CHAPTER 1
Zoe
“Just move! Get lost! Git!”
I bore down on the shoveling, panting with exhaustion and anger. It occurred to me that I had neighbors and they had heard me screaming at a pile of snow in my driveway. Mortification washed over me until I remembered that chances were, if someone had actually heard, they’d come running over, snow blower in tow, ready to offer a helping hand. Small towns were just like that. Everyone wanted to help. The indefatigable urge to be of assistance was either born out of genuine, Midwestern kindness, or fear of the other churchgoers knowing that they had not come to aid a person in need. Either way — I wasn’t questioning it.
Because, honestly, the people of Fallow Springs, Wisconsin had been nothing but ceaselessly friendly. I moved here in the fall, before the weather really went to pot, and the entire town welcomed me. After all, it wasn’t every day that they got a city mouse in their trap. I’d come to town with nothing but a couple of boxes, and even fewer dollars. The choice of Fallow Springs was random and consisted of me taking some shots of tequila and pointing at a map.
“Here,” I’d said in my matchbox apartment in Brooklyn. “That’ll do.”
I was a New York lifer. Or, close enough to it. I was raised in a New Jersey suburb, and moved to Manhattan the day I graduated high school. My parents dropped me off and made me walk with my suitcase across the bridge. Just kidding. They drove me all the way to my New York Institute of Culinary Arts-owned apartment before kicking me out of the car and saying, “Don’t fuck it up.” They’re sweet, I know.
All this to say, I had no idea what Fallow Springs would hold. I was prepared for anything from Mormons to meth heads. But they were, much to my surprise, just normal folks, with normal families, living in normal homes and leading normal lives. The air smelled clean and the houses all had rotating holiday decorations which could be switched out at a moment’s notice. I came several weeks before Thanksgiving, meaning lawns were decorated with full-size cornucopias and fake stuffed turkeys.
The ‘Welcome Committee’ — self-termed or officially mandated, I never could tell — got me set up in my rental home, helped me move in furniture, even got me an eight-hundred-dollar car from Ed a couple streets over. I told him I couldn’t pay it all up front, I had loans. He said, “Then we just oughta shake on it.” I said thank you, and rather guiltily concealed the fact that this would be my first time officially driving. New York City driver’s ed, taken hastily over one weekend, doesn’t really mean shit when you’re on the wide open roads. Plus, there are no deer to avoid hitting in Manhattan.
At last, with no neighborly assistance, I managed to clear the driveway enough to pull the beater of a car out. I was pleased to see that my arms were getting stronger from country living. Maybe, come summer, I could finally pull off spaghetti straps. It’s good to have goals.
I started the car, and in exactly five minutes and thirty seconds, I’d arrived on Main Street at five-thirty in the morning. Twinkly lights were swung across the gaps between buildings, and snow covered the ground in plump layers. It may have been mid-January, but the road still looked like something out of A Christmas Story. I sighed happily, New York was never what I’d call picturesque, closer to grimy but livable.
I came to a stop in front of the bakery — my bakery. The shine of those words still hadn’t worn off. Back home — was it even home now? — it would’ve taken me full-blown centuries to open even a food truck. But with Fallow Springs square-foot rental rates, I had my own place up and running within a month. Okay, sure, it saddled me with a mountain of loans, but everything in America today saddles you with loans. I just picked my poison. Besides, I could always take the expensive equipment with me if and when I moved on to another city. It was an investment, or at least that was how I justified it.
And thus, Zoe’s Cakes and Bakes was born. I’d decorated as tastefully as one could on a tight budget, meaning that most everything was from the thrift store up the road. None of the cutlery matched, the paintings were all vaguely religious and very poorly painted, and the sofas sagged. But I loved it anyways, like a pet owner loves an ugly pet, they don’t see the flaws. Plus, it’s not what’s on the outside that counts — it’s the plentiful assortment of delicious cakes on the inside.
Because boy, could I bake a frickin’ cake.
