The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

‘Thank you. And now that you have an idea of what you’re potentially getting yourself into, I should introduce myself. I’m Callan. Callan Stewart. I do the baking. Or at least I try to. I’m an accountant by trade, but Abigail taught me a few things. I’m not a patch on her, I’m afraid. In fact, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can bake as well as she does. I mean … did.’ The crease between Callan’s brows was back, and it didn’t look to be disappearing anytime soon.

Josie’s heart twisted further. She’d seen that look before. On her father’s face, after her mother had left. Bereft. Desolate. The look of a man whose hopes and dreams had been whisked away. Or in Callan’s case, stolen.

‘And I’m Josie. Short for Josephine. But only my father calls me that. Josie Donnelly.’ She thrust her hand out, then realised Callan had his hands full with his daughter. And with life in general. She dropped her hand and offered up a smile. ‘It’s good to meet you. Now, shall we talk about the job? Is it still available?’

‘It is.’ Callan grimaced as Mia blew a wet raspberry on his cheek. ‘Would you like to take a seat?’ Callan jerked his head towards the table setting for two in front of the window. ‘I’m not sure conducting an interview standing up is the most comfortable way to do things.’ He jiggled Mia on his hip. ‘And this one isn’t getting any lighter. I swear she eats concrete when I’m not looking.’

Josie nodded and grinned as Mia swatted Callan playfully. She settled herself onto the wooden chair, then smoothed out a wrinkle in the blue-and-white checked tablecloth.

Callan sat down, arranged Mia on his lap, and wrapped his arms around her protectively, like she was the most precious thing in the world to him. Which, of course, Mia was. How could she not be? Children should be a parent’s top priority, especially when they were as young as Mia.

Callan dropped a kiss on the top of Mia’s head, then relaxed into his chair, and met Josie’s gaze across the table. ‘So, tell me, Josie, what customer service experience do you have?’

Josie reached into her tote, pulled out her CV and passed it to Callan. ‘I’ve worked in cafés my whole life. Started out as a kitchen hand and waitress when I was a teenager, was trained as a barista, then took a baking course and later a cake decorating course, and since then I’ve worked where I was needed, when I was needed.’

‘Baking? Not chef-ing?’ Callan’s eyes narrowed, his head tipped to the side. ‘I’d have thought chef training would have opened up more doors?’

‘It would have. But I like to bake. Have done since I was a young girl. My mother taught me the basics and I liked …’ I liked the way she wrapped her arms around me as we held the wooden spoon, beating the mixture together. The way she smelled like vanilla, sugar, and love. ‘I liked the way when people ate the cakes and biscuits and whatever else I whipped up, they smiled. The way my creations made them happy. People enjoy a perfectly cooked steak, but it’s a beautifully executed dessert that makes a meal memorable.’

Callan’s shoulders rose a tad, his leg, which had seen Mia jiggle up and down on his lap, stilled. Had she said something wrong? Was she going to be marched out? Did he think she wanted to take over? To run the place?

‘But, obviously, you’ve got the cooking part of the business sorted. The job is for front of house, and I’m happy to take that role for as long as you need me.’ She gave an affirmative nod and prayed Callan’s shoulders would relax, that the jiggle would resume. No job meant nowhere to live, which meant returning to her father’s house. And the only thing worse than Christmas was not celebrating it with her father. No presents. No carols. No turkey, bread sauce or trifle. No family traditions. Just the constant reminder of the hollowness created by her mother’s departure, reinforced by her father’s furtive glances at the front door. Hoping the woman who’d left them on Christmas Eve so many years ago would return.

‘And how do you feel about life in a small village? Sunnycombe’s not exactly a thrilling place to reside. Not much happens. There’s the Thursday night pub quiz. The odd band plays on a Friday. Saturday there’s a darts competition.’

‘Daddy was bestest.’ Mia tipped her head up to look at Callan, admiration shining in her eyes. ‘He won a gold cup.’

‘A trophy.’ Callan tickled Mia’s side, sending her into another fit of giggles. ‘But that was a long time ago. These days the only thing I want to be best at is being your daddy.’

‘And you look like you’re doing a great job.’ Josie clasped her hands under the table. She didn’t need to look down to know her knuckles were white. Was he going to offer her the job or not? Was he going to give her the escape route she needed to avoid another fraught family anti-Christmas? ‘I can live in a village. I can live anywhere. I’ve lived in all sorts of places.’

‘Does that mean you move a lot? That you’re likely to up and leave without giving notice?’ Callan’s brows drew together. ‘Because I can’t have that. I don’t expect you to stay forever, but I need to have a routine in place. I need to know that you won’t just disappear without giving me fair warning. It’s important … for the business.’

For the business? Or to him? Josie suspected the latter.

‘Which leads me to wonder, Josie, what brings you here?’

‘My last job was working in a café’s kitchen in Chipping Campden. I was filling in for a person on maternity leave. They came back, and now I’m in need of a new job. And I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll stay for as long as you need me.’ She caught sight of a dust ball in the far corner of the room and recalled the wonky icing on the cupcakes. He needed her. Whether he knew it or not. Callan might proclaim to know a few things about baking, but Josie could tell, for all his efforts, he was not a baker. Just a man doing his best to keep his wife’s legacy alive. Keeping his love for her alive.

‘Do you like playing with dolls? And having tea parties? And how old are you?’ Mia inquired, her little fingers steepling together in a way Josie bet she’d learned from her father.

‘I’m 26, which means I’m kind of a grown-up, but not so grown up that I don’t love tea parties. They’re my favourite. Especially if real cakes are involved. And I bet I’d be good at playing with dolls too.’ She smiled warmly at Mia, her heart lightening as the smile was repaid in kind.

‘Babysitting isn’t part of the job.’ Callan’s arms wrapped tighter around his daughter. A barrier.

It made sense. If his wife had passed away, he wouldn’t want anyone who might leave to get close to Mia. The small rejection hurt, but Josie understood where it came from. Couldn’t blame him for it. Not when she was one for putting barriers up to stop others getting too close. Friendships were kept formal. Relationships of the romantic kind kept loose and easy. Dates only. Rarely more than three before she bowed out. The moment she began to feel cloistered, controlled or claustrophobic in any way, she was gone.

A new town. A new village. A new city. New place to live. New job. New life.

‘I’m not a baby.’ Mia’s face screwed up with disdain. ‘I’m 4, remember. That’s nearly a grown-up.’

Josie nodded. ‘Four is pretty grown up, which means babysitting must be the worst word in the world to describe taking care of such a big girl as you, right?’

Mia nodded so vigorously her head hit the back of her father’s chest, causing him to rub the spot, a pained expression on her face.

‘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.

Chapter 2 (#u33654106-0463-5b46-94a9-dd725b787826)

‘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.