Page 26 of Not Another Beach Read
While the dough rested, she showed me how to make the filling for almond croissants—her bestseller, apparently. I got to measure and mix, feeling oddly proud when she nodded approvingly at my technique.
"You have a good touch," she commented as I folded the almond paste without crushing it. "Gentle but confident. That's important in baking."
Gentle but confident. No one had ever described me that way before. I liked how it sounded.
The morning flew by in a blur of flour and butter and sugar. Jenna kept up a steady stream of instructions and encouragement, never making me feel silly when I asked questions or made mistakes. When I accidentally dropped an entire tray of plastic-wrapped cookies, she just laughed and said, "Those are now designated as today's bakers' bonus."
By noon, we had rows of perfectly shaped croissants proofing in the warm kitchen, slowly rising into their final form before baking.
"Perfect timing," Jenna said, glancing at the clock. "These will be ready to bake for the afternoon rush. Why don't we take a quick lunch break?"
She led me to a small break room off the main kitchen, where she pulled two sandwiches from the refrigerator. "I hope turkey and avocado is okay. I made them this morning."
"That sounds amazing." My stomach had been growling for the past hour, surrounded by delicious smells but nothing I could actually eat yet.
We sat at the small table, unwrapping our sandwiches in companionable silence.
"So," Jenna said after a few bites, "how are you settling in at Elyse and Drew's?"
I shrugged, defaulting to my typical deflection. "It's fine."
Jenna nodded, not pushing. Another thing I appreciated about her: she didn't force conversation.
"It's actually better than fine," I admitted after a moment. "They're... really nice. Like, genuinely nice, not fake nice."
"They are," Jenna agreed. "They helped me a lot after... well, after everything with Craig."
I knew the basics of Jenna's story—her abusive ex-husband who'd destroyed Paige's house in a jealous rage and later attacked Jenna herself. She didn't talk about it much, but everyone in town seemed to know.
"How did you know you could trust them?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. "Like, really trust them."
Jenna considered this, taking a thoughtful bite of her sandwich, chewing, and swallowing. "I didn't. Not at first," she said finally. "I was used to people saying one thing and meaning another. Offering help with strings attached. But Elyse... she just kept showing up. No agenda. No expectations. Just support. And even as much as Drew travels, he always finds a way to show his support. In fact, this past spring, one of my ovens stopped working, which as you can imagine, is tragic for a bakery. I texted the group chat and Elyse asked him if he knew anything about ovens. He got in his truck and came right over to fix it. All he asked for in payment were some of the extra fruit tarts from the day before."
That matched my experience too. I'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For them to get fed up with me, to start showing their "real" selves now that I wasn't just a week-long visitor. But so far, they were exactly who they always had been. Patient. Kind. Understanding.
"It's weird," I said, picking at the crust of my sandwich. "Living with people who actually, like, talk about stuff instead of yelling. Or ignoring it completely. I mean, my grandparents have been great and all, don't get me wrong, but I can tell that raising a teenager wasn't exactly item one on their bucket list for retirement."
"How have things been with Elyse and Drew?"
"They've been great, always including me in conversations so I know what to expect."
Jenna smiled. "Communication. A radical concept."
I snorted, appreciating her dry humor. "Revolutionary."
After lunch, we returned to the kitchen to find our croissants perfectly proofed—almost doubled in size and quivering slightly when the tray was moved.
"Now for the best part," Jenna said, handing me a pastry brush. "We'll egg wash them to get that golden shine, then bake."
The transformation in the oven was magical. Flat, pale dough puffed into towering, golden pastries with distinct layers visible along the sides. When Jenna pulled the first tray out, the smell was so incredible I actually groaned out loud, then immediately blushed with embarrassment.
But Jenna just laughed. "That's the appropriate response," she assured me. "If you didn't react that way, I'd be worried."
She let the croissants cool for a few minutes, then handed one to me. "Bakers' privilege. We always taste test."
I took a bite, and the croissant practically melted into a buttery puddle on my tongue, the interior soft and airy and still slightly warm. It was, without exaggeration, the best thing I'd ever tasted.
"Oh my god," I mumbled through a mouthful of pastry.
