A Wednesday morning in May, really early…
Charlotta Wilson stood in her bakery and inhaled the familiar scents of cinnamon, flour, and yeast. She couldn’t wait to get to work baking the sweets for Marcy’s bridal shower that weekend. The bread dough that had been proofing overnight in the fridge would come to room temperature in about an hour, and then she could commence with her regular orders.
She also wanted to test her new cake pan, the behemoth she’d bought specifically for the wedding in two weeks. She’d never baked a cake so big. If the center didn’t cook through before the edges burned, she’d have to rethink the cake design. Tiers of cupcakes seemed all the rage in the land of weddings, but Marcy wanted a traditional, multi-layered, flower-encrusted confection. Perhaps the cake, known affectionately as The Cake, would just need to be tall – like five feet tall.
Chuckling, Lotta turned the dial on one of the ovens and opened the walk-in cooler to get the dough, and a couple pounds of butter.
Hunh, is the lightbulb burnt out? Some inner sense made her check the oven panel. No indicator light. The oven was definitely not working.
What the what?
The fuse box was at the bottom of the stairs. She grabbed a flashlight and crept toward the cellar door. She could do this. She could slip down, flip the breakers, and be back up the stairs in a flash. The heavy door creaked as she pried it open, and a wave of musty air that brought crypts and rotting corpses to mind slapped her in the face. Her breathing grew more erratic as she squinted into the darkness, but the beam of her flashlight failed to penetrate the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. If she made a lot of noise, any critters lurking nearby, waiting to bite her ankles, would scurry away. She hoped. She really needed to get the area cleaned out, maybe add some better lighting. Then she could use it for—something. Growing mushrooms, or housing vampires.
The stairs groaned as she descended into darkness. The beam of the flashlight reflected off a wet patch on the floor. A puddle. It hadn’t rained in several days. This was not good. She listened hard but didn’t hear anything dripping. The water had to come from somewhere though, and since it hadn’t come from outside, her bakery had obviously sprung a leak. Definitely not good.
Opening the cover of the fuse box, she was dismayed to see half of the breakers tripped. What the hell? Eager to flee the dark, spider-filled space, she flipped all the switches to the on position, slammed the cover closed, and raced up the stairs, a shiver skittering along her spine. No way would the bogeyman catch her.
The oven still wasn’t working. Neither of the ovens would turn on. Nor would the giant dough mixer. Crumbs.
And it was only five o’clock in the morning. Too early to call Marcy, her usual lifeline for, well, life. Electricians and plumbers and the like were used to emergency calls at all hours, but maybe she’d be lucky and reach someone’s voicemail. She was good at leaving messages. Talking to real people was what gave her fits. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone and hit the number of Jake’s Contracting. He’d helped her out a few years earlier when she needed a new roof, and she believed in customer loyalty. Besides, it was the only number she had for this type of emergency. After seven rings and five urges to hang up a man’s scratchy voice mumbled, “Hello”.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Hi.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry to call so early. My—um—oven won’t work. The—ah—breakers keep—”
“Who is this?”
“Oh, sorry. Lotta Wilson. Over at The Trellis Bakery. You did some work for me a couple years ago?”
The man coughed, mumbled, and something rattled as if the phone had been dropped. Maybe it was too early to call, even for contractors.
“Sorry, dropped the phone. You lost power?”
“No—well, sort of. Half my bakery has power. There’s a puddle on the basement floor. A large puddle. Should I call a plumber?” Why did this happen today? Or at all? She paced to the window and back, wanting only to be in her bakery, alone.
He snorted. “Good luck finding one of those.” More coughing. “Sorry, I’ve got the flu. Give me your number and I’ll see if I can find someone. My crew is busy at the resort.”
The poor man was sick. Now she felt horrible for waking him. “I’ll call someone else.” Who? She didn’t know anyone else. She glanced at the clock. Dang, still too early to call Marcy.
He snorted again, which led to another fit of coughing. “You picked a bad time. Most of the guys are on big jobs. Look, lemme make a few calls.”
“Do you think you can send someone over within the hour? I’ve got to—”
“An hour? More like the end of the day. What’s your number?”
She gave him her number, disconnected, and then Googled electricians and general contractors in Serenity Harbor. No way could she sit around all day twiddling her thumbs. She had sandwich rolls to bake for the deli, the treats for the weekend to make, and a blog post to prepare.
Unfortunately, Jake had been telling the truth. After leaving a few messages and talking to one other contractor, all she had accomplished was a good-sized knot in her stomach. She stuck her phone in her pocket and slumped against the counter. She’d used up all her chit-chat for the day. Speaking to another stranger was beyond the realm of possibility.
Why couldn’t she have a plumber in the family? Or a close, personal friend? Well, that would be Marcy, and she didn’t do manual labor.
