“I’m kinda surprised you haven’t opened your own shop,” Maya said, holding up a macaroon. “Your recipes are fantastic. I bet your folks would lend you the start-up money, too.”
Steph shook her head emphatically. “Oh, hell, no. I don’t want my parents to have a stake in any business of mine. Anyhow, I would never go into competition with Georgette. She taught me everything she knows. I can’t stab her in the back.”
Maya chuckled. “If you want to own a business, you have to be a little mercenary sometimes.” Maya would know. She’d bought the consignment shop on Main Street for a song about nine months ago. She now specialized in vintage clothing and wore the most awesome outfits. She’d even helped dress all Helen’s friends for a Mad Men party she had thrown. “Do you even know what it takes to keep the bakery going?” Maya asked, peering at Steph through her cat’s-eye glasses.
“Of course I do,” she said, then faltered. “I mean, I’ve worked there a long time...”
“Well, you baked and did all the front counter stuff, sure, but you didn’t handle the background responsibilities. Making sure the shop complied with health regulations, filling out tax forms...”
“I can learn to do all that if Georgette gives me a chance. Or I can hire someone.”
She knew Maya was only trying to make her see the reality of the situation. Even so, Steph couldn’t help but feel affronted, as if Maya didn’t think much of her abilities or ambitions. People were always waiting for Steph to make a mistake and give up.
“So what are you going to do?” Maya prodded. “Quit?”
“And do what? Go home a failure?” She gulped her wine and exhaled a heady cloud of vapor. “No way. Aaron can’t scare me away. And neither can my parents or you, for that matter.”
Maya grinned. “Good. I hate it when you play helpless little rich girl.” She toasted her. “Sorry to act all mean, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t...”
“Being a flake?” Steph supplied.
Maya’s lips quirked. “Your words.”
She knew she could rely on Maya for the honest truth. They hadn’t been close in high school, but Steph appreciated her bluntness—and patience—now. She needed a regular dose of reality, something that had been lacking in her life, living at home with parents who gave her anything and everything she wanted. No one had ever criticized her, either, or if they had, it had never been to her face.
Or maybe she’d simply ignored it. She’d been frustrated by her grades, of course, but so many other parts of her life had been great, like her relationship with Dale, cheerleading and all the clubs she’d been in. Her parents hadn’t minded the Cs and Ds on her report cards, though they had frowned at the handful of Fs she’d earned. In hindsight, she wished her parents had been a little tougher on her, but she knew her poor academic performance was all on her.
She understood now that if she really wanted something, she had to earn it, the way she had with her job and her apartment. Hard work and discipline had been the key to her independence, and now that she’d had a taste, she wasn’t about to give up any of it. She had to win Georgette’s favor if she was ever going to take over the bakery.
“So, what are you going to do about Aaron?” Maya prompted.
“I’d like to pour a bowl of batter over his head.” That was the wine talking, of course. She heaved a sigh. “I’ll stay on, I guess. What else can I do?”
“Well, if things get intolerable, quitting is always an option.”
“Didn’t you just say I shouldn’t quit?”
“You shouldn’t quit without really thinking about it, is what I meant. But I wouldn’t want you staying there if you were miserable, either. No one would judge you for leaving if you were unhappy.”
Steph didn’t believe that for a moment, because she’d judge herself. Working at Georgette’s wasn’t just a job to her. It represented everything she was working toward—financial independence, security, stability and professional pride. Maybe to some people her job looked like a way for a rich girl to pass time. But Georgette’s Bakery was an institution. One that would fall apart in Aaron Caruthers’s hands if she didn’t make sure she was involved.
And to do that, she was going to have to play nice.
* * *
AARON ARRIVED AT Georgette’s at quarter after nine. He would have been there when the bakery opened, but he’d wanted to go with his grandmother to her doctor’s appointment and hear what the specialist had to say. Georgette would be visiting a physical therapist once a week to work on her mobility issues, and she would need to do daily exercises to get back the strength in her hands. The doctor assured them she was well on the road to recovery, but Aaron was going to keep a close eye on her.
He entered the bakery and found Steph chatting up a customer. She excused herself and brought him a steaming mug. “Fresh coffee?” She smiled brightly.
“Uh...thanks.” He took the mug and headed to the office. Steph followed.
“Listen—” she lingered in the doorway “—I want to say I’m sorry if I’ve acted nastily toward you. I think it’s great that you’re back for Georgette.”
He blinked. She sounded like she meant it, but then he wasn’t sure she’d ever given anyone a smile that wasn’t carefully calculated to extrude the maximum result.
Oh, hey, Aaron, can I borrow a pen? Can I borrow your notes?
Can I borrow your heart so I can stomp all over it?
“Okay,” he responded noncommittally. He’d apologized plenty for his poor behavior already. Still, it didn’t feel right not to reciprocate. But with each second that passed, it got harder and harder to jump into that conversation. They lapsed into an awkward stalemate.
He picked up the binder of invoices his grandmother kept for supply orders and set up his laptop. He didn’t realize until he looked up that Steph was still standing in the doorway watching him. “Something you want?” He cursed his curt tone. Tell her you’re sorry and that you appreciate her, too, idiot.
She smiled faintly. “Just curious about what you’re up to.”
He patted the binder, glad for something else to talk about. “I’m looking at cutting some costs, getting quotes from other suppliers.”
Steph gasped. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t...change things.” She gestured emptily, her movements shaky. “We have long, established relationships with our suppliers.”
“If that’s true, they should be offering you a better deal for what you order.”
“They already do.” Her voice rose, almost threateningly.
Aaron struggled to keep his tone even. “Not good enough. Not after nearly fifty years in business.” Was she going to question and fight him on every decision? “Look, all I’m trying to do is make sure the bakery stays in the black, but it’s dangerously close. We need to reduce our expenses.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re going to cut our hours?”
That wasn’t what he’d said—her reaction was typically self-centered. He opened his mouth to reassure her that her job was safe, but realized he couldn’t make