Page 2 of Any Girl But You
“What?” A flicker of panic rushes through me. Tomorrow’s the “Christmas in August” event in Duluth—my first-ever vendor event where I’m getting word out that a new Christmas sheriff is in town, ready to knock the striped red-and-green socks off everyone with her new and improved Christmas tree farm. My sister is supposed to sit with me, flash her dimples, flex her absurdly fit biceps, and charm customers into coming to my place. “Frankie,you promisedyou’d sit with me.”
“I know, I’m really sorry. Long story short, but some major stuff blew up at work and I can’t leave. I’ll fill you in later. But Morgan will be there with you, and we both know she’s friendlier than both of us combined.”
I push my fingertips into my temple and sit on the edge of the bed. It’s not Frankie’s fault, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be unfairly irritated with her for a solid day. Last year, Frankie landed the job of a lifetime to be a photographer for the high-end lifestyle brand Birch & Willow, with its beautiful website, product line, and New York flagship store. So now she divides her time between Minnesota and New York. Her job is seriously demanding, and in all fairness, she told me last month there wasa possibility that she wouldn’t make it to the vendor event. But I can’t shake the memories of when our parents did shit like this—leaving us at the last minute to fend for ourselves. A lifetime of not coming to choir concerts, or school programs, or forgetting teacher conferences fills my mind. Heat rises in my chest, and I blow it out before I say something snarky.
“I swear to God, if you don’t ask Morgan to marry you, I’m going to. She is literally saving you from me kicking your ass.” Clearly, I’m joking. Where I’m more the soft, curvy kind, with boobs bigger than my head, my sister’s the kind of woman who does real push-ups, drives a Harley, and takes absolutely no shit. There is no way I could actually kick her ass.
My sister knows exactly who she is. Frankie left home at eighteen to become a successful photographer in New York. Now she’s reunited with Morgan, the love of her life, and has a job at one of the most coveted magazines in the world. Everything she puts her mind to, she makes happen.
Me? I’m chasing Frankie around the country ’cause I’m too scared to be alone, and still figuring my crap out, day by day.
“Seriously, Quinn, I’m super bummed, and am really sorry,” Frankie says. “But you got this. I believe in you.”
Do I actually have this? I’m not sure. When my aunt and uncle decided to sell their Christmas tree farm, they were so desperate to keep it in the family that they offered it to me at a great price. After spending a month getting tarot card readings throughout Manhattan, manifesting for hours in my journal, and following all the recommendations for each layer in my astrological profile, I thought the price was a sign from the universe, saving me from having security drag me out of the office after I stabbed my boss in the eye with one of his overpriced gold pens. Warm sleigh-filled memories, probably way too much wine, and the idea of having Frankie beside me again inspired me to pull the plug.
Frankie had warned me, had said that the farm was not how I’d remembered, how much work it would be. But I knew that she and Morgan—who’s a local wedding planner—had spent the previous summer remodeling the barn for a wedding. So really, how bad could it be?
In January, when I stepped onto the property for the first time. I got my answer.Bad.
Although the trees were in good shape, and the rustic barn looked great from the remodel, everything else was a complete shit show. From the cracked fence, to broken-down machinery scattering the field like tombstones in a graveyard, to boxes and boxes and more boxes of junk filling every space, I nearly passed out. After months of chipping and limbing, cleaning every part of the property, a crash course on irrigation, planting, and seedlings…finally, I’m in a place to recreate the Christmas magic.
“You are marginally forgiven, but I’m still debating what your betrayal will cost you.” I toss the phone on my bed and tie my shoelaces. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m going to Zoey’s today.”
“Finally.”
Not sure how much I love the pep in Frankie’s voice. She and Morgan have tried to get me to meet Zoey, of Zoey’s Bakery—apparently the best baked goods this side of Lake Superior—since I moved here. And I’ve done everything I can do tonotmeet Zoey.
