Don’t Go Away Mad by Lacey Black
Chapter Two
Lyndee
I set the paintbrush in the pan and smile. After four hours of painting with both brush and roller, it’s finally complete, and I couldn’t be happier with the final project.
Glancing around, a sense of pride fills my entire being. This is it. All my hard work and determination, my sleepless nights and ramen noodle budget has paid off. I’m a week away from opening Sugar Rush, my very own bakery in the heart of Stewart Grove, Ohio. After nearly two decades of hoping and wishing for this day, my dream has finally become a reality.
Ever since I was a little girl and had my very first homemade scone from a small bakery in my hometown of Wellington, Ohio, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. The flavors burst to life on my tongue, sweet and buttery and oh so perfect, and before long, I was saving my pennies to purchase homemade breads and pastries for my family. We weren’t exactly poor, but we definitely didn’t have the extra cash to spend at the bakery.
My mom did the best she could, but it wasn’t easy. As a single parent, she worked day and night, sometimes as many as three jobs, to make sure me and my brother, Dustin, had a roof over our heads and food on the table. That’s where I learned how to cook the basics. Mac and cheese, hotdogs, and meatless spaghetti were a few of the basics I made on those nights Mom worked. Dustin wasn’t picky, as long as it was soft enough or cut up enough he could eat it.
When I was fourteen, I taught myself to use the oven. Using my grandma’s old recipe books and ingredients I purchased from the dollar store, I tried my hand at fresh breads, cookies, and cakes. I fell in love with baking, the sugar in the air and the flour in my hair. It was my solace when the stresses of real life started to suffocate me.
What could a fourteen-year-old possibly stress about, you ask?
Besides having a mom who worked herself to the bone, we were taking care of Dustin. My brother is four years younger than I am and was born with cerebral palsy, though is considered higher functioning. He can talk pretty well, feed and bathe himself with little complication, but still uses a walker or wheelchair to help him get around. He has the use of his extremities, but becomes weak when he overuses them. When Dustin was younger, it wasn’t too bad. Even without having a dad around, we made it work. We were a team, Mom, Dustin, and me.
Until it all came crashing down around us.
With me graduating culinary school and working at that very bakery I discovered my passion for pastries, Mom was able to slow down a little bit. She found a full-time position at a physician’s clinic that provided enough income, and partnered with mine, we were doing just fine in our cozy three-bedroom house in Wellington.
We didn’t need the man who ran out on us when I was just six years old. If he wasn’t able to handle being a parent to a boy with a disability, then I didn’t want him there. Even at a young age, I could see the disconnect in him. He never wanted to hold Dustin and would often leave him in his crib to cry, until I’d go in and take care of him. I bathed him, fed him, and changed his diapers. I know his departure in the middle of the night when Mom was at work was tough, but it was a blessing in disguise.
Then, four years ago, we lost Mom. I’ll never forget opening the front door and seeing those two police officers standing there. A drunk driver crossed the centerline when she was on her way home from work on Friday evening. By the time the accident was called in and the emergency personnel arrived, she was already gone.
“That looks great,” my brother says, pulling me out of my melancholy.
I blink up, taking in the light-yellow wall, and smile. “Thanks.” I beam proudly, glancing around at the brightly colored room. Three walls are yellow, with the wall that separates the customer side of the bakery with the kitchen a lovely lavender. I wanted this part to be cheerful and fun, to give the customers a little slice of sunshine while they’re here.
“I think those multi-sized and colored shelves will really pop on the yellow,” he says, maneuvering his electric wheelchair through the room, careful to avoid the stacked tables and chairs in the middle.
“I agree,” I reply, glancing at the pile of newly painted blue and green shelves. Dustin and I found them at the secondhand store and bought all they had. They’re all different lengths and styles, and we painted them a sage green color and a light blue that matches the awning out front. I plan to use them to display cute canister sets, fun kitchen gadgets, and even books that patrons can grab and read while they enjoy a cup of coffee and a breakfast pastry. The local secondhand stores have been a gold mine for finding fun treasures to decorate my bakery at a fraction of the cost of purchasing new.
Even the tables and chairs I’ll be using came from there. I found two gorgeous wingback chairs and a round end table too that will be perfect in the corner by the front window, opposite the entrance. The rest of the tables are small bistro-style, some perfect for two chairs and others will fit four, but it’s the chairs that I really adore. No two chairs are alike. I had to hit both secondhand stores in town, but also made a trip to a nearby city to get enough. My inspiration for the design hit me one night while watching an episode of Friends on television. Monica and Rachel’s four chairs were all different, and I fell in love with the look instantly.
