wanted to figure out how I felt, and what I would say. Perhaps more than that I wanted to work out what I wanted to know from now on in. I could ask her, I reasoned, to tell me no more. I’d happily wander the streets of Derry and drive the hills of Donegal. I’d accompany her on a day trip to Belfast and on that weekend she wanted in Dublin but I didn’t need to know about Ray, about what had happened and, most especially about what she knew or didn’t know about the big navy reunion before she booked her tickets.
I had called Craig the night before – probably inadvisably, considering I had consumed two glasses of wine and things were still quite strained between us. I had made a silly attempt to tell him what had happened – but I knew my words were jumbled, more through emotion than the influence of the wine.
“I don’t know what to do,” I had said, my voice tight, inwardly begging him to say the right thing and to come up with the right answer to how I was feeling even though I didn’t know what it was myself. I had stood there, shivering in the garden of Sam’s cottage, hauling the sleeves of Craig’s oversized hoodie, which I had brought out with me, over my hands.
“Come home,” he said, softly.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I didn’t know where home was any more.
* * *
“This is it,” Sam said, tapping a code into a panel in the wall and switching on the lights in Second Hand Rose.
I’ll be honest, I was expecting a smell of moth balls despite what Sam had told me about the store being a little more vintage than thrift. I was expecting, despite his flawless interior design at home, a series of basement bargain tables, some roughly hung dresses and perhaps a basket or two of well-worn pairs of shoes tied together with twine or elastic.
Second Hand Rose was quite different. As Sam switched on the lights a series of exquisite white chandeliers dotted around a perfectly white ceiling lit up a beautiful space. The perfectly white ceiling matched the perfectly white walls, which were dotted with platinum-framed vintage mirrors and gorgeous art pieces I instantly coveted. Clothes were exquisitely displayed, open-fronted wardrobes styled to perfection holding a myriad of them, as did the distressed tables. Jewellery boxes spewed out cocktail rings and costume jewellery which glinted under the light of the chandeliers above. There was nothing tatty, nothing “old” about this place. As I walked through the store, touching the delicate fabrics, the soft laces and silky satins, I felt, dare I even say it, jealous of this place. That jealousy grew when I looked at Sam and saw that small smile of pride on his face. I recognised it. I had it myself the day Bake My Day opened – and indeed for the first few years. I’d loved work. I mean, I’d loved my work. I was sickeningly happy with all aspects of it, even the tax returns and the cleaning up after a major bake. Even when I was scraping crumbs of cupcakes off the floors after customers left for the day. The bakery was my safe place – my happy place. It was a very public sign of my success. I didn’t have to work at creating a wonderful atmosphere because one just seemed to exist there. I had spent hours upon hours designing the place – choosing the colour schemes, the counter tops, designing the menu, choosing the cups and saucers, the plates and the napkins. I even took a stupid amount of pleasure in choosing the towels for the restrooms.
I could see looking around Second Hand Rose that Sam had that same passion for what he did – that we had that passion in common. Or at least we had had. Bake My Day was more of an afterthought to me these days and I wished it wasn’t. I wanted that passion back.
“It’s amazing,” I told Sam and he laughed.
“It does the job,” he replied. “We do well – and we run an online shop as well so we can source and sell items from around the world – all around the world.” He switched
I had called Craig the night before – probably inadvisably, considering I had consumed two glasses of wine and things were still quite strained between us. I had made a silly attempt to tell him what had happened – but I knew my words were jumbled, more through emotion than the influence of the wine.
“I don’t know what to do,” I had said, my voice tight, inwardly begging him to say the right thing and to come up with the right answer to how I was feeling even though I didn’t know what it was myself. I had stood there, shivering in the garden of Sam’s cottage, hauling the sleeves of Craig’s oversized hoodie, which I had brought out with me, over my hands.
“Come home,” he said, softly.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I didn’t know where home was any more.
* * *
“This is it,” Sam said, tapping a code into a panel in the wall and switching on the lights in Second Hand Rose.
I’ll be honest, I was expecting a smell of moth balls despite what Sam had told me about the store being a little more vintage than thrift. I was expecting, despite his flawless interior design at home, a series of basement bargain tables, some roughly hung dresses and perhaps a basket or two of well-worn pairs of shoes tied together with twine or elastic.
Second Hand Rose was quite different. As Sam switched on the lights a series of exquisite white chandeliers dotted around a perfectly white ceiling lit up a beautiful space. The perfectly white ceiling matched the perfectly white walls, which were dotted with platinum-framed vintage mirrors and gorgeous art pieces I instantly coveted. Clothes were exquisitely displayed, open-fronted wardrobes styled to perfection holding a myriad of them, as did the distressed tables. Jewellery boxes spewed out cocktail rings and costume jewellery which glinted under the light of the chandeliers above. There was nothing tatty, nothing “old” about this place. As I walked through the store, touching the delicate fabrics, the soft laces and silky satins, I felt, dare I even say it, jealous of this place. That jealousy grew when I looked at Sam and saw that small smile of pride on his face. I recognised it. I had it myself the day Bake My Day opened – and indeed for the first few years. I’d loved work. I mean, I’d loved my work. I was sickeningly happy with all aspects of it, even the tax returns and the cleaning up after a major bake. Even when I was scraping crumbs of cupcakes off the floors after customers left for the day. The bakery was my safe place – my happy place. It was a very public sign of my success. I didn’t have to work at creating a wonderful atmosphere because one just seemed to exist there. I had spent hours upon hours designing the place – choosing the colour schemes, the counter tops, designing the menu, choosing the cups and saucers, the plates and the napkins. I even took a stupid amount of pleasure in choosing the towels for the restrooms.
I could see looking around Second Hand Rose that Sam had that same passion for what he did – that we had that passion in common. Or at least we had had. Bake My Day was more of an afterthought to me these days and I wished it wasn’t. I wanted that passion back.
“It’s amazing,” I told Sam and he laughed.
“It does the job,” he replied. “We do well – and we run an online shop as well so we can source and sell items from around the world – all around the world.” He switched
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