Page 23 of Middle Ground
It’s not unheard of for me to bring baked treats to these meetings—usually from some new recipe I wanted to try out, or when I feel particularly stressed—so when I woke up at four and couldn’t get back to sleep, I decided this particular Monday called for blueberry muffins.
As I gathered the ingredients in the small kitchen of my cottage, moonlight bleeding in through the window above the sink, my eyes kept catching on the stack of papers sitting on the island.
The cause of my fitful rest is not something that would require a professional to deduce. The presence of those papers—the ones the lawyer had personally delivered theevening before, with another grating remark about how young I am—signify that my life is about to significantly change.
All that’s left is two signatures—mine and Jackson’s.
Driven to distraction by my worries, I didn’t notice that Fish had hopped up onto the counter. In typical Fish fashion, my cat couldn’t care less that he’s not allowed up there. In fact, I’m certain he does it for the attention. But when I didn’t scold him right away, he took to rubbing up against the big bag of flour that still sat open.
That was how I wound up cleaning the infernal white powder off of almost every surface in my kitchen.
By the time my mess was clean and the muffins were cooling, I was running late, though a punctual arrival was still salvageable. Until I saw myself in the bathroom mirror and realized the kitchen wasn’t the only thing affected by Fish’s troublemaking.
I jumped in the shower when it was still freezing cold, the cottage’s water heater not as quick to heat as it used to be. From there, things only got worse. When I lathered my hair, I got shampoo in my eye. Then I realized my legs needed to be shaved, and in the process, I nicked myself—not once, but twice.
And the cherry on top of my saga of bad luck: the shower mat decided to come loose as I was stepping out of the tub, causing me to perform a haphazard version of the splits while I caught myself on the shower curtain.
So not only am I officially late to work, but my hair is still damp, wetting my shirt, and my shin is starting to bruisefrom my near-slip, causing my fast walk across the gravel path to look more like a hobble.
As I near the entrance to the restaurant, I force a steadying breath.
My mom introduced me to baking when I was a kid. It had been a favourite pastime of hers, something she did with her own mother, and she wanted to share that with me. I’ve never been one to get caught up in the particulars of life, but the precision of baking has always fascinated me. One wrong move, one mismeasurement, and your whole recipe is ruined.
I once tried to bake a cake for Mom’s birthday. It was the first time I had endeavoured to make something on my own. Instead of arriving home from work to the sight of a perfectly iced birthday cake, she found me crying over the collapsed blob I had somehow created. Turns out, I had added too much of one ingredient and not enough of another.
Sometimes, I feel like that cake. Or, more accurately, I fear turning into that cake. As if I’ll make one wrong decision and my life will deflate around me like a recipe gone wrong.
Baking—the careful control I have over the measurements—grounds me. It also doesn’t hurt that everyone in town heaps on the praise whenever they get a taste of one of my desserts. Even the owner of the local bakery has joked that she’s glad I have the inn to keep me busy or else I’d run her out of business.
Even though this day has started out as a colossal disaster—and all too soon, I’ll be faced with Jackson yet again, who has aggravatingly stuck to his word and not left me alone the past few days—nothing will take the joy out of getting to share my muffins with my staff.
And honestly, I’m not above a little bribery.
During today’s staff meeting, Jackson and I are going to officially announce our new positions as co-owners of the inn. I’m certain everyone has already heard, but I don’t want to take that for granted. I trust my employees, and in return, I want them to trust me.
To say I’m a little worried about their reactions is an understatement. With my mother officially retiring, things have been a little up in the air, which is why I’ve tried to keep things around the inn from changing. I don’t want to scare them off.
Chatter greets me as I step into the restaurant, letting a small smile grace my lips. Then I ready myself to announce that I come bearing gifts when all of a sudden, I see?—
What the fuck?
Cookies. Giant cookies.
I’ve heard about the new shop that just opened in Calderville. Their claim to fame is giant cookies baked in a variety of flavours, including some that are filled inside. Pippa took Atticus there the other day after school and she said his eyes almost fell out of his head at the sight of the sweet treats.
The fact that a whole box of these cookies is being passed around to all the staff rankles me. It’s clear from his showboaty expression that Jackson was the one to bring them. Something a lot like inferiority slithers in my gut.
Who needs a stupid homemade muffin when you can have a stuffed cookie half the size of your face?
As everyone around me raves about the cookies, I silently ponder my next move. Do I barge in with my muffins anyway? Or do I dump them in the office and pretend theynever existed? Neither option sounds appealing enough to get me to make my move.
Then Jackson turns from a conversation with Winona, spotting me immediately. He sidles up to me, and in his hands, a box half-full of those cookies stares back up at me.
“Want one?” he asks.
The offering, coupled with the amused tilt of his lips, is too much. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. No one is looking at me—no one but Jackson—so I turn abruptly on my heel, decision made for a hasty escape.
I truly thought my horrible morning couldn’t get any worse. I thought all my bad luck was spent. How foolish.