“I’m ready to start moving tables,” Dustin says with a chuckle.
“We have a long way to go before we can do that though,” I tell him, glancing at the torn apart front counter and display. The shell is positioned against the purple wall and will need to be reassembled and put in their final positions. But they’re heavy. When I purchased them off a buy, sell, or trade group on social media, I paid them an extra hundred bucks to deliver the pieces to me. It took three guys a good half an hour to get them inside the bakery, so moving them on my own isn’t going to be easy. Not at all.
That’ll be a bridge I cross when I need to.
“The kitchen is set up,” Dustin proclaims, proud of the hard work he put into helping finish the heart of my business.
“Show me,” I reply, wiping my paint-splattered hands on my leggings.
My brother leads me into the newly finished kitchen and waves his hand dramatically. “All of the pots and pans are washed and ready to go on the shelves,” he says, motioning to the big stack of new, clean kitchen products.
I move around him and start to move the gorgeous equipment onto the industrial shelves. I can feel my brother’s eyes on me every step of the way, making sure it’s easily accessible by both me and him. Dustin isn’t a baker like me, but he knows his way around a kitchen. Over the last four years, I’ve spent a lot of time in the kitchen. It helps calm me when I get upset or stressed, and Dustin has picked up a few things. At first, he was afraid to bother me, but over time, we learned to work together. Having him beside me, kneading dough, actually helped my mood more than hampered.
“Perfect,” he states as I slide the last stack on the shelf.
Taking a step back, I smile proudly and agree. I look around the entire kitchen, from the stainless-steel double ovens, the massive refrigerators, and the dishwashing system. This room took the biggest hit on my start-up budget, but it is all necessary to do business.
“What else is on the list to do today, boss?” I ask, stretching my achy back.
“The kitchen is pretty much done. All that’s left is that big case out front. How are we going to move it?” my brother asks, concern filling his brown eyes.
“I’ve got a plan,” I tell him.
I have no plan.
“Do tell,” he says skeptically, turning his chair and facing me.
“I would, but then it won’t be a surprise,” I reply, trying to hide my grin.
Dustin laughs and shakes his head. “So, you have no clue how we’re going to do it.”
I don’t argue, because he’s not wrong. I’m going to have to ask for some assistance moving the large pieces. Our neighbor to the left is a bank, while the one on the right a gifts and boutique store. I could possible ply some of the male loan officers next door with fresh goodies if they’d come over and assist with the move. There’s also the option of asking for assistance from the men across the street. I’ve seen a few come and go from the restaurant, but the biggest activity comes from the warehouse next door. Rumor has it there’s a brewery going in there, and I’m sure there a few able bodies there who would appreciate some sweet rolls as payment for helping a neighboring business.
“I figure we can ask for help from a neighbor,” I finally acknowledge.
“Have you met them yet?”
“Well, the bank next door gave me the loan,” I reply with a chuckle.
“What about the one across the street. That restaurant has a steady stream of customers in and out all day, not to mention the ones who go into the bar side.” Dustin’s words cause me to pause and turn.
“How do you know that?” I ask, glancing toward the front windows that are covered with white paper.
“I have eyes, Lyn. Every time I’ve been on the sidewalk, I’ve witnessed it. They’re very busy for a burger joint.”
I lean against the large center island I’ll use as my prepping station and relax. “I’ve been told it’s a nice one though. Not like the McDonald’s down the road. Maybe we should order to-go one of these nights before we head home,” I suggest.
“Sounds good,” he replies.
I’ve slowly been learning about our new town over the last few months. Dustin and I rented a small two-bedroom condo that is wheelchair accessible and only two blocks off the main artery through town. We’ve been able to walk to and from the bakery, but we know the weather won’t hold much longer. It’s almost Christmas, and every day the temperature drops colder and colder. When that happens, we’ll resort to using my old Chevy Malibu and either his walker or the other wheelchair that’s a bit more compact. Dustin’s able to get in and out of my car with a little assistance, but I always hate how using the walker slowly takes its toll on him throughout the day. With his motorized chair, he has the freedom to move around all day, which I know he appreciates.
In the four months we’ve been in Stewart Grove, we’ve stuck pretty close to home. I’ve been on a budget, especially since I’m opening the bakery, but we’ve enjoyed eating at a few local restaurants. Unfortunately, Burgers and Brew hasn’t been one of them yet. Maybe this Friday night we’ll treat ourselves to dinner at the place known for its gourmet hamburgers and homemade fries. Just thinking about it causes my stomach to growl.
“When does the new girl start?” my brother asks, referring to the part-timer I hired last week to help.
