Kellie Hailes - The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

‘Shoes. Help me. Put them on me. And you weren’t in another world, silly Daddy, you were right here.’ Mia collapsed onto the ground and held her shoes up to Callan.

He repressed a sigh. How many times did you have to remind a child to use their manners? An infinite amount of times, it seemed. ‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Pleeeease.’ Mia gave him her most winning smile. One that melted his heart when he was sad inside. One that riddled him with guilt on the rare occasion he snapped at her.

‘That’s the word.’ He slipped the pink sparkly shoes onto her feet, then ruffled the top of her head. ‘We always use our manners, right?’

‘Right.’ Mia gave a firm nod then looked up, her serious expression morphing into one of unbridled happiness. ‘Josie!’

Callan twisted round to see Josie staring into the cake mixture. Hot embarrassment coursed through his veins, though hopefully not his cheeks. He didn’t want Josie to see that he knew he was failing. That he was trying to keep things going, but wasn’t quite getting there. He didn’t want anyone to see it.

‘What happened to this?’ Josie picked up the spoon and prodded the mixture.

‘New recipe I’m trying out. Found it online. I think they may have made a mistake with the quantities. Too much flour. Or not enough eggs, or brandy, or something. I think I’m going to have to start again, with a new recipe …’ He trailed off, painfully aware that he sounded every bit as uninformed as he felt.

‘Hmm, I see.’ Josie set the spoon down and reached for the navy-blue apron emblazoned with the shop’s logo that was hanging on a hook attached to the wall.

She might have said she understood, but Callan hadn’t missed the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of eyes, that told him she saw the problem wasn’t with the recipe, but with the person who was making it.

‘So, it’s a fruitcake you’re making?’ She efficiently wrapped the ties around her waist then fastened them at the front. ‘I know I’m not meant to be cooking, but I have a recipe that never fails. And it uses just three ingredients. I could make it or give the recipe to you if you’d prefer to do it yourself.’

‘Daddy, you promised we’d go get some new Christmas decorations.’ Mia tugged at his sweater. He looked down to see excitement shining in her eyes. ‘Remember? You said now that we had a Josie we could do it. And go see Santa too. I haven’t told him what I want.’

‘And what do you want from Santa?’ Josie picked up the bowl of sludge and scraped it out into the rubbish bin.

‘Yesterday I wanted a pony, but today I want a Cinderella dress. And glass slippers.’ Mia tapped her chin. ‘And a crown. All princesses have crowns, and Daddy says I’m a princess, so I have to have a crown.’

‘Well your daddy’s quite correct, and I bet Santa will be most happy that you’re asking for a costume. Far easier for him to transport. Can you imagine trying to fit a pony in a sleigh?’

Callan nodded a thank-you to Josie over Mia’s head. He’d forgotten all about asking what she wanted from Santa. Rookie mistake.

‘So, do you want me to whip up that cake?’ Josie flicked the kettle on, reached up to the shelf above the stainless-steel bench and fished out four teabags from the box. ‘It’d give you the time to go shopping.’

‘Would you mind?’ Callan lifted Mia into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s not part of the job, well, I said it wouldn’t be. But clearly there’s, er, something wrong with this recipe and I’ve run out of time … and if the sewing club don’t get their fruitcake …’

‘Consider it done. You two go visit Santa, buy those decorations. I’ll be fine. Just be back by three, if that’s okay. I have that meeting with my potential landlady …’ Josie shooed them away, a smile lighting up her warm hazel eyes.

More green than brown, Callan noticed. And the shooing … not dissimilar to how Abigail would hurry him out of the kitchen when she was busy. Never in anger or in frustration, but always in a way that was good-natured, and promised she’d make time for him later.

Not that Callan expected Josie to make time for him. Not that he wanted her to. She was under his employ. Their relationship was purely professional. That, and he wasn’t interested in spending time with anyone other than Mia.

An impatient tug on his earlobe brought him back to reality.

‘Mia, cut that out.’ He jerked his head back and tried to ignore the hurt that flashed through Mia’s eyes at being told off. So much for keeping calm … He’d apologise to her later. In private. ‘Right then. We’d best be off. See you … when we see you. Before three.’ He waved half-heartedly at Josie but avoided eye contact. The realisation that he’d noticed the colour of her eyes, that he’d noticed something about a woman who wasn’t Abigail, saw unease swarming in his stomach. It mixed with the guilt from snapping at Mia and settled dark and heavy. Uncomfortable.

He pressed his nose into Mia’s hair and breathed in the pear scent of her shampoo. The familiar fragrance centring him, reminding him of what was important. Of who was.

***

Josie inhaled the heady, heavenly, sweet and spicy aroma of the fruitcake wafting through the kitchen’s air. A smile played about her lips as she recalled the conversation with Callan earlier. The way he’d blamed the recipe for the stodge that was the cake mixture had been too cute. Josie had taken one look at the mixture and seen that the dried fruit hadn’t been steeped in the liquid long enough and that too much flour had been added. The mush was now safely in the bin.

It was the opposite of her mixture, where dried fruit was steeped in hot tea, before being combined with self-raising flour and baked for two hours. The result was a gloriously pungent fruitcake, which held an almost malty flavour, and was good by itself, sliced and slathered with butter or served warm with custard.

From the front room came a melodic ‘yoo-hoo’.

Josie made a mental note to ask Callan about installing a small bell on the counter along with a sign instructing customers to ring it if the front was unattended.

Smoothing her hair back, she adopted an open smile. The morning hadn’t been the busiest she’d experienced in all her years of customer service, but it had been steady.

No doubt people were coming in to see the latest face to arrive in the village. She’d seen that often enough to expect it.

The scent of the stylishly dressed woman reached Josie before she did. White Diamonds. The same perfume her mother had worn. Her heart slammed against her chest, as it always did when for an irrational split-second she believed her mother had sought her out, returned to find the daughter she’d abandoned when Josie was 12 – the age when, with her mind and hormones and body in flux, she’d needed her mother most.

‘So, you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about. Welcome, my dear, welcome.’ Josie’s hand was encased in the woman’s tissue-soft palm and pumped twice before being let go. ‘My name’s Margo. I’m Callan and Mia’s neighbour. Owner of the sewing and embroidery shop, among other things.’ Margo stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That cake’s smelling delicious. Every bit as good as Abigail’s. My little sewing club is in for a treat. I take it this is your doing?’

Josie shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was, not that Callan needed me to do it.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I just had a bit of spare time so thought I may as well help him out.’

‘Piffle.’ Margo let out a hearty laugh. ‘If you can cook as well as his dearly departed wife then you know as well as I do that Callan needs as much help in the kitchen department as he can get. Please tell me he’s letting you loose back there?’