The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams Page 3

  Margo’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears. ‘No. He passed just over a decade ago. I miss him every day. I miss them all. No wonder I keep trying to insert myself in Callan’s life. He must think me a nosey old busybody.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to think badly of anyone.’ Josie straightened up and put her hands on her hips. ‘And don’t you for a second say your daughter didn’t get her looks from you. Women much younger would kill for those cheekbones and eyes of yours. I hope she calls you every single day to thank you for those wonderful attributes you passed on to her.’

  Margo let out a light, fragile laugh. ‘Maybe not every day, but we aim for a good catch-up phone call or a video chat once a week. She’s a good girl is my Megan. As is Sebastian. They may be hundreds of miles away but they’re always close.’ She tapped her heart.

  The shame that had begun to abate returned full force, not just twisting Josie’s heart but turning her gut to rock. Her father wasn’t that far away. Not compared to Margo’s children. Maybe she needed to make more of an effort. To call more. Try harder to connect. But how could you connect with a man who never called first, who kept conversations short, and ended phone calls after two minutes? Who always sounded vaguely surprised to hear from her, like he’d forgotten she even existed?

  ‘So how long are you planning to stay in Sunnycombe?’

  Margo, rummaging about in the black leather handbag she had tucked under her arm, missed the flicker of guilt that Josie was sure would’ve been visible on her face.

  ‘Oh, you know, as long as Callan needs me. I’m not looking to go anywhere anytime soon and the village seems so sweet. The people I’ve met so far are really nice.’

  ‘And how many people have you met?’ Margo looked up and arched an elegant eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve served a fair few today, but who have I properly met? Just you. Callan. Mia. The owner of the pub where I’m staying.’ Josie held up four fingers. ‘You’re all giving the village an excellent reputation.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it’ll stay that way. The people here are good people. We care for each other. Look out for each other. Even when those we’re looking out for don’t want us to.’

  Josie didn’t have to ask to know Margo was referring to Callan and his resolute independence.

  ‘Now, enough of this chin wagging. When will the delicious-smelling cake be ready for pick-up?’

  Josie smoothed down her apron, relieved the conversation had returned to work. ‘I’ll pull it out of the oven in a few minutes, then it’ll need to cool down. This afternoon would be fine – although I won’t be serving if you plan to pop in around three, I’ve an appointment …’

  Margo flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about the appointment. The cottage is yours. Treat her with the same care you show your cooking.’

  Josie felt her mouth open, then shut. Then open again. ‘You’re …?’

  ‘The landlady. And this chat of ours has given me all the confidence I need that you won’t up and leave me without warning. You’ve got a good way about you, Josie. And I suspect that good way isn’t surface-deep.’

  Josie nodded. Not trusting herself to speak, lest her voice cracked and she showed Margo who she really was.

  A satisfied smile appeared on Margo’s lips as she turned and made her way to the door. ‘I’ll drop the keys in when I pick up the cake. Oh, and Josie?’ Margo twisted round and fixed her with serious eyes. ‘You won’t know this yet. And Callan certainly will refuse to entertain the idea. But he does need you, more than he knows. You’ll be good for him.’ Margo’s gaze roamed around the walls of the bakery. ‘You’ll be good for this place.’

  The door swung shut with a soft thunk.

  Callan needed her? Josie hoped not. She could cook. She could teach Callan the art of baking, if he let her. But she didn’t want anyone to need her. Nothing good could come of that. She’d seen the proof in that pudding for herself.

  Chapter 3

  A rustle of bags and the skittering of excited feet greeted Josie as she beat butter, eggs and sugar together, watching the bright orange of the egg yolks morph with the butter into a rich, creamy colour that would lighten until it was the perfect shade of pale pastel yellow and ready for the dry ingredients to be sifted into, then folded through.

  ‘Josie! Josie!’ Mia half-ran, half-danced into the kitchen, spinning and skipping, sending the little red bags she was holding flying in all directions. ‘Oopsie,’ she giggled as she crashed into Josie’s legs. ‘Sorry, Josie. You should see what we got. We got everything. We got the whole shop. And we’re going to decorate the whole shop and upstairs and Daddy bought another tree so we’d have two trees and it’s going to be the best.’

