Morning Grinch Affogato—
eyelid-raising espresso over creamy peppermint gelato that wakes you up and soothes shriveled hearts
Frost dusts the grass in the square and outlines the edges of the store windows illuminated by strands of white lights. In the dark wee morning hours, the stillness is almost complete, no noises of people bustling or families chatting, not even a stray car passing by. The decorated tree and the menorah glow, giving the space an almost magical feel, but it does nothing to take the edge off my nerves about working in the bakery.
I wind my scarf around my neck, the cold tingling my cheeks and erasing the remnants of sleep. I dig in my purse for my father’s bakery key that Mom gave me last night with a knowing (or was it gloating?) smile, telling me Albert starts at 4:00 a.m. At which point I mildly panicked about what she might say to Spence and asked her to please not mention the addendum because I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it yet. She replied with: Haven’t had time or haven’t wanted to? Which it turns out is a damn good question, but not one I was prepared to answer.
As I shut my purse, I catch a glimpse of my phone, which reads 4:01 a.m. While I’m not a morning person by a long shot, I enjoy baking when no one is awake, kneading dough and stirring cream; there is something relaxing and meditative about it. Plus, it’ll give me time to think about how to maintain ownership of the bakery while returning to California. I only hope that Albert doesn’t mind the intrusion as I reacquaint myself with the baking schedule. I figure if I come here in the early mornings, I can be out by eleven or so, giving me the whole day with Spence and avoiding Wilder all in one go.
I step onto the sidewalk but stop in front of the window to admire the display once again. The portrait of Haverberry is exquisite, more art than skill really. And the longer I look, the more details pop out at me: the inclusion of the bench where I always sat to watch the Christmas tree, the car parked in front of the bakery that looks an awful lot like my Prius, the words molten chocolate cake—my favorite dessert—written on the replica of the bakery window.
I straighten so fast you’d think I’d been pinched because I know with certainty who made this display—Wilder—and suddenly the world is spinning off its axis.
I walk away, trying to convince myself it’s meaningless, and instead concentrate on slipping the key into the lock. The bells give a bright jingle as I push open the door and step into the dark café. Only it’s not pitch-black; a faint glow illuminates the round window in the door leading to the kitchen, where I can already smell dough baking to a buttery flake.
For a moment I hesitate, heart hammering at the sight of the familiar bakery, the cover of dark allowing my mind to drift to memories of my father—the way pride made him stand a little taller behind the counter, the careful way he used to tie his apron, tucking and pulling it until it was pristine, and the way he used to hum to himself when he was measuring or cleaning the counters like a joyful dance.
My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I blink away the images before I lose my nerve. I stride across the room, taking off my coat and scarf as I go. Sink into the work and forget everything else, I tell myself. This is temporary. Only temp—
But my thoughts are cut short as I push open the kitchen door, the chocolate-scented air warming my chilled skin, because there—standing at the mixing bowls where Albert should be—is Wilder.
“Shit,” I say before I can consider it. “You’re not supposed to be here.” My bravado from yesterday is distinctly absent.
He looks up from where he shaves a block of baking chocolate. “I’m usually not,” he admits. “But I decided to give Albert the morning off.”
“Did my mother tell you—” I stop short, realizing how ridiculous that sounds, like she specifically called him up to alert him of my movements.
He waits for me to finish, his shirtsleeves rolled up to combat the warmth from the ovens, but when I don’t speak, he says what I can’t. And after all those years he lived in Europe, the words wind up sounding more British than American. “I take it you’re displeased.”
I don’t reply directly because this is awkward enough as it is. Instead, I place my things on a hook and reach for an apron, only to discover that the one I used as a girl is still hanging where it always did, its baby blue and white stripes faded from too many washes. For a moment I’m frozen in place, eyes locked on the apron that has been waiting for me to return for ten years. A lump forms in my throat, and my chest rises a little too fast.
After an extended pause, I yank a plain white one down, feeling exposed, my upset turning to fluster. “And tomorrow? I mean, tomorrow you’ll be here in the afternoon?”
He pauses filling his mixing bowl, which from the smell of it is filled with something of the gingerbread variety. “Actually, no,” he says slowly. “I’d really like to be present for the bakery’s most important tasks, and the morning baking is the top priority in my opinion. So, I’ll be shifting to an earlier schedule from here on out.”
