It’s dangerous.
“Mrs. Vanderman just came in,” Emily says, poking her head into the kitchen.
Now that school is out, she and Meg have started switching shifts. The seventeen-year-old is not especially skilled at baking and has a lot to learn, but I haven’t minded the change in company. Meg’s unveiled glares were getting tiresome. I’ve been able to handle the morning baking on my own just fine, glad to have a chance to roam the kitchen freely without worrying about getting in someone else’s way, and Meg has been helpful with prepping for the next day before she locks up in the afternoons.
It’s a relief to have found a sort of rhythm together, though she still seems sad that I stole what chances she had with King, however small they were.
“Are the sticky buns ready?” Emily asks.
As I carefully fold almond flour into my egg whites for a batch of macarons, I glance at the one oven that isn’t finicky, which is currently baking the sticky buns that Mrs. Vanderman is particularly fond of. “Five minutes,” I tell Emily. I would have liked them to be done already, but I’m not about to serve the woman a subpar bun the morning before I convince her husband to transfer the bakery to me. Our appointment is in an hour or so, and I’ve been dreading it since leaving the courthouse.
Especially because Mrs. Vanderman has been here every day. King says that’s normal, but the stern-looking attorney’s wife seems to watch me more closely than what is socially acceptable. If I had to put money on it, she doesn’t seem to think our marriage is a real one. That makes me worried to learn of her husband’s opinion on the matter.
With King too busy to make appearances at the bakery, I’m using the only weapon I’ve got to combat Mrs. Vanderman’s skepticism: exceptional sticky buns.
The bell above the front door jingles merrily as Emily heads back to the lobby, hopefully to tell Mrs. Vanderman that her breakfast will be out momentarily. We’ve had a pretty constant stream of customers now that summer is officially here, and I hope it continues. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow with a local contractor, Beck Billingsley, to see how much it will cost to do some refurbishments, and I’ll need as many profits as I can get to pay for them.
I haven’t had many moments of missing my life with Lane, but they tend to happen when I look at my bank account.
“Georgie?” The voice that calls from the lobby is familiar, but I can’t quite place who it belongs to because I’ve reacquainted with a lot of people over the last few days—too many to keep track of. It never ceases to amaze me how many people remember me from all those years ago, given I was only ever here in the summers and didn’t interact with many people outside of King and his friends. I guess my days spent at the bakery were more memorable than I thought.
Emily pushes through the swinging door again, a frown on her lips. “There’s someone here who says she’s your best friend,” she says.
I can’t help but grin at the way she seems to be trying to defend me. Yes, Emily is a definite step up from Meg, at least when it comes to company. “I don’t really have friends in Willow Cove. Or at all,” I add under my breath. Just Cecily, who is…
My grin drops as recognition sets in. Why is Cecily in South Carolina?
Setting aside my batter, I brush my hands on my apron and hurry to follow Emily out to the front. Sure enough, my best friend is standing on the other side of the counter, her arms folded and a look of unadulterated frustration on her face.
As soon as she sees me, however, her scowl shifts into a wide grin. “You’re alive!”
I skirt around the counter and attack her with a fierce hug. “I talked to you last night.” The words come out tinged with emotion. Apparently I missed my friend more than I realized. Video chats aren’t the same as seeing her in person. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Cecily snorts. “I only missed your wedding because you neglected to tell me about it beforehand. Otherwise I would have been here sooner.”
I glance at Mrs. Vanderman, who narrows her eyes at me, and then I take hold of Cecily’s hand so I can tug her into the kitchen. It’s not completely private, but it’s better than having a conversation like this in the middle of the busy lobby.
“You’d better keep your voice down,” I warn her. “We’re meeting with the estate attorney this afternoon, and his wife is out there.”
Cecily raises an eyebrow. “Okay?” I filled her in on the whole situation the night after I married King, but she’s clearly not grasping my warning.
I sigh and grab a pastry bag so I can start piping the macarons, though I fill the bag half-heartedly. I’m worried this batch is going to fail like the last one; Willow Cove is more humid than Manhattan was, and the little cookies are finicky to begin with. I need to play with them more and adjust my ratios, but they feel like a metaphor for how much I’ve been failing at life lately.
“I think she suspects there’s something fishy about my marriage to King,” I mutter.
Cecily hops onto an empty spot of counter and sticks her finger in a bowl of cookie dough, taking a swipe and sticking it in her mouth. I resist the urge to groan now that that batch is unusable. “In case you’ve forgotten, there is something fishy about your marriage. When do I get to meet this questionable husband of yours, anyway?”
I keep my eyes on the baking sheet I’m piping onto. “Hopefully never?”
She gasps. “Rude! And to think I came all this way to help make sure the two of you are a solid couple.” She sounds too put out for her disappointment to be real, but I glare at her anyway, in part because she’s wrong and because she’s really struggling with keeping her voice down.
Glancing around the kitchen, I turn on the mixer that I used to whip my egg whites, hoping the whirring will cover our conversation so no one up front hears. “We’re not solid,” I argue. “And that’s a good thing.”
“Not if you want your marriage to last.”
“Which I don’t,” I remind her. I went on a whole rant about it last night, telling her about my plan to use the profits to start something new somewhere else.
Cecily eats more cookie dough, humming with pleasure as she licks her fingers. “You know, most couples go into a marriage wanting it to last forever.”
I glance at the door, as if I might be able to see Mrs. Vanderman peering through the window. “This isn’t a ‘most couples’ situation, Cece.”
“So you’ve said.”
“King and I have history that makes this complicated.”
I glance up when she doesn’t say anything else and cringe when I realize she’s giving me her therapist stare. I’ve never regretted befriending a marriage counselor more than I do right now. “What?”
She cocks her head, examining me. “Nothing.”
“What?” I demand again.
“You didn’t say much about how you and King became a couple.”
I roll my eyes and finish off the last macaron, and then I tap the cookie sheet a few times to get rid of any bubbles before stashing the tray on a cart to rest. “What more is there to say? He can’t give me the bakery unless I’m—”
“I mean before. Before you came to New York. It still baffles me that you kept him a secret all these years.”
I can’t help but wince. When I discovered the room Cecily was subleasing in her apartment when I first moved to New York, her friendship was a godsend. I was completely out of my element and already homesick, and her warm welcome gave me the courage to stick around and really try to make a life for myself in the city. We became fast friends while she went through school and I found work in a bakery, and I opened up to her in a way I haven’t with anyone else.
