The Little Brooklyn Bakery: A heartwarming feel good novel full of cakes and romance!

With a groan Sophie rolled over, feeling grimy, travel stained and full-on icky, her body still crimped from the plane journey. She stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling as half-hearted daylight clawed its way through the flimsy curtains. As usual, the thoughts began to crowd in. Memories of the last two years, fighting like gremlins coming up through the crevices. Nope, not going there. Refuse to go there. Shower. Unpack. Find tea. They were the priorities.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted them firmly on the wide-planked wooden floor and looked around the room. Just about enough space to swing a very small kitten, but clean and obviously newly painted. The tasteful shade of sage green was complemented by the cream-painted woodwork of the headboard and a matching chest of drawers and an oval mirror hanging above it. Space was tight, so the bed was pushed up against the opposite wall and there was no sign of a wardrobe.

She found the reason when she pushed open the second door leading from the bedroom. It opened into a tiny hallway with a built-in wardrobe and, at the end, another doorway which led into a long and very narrow bathroom. However, the shiny, glossy brick tiles and immaculate, gleaming chrome fittings more than made up for its corridor-like dimensions.

At the sight of the state-of-the-art shower, chrome-filled with numerous taps, heads and levers and big enough to take a rugby team, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the blissful streams of hot water. It was only as the water streamed through her long blonde hair, from two different directions, that she realised that there was no shampoo, no soap and no towel. She blinked hard at her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought to pack towels and sheets?

As she shook herself like a dog to try and dry off, using her jeans as a bathmat, she glared at the idiotic image in the mirror, her hair wrapped in her T-shirt to soak up the drips.

For God’s sake, she was normally the person who could be relied on for having packed spares for everyone else.

She went through her case pulling things out, appalled at the random contents and glaring omissions. Hair straighteners. No hairdryer. Fourteen pairs of knickers. One bra. Three tubes of toothpaste. No toothbrush. Tweezers. No nail scissors. Her second-favourite cookery book. And decaffeinated tea-bags? Just when she could have mainlined caffeine with bells on. Who drank decaffeinated anything? There should be a law against it.

Sitting back on her heels, she looked back at the last week with sudden clarity. Lord, hindsight was a wonderful thing. Now, when it was far too bloody late, she could see that her packing had been done in a blur of denial and downright indecision. Convinced she wouldn’t ever really leave. Right up to the last minute when the taxi driver rang the bell, she’d not really been sure she’d go through with it.

Biting her lip, kneeling among discarded shirts, jeans and Converse hi-tops, she picked through her final days in London. Once she’d said yes to Angela, it was as if she’d stepped on a treadmill and had neither the will, the energy nor the reasoning capacity to do anything but keep putting one foot in front of the other. Misery, it had turned out, was a useful shield, blurring away reality until it was too late to get off the treadmill. The taxi was there, her passport was in her hand and she had two cases and a cabin bag at her side.

And here she was. In America.

‘Right.’ She stood up, tugged the T-shirt from her wet hair and looked firmly at herself in the mirror. ‘You are here now.’ She glared into her own eyes. ‘You, yes you, Sophie Bennings … Beauchamp, Bow-champ to the nice customs man, need to knuckle down. Sort yourself out. Sheets. Towel. Toiletries.’

Those stupid omissions at least gave her a mission for the day. She had to go out and buy those as an absolute minimum.

‘And shopping.’ For Pete’s sake, she was so wet, she hadn’t even explored her new home. And she was talking to herself. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Come on. This is an opportunity.’ Saying things out loud made her feel less stupid. Perhaps she ought to buy one of those self-help manuals, come up with a few more convincing mantras. ‘It is an opportunity. Some people would kill to be me.’ OK, kill was perhaps going a little too far, but all her friends had been frankly envious. Not one of them had said, ‘Oh, God just think how big and scary New York is and how lonely you’re going to be.’

Her exploration didn’t take long. The apartment was small, but perfectly formed. Modern, urban and very sophisticated. Not what she was used to at all, but as she stood in the open-plan lounge-kitchen, she nodded to herself. OK, she could live here. The polished, wide-planked, wooden floors were lovely and the huge sash windows let in loads of light and provided a great view out over the street. There was a television and a black box thing, with several remote controls, which she glanced at briefly with a wince. That had been James’s department. The bright-red sofa, with grey cushions positioned opposite a fireplace, looked inviting and welcoming.