“She’ll be here Wednesday through Friday this week for training,” I reply, excited to actually get started doing what I love. But that’s just two days away and I’m not set up yet. I’m going to have to bite the bullet first thing tomorrow and ask for help in moving the counter and display case. Once that’s set, the rest will fall into place and we can add the final touches.
“Well, then let’s get all this finished so we’re ready for her,” Dustin proclaims, turning and heading for the dishwasher.
He gets up out of his chair and works the new system easily. I turn on the radio, finding a local country station, and continue setting up the kitchen. The first order of supplies will be delivered Friday, and I’ll be able to start prepping for Monday’s grand opening over the weekend. I really don’t have any idea how much to make. I don’t want to overshoot my quantities, but I don’t want to be short either. Though, I suppose running out of a certain product would be a good thing, right?
Daisy will serve customers at the front counter, while Dustin and I focus on the baking and restocking. Well, I’ll technically fill in wherever needed. It’s my business, and for the first several months, we’ll be operating on minimal staff. I’ll arrive at four in the morning to prepare the first batch of goods. By the time we open at six, I’ll have hot coffee and the pastries flaky and fresh. Daisy will work six to eleven, leaving her time to get to her other job at noon. The rest of the day, Dustin and I will handle the front counter and kitchen until we close at two.
Someday, I hope to expand and offer lunch options too. Paninis, soups, and salads. Quick, healthy, and delicious lunch options to dine in or carry out when you’re on the go. Fresh lemonades, teas, and smoothies, and maybe even ice cream. But that’s all a pipe dream. First, I have to make my business plan profitable as it stands, then maybe someday, I’ll be able to expand.
We work the rest of the afternoon on the kitchen, making sure it’s ready. I even grab the broom and mop to clean the flooring up front. It’s hard when I have big stacks of chairs and tables in the way, but at least I get it clean enough to not track dirt throughout the rest of the building. Every completed task is a step toward opening day, and with each check I tick off my list, a fresh wave of pride overcomes me.
Just as I place the broom and mop in the storage closet, I hear the back door open. Dustin has been on top of taking out the trash, so it’s probably just him. I step out of the small space and head for the employee bathroom to wash my hands. We got lucky all the bathrooms were already ADA compliant, which is perfect for my brother. He doesn’t have to worry about shimmying into a tiny bathroom or having to use the one up front for customers.
An old George Strait song plays on the radio, and I instantly start to hum along. Once my hands are washed and dried, I head into the kitchen, my eyes cast down as I pick at a big run of yellow paint smeared across my stomach. “Did you get it taken care of?” I ask Dustin, feeling his presence in front of me.
“Lyndee Gibson.”
That voice.
I’d know it anywhere.
Warm, rich, and smooth as honey and exactly as I recall it from my dreams. A voice I haven’t heard in more than a decade, not since we completed culinary school, but one I’d never forget.
Jasper Kohlmann.
I look up, my wide eyes meeting his chocolate brown ones. I’m instantly transformed back to a time where my biggest worry was whether or not I’d be able to pass applied mathematics and whether or not my scholarship would cover everything I needed it to.
“It’s been a while, Lyn,” he says, his voice gravelly and low.
“It has. How are you?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around the fact Jasper Kohlmann just walked through the door of my bakery.
“Oh, I’m doing well,” he replies, casually leaning a hip against my island. I can’t help but notice the way his polo shirt molds to muscular arms and stretches tautly over an equally firm chest. My throat is suddenly too dry, my eyes unable to move from the physique in front of me. The years have definitely been good to Jasper.
He takes a step forward, breaking the trance I seem to be under. My eyes fly upward, his narrowing as he advances. I take a step back, my butt hitting the refrigerators and keeping me from farther retreat. My eyes widen as he steps directly in front of me, his musky cologne infiltrating my senses like a bomb filled with remembrances of a time long past.
A flashback plays out, one with him advancing, his sweet scent hitting my nostrils. I swore he was going to kiss me that night, I saw it in his eyes. But the ding of a timer broke the spell we were under, causing us to jump apart. The moment we shared was never repeated, though it did many times over the years in my dreams.
He studies my face, taking in the bags under my eyes and the stress lines marring my forehead. I can imagine what he sees when he looks at me. The fatigue, the tension, and the apprehension that comes along with opening a new business in an unfamiliar town. I’m sure it’s all there in spades.
Suddenly, his eyes narrow even more, that familiar wariness filling his gaze. It takes me right back to school, where he was a constant nuisance and my biggest competition. Familiarity wraps around me, warm and comforting, just like it did back then. A tingle races down my spine, and I feel the interrogation looming.
“What do you have planned, Lyn? Why are you opening up a bakery right across from my restaurant?”
