Lindsay
“Bite Me?” I roll my eyes and turn to Felicia, my part-time assistant. “Really?” She’s placed a beautifully decorated sign above our samples plate, the effect dimmed by the ridiculous words written across it.
She shrugs and grins. “What? It seemed appropriate for samples of cupcakes.” With a wink, she turns back to the large, glass display case and continues her task of arranging all the goodies. My bakery, Sweet and Savory, opens in ten minutes, just enough time for me to replace the sign. On my way back to my office, I stifle the giggle that’s been bubbling up since I saw it. It was funny, but I couldn’t take the chance of offending a customer.
I fix the plate and card just in time to unlock the front door, opening it to allow entry to my favorite customer. Mr. Samson is an eighty-one-year-old retired vet who likes to be called Sarge. He puts on a gruff front, but he’s really a marshmallow. Ever since I set up shop five years ago, he’s come in every morning for breakfast.
He hurries in out of the cold November air, and I swiftly close the door to keep it toasty warm inside. “What strange concoction are you going to be forcing on me today, girlie?” he grumbles. I’d like to point out that not once, even in the very beginning, has he ever ordered something plain. He would always order something unique and groan about how things are too fancy these days.
Now, he lets me choose his daily treat and it often inspires me to try new recipes. Even on the mornings I’m not here, I make sure to choose his breakfast and leave instructions for whomever is filling in. After the first year, I even started sending him home with something to heat up on Sundays, the one day a week we are closed. He’s my personal guinea pig and it’s clear he doesn’t mind it one bit. Not after the way he gobbles them up every morning and puffs up with pride when he sees I’ve filled a tray of his recommendations for the next day’s customers. Of course, I pretend not to notice.
“I made you a provolone and turkey croissant, with peppers, tomato, and a special seasoning. Now, don’t give me that look,” I sass. “You’re going to love it. Oh, and I tried a new cupcake recipe. I’ll box it up for you to take home.” As usual, he shuffles up to the cashier, and I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at him. “Sarge, when are you going to give up? Now sit your grumpy butt at a table, and I’ll bring you breakfast.”
I don’t let him pay for breakfast. It’s the least I can do for a patriot who valiantly served his country. My eyes dart to the wall at the far end of the bakery. It’s covered with signatures, pictures, and memorabilia. I offer a bit of space to any soldier who stops into my shop. But I always focus on the framed photo that sits in the very center, above a shelf, holding an American flag in a beautiful wooden case. It’s been three years since my husband Paul was killed in action on his third tour in Iraq.
I met him after I graduated college, and we had a whirlwind courtship. He proposed after only three months. We spent most of our engagement apart, while he served his second tour, and had only been married six months when he left for his third. I am proud to have been his wife, no matter for how short a time. I still miss him every day, and the sharp pain of loss is always there. But, it’s dulled over the years, the razor’s edge not digging quite so deep.
I shake my head to dispel the fog of memories and quickly fetch Sarge’s meal. After placing it in front of him, I go back around the counter and watch eagerly for his reaction, even though I pretend to be busy.
If I ever had a reason to wonder why I own a bakery, I am reminded every time I see the look of delight on someone’s face as they bite into one of my creations. My hips are another reminder, but I choose not to dwell on that one.
Sarge takes his first bite and his face lights up, his eyes closing as he savors the taste. Yes! I do a mental victory dance. Grabbing my recipe book, I star today’s concoction.
With the happy start to my morning, I spend the rest of the day cheerfully preparing to cater dessert for a large event the following evening. This will be my second year working the Annual Greenwich Gala for the Fallen Patriots organization. I moved from New Haven, Connecticut to Greenwich around a year after Paul died and kept intending to spend more time helping our military, but I used the same flimsy excuse as everybody else. I was too busy and I’d do it eventually.
When the catering company for the event approached me about supplying the dessert portion of the meal, I jumped at the chance. However, I still bit the financial bullet and bought a ticket each year.
After closing time, I rope my three employees, Jordanna, Kayley, and Grant, into helping me finish prepping everything that can be done ahead of time. Just after ten, I call it a night.
“All right, guys, go home and get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be crazy,” I say as slip my arms into my heavy winter coat, switch out my flats for snow boots, and throw my phone into my purse before swinging it over my shoulder. We leave together, something I’m always harping on them about. I don’t like the thought of any of them out late and alone in the deserted parking lot. Grant walks me all the way to my car and even opens the door after I hit the remote to unlock it.
“Such a gentleman, Grant,” I tease. “I bet you’ve got the ladies beating down your door.” He preens a little at my backhanded compliment, and I wait until my door is closed to chuckle.
I wave before putting my little, blue Jetta in reverse and backing out. About two weeks ago, I moved into a duplex only ten minutes from my shop, and seeing as how I’m collapsing in bed no more than a half hour later—I pat myself on the back for using my smarts. Ok, so it wasn’t my idea, but I agreed that it was a good choice, so obviously I can take the credit… It was actually Vince’s suggestion. My husband’s best friend from childhood had practically been our third musketeer while Paul and I were dating. In the beginning, we leaned on each other as we grieved. He offered to step in and do all those helpful things husbands supposedly do. Much to his disappointment, I reminded him that I was a military wife. We learn to survive on our own out of necessity.
When I moved away, we stayed in touch. Though, over the years, I’ve come to admit, Paul is really the only string that connects us. Still, Vince sails down the coast for a visit every once in a while, particularly when there is a Regatta at the nearby Yacht Club. Which just so happens to be where the event is taking place. However, he couldn’t make it down this year. It’s probably a good thing. Now I won’t have any guilt for leaving him on his own while I work the event.
I know I need to sleep, but my brain won’t shut off, and I remember I have a stack of unopened mail on my desk. Might as well look through it. Maybe seeing my bills will have me cashing so I don’t have to think about them. Amidst the clutter, I spy a familiar envelope and I reach for it. I use a letter opener to tear the crease and extract a small piece of thick, white paper. A poem is printed on the front, but otherwise it’s blank—no note, no signature. These little cards have been showing up about once a month for a while now, each containing a single rose petal. It’s weird, but they’re harmless enough, I’m even pretty sure I know who they are from. So I do the same as always and toss it in the petite, metal trash bin beside the desk. He’ll get over his crush one of these days. After shuffling through the rest of the mail, I trudge back over to my bed and flop down.
My ears perk up at the sound of a muffled thump through my wall. I haven’t met my new neighbor, who happens to also be the owner of the duplex, yet. I rented the space from a management company, so I know his name is Colton Black. But that’s it because my nosy hints for information were not noticed, or simply not acknowledged, by the woman I’d worked with.
Colton appears to work very odd hours, and as best I’ve been able to gather, there is no set routine. He’s also been gone over night quite a few times. I wonder if he’s staying with a girlfriend? I haven’t seen a woman coming and going at all.
Did I mention I’m nosy? Family trait. I accept the fault and move on. I suggest you do the same. Anyway, I haven’t been here long enough for my busybody skills to find me answers yet. We are closed the day after the gala, and I intend to veg out and recover. I think it might be time to bake something and meet my new neighbor.