On the other side of the room, along the back wall, was a long galley kitchen, with white brick tiles on the walls separating units of glossy, dark red. A wooden-topped island with a breakfast bar created a division between the living room and the kitchen. It contained the sink, drainer and more counter space, and she was pleased to see that the hob, oven, fridge and sink were arranged in the perfect cook’s triangle of practicality.

When she opened a couple of cupboards to find ubiquitous Ikea china mugs and plates, she was unable to decide whether they were disappointing or reassuring. One half of her hoped that there’d be some exoticism – chic American branded crockery, proof that she’d flown 3,000 miles to be here. But the other half – the more dominant half, to be perfectly honest – was relieved by the sight of the familiar tall-bodied mugs and the chunky primary-colour plates. They said, See, not so far from home after all.

With a nod of approval, she was about to turn when her eye caught sight of an unexpected door, tucked out of sight at the end of the run of units.

‘Oh, hello.’ She stepped through the door out onto the deck, immediately tipping her face up to let the warm sunshine dance on her skin. The sun burnt bright in a cloud-free sky. For a minute she stood there, letting the heat wash over her. The golden glow held her in a timeless embrace, giving her battered spirits an immediate boost.

‘I want to see the sunshine after the rain, I want to see bluebirds flying over …’ she hummed as she surveyed the bistro table and two chairs and the empty planter, which begged to be filled with herbs. She would speak to Wes, the mysterious herb man from last night. Musing whether to add a chilli plant in there as well, she turned to survey the backdrop landscape of rooftops and secret insights of backyards. You could see down into the neighbouring plots. Some held climbing frames and swings squeezed onto tiny lawns, while others held compact decks handsomely furnished with expensive-looking garden furniture. She came back to the refrain, ‘Sunshine after the rain,’ and swallowed back the lump, fighting against tears. OK, so it was going to take a while, a long time before she saw anything flying over mountains or otherwise, but one day she’d feel better. She cast a bitter look at the second bistro chair.

With a sigh she went back into the kitchen. She needed to keep herself busy. There were lists to be made. If only she’d packed a bloody pen. She knew she was putting off the moment when she had to leave the apartment.

And there, taped to the back of the door, was a large piece of greaseproof paper, a jagged tear down one side as if someone had grabbed the first thing at hand, with a note scribbled on it in what looked like bright-blue Sharpie pen.

Welcome. Pop down to the café and say hi. First coffee is on me and I’ll throw in breakfast, because I didn’t get to the store for you. Your landlady Bella

Coffee. Now the thought was in her head, her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten a proper meal? She couldn’t stay here all day … actually, she probably could … but she needed stuff, towels and sheets. This gave her the perfect excuse to get going and stop being such a wuss.

Grabbing her guide book and purse, she hastily packed everything she thought she might need and headed out.

For a moment, she stood utterly entranced by the window display, which she’d completely missed the night before. A picture of Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady in her iconic black-and-white Ascot costume was suspended mid-air above what Sophie could only describe as the most magnificent display. Matching black-and-white decorated cupcakes arranged on two candelabra-style cake stands stood like ladies in waiting behind a five-tiered wedding cake, its elaborate icing and shape cleverly referencing the design of the hat. Underneath the picture was a quote:

Nothing is impossible, the word itself says I’m Possible! Audrey Hepburn

Reading it, Sophie gave a nod. She needed to start being more positive. Her can-do spirit seemed to have evaporated. With a professional eye, she studied the cakes, marvelling at the precision and creativity, until the door opened beside her and someone came out of the café, followed by a waft of coffee.

Her stomach complained again and she grabbed the door as it started to close. The minute she stepped inside, she paused and closed her eyes, inhaling. What the sunshine upstairs had started, the familiar magic alchemic smell of butter and sugar, eggs and flour finished. She felt lighter, as if some invisible weight had dislodged itself from her shoulders, as she registered the soothing hint of vanilla, the richness of chocolate, the sharp citrus of lemon. The scents swirled around her, grounding her. She almost laughed out loud. Grounding her, really? But it was true, for the first time in two weeks, she felt a bit more like herself again. And then she spotted the notice above the counter. You’ve got 86,400 seconds today. Have you used one to smile?

Taking the message to heart, she let her mouth relax into a broad grin, taking another discreet sniff. This almost felt like home and suddenly she wanted to be in the kitchen, mixing, stirring, tasting and baking.