Sure, they’ve told me about Zoey. And I’ve picked up that she’s sweet, funny, and kind, and exactlynotthe type of woman I need in my life. I know what they’re doing—trying to get me to settle down. Frankie tried this in New York, too. But settling down is not for me. I don’t have time for relationships. For anyone, really. Besides, a holier-than-thou snow angel is not my type. I like my women messy, unhinged, and definitely notlooking for attachment—a mirror image of myself. Relationships are so low on my priority scale they don’t even register. I’ve got things to do. Which, currently, is finding my purse so I can leave.
“I actually stopped in there a few days ago to put in my order, but she was gone,” I say, marching through the house looking for my purse.Linen closet, maybe? Bathroom? Kitchen?
Zoey’s Bakery is super cute. All pale pink, white, and rose gold with such beautiful, artistic cupcake arrangements, I couldn’t believe they were real at first. From the pink-and-white-striped awning outside the door, to the pale gray hardwood floors, to the couple of white café style tables and chairs, the place almost reminded me of something I’d find back in New York. And the cookies Frankie mentioned a million times deserved the hype. Sure, Frankie and I share the same Lee family sweet tooth, but she nearly pants like Pavlov’s dog every time someone brings up the shop. After I sunk my teeth into a cupcake, I understood why.
“She wasn’t there? I think she works like twenty-four-seven. Must’ve been urgent,” Frankie says. “Make sure you have one of her lavender and vanilla macaroons when you go today.”
“Yeah, yeah.”Oh! There’s my purse.Hanging on a rack outside the coat closet which can only mean one thing—someone way more responsible than me hung it up. “Okay, I really do have to bounce,” I say, strapping the purse around myself.
“For real, though, be nice,” Frankie says with a caution in her tone that I really, really don’t appreciate. “She’s one of the good ones.”
Whatever. Doesn’t matter if Zoey is one of the “good ones.” It wouldn’t even matter if Zoey is a real-life angel floating from heaven. I’m in town for one reason only—recreate the Christmas magic for our town, one tree at a time.
TWO
ZOEY
For the past six years, every time the little silver bell on the door to my bakery rings announcing a new customer, a jolt of dopamine rushes through me. I’m not immune to how very lucky I am that I live out my dream every day. After living in Spring Harbors, Minnesota, my entire life—the best town in America, mind you—and opening my dream bakery, I usually need to pinch myself.
Today, sadly, is not one of those days. It’s not quite as bad as the day six weeks ago, when I recreated every cartoon-banana-slipping scene from my childhood. But instead of a banana peel, it was loose flour on the kitchen floor. And instead of doing the splits and having stars and birds flutter above my head, my glasses flew off my face and skidded across the floor, I landed on my butt with one leg sky-high, and the other leg going exactly where it shouldn’t.
Caleb, the flour culprit and my part-time employee, felt so terrible I was sure he was going to cry into a rack of fresh pistachio macaroons. After some uncharacteristic swear words (including the f-bomb which I never,everuse) had slipped from my mouth, I hobbled up on my fractured foot and assured him it was okay.
It wasn’t okay, of course. I had reminded him several times that morning to sweep up the floor and he hadn’t. But making him feel bad would not fuse my bone back together, so I sent him funny GIFs from the ER, and the next day brought him a coffee so he knew I wasn’t mad.
So today is notquiteas bad as that. As I pull on gloves and start carefully packaging up the eight-dozen red and blue cookies for Quinn Lee, the sister of one of my regulars, Frankie, I try to focus on the methodical boxing, and not the poop-tastic morning I’ve had so far. It began with Mrs. Pinkerton. She’s very sweet, but her snappy Pomeranian is not, and it got loose once again and tore around my shop. I’d promised myself if it ever happened again, I’d enforce a service-animal-only rule.
Instead, I sent her home with a free cupcake.
And then my sister called, needing my help with babysitting my nephew, Noah, this weekend. Yes, I love Noah more than almost any human in the world, and yes, my sister is a single mom who works hard and needs a break, and yes, my mom helps a lot and wasn’t free on Sunday. But this is the last weekend of the summer. After having a cast on since mid-June, itfinallygot removed yesterday and I really wanted to take a proper day off.
