Chapter 1
Seagulls flock outside the window of a decades-old bakery in the Northern California coastal town of Seacrest. Bill Harris, the demented geriatric local resident, is feeding generous crumbs of his uneaten croissant to the birds.
Ari St. Claire watches him from the counter with a fist on her chin, a wistful expression on her face. That man she adores. In fact, everyone does. The residents of this quaint townlet take care of each other. If they accept you, that is. Bill is a lucky recipient of that small-town generosity.
Across the street, a South Asian couple pose in front of their camera phone, smiling at the lens to take a selfie. The beach, the blue skies and the sun serve as their backdrop. The customers who are dining alfresco scrutinize the visitors in between sips of their lattes. They know that they’re tourists. Seacrest welcomes out-of-towners as long as they don’t make their stay permanent. Housing properties remain exclusive to the generation of families who’ve been in the neighborhood since it was just a humble fishing town.
Ari sighs and separates her hips from the counter. She grabs the Windex and wipes the glass surface with a towel. As she cleans, she eyes the desserts underneath it. Cakes with intricate fondant icing, cupcakes with Pinterest-ready buttercream frosting and the delicate petit fours. The skillful hands that baked these delicious treats were hers.
“That’s right, honey girl. You should be proud of your fine work.”
Ari spins toward the voice that she’s known forever. Mrs. Gloria Bernard’s family has owned this patisserie since the gray-haired stunner was only five. Gloria, a statuesque woman whose ancestry hails from France, has lived at Seacrest for sixty-seven years. She wipes her hands on her apron tied around her waist. “Sweetheart, your talent belongs in the big leagues.”
The bespectacled twenty-three-year-old bristles. “Getting rid of me already?” Ari catches her reflection in the mirror behind her boss and wrinkles her nose at her brown eyes. They bore her, and she wished they were hazel like her father’s or blue like her mother’s. Then she tightens her ponytail after tucking an errant brown strand behind her ear. She hates seeing her hair out of place. “Gloria, where’s that box of hairpins?” she asks while rummaging inside the drawer next to the cash register.
“Honey, you’re fine. I quite like your hair disheveled a little. It makes you look carefree.”
Ari snatches the small container of pins as soon as she finds them. As she fastens the stubborn strand, she addresses her boss. “I’m not moving to New York, Vegas or Paris to pursue my dream. My mom needs me here.”
Gloria shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t. She’ll be okay. A young, talented girl like you shouldn’t stay here—working at a bakery as old as dirt.”
Ari places a well-manicured hand on her hip. “We’ve had this conversation before. My mom’s too erratic. She won’t make it without me.”
Gloria purses her lips, then rests her palms on Ari’s shoulders. “My dear, your mother is young and as strong as an ox. Her emotions are hers to handle, not yours. Worry about her, but she can’t hinder you from taking flight. If she’s guilt-tripping you, then I shall have to talk to her.”
She shakes her head. “No, she’s not.”
Gloria gives her a sidelong glance. “Then is it you?”
Ari’s chest puffs up as she ponders her question. She feels irritated and prickly under the weight of this simple query.
She raises a brow. “Have I struck a nerve?”
Yes. “No.”
Ping. A customer strikes the bell to get their attention, and Ari turns around, breathing a sigh of relief. “Well, hello, Mr. Forster. You’re here for the apple fritter and café au lait?”
The elderly man smiles at her and nods at Gloria. “Of course.” He leans over and licks his lips. “I hope they’re baked fresh and just out of the oven?”
Lena, Gloria’s chief baker and cousin, bounces out of the kitchen with a large tray of fritters. Her usual pink cheeks are even rosier from the heat. She chuckles after greeting Mr. Forster. “Like clockwork, my dear.”
Gloria laughs. “Well, he’s been doing this for thirty-five years.” She squeezes his arm. “How are ya, Dean?”
Ari grabs tongs and a box as he shares his recent exploits with his wife and grandchildren. When she plucks four apple fritters from the tray, she hears booming music from a loudspeaker coming from the beach. It’s playing the bubblegum pop “Call Me Maybe.” She raises an eyebrow and turns her head. Are we back in 2012? she thinks.
A group of well-built men in board shorts play football on the sand while women in skimpy thong bikinis watch. A guy holding a Bluetooth speaker is laughing as he plays Carly Rae Jepsen’s song.
Mr. Forster scowls as he plucks a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. “I tell you, these damn tourists are a nuisance! Their trash is piling up on our sidewalks. I can barely take my naps with that indecent music blaring.”
Lena huffs as she settles her tray on the counter. “It doesn’t help that we have a bunch of NFL players this weekend. That must be them out there. That Eli Walker, I heard, is renting out the McKinsey’s vacation home.”
“Eli Walker. There’s a name I’ve been hearing all week.” Ari eyes the group outside as she pushes the box of pastries toward Mr. Forster. “What’s the big deal with him, anyway?”
Gloria straightens a pile of invoices on the counter. “He’s a top-ranking quarterback, leading the team to Super Bowl victory three times in a row. And he’s only twenty-seven.”
“With a face that melts butter in winter and a great backside, too.” Lena laughs as she removes her apron. “That boy is making a cougar out of me.”
Mr. Forster shakes his head, not amused, while Gloria giggles along with her. Meanwhile, Ari notices the wrinkles on her skirt and slides her hands down to smooth out the folds. Then she turns to them as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t understand. Why fly here? Sure, it’s pretty, but Seacrest isn’t your Condé Nast tourist destination.”
Gloria places the lid on Mr. Forster’s to-go coffee cup. “They’re here for a wedding. The bride spent a weekend getaway here with her friends years ago, and she loved it.”
“Interesting,” says Ari as she raises her wrist. Her eyes widen when she sees the time. She can’t be late for her one o’clock baking class at Severs Community College. As the instructor, it doesn’t bode well if she’s tardy. She hangs her pale, pink-checkered apron on the hook and grabs her purse. “Gotta go, everyone!”
Lena waves goodbye, but Gloria calls out to her as she heads for the door. “Don’t forget, sweetie. You’re coming with me to see our new client.”
“I’ll be here by five.”
“Meet me at Misty Wind Resort! It’s right next to that college where you work.”
They watch her exit and run to her late model Toyota Corolla. In less than a minute, she’s screeching out of the parking lot and into the busy downtown street.
