Page 72 of The Holiday Whoopie
The road curves, slow and sure.
Tightening my hands on the steering wheel, I drive it the same way.
OVERBAKED
Audrey
The bell falls silent after the lunch crowd drifts back to their offices and errands. A lull. Normally, I’d savor this time to catch up on dishes, prep a new batch without tripping over myself.
But today the quiet presses heavier than the rush. My body aches like I’ve worked a double shift, though it’s only midday. Saturday and Sunday I managed alone, steady as ever, but this—this hollow Tuesday—has wrung me out more than both of those days combined.
Behind me, Jack’s corner is empty. No low, masculine rumble of a laugh while he takes orders on the phone. No moments of heated friction when he grazes me as he passes by, even though there’s plenty of space for us both.
Now it’s just me.
Flour. Sugar. Cocoa. Salt.
I measure carefully, like maybe I can keep the rest of my life from spilling.
Whisk, fold, scrape, pour.
Leaning against the counter, I breathe in the whisper of cocoa and cinnamon, waiting for it to soothe me. It doesn’t. The mixer hums like a loyal hound and the ovens tick softly as the cakes cool, but the kitchen feels wrong. Stretched thin. Unfamiliar.
The bell jingles, and I snap upright, a smile plastered on like over-whisked meringue—so stiff I’m shocked it holds.
Lumi Snowe, the postmistress, breezes in on a puff of cold air, her wine-red hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, a paper sack tucked under her arm. “Afternoon, Audrey.” She nods at the display case. “Came for a peppermint whoopie.”
“Of course.” I pull a square of parchment paper from the box. “Your timing’s perfect. They’ve just been filled.” I grab one from the line on the tray and drop it into a light blue paper bag stamped with Making Whoopie’s logo.
I ring her up, and she takes the bag with a nod of thanks, resting the bundle under her arm on the counter. “Thought I’d bring your mail while I was at it.”
“Thanks.” Normally not one for small talk, I find myself willing Lumi to linger. “How’s business at the post office? Holiday rush started yet?”
She huffs, eyes crinkling. “Started? Honey, it never stopped. People think Santa lives at my counter this time of year.”
I grin, a little thinner than usual but real. “Then you’ve definitely earned the sugar hit.”
Her gaze drifts to the corner behind the counter. Jack’s table. “Where’s your lawyer? Haven’t seen him in a bit.”
Smile still in place but tighter, I force a swallow. “He’s gone home.” True enough—Portia heard it straight from Amanda—but it still catches like a crumb in my throat.
“Ah. Too bad. I liked him.” She takes a bite of pie, pushing it to the side of her mouth. “He was a nice guy.”
He was. Is. Will be—for someone else.
That last thought does the opposite of cheer me up.
“When did you meet Jack?” The question is out before I can think better of it.
Lumi tilts her head. “Last week. Came into the post office, had me notarize something.”
My brows shoot up. “He did?”
She swallows, pausing before taking another bite. “For your trademark application.” At my expression, she frowns. “The one for ‘Making Whoopie’? The final step to secure the rights statewide by filing them nationally?”
“Oh.” I stare at the empty space in the display case where Lumi’s pie used to be.
“Did someone try to take your name?” she asks, voice curious, not nosy.