She opened her eyes and headed for the counter. Her eagerness felt rusty and unused. Now she was dying to see what was available, where all those delicious smells were coming from and what she could learn. She’d never been to America before, there was a whole new world of food to explore. Her eyes lit up. Oh yes, there surely was.

‘Good morning. How are you today? What can I get you?’ asked a petite redhead with a mass of curls bundled up in a bright-green scarf, wiping down the coffee machine.

‘Hi, I’m … very well, thank you. I’m Sophie. From upstairs.’

‘Sophie!’ The girl squealed, dropping her cloth and racing around the counter, and putting her hands on Sophie’s arms, surveying her with bright-eyed enthusiasm, rather like a great aunt who hadn’t seen her for years. ‘Hey! It’s so great to see you. I’m Bella. Your landlady. I’ve never been a landlady before. Is the apartment OK?’ She let go of Sophie and gesticulated eagerly, letting her hands take a share in the conversation. ‘Do you need anything? I’m sorry I didn’t get any groceries in. I think maybe I should have, I didn’t know but then we had a rush order and I just … well it’s always mad on a weekend. Welcome to Brooklyn.’

Sophie laughed and held up her hands to fend off the rush of words and the semaphore fingers, and to reassure the other woman. ‘It’s all fine. The apartment’s lovely. And a nice man called Wes helped me carry my cases in. Even left me a pot of herbs.’

‘Ah yes, the luscious Wes,’ Bella’s mouth dipped slightly before she continued, ‘he’s a sweetie. And always pushing those herbs.’ She nodded towards the aluminium pots of lavender on the tables. ‘Phew, it was a rush to get it finished in time, but when Todd, he’s my cousin, said the magazine needed a short-term rental, I couldn’t turn it down. Now what can I get you? Are you horribly jet-lagged? Is it the middle of the night for you?’

‘No, it’s early afternoon but I’m trying not to think about it. Coffee would be lovely, thank you.’ Normally she was a die-hard tea drinker but she knew New Yorkers were fond of their coffee and she suspected getting a decent cup of tea would be a challenge.

‘Gee, I love your English accent, it’s so cute.’

‘Thank you.’ Sophie had to beam back. It was impossible not to. Bella bounced around like an animated pixie caught in a whirlwind, her hazel eyes sharp with interest and intelligence.

‘How about something to eat? I made these lavender-and-vanilla cupcakes this morning, or there are carrot-and-cinnamon or orange-and-lemon.’

‘St Clements,’ said Sophie automatically.

‘St what?’

‘It’s cockney rhyming slang, orange-and-lemon flavours are sometimes called St Clements. It’s one of my favourites.’ For some reason she softly sang, ‘Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clements.’

‘Aw, that is so cute. I’ve never heard that before.’ Her face took on a dreamy expression. ‘Cockneys. They’re in Mary Poppins. I could do a whole theme. Supacallaf‌ragilistic cakes.’

‘I love the window. Did you design that cake?’

Bella beamed and Sophie swore the dusting of freckles on her nose danced too. ‘Sure did. You like?’

‘Love! It’s amazing. Those black-and-white frills and the sugar-paste feathers are so clever.’

‘Awesome. Thanks. Now you must be hungry, so what would you like? First one’s on the house.’

‘Mmm, they look delicious.’ Sophie’s stomach grumbled obligingly as she examined the contents of the glass cabinet. One side was stacked with interesting-looking loaves, walnut-and-raisin, rye, five-grain, along with cheese-and-herb plaits and pumpkin-seed rolls, while the other had rows of beautifully decorated cupcakes, topped with pale cream frosting and sugar-paste flowers like Easter baskets, as well as several fruit-topped cheesecakes, a line of giant cookies, chunks of melted chocolate glistening, and a couple of full-sized cakes.

‘Do you make all of this?’

‘No, I don’t have time. The celebration and cupcakes are mine. And I live in hope that the wedding-cake side will take off. The cheesecakes come from the fabulous Maisie, who lives around the corner and bakes them while her kids are at school. She uses organic cream cheese from the family dairy upstate in Maine. They are to die for. And the breads and bagels are delivered in daily by a two-man team. Ed and Edie. Well, a man-and-woman team,’ she laughed, ‘their company is called Two Eds. And their slogan is When it comes to breads, two Eds are better.’