  Josie grinned at Mia’s enthusiasm. Sure, Josie was about to descend into what sounded like her idea of hell, but she wasn’t going to let her dislike of the season show when the glitter and shine of Christmas was about to bring a little girl who’d lost her mum so much happiness.

  She might be a Grinch, but she wasn’t a killjoy.

  Besides, if she threw herself into her job and convinced Callan to let her help out more in the baking department, then there was the chance she’d get through the season without noticing anything festive at all.

  Head down. Bum up. That was the way to handle the oncoming tsunami of tinsel.

  ‘Mia, what did I say about waiting for me?’ Callan’s disapproving tone didn’t match the Santa hat perched jauntily on his head. Or the long ribbon of red and white tinsel that was draped around his neck scarf-style. ‘Mia? Are you listening to me at all?’ He unwrapped the tinsel scarf and the green and navy-blue tartan scarf hidden beneath it, then shrugged off his long black woollen coat and hung it up on the wooden coat stand that was positioned beside the back door.

  Josie tried not to laugh as she took in the jumper he was wearing. Gone was the simple grey knitted jersey he’d left in, replaced by a multi-coloured sweater in red, green and white, featuring a reindeer with bells on its antlers. Underneath it the words ‘jingle all the bells’ were emblazoned in jaunty script.

  ‘Nice top.’ She kept her tone even as she measured the dry ingredients into the sifter, then began jiggling it back and forth, letting the flour and baking powder fall through in a snow-like flurry.

  ‘When 4-year-olds attack.’

  She could see Callan rolling his eyes out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Once Mia saw it, I wasn’t getting out of the store alive until I forked out the money.’

  Picking up a spatula, Josie began to fold the ingredients in with a figure-of-eight motion. ‘I think you made the right decision. A Christmas jumper’s not worth dying over.’ She bit her lip as heat raced over her face and down her neck. Good one, Josie, way to stick your foot right in your mouth. ‘God, I’m sorry. So sorry. Ignore that last bit. I didn’t … I wasn’t … Clearly I need to engage my brain before speaking.’

  Callan shrugged her apology off. ‘Don’t worry about it. I started it with the talk of getting out alive, and I can’t have you second-guessing everything you’re about to say in case you hurt my feelings. To be honest, there’s nothing you can say or do that could. I think my pain quota is filled.’

  Josie racked her brain to find something appropriately soothing to say. What did you say to a man who’d lost the love of his life? Nothing had soothed her father’s pain, even though the circumstances were entirely different. A devoted mother and loving wife passing away was a million miles away from a wife upping and leaving to go ‘find herself’ overseas, only to never return.

  ‘So, you managed to get everything you needed?’ Josie spooned the smooth batter into a greased and lined cake tin. ‘Did Mia leave anything for anyone else to buy?’

  Callan stepped forward and inspected Josie’s handiwork. ‘I don’t recall asking you to make another cake. Just the fruitcake.’

  There was no reproach in the tone, but Josie had the distinct feeling he was put out. That she
was treading on his territory.

  ‘Oh, I had a bit of time on my hands. And I do love making lemon drizzle cake. It doesn’t have to be for the shop. I could pay you for the ingredients I used, and you and Mia could take it upstairs and have it for afternoon tea, if you’d like. Consider it a “thanks for hiring me” gift.’ She opened the oven and placed the cake on the rack, then shut the door and turned to face Callan. The tenseness had left his eyes but they were still guarded, like a man who was wondering if he were about to fall into a trap, or if by saying ‘yes’ he’d be agreeing to something else.

  Which was ridiculous. She was offering him a cake. To eat. No strings attached.

  ‘If you don’t like lemon drizzle cake, I’m sure it would do well in the shop. It was always popular at the cafés and bakeries I’ve worked in previously.’ Josie took the empty mixing bowl to the sink and began filling it with water before the batter stuck to the sides and became an elbow-aching mission to get off.