Panic grips my chest. I press my lips together, holding back my flood of objections. Of course this would happen; it’s as if Wilder and I were destined to find ourselves in impossible scenarios. If this were any other situation, I’d just take the afternoon shift, but there’s no way I’m missing holiday time with Spence because Wilder sucks.
“Then I guess that means we’ll be here together,” I say.
The beach parking lot is packed with cars, but since it’s after hours, Jake just makes his own spot by the cattails that enclose the adjacent marshland, pulling the front wheels of his truck into the soft grass.
Barefoot, I plod onto the pavement that has cooled in the night air, yanking my sweatshirt down over my head. Jake takes my hand in his warm calloused palm as we step onto the sand. And as we make our way through the groups of partyers, I find myself instinctually searching for Wilder even though I promised myself I wouldn’t. I haven’t spoken to Wilder since I saw his parents in the grocery store last week. I didn’t tell him what I heard his mom say or that I’m done with him in general. He texted me a couple of times, but when I didn’t respond, all went silent.
“Drink?” Jake offers.
“For sure,” I reply, distracted by my thoughts.
He heads for a cooler surrounded by a group of his football buddies, and I wander around the bonfire, my bare feet plodding through the cool sand.
And that’s when I hear it—the most frustrating sound in the world—Wilder laughing. My head whips toward his voice only to find him holding court with a group of girls from our school. His eyes are lit up and his gestures are big. Is Wilder tipsy?
“So, we’re waiting for the book signing to start, only the event before it was running late—some kid storybook thing—and the library is swarmed with toddlers. And as their big finale, they bring out a live duck. The kids are out of their minds with excitement. Maddi? Not so much. Terrified, squirming like a giant spider just landed on her head.”
The girls laugh and I suddenly feel all the blood in my body rush to my cheeks. Wilder loves this story and used to tease me about it in private all the time. But telling it now after everything that’s happened?
“And to make matters worse, as Maddi’s trying to get away from the duck, it escapes and flies right toward us,” the idiot continues as I march toward him and his admirers. “Maddi loses it. Starts screaming. And the toddlers don’t know why, but they figure something terrible must be happening, so they start screaming—”
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” I demand, approaching the group.
Wilder shifts his gaze to me, his smile deepening when he sees me. He moves aside, making room for me to stand next to him, and then looks back at the girls. “So, the librarian manages to scoop up the duck, but it’s too late to calm the toddlers,” he continues like I wasn’t threatening to kill him with my eyes. “And no joke, there’s what can only be described as a mini stampede. Maddi straight up jumped on my head. I had to carry her out of there through ruins of Goldfish and smashed juice boxes. That was the day—”
My blush deepens. I yank him by the arm, pulling him toward the ocean before he can continue.
“Hey now,” he says with a chuckle.
I stare at him incredulously. “Seriously? You’re telling that story to random girls?”
“They’re not random. They’re—”
“I don’t care if they’re your new best friends and you’re about to have a foursome! I’m not your cheap pickup line, Wilder.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “You think I’d use that story to hit on girls?” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to tell them about our first kiss, Mads. You should know me better than that.”
His smile falters and so does my confidence. Embarrassment rushes in, not because I was wrong about his intentions, but because I admitted that story was still important to me.
“What I was going to say to them,” Wilder continues, “is that was the day I discovered that you, Madeline DeLuca, the girl who isn’t afraid of anything, who punched a bully in the face in third grade, who entered a baking contest for adults when she was barely thirteen, is terrified beyond belief of ducks. And it only made me fall harder. I’m pretty sure it was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I stare at Wilder, frustration warring with the part of me that is reflexively softening at his words. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but I can also smell him—the lingering scent of fireplace that he lights all year round, even in the middle of summer.
“So, you’re drunk?” I say, needing to explain away the humming sensation and dismiss it as something meaningless.
“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “But that doesn’t change that it’s also the truth.”
I level him in my gaze, needing to squash whatever is happening. “Truth?” I repeat. “The last time I checked, we could barely make it through a simple hello without fighting.”
He sighs, looking briefly at the ocean. “Yeah, I know. I hate it.”
And for reasons I can’t fathom, I respond. “I do, too.”
I turn away from Wilder, resolving to just focus on the task at hand for the rest of the morning. And for the most part, besides a quick conversation here and there about who’s making what and the schedule going forward, we’re silent. I catch him looking in my direction every once in a while, like he’s trying to sort something out, but it only makes me focus harder on my work, letting the scents and motions guide me, and trying not to think too hard about where I am or whom I’m with.