I hopped out of the car, bundled in my down coat, and rushed to the door. My hand, fluffy in a pair of hand-me-down mittens, reached inside a pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned varnished key and opened the door. The smell of the place washed over me as I entered and hit the lights. The aromas of Zoe’s were so powerful that, even before the daily croissants got going, you could detect yesterday’s tarts.
I shrugged off my coat and tossed it over the coat rack, which was shaped like deer antlers. Slowly, the cold of winter left my bones and I began the daily routine.
“Oven time,” I muttered, talking aloud to keep myself company in the twilight hours. I cued up the oven and moved to the bake station. Prepping the dough was usually the worst part for my tired arms, but the early morning shovel-a-thon had left them jingling with energy. I pounded the dough like we were in a cage match and threw it in the warming oven.
“Who’s the best baker? You’re the best baker.” My pep talks weren’t particularly advanced, but they got the job done.
I passed the next two hours by myself, singing vintage Britney and Spice Girls and listening to true-murder podcasts. A big-time baker would’ve had employees who came in early to do the grueling prep work, but I could only afford my small staff for so long, and I needed them for rush hour. My guilty little secret was that I don’t mind early alarms. I like to be the first one to see the new day.
“Open up, girl, it’s cold as tits!” a voice cried out. Startled, I dropped a fresh cookie I’d snuck from the baking rack.
“Jesus, Mina,” I called back, “you scared the shit out of me.”
With a grin, I strode to the front door and unlocked it. Mina, her nose red from the cold, was staring at me expectantly.
“Coffee?” she pleaded.
“Already made.”
“Yay!” she clapped her hands and shoved in. Mina worked at the children’s apparel store next door, and I think spent most of her day reading tabloids. I’d never actually seen anyone walk into Kids’ Klothes, so it was a mystery how they stayed afloat. I also wasn’t sure what she’d done before I moved to town, as it seemed like she spent the bulk of her day in my shop, testing new treats and lazing on the sofa. Mina was in her early forties and had at least two ex-husbands in town, who she was on good terms with. It seemed that she was on good terms with nearly everyone. She was good for business, though, with her perilous enthusiasm and sunny smile, so I welcomed her with open arms. Regardless of how much shit I gave her for the mooching, she was a Good Time Gal and always came equipped with ears ready to hear my litany of complaints.
“How’s tricks?” she asked, blowing on a cup of coffee she’d grabbed from behind the counter. At first, I’d insisted on pouring her coffee, but we dropped the formalities before the end of my first week.
“Cold. Hard. The usual.” I paused, able to tell from the self-satisfied look on her face that something was afoot. “You look extra chipper this morning.”
She grinned. “Well, now that you mention it… though I really shouldn’t tell.”
“Oh come on, if you don’t start talking, you’re gonna have to listen to NPR with me.”
Her eyes widened, and she relented hastily. “Okay, I may have hooked up with Lucas last night.”
“Shut the—”
“Swear to God.”
“That’s fantastic,” I crowed. “Finally! Seriously, it took you long enough!” She’d been trying to nail Lucas since — well, at least since the first time I talked with her. Even then, she hadn’t been a particularly, er, private person.
In search of a little lusty story, I prodded further. “How was it?”
“Well…” she trailed off, blushing. “Pretty hot.”
I mock-punched her in the arm. “Congrats.”
“But let’s talk about you.”
I sighed. Not this again. Mina had been equally blatant in urging me to cuff a local boy. They were thin on the ground, far as I could tell, but she insisted that there were some good ones out there yet.
“You know I’m not ready,” I mumbled, and scurried behind the counter to look superficially occupied.
“Nu-uh, don’t you hide back there, I know your tricks.” Drat.
“I’m just—”
“Not ready, I know,” she said. “But it’s been long enough since—”
“Don’t say his name,” I interjected.
“Fine, since Mr. Former Boss.”
I rolled my eyes at the moniker. “Can’t come up with a better nickname than that for my ex?”
“Would you prefer Cheating Bastard?”