  Callan blinked, hard and fast, then shook his head. ‘I’m sure Mia would love a little cake later on for afternoon tea. And there’s no need to pay for the ingredients. As a matter of fact, once it’s cooked and cooled down, would you join us?’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’ Josie grabbed a fluffy pink hand towel, dried her hands and rehung it neatly over its hook. ‘I mean I’ll still be on duty, so you should be putting me to good use, not letting me sit around eating cake and drinking tea.’

  The corner of Callan’s lips lifted a tad. ‘Josie, has it been busy today?’

  Josie matched his smile. The villagers had got their goggle on that morning, meaning the only person to come in since had been Margo to check on the cake, and check her out. ‘No, it’s been quiet. Your neighbour, Margo, was the last person I’ve seen. Hence the cake baking. I’m not good at sitting still. Or standing still. Being still.’

  ‘Or talking still. You’re as fast as Mia. No wonder she likes you.’ The corners of Callan’s lips lifted some more, revealing a sprinkling of wrinkles on either side of his eyes that would have been sexy on any other man. But not on Callan. A father. A widower. A man in mourning. On him they were just … a touch charming.

  Disquiet squirmed low in Josie’s gut. She’d been in the job all of one day and already she was in danger of having people get too close. Worse. It was a 4-year-old who liked her. One who would be happy if Josie hung out with her and ate some cake. It was easy, mostly, to leave towns and cities and the acquaintances she forged there, but to leave a child? To potentially cause a child emotional pain? She’d just have to keep her distance. And that meant no cake.

  ‘Well, I’m not taking no for an answer. You saved my bacon by taking this job, Josie – well, technically, my cake – so I’d like it if you’d enjoy some afternoon tea with us. I’ll serve anyone who comes in. When will it be ready?’

  So much for no cake. So much for keeping her distance.

  Josie grabbed a tea towel and began drying off the bowl. ‘It’ll be about two hours away by the time it cooks, is drizzled with lemon syrup and cools.’

  ‘Perfect, that’ll give me time to do the bakery’s book work while Mia watches a bit of telly. Chill-out time. I read on the internet that kids need that.’ Callan rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and shook his head. ‘Chill-out time? What a wonderful thing. I think it should be mandatory for everyone.’

  Josie clicked the bowl back into its place on the mixer. ‘Oh, to be young again.’

  ‘Indeed. Right. I’ll bring Mia down in two hours. Call me if you need a second pair of hands.’ Callan stood and made his way up the stairs without waiting for a reply.

  Josie slumped forward onto the bench, held her head in her hands and let out a long, slow breath. It was just tea and cake. If she kept conversation light, if she didn’t engage too much or too warmly with Mia, she’d be fine. The ties would be easy to untangle. And no hearts would be broken.

  ***

  ‘It’s boring here at Christmas time. All my friends go away and don’t come back for ages. I have five friends. All girls, ’cause boys are yuck.’ Mia stuck out her tongue, then took another bite of her cake, its crumbs catching at either side of her mouth. ‘Do you have friends, Josie? Do you have five like me?’

  ‘Not five like you. You must be pretty special to have that many.’

  Josie took a sip of tea then set it down on the saucer, with a slight rattle, Callan noticed.

  Why would Mia’s grilling be making Josie touchy? Or maybe Josie hadn’t had lunch so had a case of the lack-of-food shakes. Which would make far more sense. Especially as it looked like she hadn’t taken a break since the moment she’d walked in that morning. The floors were swept. The counter gleamed. The dishes were done and packed away. She’d sold a fair bit of his average – below average, if he were honest with himself – baking, and had time to make two cakes.

  He’d teased her about not being able to sit still, but from the jiggle of her leg under the table, he may have been on to something.

  ‘Why not five friends?’ Mia’s interrogation continued. ‘It’s not like you smell. You don’t. You’re not stinky.’

  Josie’s leg stilled as a laugh escaped. The sound filled the space with a light-heartedness he’d not heard in a long time.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not stinky. I appreciate you saying that. I like to shower twice a day to keep myself stink-free.’ Josie speared a piece of cake, dipped it in the Greek yoghurt she’d served it with, and popped it in her mouth, her eyes closing for a second as she enjoyed the zesty, sweet flavour, enhanced by the tartness of the yoghurt.

