I can’t help but laugh. “Jingle bells?”
She leans in and whispers. “Balls. I just can’t say that because then someone wants to know what balls are and why Daddy Walk likes it when I lick them.” She glances over at her daughter and arches an eyebrow.
I burst into a fit of giggles and cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God, she did?”
“Apparently heard us one night when we thought she was sleeping. Now, she’s obsessed with balls. Asked Jameson if he had them the other day,” she states, collecting her daughter and reaching for a napkin to wipe icing residue off her hands. “Your daddy is going to be so happy to eat those finger-poked cupcakes later.”
“I gotted him duh choccate!”
“Mmmm, you know how much he likes chocolate with Lizzie marks,” Mallory says, leading her child to the door. “Don’t give up, Lyndee. Men are stupid creatures, and while we love them most of the time, they do really idiotic things every now and again. Don’t let his immaturity ruin you. Fight like hell.”
I give her a teary nod and swallow over the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
“And watch for that invite in the mail soon. I expect you to be there.”
Then she’s out the door, a cute little blonde girl skipping down the sidewalk beside her.
I sigh, taking note of the full display case and grab one of those chocolate cupcakes Lizzie picked out. I take my treat over to one of the small tables by the window and watch as happy patrons walk out of the restaurant across the street, smiling with bellies full of delicious food.
I remove the paper from the cake and take a healthy bite, catching a taste of the creamy fudgy filling. “These are damn good,” I say to no one. “You all are missing out,” I add, glancing at the groups walking down the street.
Finishing off my treat, I start to form a plan. Mallory’s right. I’m not going to let what Jasper did ruin my business. I’m going to fight. If I go down, it’s going to be swinging.
***
I spend the rest of my Saturday and Sunday coming up with a plan, and Monday executing. I deliver what was left from the case on Saturday to the local nursing home. They gladly accepted the treats for their residents. If they had read the article in the paper last week, they made no indication.
When I return from my delivery, I’m happy to see a few customers taking advantage of my new offer. A free cup of coffee or tea with the purchase of a pastry. Dustin and Daisy are friendly, without being overly so, and refill cups once they are halfway gone. It wasn’t part of the plan, to give refills too, but they went with it and I didn’t complain. The longer the customers stay, the more likely they are to maybe leave with something else, like a slice of pie for later or fresh bread to go with their dinner.
By Wednesday, business remains at a small trickle, but at least it’s better than nothing. Some are repeat customers, while others are new. I can tell by the way their eyes dart around suspiciously, as if they’ll looking for piles of trash or other uncleanliness lurking in the corners, but am relieved when they realize it’s not at all what the article claimed.
Speaking of article, I have yet to see Jasper. Not since he walked out of my bakery last Thursday evening. The rest of the crew, Jameson, Isaac, and Walker, have been in, buying up way more goodies than any of them could eat, but I appreciate their efforts, nonetheless. They all offered me their apologies, vowing to help give my business the boost it deserves after the train wreck their friend caused.
I’ve had to cut Daisy’s hours a bit, to make up for the lack of income. I hate it, but she insisted it was fine. Her schooling keeps her plenty busy, and she’s able to give a little more time to that. It still killed me to do, but I promised to return her hours as soon as I can.
If I can.
On Thursday afternoon, the bell rings over the door. I’m in the kitchen, baking a raspberry cream pie, when my brother hollers from the front counter. “Lyndee, can you come up here a minute? There’s a gentleman who’d like a word with you.”
I wash my hands at the sink and dry them off on my apron before heading up front to see who my visitor is. A bubble of hope explodes in my chest at the thought that it might be Jasper standing there, and then I chastise myself for even entertaining the thought. I don’t want to see Jasper.
Not today.
Not ever again.
Right?
I round the corner, ignoring the disappointment I feel when I find a tall, older man smiling at the counter. “Miss Gibson?” he asks, reaching out a hand to shake.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dwayne Jordan. My mom is a resident at the Stewart Grove Care Facility, and I believe you’ve been delivering pastries and things there the last few days.” He offers me a friendly grin. “I was there visiting yesterday when they brought a tray to our table. They were delicious.”
I return the smile, feeding off his relaxed demeanor. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”
“Enjoyed them? They were simply amazing. I took one home for my wife, who raved about your chocolate croissant. Miss Gibson, I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jasper
I slam the empty container of sliced onions down on the table. “If you can’t do it right, I’ll find someone who can! That goes for all of you!” I bellow, feeling the eyes of my stunned staff on my back as I storm away.
Shutting the door with force, I plop onto my desk chair and drop my head into my hands. A loud sigh slides from my lips as I close my eyes in exhaustion. I’m so fucking tired. I haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours each night since it happened. For weeks, I’ve been an aggravated zombie, going through the motions and so short fused, even my closest friends don’t want to be around me.
Who’d blame them? Not me.
I’m an absolute bear who deserves to be alone.
I get up and leave my office, needing to escape the four small walls that continually close around me. I don’t make eye contact as I walk through the kitchen and down the hallway, pushing open the employee entrance and stepping out into the sunlight. I feel like that damn Kid Rock song about not seeing it for three days, but not because I’m drowning myself in booze and drugs. My excuse is I’m working myself to death, day and night.
Hating myself a little more with each passing minute.
The sun is warm against my skin, even if there’s a cool February chill in the air. I embrace the sting of the dampness though. It’s a welcome reprieve from the darkness that’s surrounded me.
I drop down on the picnic table and take a deep breath. It burns my lungs, but I don’t care. I revel in the pain.
My mind continually replays the same scene, over and over again like a broken record. It invades my thoughts all day, but worse, at night. When I close my eyes, all I see is her tears. They stream down her lovely cheeks, each one a burning poker to the chest. Tears of betrayal, that’s what they were, and I can’t get them out of my head, as much as I’ve tried.
And I have.
I’ve drank way more than I should to try to forget her, but it hasn’t helped. I’ve worked out until I was so bone-achingly tired I was sure I’d pass out from exhaustion. Only to still see those tears after I closed my eyes.
Worse, I hear her words. How each one dripped with the pain of deception.