Chapter One
A warm cloud of sugary air poofed against Emma’s face as she pushed into the bakery. Despite the fully blasting heat inside the small but cozy space, she pulled her jacket tighter around her, shivering from the chill that lingered from her walk downtown. January in New England was never shy, but she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite this cold before.
With a shiver—both from the lingering cold and the mix of emotions running through her—Emma took a few tentative steps toward the display case. Her mouth watered instinctively as she inhaled. The scent in the air promised something doughy and heavy on cinnamon coming from an oven tucked out of sight. She tracked her eyes over the colorful items in the case, certain that none of them could provide such an intense aroma. She cocked her head, surprised to see what looked like individual strawberry cobblers. That, she knew for certain, wasn’t your average winter sweet treat. As she calculated the expenses of importing fresh strawberries—because any good baker in their right mind would always prefer to use fresh fruits—she missed the door opening and closing behind her.
“You in line, hun?”
Emma jumped back, startled by the gruff voice that held a rasp of Massachusetts. “No, no,” she said quickly, gesturing toward the case. “Not really, I mean. I’m just looking. For now.”
The elderly man, clearly unfazed by her unclear response, shrugged as he moved past her and rapped the handle of his cane on the counter. “Ya gotta make a little noise around here or ya never get served.”
“Coming!” a voice called from the back. “One minute, sorry!”
Emma grinned at the man, who looked at her with an expression that said “Told ya so.” She appreciated his silence as she resumed her perusal of the display case. She wasn’t feeling up to small talk, nor was she in a rush. In fact, Emma had no concept of “rush” at present. She was far more into the dilly-dally stage of life, loath as she was to admit it. At times like this, however, it paid off. She surreptitiously eyed the man, who was growing more and more annoyed with the lack of prompt service.
He muttered something under his breath just as the vibrant aqua-colored door swung open. A woman in her early thirties, if Emma had to guess (and she didn’t like guessing women’s ages but usually couldn’t help herself), wiped her hands on the front of her apron as she approached the counter.
“Sam!” The woman beamed at the elderly man, who rapped his cane once more then broke into a grin. “I thought you and Mary had already left for Florida.”
In a blink, the annoyance vanished from the man’s face, replaced by a genuine smile. “Nah, got a few more days before we get outta here. The grandkids have all their big sports events and…”
Emma let the conversation dissolve into the background as she focused her attention on a single chocolate cupcake sitting in the case. The sign declared it to be “Devilishly Dark and Dreamy,” which sounded appetizing but gave little information about what the consumer would actually be biting into. She scrunched her nose as she peered closer. Probably a dark chocolate cake, which was one of Emma’s top five favorite flavors, and while the icing was almost equally as dark as the cake, it also had little white flecks interspersed throughout its luscious swirls. Buttercream, most likely, exposing itself with the tell-tale sign of the butter having been too cold when it was mixed with the powdered sugar.
“Rookie mistake,” Emma said under her breath. She straightened and sucked her gasp in when she came face-to-face with the baker.
“Welcome to Dough Mama,” the woman said. She smiled easily as she rested her forearms on the top of the case. “First time here?”
Dough Mama. Emma loved it and hated it—only because she hadn’t come up with it herself. Not that that mattered anymore.
“Yup!” She swallowed hard, urging the gasp-turned-spiky-air-bubble down instead of out. “Everything looks great.”
“Thanks.” This time, a tone of weariness crept into the woman’s voice. “We’re a little shorthanded. I know some steps are getting missed and I hate to see it, but…” She shrugged. “Any chance you came in to see about the job?”
Consumed with fireworks of embarrassment, Emma could only shake her head. The gesture was a lie, of course. The bright yellow “HELP WANTED” sign had beckoned her in, but only because she’d somehow missed any clues about Dough Mama being a bakery. She’d assumed it was a pizza place…Well, assumed or convinced herself, she wasn’t sure.
And while she did need a job, working here would only remind her of all the failures she was trying to run from. Emma shook her head again as she fumbled for the right words. “I—I’m not the right person.”
A silence hung over the two women. After several thick seconds of Emma’s burning discomfort, the baker spoke.
“That’s not the response I was expecting,” she said, each word slow and purposeful, as though she knew anything less measured and gentle would send Emma scampering out the door. “Especially since you outed yourself with that comment about the icing, which is obviously correct. So I’m thinking maybe you are the right person.”
“I’m not!” Emma tried to grin after the words sprung from her mouth. “But could I please have that devilish cupcake and one of the strawberry cobblers? To go? Please?” Her eyes swept over the case once more because there was no way she was going to make eye contact with the woman standing across from her. “Oh, and one of the Earl Gray scones. Please.”
“Of course.” The baker busied herself with gathering the items and packing them carefully—lovingly, if Emma were being honest—into a pale purple box.
The two met again at the register and the silence was torture. Emma didn’t do well with silence in general but this? This would not do.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words a tumbling rush. “I feel like I was rude and trust me, I am not a rude person. I—”
“The butter was too cold.”
Emma felt her shoulders drop an inch from their clenched, heightened state. “The butter was too cold,” she echoed.
