Page 53 of Perfect Pairing
Instead of parking on the street and taking me in through the front door, my dad parked around back. Our building was one of the wider ones on the block, about double the size of the slimmerstorefronts on either side. There were two doors here: one to the bakery and one that led upstairs.
When we got out of the car, Dad withdrew a keyring from his pocket and moved toward the upstairs door.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said, unlocking and holding it open for me.
The stairwell smelled of fresh paint, the walls coated in a creamy white, the stairs themselves sturdy, sealed oak. At the top was a landing with hooks along one wall and a door on another. Once again, Dad selected another key, unlocked it, and swung it open.
I gasped when I took in what lay beyond.
I’d known there was an apartment up here—or at least, the infrastructure for one—but with all the excitement of getting the renovations done, I hadn’t really given it a second thought.
To the left sat a kitchen with white tile floors and a small island lined with two stools. The spaces for a refrigerator and stove were empty, but the hookups for the appliances were there. To the right was a living room, the entire back wall consisting of windows that looked out over Main Street. Down a short hall was a bathroom, in-unit washer and dryer, and a bedroom.
After taking a minute to scope the place out, I returned to the center of the living room, hand to my mouth in awe as I stared at my father.
Who held the keys out to me.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“I…what?”
“Look… You’re an adult. While your mother and I would love to have you living with us again, we understand that you needyour own space. So while we spruced up downstairs, your sisters and mom combined efforts to renovate this space for you as well. This way, you’re close to work too.”
Once again, I spun in a circle, taking in the light grey walls and digging my feet into the thick carpet. The apartment was a blank slate I could put my own mark on. I could easily imagine a plush sofa in the center of the living room, my entertainment center and TV setup along the right wall, flanked by my modest but prized collection of books. In the kitchen, they’d been wise not to purchase any appliances for me, knowing I’d want a say in that selection. The spaces were big enough so I could easily fit a French door fridge with the freezer on the bottom and a five-burner gas range with the included oven.
The bedroom wasn’t all that large, but seeing as it was just me, I could still fit a full-sized mattress in there, and the bathroom had a tub that would be perfect for soaking with a glass of wine at the end of long days.
“So what do you say?” my dad asked carefully.
For the second time that day, I threw myself into his arms. “It’s perfect,” I said, tears springing to my eyes as I squeezed him tightly. “Thank you.”
Despite coming back to Apple Blossom Bay and immediately becoming a building owner—with a “rent” that was disgustingly low—I didn’t have time to focus on getting myself settled in my new apartment when all my energy needed to go into getting the bakery ready for my opening the first week of August.
Two weeks. That was all I had.
I was starting to regret pushing so hard to open so quickly.
Especially when I’d been so busy finishing my apprenticeship that I hadn’t had time to iron out my recipes.
I’d attempted nearly every recipe Granny Smith had left behind in her cookbook. Some I’d mastered easily, while others had taken a bit longer to perfect—and some, I still hadn’t quite figured out.
All I knew was I wanted Granny and her creations to serve as the centerpiece of my menu. So, between running around like a chicken with its head cut off at the bakery, hanging decor, unpacking and organizing supplies, and familiarizing myself and my lone employee with the point-of-sale system, I spent every waking second in the kitchen at Mom and Dad’s.
“I don’t understand why you’ve taken over my kitchen for this little project,” Mom said one night about a week before I opened. “You have a brand new, state-of-the-art kitchen in town.”
“Because I need a taste-tester,” I explained, brushing the back of my hand over my forehead to push a wisp of hair that had escaped my braid out of my eyes. “And Dad graciously volunteered.”
Mom snorted. “Graciously. He’s got the biggest sweet tooth out of anyone we know. Plus, you’re making his mom’s recipes. It makes him…nostalgic.”
I looked up at my mom and grinned. As the owner of a sweet tooth myself, I loved that this was something Dad and I could share, this bond with his late mother for just the two of us.
“If it bothers you that much, I’ll head into town,” I said, though I couldn’t just walk away with the lemon poppy seedmuffins I had in the oven.
“It doesn’t bother me, sweetheart,” she said, moving to my side and wrapping an arm around my shoulders to pull me into a hug. “I just thought you might like to get the lay of the land before you open.”
I could admit when she was right, and this was one of those instances. I’d been so focused on keeping everything perfect before I opened the doors, I hadn’t considered that, one day, I would have to mess things up a little bit. The kitchen needed to be broken in.
