Page 8 of Sweet and Salty

Daphne blows a loud raspberry into the phone. “It’s bullshit. He’s trying to drag you back down with him. Don’t let him. You’re finally free.”

“You’re right.” I’m ninety percent sure this is true.

“I am. Know your power, Laura. It’s a relief you broke up with him. Maybe you just need to date someone who can actually find your erogenous zones. I doubt Chris ever did, even with a highly trained tracker dog and detailed GPS coordinates.”

When he asked if I could “just whip up a quick brownie” after the first time we had uninspiring sex, I should have dumped him. But no, there’s the people-pleasing Laura, the Laura who listens to the town gossips who shout their lamentations of my single status.

“I know,” I say simply.

“I know people in town always say ‘having someone is better than being alone.’ But we know that’s complete and utter shit. Right?” That’s Daphne’s doctor voice, minus the swearing. Stern and chiding.

“Right.” Now that she mentions it, it’s easier to remember the bad times. “They never had to clean up after Chris after one of his ‘exercise’ sessions. Halfhearted walking in front of the TV, dropping his water bottle on the ground, and sweating in a way that requires a clinical diagnosis.”

“Exactly,” Daphne says. “No one ever knows what people are really like on the inside. This is a chance to change. Be a new Laura.”

“You’re right. No more sweet Laura, trying to be everyone’s good girl. No more clingy Laura.”

Daphne groans. “Ugh, I really hate Chris. You’re not clingy.”

“In some ways, he was a good learning experience.” Like that I hate dating man children. “I attach too quickly and too completely, and it blinds me to the faults of my partner. That’s how I let that poohead at Moe’s get to me.”

“Wait, what?” Daphne’s voice perks up. “What poohead? There’s someone new in town? This is huge news.”

Alarm bells clang in my stomach. “Oh. Yeah. There’s someone new working at Moe’s. He’s kind of a jerk, though.”

“Wow. He didn’t go to May Day? Or hot ham and rolls? I fucking love hot ham and rolls.” There’s a hint of nostalgia in her tone. She hasn’t even visited St. Olaf since she left for medical school.

“No, I guess he’s been keeping his crankiness to himself.”

“Why did you even go to the hardware store?”

I sigh. “I’ve had a lot of trouble lately with Lucretia Borgia—”

“Fab name, by the way,” Daphne interrupts.

“Exactly. So I was feeling a little down, and Moe always has those really great bubblegum lollipops at the counter. But he wasn’t there. It was this new guy.”

“Is he hot? Even if he isn’t straight, it would be nice to have someone pretty to look at.” Says the woman who lives in one of the world’s coolest cities.

It’s not difficult to remember Jesse’s handsome features. “Sort of. He’s like a super grumpy lumberjack. But he smells better.”

“Ooh. Intriguing. If anyone can soften him up, it’s you.” There’s a buzzing on her end of the phone. “Shit. I’m getting called by the hospital. Again. Talk soon, hon? I’m sure you have a kransekake to deliver.”

“Absolutely.” Daphne hangs up before I can ask if she wants me to say anything to her dad. She probably doesn’t, but why else would she call on his birthday? I’ll tell my mom we talked,and she’ll speak to Dr. Sieber. That’s probably the best way to manage it.

I box up the kransekake. This is the most harrowing aspect of my job: transporting finished baked goods to a destination. I have every possible gadget in my old hatchback to make it possible, but there is always that fear lurking in the background. If I drop one of the cakes, that’s it. There isn’t another. I have spares in my freezer, but when people custom-order something, they wantthat. They crave it, the same way I crave a cherry-red bubblegum lollipop.

I manage to package the cake successfully in the back of my car and go back into the bakery for my purse. I built this place from the ground up, my siblings helping out when they could. Mom and I went shopping through antique stores up and down the length of Lake Michigan to find mismatched old plates and silverware. I love this café. The front of house is dim; the chairs are stacked on the tables. Monday morning’s dough is ready and proofing, the yeast scenting the air. It’s quiet and peaceful.

Exactly what I don’t need. No wonder the town council—otherwise known as Dryden fixers, each and every one—didn’t approve my liquor license. I want this place bustling until the wee hours, or what passes for them here in St. Olaf. Nine p.m. at least during the winter months.

Who am I kidding? New-in-town hot grump Jesse is right about me. I am all bluster and no warmth.

Sighing, I lock the door, and at the last moment grab the paper bag from Moe’s. When I toss it onto the front passenger seat, the bag whispers an unexpected crinkle. Pushing aside all memories of horror movies my sister Frannie made me watch, I open the bag with my heart in my throat.

But when I reach in and my hands close around the object, I know exactly what it is, and a strange, bright sensation sparks in my chest.

A cherry bubble gum lollipop sits in my hand, bright and cheerful.

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