The woman pressed her palms against the counter and studied Emma. “I have a feeling you are the right person for the job, but maybe now isn’t the right time. I’m Viv,” she said, holding out a hand that was still covered with a film of powdered sugar. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Emma shook Viv’s hand, then looked down at the sparkle of sugar that had transferred to her own hand. She smiled despite herself, despite the growing bundle of sadness twining in the pit of her belly.
“Emma,” she said, picking up the box and giving Viv her first real smile. “And thank you.”
Viv only nodded as Emma turned and walked toward the door. She stepped outside and let the cold seep into her bones, shivering as it effortlessly iced over any lingering warmth from the bakery, the baker, and the baked goods.
Oh, but the baked goods. Ten minutes later, Emma was wiping crumbs from the corners of her mouth. That strawberry cobbler had lured her in with a siren’s song not twenty paces from the bakery’s door. After giving it an inspection only a practiced eye could deliver, Emma slid the pastry out of the box and took a bite. She’d nearly moaned into the perfect ratio of fruit and dough. Just from one bite, she could tell there was something unique about the flavor profile, but she wasn’t going to figure it out while standing on the corner of Main and Ivy in downtown Chestnut Hill, New Hampshire—especially when the winter clouds were slowly converging in a way that threatened some kind of frigid precipitation.
So, though it pained her to do so, Emma gently placed the cobbler back in the box. As she removed her hand, the side of her pinkie finger grazed the crumbly scone and, well, who was she to deny lust at first touch? A couple minutes later, more bites than steps taken, the scone had vanished. It wasn’t the best she’d ever had—an execution problem, one she thought could be easily solved by adjusting the temperature of the butter—but that flavor profile was tugging at her, making her question everything she knew about combining ingredients.
A smile lifted and fell on Emma’s face as she continued walking. She didn’t want to think about Dough Mama, and she really didn’t want to think about throwing ingredients together and watching them rise into beautiful, dare she say supple, baked goods. Nope, she would not be returning to Dough Mama anytime soon.
“That part of your life is over,” she said under her breath as she continued down Main Street. She tried to push thoughts of baking out of her head, focusing instead on the cobbled sidewalks under her feet. She had no real destination in mind, but the whole “get a job” thing hung over her head, a thicker cloud than the real ones overhead, which were suddenly looking a lot heavier.
Emma scanned the storefronts as she walked, hoping a sign would jump out into her path. She passed a bar and hesitated, wondering if she could pull off being a bartender. More likely than not, she wouldn’t even be allowed to enter the building: Though she had turned twenty-one right before Thanksgiving, she hadn’t grown past the 5’2” of her high school growth spurt. Add that to what her mom referred to as her “eternal youthful glow,” which was weird because as far as Emma was concerned, she was still a youth—anyway, she knew the explosion of freckles across her face didn’t add any mature years to whatever people first assumed her age to be when they met her.
So, okay. No bartending for the time being. A single icy drop hit her square on top of the head and she picked up the pace as she crossed Finch Avenue. She tried to resist the urge to look down Finch to where it intersected with Penn Street. There, Pennbrook University began its sprawl over numerous blocks, its old brick buildings stoic and grand. Just before she stepped onto the curb, Emma stole a glance down the street and blinked in the face of her future. Viv’s words echoed in her head: “Maybe now isn’t the right time.”
Just as the chilly drops picked up speed, Emma found herself standing in front of a bold red sign that spelled out Cornerstone Books in black font, all caps. She tilted her head, appreciating, as always, the literal use of the location to name the store. If she walked inside and discovered that old, faithful Cornerstone, a Chestnut Hill staple, had lost its charm in order to appeal to the modern masses, Emma was going to be sorely disappointed…Even if she didn’t exactly enjoy reading. Or books in general.
Emma squealed as a rogue pellet of sleet dropped right down the back of her neck. Not exactly the sign she was looking for, but a moment later, she was standing in the entryway of Cornerstone Books, inhaling that unmistakable, soothing scent of paper, coffee, and an ever-present hint of vanilla.
Not daring to move further into the store, she turned her head to take in the familiar surroundings. Relief swept through her. It didn’t look like anything had changed since she’d last set foot in Cornerstone (she wasn’t sure when that was, but estimated it was before graduating from high school).
From where she stood, Emma could see the extensive and precisely organized section of magazines. It was Cornerstone’s feature, the part of the store that always had at least six people browsing about. Emma smirked, remembering a very specific section that featured “art” magazines. In reality, they were lightly pornographic, which was why that area often collected adolescent boys.
Just beyond the magazine section, the modest café was still tucked neatly into the corner and commandeering the best windows in the store. Emma felt a flutter in her chest as she gazed over the lovingly worn tables and chairs, none of which matched, holding cups of coffee and piles of books. She’d spent countless hours doing homework at those tables, scrunching her nose at whatever elaborate caffeinated drink her friends bought and then barely drank because, well, teenagers.
