Page 2 of Sweet Christmas Comeback
Ruth elbowed her. “Oh hush. Welcome home, Jade. It’s been too long.” Softer, “We’re glad you’re back, even if Ida won’t say it.”
Ida harrumphed, but the twitch at her mouth said enough.
They scanned the dim shop, dark case, blinking lights. Ida shook her head. “Place needs a little work.”
Ruth's gaze drifted to the plaque on the wall, and her expression softened with memory. "I still remember yourgreat-grandmother's fruitcake. My mother served it at every Christmas party for twenty years. Best I ever tasted."
"Those were the days," Ida said, following her friend's gaze. "Before everything became about chocolate chip this and red velvet that."
"Do you still make it, Mabel?" Ruth asked hopefully.
Mabel shook her head. “Mine never came out as good as granny’s.”
Ida looked at Jade. “This place has held the town together since Coolidge. Don’t let it fold on your watch.”
It landed as both warning and blessing. Jade’s spine straightened. “We won’t. We’re already working on it.”
“Good,” Ruth said, patting her hand. “This town needs its bakery.”
They bought one muffin, split it and left in a rustle of scarves. The faint trace of peppermint lingered.
The bell jingled again, sharper, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Cecily Glick, head of the town safety and building inspection department, had arrived.
She glided in, wool coat with a trust fund, gloves like armor, boots polished enough to reflect the sad lights. Clipboard in hand, like a sword. She was only about ten years older than Jade, but the hard creases at her brow and the sharp set of her mouth made her look thirty years older.
“Mabel. Miss Bennett. I heard you were back.”
Mabel’s smile faltered. “Cecily.”
Jade forced herself not to bristle. Cecily didn’t do smiles. She did bylaws.
Her gaze swept the bakery like a hawk. “Peeling paint, violation of Ordinance 14B. Flickering lights, fire hazard, Section 21A. Nonfunctional case, health concern.”
Her pen scratched down each offense like an obituary.
“We’re repairing things, Cecily.”
“Repairs require permits,” she cut in, her snowbank smile chilling the room. “Unauthorized work is grounds for citation.” Her eyes lingered on the water stain, daring it to collapse.
Mabel shrank, twisting her apron. Jade’s fists clenched. Cecily wasn’t here to help. She was here to bury them.
“I’ll be submitting a report at next Monday’s meeting,” Cecily said smoothly. “For the community’s safety, of course.” She smirked at Jade. “Frankly, it’s a wonder you haven’t been shut down already.”
She turned, boots clicking, and left.
Silence. Only the frantic blink of the lights and Mabel’s sigh.
Jade’s gaze landed on the plaque behind the counter—her great-grandmother’s prize for the town’s best fruitcake, hung the day Sugar Pine Sweets opened. Something snapped inside her. She wasn’t about to let the bakery die after generations of Bennett women had kept it alive.
She grabbed her notebook, clicked her pen. “Okay. New checklist.”
The words came out steady, her pulse less so. But fury was better than shame. Fury could be useful.
She walked to the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and let the silence settle. Cecily’s mocking jangle still echoed.
She turned back to Mabel, apron sagging, shoulders bent. The sight squeezed her chest.
