Page 3 of Half Baked

Stepping inside, I smile at the white honeycomb floor and pale oak built-ins. I have mismatched vintage cake stands of varying heights and sizes behind the glass on the display counter. They are littered with heart shaped scones, oversizedmuffins, perfectly square dessert bars, and delicately decorated cakes.

I take a moment to pull out my phone and snap a few fast pictures of the display before heading into the back kitchen area. This will be perfect for the bakehouse social media feeds.

Deciding on the pictures that focus on the cake with a ring of sugared blueberries and German chamomile, I lean onto my metal prep table and mull over a caption.

seasidebakehouse: Come in for a slice of summer or let yourself enjoy the whole cake!

It’s not the best phrase I’ve ever heard. Baking I can do. Managing socials and trying to promote myself? That isn’t coming as easily.

I’m good with plans. Organization. Structure. But self-promotion is about being more carefree and enticing. Maybe I should follow this post with a video of me whipping up something this afternoon. It’s not something I ever imagined as a part of my business, recording myself baking. And I’m still not fully comfortable with it. But Wren assures me it will help bring customers in, which is something I desperately need.

It couldn’t hurt to try to record and test it out, right? I need money, and money comes from customers.

I glance over at the commercial mixer beside my prep table. “That is, if you feel like working today,” I tell the large piece of machinery.

I had perfectly laid plans. A detailed budget. And then renovations started and so did one problem after another. By the time it was all said and done, I had my bakery. But I also had to resort to buying only the bare minimum of equipment, all used and on their last legs.

Dropping my phone into my pocket, I slide my blue and white striped apron over my head and move to flip the mixer on. It’s anyone’s guess if it will indeed work on any given day. Sucking in a breath, I hit the power and watch the light signaling power glow to life.

“Atta girl,” I tell the mixer, giving it a supportive pat. “I knew you could do it. Now let’s get to work.”

I secure my strawberry blonde hair in a bun atop my head and prop my phone up. Before I can change my mind, I hit record. I’m making triple berry streusel muffins, something I’ve made so many times I can move through the process on autopilot. But instead, I take my time, explaining what I’m doing to my phone every step of the way.

After sliding the muffins in the oven, I clean myself up and flip my sign in the front window to ‘open’ for the day. Tourists are starting to meander up and down the wharf, peering curiously into windows and pointing out what treasures they find to one another.

Taking a seat on the stool behind the counter, I edit the video I just recorded. It’s not so bad, I reason. Maybe I can do this.

But as my first customer of the day comes in, I’m all too happy to slide my phone into my pocket and forget about this for the next few hours.

The late afternoon sun pours through my front window as the bakery’s hours for the day come to a close. My phone has been burning a hole in my pocket, and a walk on the beach is always more helpful than fretting in the very space I’m worried about. I lock the front door and start down the wharf.

Reaching the sand, I slide my sneakers off and pop them into my tote. The sound of crashing waves fills my ears, and I savor the way it drowns everything else out. It’s a momentary relief, releasing some of the pressure beneath my ribs. With each step, I allow my brain to catch on the feel of the soft, fine sand between my toes, the salt in the air, and the constant repetition of the rolling surf.

Before I know it, my bakery is nothing more than a blip on the horizon. I’ve made my way past the heavily concentrated crowd, finding my own little bubble of Pearl Beach. Taking a seat in the sand, I pull up the video once again and watch it with fresh eyes.

It’s not bad, objectively. I think I have good flow and am pretty attention grabbing. And the muffins look good.Reallygood.

When I bake, I can’t wait to show off the final product. But the process is for me. Whether this video is good or not, I’m not sure I want to give that away too. But if I don’t do something soon, the bakehouse will be nothing more than a blip in my life’s timeline.

My stomach roars, pulling me from my thoughts once more. No decision should be made on an empty stomach. Something else Nana Annette always preached.

Rising, I head back towards the wharf. Around the other side of it, at the edge of Foxport Harbor, sits Rusty’s. The perfect hole in the wall restaurant with food to ease the heaviest worries.

Chapter 2

Hayden

Half of my flower scone thing is gone in one bite. Maybe I should have gotten a second. Poppy Wheeler might be the most infuriating person I have ever met, but damn, that woman can bake.

I throw the remaining pastry in my mouth and push aside the plastic barrier to the construction site. “Morning, guys,” I call to the crew, coming to a stop beside their field manager, Tim.

“Hayden, good to see you,” he says, looking up from the prints in his hands.

“You too. It’s looking great,” I reply, sweeping a hand over the future home of my rescue team. I had hoped to set up by the harbor, easy for the rescue swimmer—me—to get out there on a rescue boat quickly. Where to house the helicopter would have been easier out there too. A helipad was already outlined at the beach’s parking lot for quick emergency access. All I would have needed to do was get a hanger put in nearby and renovate the attic into a second floor for bunk rooms.

But in the end, I fronted the money for everything to operate out of the Manchester Fire Department. There’s a hanger for the helicopter around back that was finished last month, and a helipad put in beside it. All that remains is the wing being addedon to the fire department for the rescue team’s station. Which is where I’m currently standing.

“Thanks, yeah. The guys do good work. And we’re ahead of schedule.”

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