  Callan envied her enjoyment. The cake was obviously delicious. Abigail had fed him enough cake for him to know what was good, but since she’d gone, all food – no matter savoury or sweet – tasted like cardboard. Something to be chewed until he could get it down his gullet and into his stomach. Food kept him going, but it didn’t give him life.

  ‘Daddy? Can Josie make a cake every day? Hers is better than yours.’

  Callan shoved his maudlin moment away. He didn’t need food to give him life, he had his life sitting next to him, her little foot nudging his as her leg swung back and forth.

  ‘I think your daddy likes making cake, Mia. And I bet it’s just as good as this.’ Josie half-smiled at Callan.

  ‘Nope. It’s not.’ Mia took another mouthful of cake, putting a momentary stop to any further insults.

  ‘She’s not lying.’ Callan pushed a chunk of the cake, its crumb light but rich with moisture, around the plate. ‘This is better than mine.’

  ‘Told ya.’ A spray of crumbs flew from Mia’s mouth.

  ‘Don’t eat with your mouth full.’ Callan tapped Mia’s hand, then turned his attention to Josie. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to keep you out of the kitchen. An old business mentor of mine once said the key to success is to allow people to do what they’re good at and not get in their way. And you’re good at baking.’ He paused. Good? She was great. But so had Abigail been, and putting Josie on par with Abigail felt wrong. Like putting another baker on the same pedestal as Abigail was a betrayal of her memory. ‘Really good. Better than I am, hands down.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t pay good money to learn how to bake, then spend years bettering myself, for nothing.’ Josie shrugged.

  ‘And it would be wrong of me to waste such a talent.’ Callan pushed his plate away. ‘So if you’d like to take on some of the cooking, then that’s fine with me. It would mean an early start but also an early finish.’

  ‘Really?’ A smile lit up Josie’s eyes. ‘Because I’d love to.’

  ‘Really.’ Callan confirmed his decision with a nod.

  ‘Yay!’ Mia’s chubby fists pumped up and down above her head. ‘And can we have afternoon tea every day as well?’

  Callan shook his head. ‘You’ve got your mum’s sweet tooth.’

  ‘And Josie’s.’ Mia pointed to Josie’s empty plate.

  A pretty pink flush lit up Josie’s cheeks. Pretty? Callan gave himself a me
ntal shake. It was just a flush, there was nothing pretty about it.

  Just as there was nothing sweet about the way Mia had evacuated her chair and was now sliding onto Josie’s lap. Josie held her hands aloft, her eyes wide, looking for Callan’s advice, or permission, to let Mia snuggle in.

  He went to reprimand Mia, to pull her away from Josie, but stopped himself. Her small body had cushioned into Josie’s, her cheek was settled upon Josie’s chest. Her thumb had found its way into her mouth.

  All at once his heart restricted in pain, while filling with love. How many times had he seen Mia snuggle into Abigail in the same way? Seeking comfort from not just the warmth of her body, but the warmth of her nature. Her goodness. Her ability to heal a bad day with a few well-thought-out words. To ease a bad day with a hug. To fix an ouchie with a kiss.

  He caught the questioning look in Josie’s eyes, and gave a nod. Permission to wrap her arms around his daughter. To bring her close. To hold her tight. To treasure her.

  ‘Daddy, can Josie please come upstairs and help us decorate the new tree?’ Mia’s head tipped up to Josie’s. ‘Please, Josie? Can you?’

  Callan’s breath caught in his throat. Regret rolled through him as protectiveness reared its head. Was it right to let Mia become close to Josie? To risk Mia’s heart being splintered further should Josie leave.

  Sure, Josie said she had no plans to up and go anytime soon, but neither had Abigail. One moment his wife had been smiling and laughing her way through life, lighting up all those she touched with her humour and sweetness, the next he’d found her on the floor. Eyes open. Unseeing. And no amount of saying her name, of pleading or crying, brought her back. Even Mia’s tears, dripping on her mother’s face, couldn’t work their fairy-tale magic and awaken Abigail from her slumberous domain.

  Josie looked to Callan for an answer, the shadows in her eyes darkening the longer he took to answer.