The bakery was magical. Sara sniffed the air, which held the intoxicating smells of sugar, mixed with flour and butter. That was magic too. It made her skin tingle, an electric current that ran right through her, sending her stomach fluttering.
It was as if, every time she entered Olde O’Brien’s Bakery, with its old world feel, she stepped back in time, to simpler days when dough was kneaded by hand, marriages lasted forever, and nobody asked, “Is this gluten free?”
The far brick wall, lined with rich, mahogany wooden shelves, were complimented by the blacks and hunter green trimmings of curtains and chairs, and even an old chalkboard menu. A big sack of flour, a replica of those used in days gone by, sat in one corner, well-used grinding stones in the other. The empty shelves in between, the ones she had come in to bake and fill, put a smile on her face. Whoever had said that chocolate was better than sex had never tasted O’Brien’s sweet buns.
A customer had once said that to her, and it had been the biggest compliment of her career. She really couldn’t love the place more than she already did. While it sat in Philadelphia rather than Dublin, where her stepfather’s grandparents had come from, it still had Irish charm dripping from it like the icing on her sweet buns. It made her feel as if she’d actually gotten to visit the land of her ancestors.
At least her stepfather, Daniel, shared her love of the place. Her mother, Maeve, who now called herself Eve, didn’t care about it one bit, at least not anymore. All she wanted was her share of the money it provided.
When Maeve had married Daniel years ago, they’d enthusiastically bought this bakery together, and worked in it happily, side by side. Sara had always been eager to help. In the past few years, though, her mother barely stepped foot in the place—a newly converted health nut, she no longer saw the value in feeding people refined anything.
As Sara turned on a few lights, heading to the back where they kept the big ovens and mixers, she counted her blessing, as usual. Her mother’s loss was her gain, and she didn’t even care if daily indulgences put a few more pounds on her fuller figure. She was pleased with her life—she loved what she did.
With long brown hair, green eyes, and full cheeks, she never looked in a mirror and saw anything but a beautiful, blessed woman. Having a smattering of flour on her face, a glob of icing staining her baker’s coat, only enhanced her image, as far as she was concerned.
Going to hang her winter coat in her stepfather’s office, exchanging it for the white, double breasted chef’s jacket he’d bought her as a gift when she graduated high school, she stopped short, heart skipping a beat, to see her stepfather asleep on the couch.
She knew her mother had probably said something nasty to make him leave the house. While he loved the bakery, no one wanted to spend the night on a couch in a small office. He shouldn’t have to either. He worked hard all day, had made this business a success while her mother only complained about it as she ran off for another Zumba class, or whatever she was aerobically into these days.
One diet club meeting—originally just a way for Maeve to drop a few pounds—and before they knew it, Eve had emerged, skinny as a rail, vegan, eating only non-GMO whole grains and off sugar for good, claiming it was some damn drug more dangerous than heroine.
“Eve” had turned in her chef’s jacket for yoga pants and had never looked back. Although, sadly, her father had preserved it. The jacket hung, unused, in the back room he now slept in.
When her mother had first gone off the rails, Sara had been more than happy to put in the hours her mother used to. Even when Sara was in high school, she just worked around her classes. When she’d graduated, she’d more than rose to the occasion, eager to take on a full-time position.
At least, when she was here, she didn’t have to
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