Page 2 of Merry Little Sugar Rush
I spend the next hour prepping dough for pastries and donuts, and just as I slip the tray into the oven and set the timer, I hear a knock on my front door. Turning my attention that way, I walk to the door and smile when I see who’s standing there.
Dad waves and holds up his shovel. Releasing the lock on the door, I say, “Good morning, Dad.”
“Morning, baby girl,” he replies, stepping inside the shop and giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“What are you doing? I’m about to go out and take care of that,” I insist.
Of course it falls on deaf ears though. Dad waves off my comment with his gloved hand. “I don’t mind, sweetie. I came to get it all cleaned up for your mom and sister.”
My mom’s salon is next door, and my older sister, Eve, followed in her footsteps and became a beautician. Roxie works at the third station in the salon, and Mom mentioned a couple of weeks back she had an inquiry from another young woman who will be graduating from cosmetology school in a couple of months and would love to make The Beauty Studio her home.
“Thank you, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
“I’ll get you a cup of coffee started,” I offer.
“Appreciate it.” He glances over my shoulder. “Whatcha put in the oven?” His eyes light up at the prospect of stealing a sweet treat for breakfast before I even open.
“Wednesday brings us caramel apple and cranberry cream cheese Danishes.”
His green eyes practically sparkle with excitement. “I wouldn’t mind one of those cranberry ones,” he says with a big grin.
“I’ve got you,” I reply with a wink.
“All right, I’ll go get the walk cleared off and salted.”
“Then come in and get warm.”
He exits my shop, moving toward Mom’s business first. My parents have the type of marriage everyone strives for. They both support each other regardless, and they’re not afraid of PDA. Growing up, it was nauseating, but now that I’m older, I can appreciate the way they love and show love.
Maybe someday I’ll be lucky enough to have that…
I watch him for a few moments before I’m interrupted by the chime of my kitchen timer. Leaving Dad to it, I return to the kitchen and remove my first batch of the morning pastries from the oven. When I have the next tray inside and the fresh batchcooling, I head back to the front area to make Dad’s coffee. He prefers a regular brewed coffee with two sugars and creamer, so his order is fairly easy. Occasionally he’ll indulge in something sweeter for the season, like a white chocolate cherry mocha or a crème brûlée latte, but usually that’s when he’s humoring either Mom, Eve, or me.
Just as I’m pouring his coffee into one of my The Sweet Escape biodegradable cups, the door behind me opens. “Got ya all cleaned up, sweetie,” Dad says, letting the door close behind him.
Spinning around, I hand over his coffee. “Thank you.”
He nods, taking his first sip of fresh brew. He makes a sound of pure satisfaction and smiles. “The best.”
“Come on back. My next batch of pastries is about done, and the first ones should be cool enough to eat by now,” I say, returning to my kitchen.
Dad follows willingly, his stomach leading the way. He moves over to the counter, away from my prep and workstation, and takes a seat on the stool. I feel his eyes on me as I retrieve a paper plate and slip a pastry on top. When I place it in front of him on the counter, he offers a warm smile. “You’re my favorite baker daughter.”
I can’t help but snort. “And Eve is your favorite hairdresser daughter,” I state, repeating what he’s told me numerous times over the last few years and earning a laugh in return.
“That she is.” Bringing the pastry to his mouth, he takes a hearty bite and grins as he chews. “Amazing, as always.”
The timer announces the completion of my second set of pastries, so I return my attention to doing what needs done prior to opening the bakery. Dad remains seated in the corner, happily watching me work. He’s done that many times, and honestly, I enjoy having him here.
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. My sister and Mom have always been close, even when we were young girls. Eve found so much pleasure in watching Mom work, always wanting to go with her to the salon. Me, on the other hand, went wherever Dad went, which was usually outside. I used to help him around the yard any chance I got, and we’d always end our time together with a visit to the snack shack at the tree farm for some hot cocoa and apple donuts.
“Did you hear about Dale Whitman yet?” Dad asks, pulling my attention away from the task at hand.
I turn his way, a wave of worry washing over me. “No, what happened?”
“He had a stroke,” he informs me, a look of pure worry and anguish on his face.
