now, it’s a welcome gesture.
Then she smacks the back of my head.
“Hey!” I exclaim, rubbing the sore spot.
“You deserve it,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “I can’t believe you let her go. She was the best thing for the bakery.” She puts her finger down and lowers her voice. “And for you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My head is still sore, but I turn back to my work of throwing away the ruined cookies.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. She was perfect. Not only did she help in the front, but she fixed your vanilla cookies and got you that order for the Autumn Festival.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I talked to Suzette.” She crosses her arms. “How do you plan on making two hundred of Madeleine’s cookies without her?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Mom grabs my arms and turns me toward her. “You need her. And not just for her cookies.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, and she narrows her eyes at me. “You know what I mean,” she says.
I can’t help the smirk on my face, but I tame it back to the scowl that’s been permanently etched since Madeleine left.