Emma tilted her head as she swept her gaze past the café and toward the back of the store. Okay, that was different. It seemed longer, somehow. Definitely more bookshelves, but it didn’t look crowded or tightly smashed together. She looked to her left, then, and appraised the front end of the store: the greeting card section, the pens and journals section, and the random small gift section, all butting up against the register area.
Assured that the world inside Cornerstone Books hadn’t changed too much, Emma stepped forward and made her way through the store. With no particular destination in mind, she was free to walk slowly, and as she did, her guard dropped lower and lower. There was a wholesomeness to Cornerstone, a comfort that Emma didn’t remember feeling on her previous visits. Maybe it was nostalgia creeping in, but the non-book-lover in her was suddenly feeling very Belle. She giggled to herself, imagining breaking into song and twirling from the finance section to the self-help section, a yellow dress hugging her body, the skirt swirling with each spin of her hips. Her giggle was cut short at the unpleasant thought of a beastly human being holding her captive between the stacks.
Emma cleared her throat and walked with more of a purpose. She was quite aware that life was not a Disney movie. Besides, she was far more Merida than Belle. Emma brushed her hair from her face. Okay, maybe just in the looks department. And in resourcefulness, but that was mostly due to Emma’s Scorpio nature. They were also both a bit stubborn, at least in the sense that Emma really loved being right, and—
“No, sorry, but I’m out.”
“Wait! We can work something out. I know we can.”
Lured by the tiny explosion of drama, Emma took tentative steps toward the bulging shelf in front of her. She made sure to stay out of sight as she settled in to eavesdrop.
“There’s nothing to work out.” The person—a woman, Emma thought—sighed heavily. “It’s too much with school. I have to prioritize.”
“Okay, I understand that.” Another woman, with a voice that was both scratchy and sweet. A little nasally, too, like she was battling a cold. “How about we cut your hours? We can do that. Just give me a number you’re comfortable working.”
“Zero.”
The answer came without hesitation or pause, and Emma fought back a laugh.
“Oh. Okay. Um—”
“Sadie, I’m sorry.” There was a rustling noise. “Here. Tell Genesis I’m sorry, too.”
Footsteps moved away from the other side of the shelf. A little sigh that sounded more like an exasperated, and very tired, growl crawled through the sudden silence. Emma didn’t dare move. She stood there for what felt like ten minutes but couldn’t have been more than two. Just as she was summoning up the nerve to walk away, she caught, out of the corner of her eye, rapid movement in the form of a very tall person speeding in her direction.
“Don’t even tell me,” the person said as they sped past Emma and stopped on the other side of the shelf. The young adult section, if Emma remembered correctly. “She quit.”
“I tried to get her to cut her hours instead.”
“Great. Fucking great.” A thud.
“Hey! Don’t kick my books.”
“I’ll stop kicking your books when you stop hiring people who don’t stay for more than a month.”
“I thought she had potential,” the woman said, her voice slightly muffled. Emma pictured her squatting down to console the book the other person had kicked.
“She didn’t, Sadie. I knew that on day two. So can I please do the hiring next time?”
“You act like there’s a pile of applications and résumés waiting for us to go through,” Sadie said. She sounded tired but not unhappy. “And no, but you can be a part of the interview.”
“Finally,” her coworker grumbled. “There’s gotta be at least one or two apps we haven’t—”
With a terrible punch of inspiration and a misdirected need to make others happy, Emma flew around the corner of the shelf, coming face-to-face with a tall Latinx woman and a—whoa.
“The fuck?” the Latinx woman said, looking from Emma to Sadie. “Have you been hiding your child in the general fiction section?”
The other woman was holding her hand over her mouth, dark-green eyes wide with surprise. Or shock. Or something in between.
Emma felt her mouth open and close. She had no idea what to say; it wasn’t every day you came face-to-face with your doppelganger.
Finally, words popped out: “You could hire me.”
“Yes!” Sadie said, her tone joyful. She clapped a few times and Emma got a good look at the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, darker than the ones on Emma’s face but nearly exact in their placement. “And also, oh my God. Are we related?”
“She literally looks like your child.”
Sadie gazed at Emma in wonder. “She really does. And yes! Of course, yes. You’re hired.”
The other woman groaned. “Sadie, you cannot hire someone on the spot.” She turned to Emma. “We’ll take you up front and you can fill out an application.”
It was then that Emma registered the apron the Latinx woman was wearing. Confusion nudged her, but she ignored it.
“Great,” she said. “I can start whenever you need me.”
“Tomorrow!” Sadie exclaimed.
“No, not tomorrow. But soon. After we interview you,” the other woman said sternly, shooting eye daggers at Sadie. “I’m Genesis, by the way. The café manager.”
“Oh,” Emma said, but it came out like a squeak. The apron suddenly made a lot more sense. The café? Coffee? She’d never drank a sip in her life.
“Come on,” Sadie said, taking Emma by the arm. “Let’s go find an application for you.”
And that was how, not fifteen minutes later, Emma found herself walking back to her car through sleet and snow, her mind in knots over the interview she would attend in two days. An interview for a position in the café at Cornerstone, despite the fact that she knew even less about coffee than she knew about books.
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