Page 12 of Any Girl But You
The buttery cookie slides down my throat, and I clap the crumbs from my hand. For my entire life, I’ve operated like I’m charged by a high-capacity battery. I have boundless energy, which is why farming almost seemed a natural fit. But now, being back in Minnesota, it’s different. For years, jolts of electricity fired in my cells, like I was in a charged hamster wheel, and the harder I ran, the more they zapped me. This rush to prove my parents wrong, that I could actually make it on my own, that I was as gifted as Frankie, fueled me. Then my boss delivered that same message, and I became obsessed with proving myself.
Today, that same rush consumes me, but this time, I’m trying to prove myselftomyself. I run a palm across the tablecloth and tug the edges. “Hey, are you cool waiting here? I want to check out some of the other vendors. Gotta size up my competition.”
“For sure.” Morgan hands me a notepad, pen, and a stack of business cards. “Don’t forget these.”
Saved again.
For the next hour as the other vendors set up, I put on my executive face, lift my shoulders, and shake hands as I stroll the pavilion. A vendor who makes stunning wreaths catches my attention, and we set up a meeting for next week to discuss bringing in her items for my Christmas gift shop. I chat with a man who makes homemade cutting boards, and another with delicate snowflake ornaments. There’s even one that takes recycled soup and coffee cans and paints them in winter scenes for pen holders. I love it all. I want it all. My body springs alive as I scribble notes and ideas. The speakers kick on, and the sounds of Billie Holiday and Bing Crosby ring through the space. This isexactlywhat I need. It might be the end of August, but I’m overflowing with the holiday spirit.
IloveChristmas.
Who would have ever thought I’d get to this point? Joy surrounds me as I visualize these products spread across my gift shop. With Frankie being a photographer, she can take award-winning worthy photos of my place for social media. Morgan is a natural designer, and well, I’m scrappy as hell. Together, we can do this.
I turn the corner and see Morgan chatting with someone and my breath stops.Zoey. Oh God, is she a vendor here? It might make sense since she has a bakery that probably goes all out during the holiday season. She’s wearing a cute white-and-yellow sundress, her hair is flowy, reaches her mid-back, and is pinned back only on the sides. A walking boot is on one foot, and a sandal on the other. She laughs at something Morgan says and thumbs up her glasses.
God, she’s cute.Ugh.And yes, I know I’m a hot-blooded woman with a libido the size of the moon. But I really, really screwed this up if Zoey is into casual hookups. I mean, is there ever a more perfect scenario if she’s as monogamy allergic as me and lives within ten minutes of my house?
As she and Morgan chat, a tension string weaves in my stomach and tugs. What is she doing here?
More importantly, what the hell do I say?
SEVEN
ZOEY
What in the heck am I doing here? Now that I’m actually in the pavilion at the Christmas vendor event, surrounded by fake trees and snow, and more vendors than I can visit in a day, I’m rethinking all my choices. It took me until 3:00 a.m. this morning to finish the replacement cookies for Quinn, and I did something I haven’t done since opening Zoey’s Bakery six years ago—I didn’t clean up. I left all the dirty pans stacked in the sink with the mixing bowls and utensils on top. My conscience is currently eating away at itself.
I’m keeping all my fingers and toes crossed that the health department doesn’t drop by this morning for a surprise inspection. I wrote an apology note to Esther, the morning baker, and promised to make it up to her. But I wassotired by the end, and my foot throbbed like I crushed it in a vise trap. Four hours later, I dragged myself out of bed, got ready, and practically tripped over the bags in my eyes on the way here.
But now that I’m here, I’m nervous. A few minutes ago, my gaze had skittered across the room, trying to find Quinn’s table, yet praying to all the entities that she got some non-life-threatening sickness and couldn’t make it anymore. Because admitting to Quinn that my employee messed up her order,and apologizing for essentially banning her from the store, feels terrible.
Being raised by two elementary teachers—my mom, kindergarten, my dad, fourth grade—has taught me a lot besides the value of teachers and how deeply underpaid they are. All morning, I could hear my mom’s voice in my head, speaking to me like a six-year-old in her classroom: “It’s important when we do something wrong to our friends, we say sorry.”
So, that’s what I did—baked cookies and drove thirty minutes to Duluth to say sorry. Thankfully, the Christmas angels bestowed some pre-holiday luck onto me, and Quinn is nowhere to be found. I’m chatting on neutral ground with Morgan, shuffling several bags in my hand, and counting the moments down where I can politely scoot out of here before Quinn returns to the table.
Morgan points to the bags in my hand. “What do you have there?”
I lift the bags of cookies. “Not sure if Quinn mentioned, but we made a mistake on her cookie order and I brought some replacements.” The friendly face of someone who won’t bite my head off—no matter how much I may deserve it—allows me to exhale.
“Oh, that’s really kind of you.” Morgan lifts herself from the table and smooths back her blouse. “I heard there was a little mishap, but I didn’t get all the details.”
Mmm-hmmmm.Sure. Morgan’s a smart, local businesswoman, and absolutely knows how to keep the peace. She lives with Quinn. She’s practically married to Quinn’s sister. No way she doesn’t have the details. But I understand why she’s not tangling herself up in the Great Cookie Debacle.
“Are you so excited to not have crutches anymore?” She grabs the boxes from me and stacks them on the table.
“You have no idea. It feels so good to not have a cast. I went through two razors, though.” I laugh and glance around the space. Still no Quinn. My initial relief now mixes with disappointment, and I don’t know what to do with this conflict inside my body.
Do I actually want to see Quinn? Maybe a little. But why? I’m probably a glutton for punishment. Or maybe I need to clear my conscience. Or maybe I’m drawn to that dusting of freckles that peppers her cheeks… I clear my throat. “Well, I should head back. The staff are managing the shop today, but I still feel squirrelly being far away in case something happens.”
Morgan tucks a blonde lock behind her ear. “I think you should stay and enjoy the fair for a bit. Quinn should be back any second. She’ll definitely want to thank you for the cookies.”
Now I really want to bolt. I brought Quinn an eight-dozen-cookie apology. I didn’t do it to get a thank-you, which will undoubtedly take away from themostlyaltruistic act of making these replacement sweets. I really did intend to do it as an apologetic peace offering, but now that I dropped these off, I feel better. “Oh, um, I think it’s best if maybe I just scoot outta here before that happens. I don’t think she’s really my biggest fan right now.”
Morgan pulls out a water bottle from a small cooler and offers me one. “I’m sorry about whatever happened yesterday. She felt really icky when she came back from your shop. I think opening a new business and everything just piled on the stress.”
That I can understand. When I started Zoey’s Bakery, I left my job as a manager of the bakery at a local grocery store, and I questioned myself every day if I made the right decision. Along with the pressure of being a first-time small business owner, my terrible old bosses spread a rumor around town that I stole their recipes—which I absolutely did not do—and I spent my first year wondering if they were going to sue. Whispers of recipe theftrippled through the town, turning people against me for a while, until the figurative cream rose to the top and people discovered the truth about my old bosses.
“Ah, yep, that first year issohard,” I say. “I was running around like a chicken with my head… Actually that’s a gross analogy. I’ll say it was totally bananas for sure. Pretty sure I didn’t even sleep that first month.”
