voice cut through her daydreams. “Did I notice it was closed last week?”
“I officially took over last week, and closed for a few days,” she said. “I’m redecorating for the grand reopening on Monday.”
When she had first sat in her bakery, with her sisters, at one of the six tiny little card tables, it had been so easy to dream. New floors, cute tablecloths, fresh flowers, pink paint, wallpaper. She hadn’t really realized how hard it was to turn a simple dream into a tangible reality. But still, in a few days, the hard part would be over. And it would be worth it.
“Ah, the paint,” he said. “What made you decide to tackle painting?”
Money seemed like too crass an answer, so she shrugged.
“You don’t exactly seem like the handy type. Rollers and overalls, paint thinners. A hat.”
She had never wanted to be the handy type, so why did it annoy her so much that he could see she wasn’t? The hat was an unnecessary dig. She had thought of a hat, but didn’t like the way hats flattened her hair.
“So what type do I look like?” she asked, tilting her chin up proudly.
“The Yellow Pages type.”
Why did she feel so aggravated that he was seeing her so accurately? The truth was that’s exactly what she would have been if she’d had the money to indulge herself. But when she’d phoned several painting companies, she’d been appalled at what they wanted to paint one little room. Her budget for the redecorating was a thousand dollars, the price she had gotten for her last piece of jewelry, a pair of beautiful emerald earrings set in platinum. There was no more jewelry to sell, which had been just about the most frightening feeling of her entire life.
If she didn’t count that bottom-falling-out-of-her-world feeling she was getting every time she took another sip of champagne and looked more deeply into his eyes.
She hadn’t figured painting would be hard work. She’d actually entertained the notion it would be fun. It had been fun. For the first fifteen minutes.
“What made you choose bubble gum pink?” he asked.
“Frosted dawn!” she snapped, though the awful truth was that was exactly what the inside of her shop looked like—a bubble of gum that someone had exploded all over her walls. Between her inexpertise and the old surfaces of the walls, the paint had not taken evenly. In some places, where she had impatiently put the paint on too thick there were ghastly dribbles, teardrop shaped, down the walls. In others, where she had tried to do a second coat before the first one was dry enough, the paint looked rough and angry.
“Did you get any on the walls?” he asked.
She tilted her chin a little more, and wondered, just a little fuzzily, if he was laughing at her. “As a matter of fact, the walls look great.” This was a lie. But she knew they would look great once she covered the worst of the mess with wallpaper and posters. Which meant tomorrow, Sunday, when the rest of the world would be sleeping in and frolicking on the beach with their families, she would be working. And it was darned hard work, especially for a girl who had never even cleaned her own bathroom.
“Well,” he said, “just be thankful you didn’t try wallpapering. An amateur can make a real mess of that.”
“Really?” she said, and successfully hid her panic by taking another slug of champagne.
“What made you want to repaint? I thought it looked fine. My Dad and I go there for morning coffee most weekdays.”
It occurred to her he was actually making conversation, probably only in an attempt to slow down her champagne consumption, which was really none of his business. Still, this was an improvement over icy, disapproving silence.
That little Cinderella hope inside her flared to life.
“The paint reflects a change in mood,” she told him earnestly. His Dad and he came to the bakery. Why would she care that it wasn’t one of the secretaries, that he wasn’t meeting his girlfriend there?
“A moody bakery,” he said, the finest edge of mockery in his voice.
“You’d be amazed what I’m planning on doing with that place.”
His expression made her want to convince him, and the champagne loosened her tongue.
“I’m renaming it for starters. The Main Street Bakery. What does that say?”
“That it’s on Main Street? That it’s a bakery?”
“It says no imagination. Dull, dull, dull, is what it says. The new name is Heavenly Treats. Don’t you think that plays well on the miracle part? Of Miracle Harbor?”
“I guess,” he said doubtfully. “Though I’m not sure that’s what people go to the bakery for. Miracles. I think they just want a loaf of bread, or a doughnut and coffee.”
She ignored his pragmatism. What place did that have in the spinning of dreams? “I’m introducing specialty coffees, and some European-style treats. Doughnuts and coffee are so passé.”
“Passé,” he agreed. There was really no doubting the mocking edge to his voice now.
“There’s a place in Los Angeles called The Chocolate Bar that sells specialty desserts for five dollars a pop!”
He still looked unimpressed.
“And of course, I’m going to get some little café-style tables, and put them outside, facing the beach. Red-checked tablecloths.”
“That sounds interesting,” he said, as if it sounded anything but.
“You don’t think I’m going to be able to pull this off.” She realized this suddenly, and felt deflated, and then annoyed with herself for caring what he thought.
“I never said that.”
“I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“In that case, you might want to offer a little mind-reading business on the side. Madam Brittany. Do you do palms?”
“You’re making fun of me.” What was it with her? Did she have a big sign on her head that invited people not to take her seriously? Is that why she’d had no response to her job applications?
She’d show them all. Heavenly Treats was going to be a huge success. The painting might not be going as planned, but that was a minor glitch. The real job began when the bakery reopened on Monday.
She could already see herself, standing there in the nice little Caroline Herrera sundress with the keyhole neckline. She had decided ages ago it would be perfect for this occasion. She could picture herself greeting customers, telling them about the day’s specialties, going from table to table at her outdoor café refilling cappuccino cups and taking orders for more slices of five-dollar tortes.
She could picture herself being admired for her panache, and her imaginative approach to business and her delightful light touches.
Not one single person would know she was scared to death.
“Are
