Kellie Hailes - The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

‘But if you’re busy baking, I can keep an eye on Mia out here. Perhaps even play tea parties when the shop’s quiet. If that sounds good to you, Mia?’

‘Sounds great.’ Mia reached out to Josie, palm open, ready for a high-five.

They slapped skin and Josie’s nerves settled. Whether Callan knew it or not, the job was hers. That high-five was every bit as binding as a handshake.

‘Why do I feel like this is a done deal?’ Callan shook his head, bemusement lifting his lips. ‘Not even 5 and Mia’s running rings around her old dad.’

‘So that means Josie is staying? Forever?’ Mia tipped her head to the side and looked up at her father, her eyes hopeful.

Guilt flooded Josie’s stomach. Forever wasn’t an option. Forever meant getting comfortable. And getting comfortable meant getting hurt. She wasn’t going to give Mia false hope, not when she’d already lost someone she’d loved. Two someones, if you counted the distant relationship she shared with her father.

‘I’ll stay for as long as your daddy needs me here.’ Josie met Callan’s gaze. His eyes held approval. And thankfulness. He too knew forever wasn’t always an option.

‘When can you start?’ Callan shifted Mia off his lap and stood. Interview over.

Josie scooted the chair back and pushed herself up onto her feet. ‘Soon as you need me.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Callan’s tone was tinged with desperation. ‘I haven’t hung the Christmas decorations yet, and I really need to. I just can’t seem to find the time between the baking, the bakery’s book work and serving.’

‘Daddy promised we’d have the bestest Christmas ever.’ Mia’s curls bobbed as she bounced up and down with excitement. ‘We’re going all out. Whatever that means.’

Josie’s heart sank. So much for not having to deal with tinsel and wreaths and fairy lights, and the uncomfortable mix of emotions that stirred whenever she saw them. Still, it was a job, one she needed, and it wasn’t like Christmas lasted forever. Just four more weeks and it’d be done for another year.

‘I can start tomorrow, but I will have to pop out in the afternoon for thirty minutes or so. I’m staying in one of the rooms above the pub, but I’ve found a cottage a few minutes away that’s for rent. I just need to meet with the landlady so she can vet me.’

‘That’s fine. So, we’ll see you tomorrow morning. Eight sharp?’ Callan reached out to shake her hand.

Their hands met. Touched. His hand was warm, his palm hard, his hold strong. The handshake of a man who could be trusted to care for his family. To stick around through thick and thin. Who would do his best by the people he loved.

The kind of handshake she could get used to. If she were a sticking around kind of girl. Which, of course, she wasn’t. She wouldn’t let herself be. Ever.

‘Daaaaddy … what shoe goes where?’

Callan looked up from working flour into the fruitcake he was making for the local sewing club’s annual Christmas morning tea to see Mia staring at him, her socked foot tapping impatiently as she held up two glittery ballet flats.

‘Swap them round.’ He went back to stirring, his heart sinking as he took in the stodgy mixture. It wasn’t how it looked in the recipe he’d found online. But then, nothing he made looked like the recipes he found online. Not for the first time since Abigail had passed away just over eleven months ago did he find himself wishing she’d kept her recipes inside a book and not in her head. The thought was quickly followed by a sharp twist of guilt in his gut. Abigail hadn’t planned on dying. Hadn’t asked for the aneurysm that had taken her away from them. He had no right to feel exasperated.

‘Daddy, can you put them on for me? I’m tiiiired.’

Callan took a deep, calming breath. Fought the irritation that rose. How his wife had done the baking and looked after Mia without once complaining or raising her voice, he had no idea. Abigail had made it all look so easy, so effortless. Whereas he spent his days feeling like he was fighting an uphill battle. Making the daily quota of food to ensure his regulars had something to eat with their tea or coffee. Keeping the kitchen and shop clean and tidy. Then there was the actual serving of people, all of it done while listening to Mia’s constant questions, helping her whenever she asked, ensuring she’d remembered to brush her teeth, put on weather-appropriate clothing, and that the food that inevitably got caught in her curls was brushed out.

What had it been called in the article he’d read on one of the parenting sites he’d been frequenting since Abigail had passed?

Mental load.

A concept that was apparently foreign to the majority of men, but well known among the online mummy community.

All the little things that the person who runs the household has to juggle and keep track of. Things as small as remembering to buy toothpaste before it runs out. Ensuring there’s clean underwear available at all times. Buying Christmas presents. Pulling the Christmas tree out of storage. The last two things he’d not yet done, even though he knew he had to.

There was no way he was letting Mia’s first Christmas without her mum be as gloomy and depressing as he felt.

It had to be magical.

Unforgettable.

Infused with all the sparkle and joy that Abigail had brought to the season year after year.

At least now that he’d put aside the pride that had him in ‘do it all myself’ mode since Abigail’s death, and hired Josie, he’d have time to decorate, to get the Christmas tree, to buy the toy ponies or dolls or princess costumes that Mia kept talking about. Two presents? One from Santa, one from him? Who was he kidding? He was going to buy everything on her list and more. He had to if it meant seeing her little face light up. If it helped ease the pain of not having Abigail there.

‘Daddy!’

A whine of impatience combined with a soft thump of foot on wooden floor brought Callan back to his senses.

‘Mia, sorry. Daddy was in another world.’ He abandoned the wooden spoon in the glutinous mixture and squatted down to Mia’s level. ‘What can I do for you, princess?’