Back in her little house attached to the bakery via a breezeway, Lotta turned on the oven in her kitchen and got the coffee maker started. She loved the cozy, retro feel, but the space wasn’t conducive to large baking projects. It was retro only because it was the original kitchen, built in 1895. Well, original except for the fridge and stove. At least this part of the building had power. Luckily, when Aunt Florence built the addition onto the house in the 1960’s for her bakery, they’d put in separate power lines.
Lotta sat at her kitchen table and scrolled through her few contacts again, looking for someone, anyone, who might be able to help. Of all the times for this to happen, it had to be now when all the contractors were beyond busy at big construction and remodeling projects. The new resort down the road, the new condos in the next town, and two hotels being totally remodeled. A sure sign of thriving tourism, which was great for everyone. Busy restaurants needed lots of her bread, rolls, and desserts. If only she could get her mixers and ovens running.
She filled her favorite coffee mug. Shaped like a black dog, with a tail for the handle and a cute nose sticking out the opposite side, the mug always made her smile because it looked like Bella. Bella! She went into the hall, and whistled. Three seconds later the tip-tap of nails sounded from upstairs.
“Come along, Bella, time to go out.”
The black lab trotted downstairs, gave Lotta’s hand a lick, and made for the door. After doing her business in the side yard, she came in, drank some water, and joined her stuffed sheep toy on her bed under the small, round table. One giant yawn and she was asleep.
“Hunh…you do have a hard life, puppy dog.” Lotta yawned in sympathy. Even after three years, her pet, companion, and sounding board hadn’t adjusted to the early rising schedule of bakers.
She refilled her mug and was considering the logistics of moving all that dough and how best to time the baking of five dozen rolls, five full-sized loaves, and a large tray of brownies in her small oven, when a knock sounded on the front door. Thank you, Jake. He must have found someone. Perhaps he heard the panic and despair in her voice. She hurried along the hall after giving Bella the stink-eye. Some guard dog. She’d merely opened one eye. This was taking non-aggressiveness a little too far.
She peeked through the window and her heart did a little tap dance.
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Charlotta Wilson stood in her bakery and inhaled the familiar scents of cinnamon, flour, and yeast. She couldn’t wait to get to work baking the sweets for Marcy’s bridal shower that weekend. The bread dough that had been proofing overnight in the fridge would come to room temperature in about an hour, and then she could commence with her regular orders.
She also wanted to test her new cake pan, the behemoth she’d bought specifically for the wedding in two weeks. She’d never baked a cake so big. If the center didn’t cook through before the edges burned, she’d have to rethink the cake design. Tiers of cupcakes seemed all the rage in the land of weddings, but Marcy wanted a traditional, multi-layered, flower-encrusted confection. Perhaps the cake, known affectionately as The Cake, would just need to be tall – like five feet tall.
Chuckling, Lotta turned the dial on one of the ovens and opened the walk-in cooler to get the dough, and a couple pounds of butter.
Hunh, is the lightbulb burnt out? Some inner sense made her check the oven panel. No indicator light. The oven was definitely not working.
What the what?
The fuse box was at the bottom of the stairs. She grabbed a flashlight and crept toward the cellar door. She could do this. She could slip down, flip the breakers, and be back up the stairs in a flash. The heavy door creaked as she pried it open, and a wave of musty air that brought crypts and rotting corpses to mind slapped her in the face. Her breathing grew more erratic as she squinted into the darkness, but the beam of her flashlight failed to penetrate the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. If she made a lot of noise, any critters lurking nearby, waiting to bite her ankles, would scurry away. She hoped. She really needed to get the area cleaned out, maybe add some better lighting. Then she could use it for—something. Growing mushrooms, or housing vampires.
The stairs groaned as she descended into darkness. The beam of the flashlight reflected off a wet patch on the floor. A puddle. It hadn’t rained in several days. This was not good. She listened hard but didn’t hear anything dripping. The water had to come from somewhere though, and since it hadn’t come from outside, her bakery had obviously sprung a leak. Definitely not good.
Opening the cover of the fuse box, she was dismayed to see half of the breakers tripped. What the hell? Eager to flee the dark, spider-filled space, she flipped all the switches to the on position, slammed the cover closed, and raced up the stairs, a shiver skittering along her spine. No way would the bogeyman catch her.
The oven still wasn’t working. Neither of the ovens would turn on. Nor would the giant dough mixer. Crumbs.
And it was only five o’clock in the morning. Too early to call Marcy, her usual lifeline for, well, life. Electricians and plumbers and the like were used to emergency calls at all hours, but maybe she’d be lucky and reach someone’s voicemail. She was good at leaving messages. Talking to real people was what gave her fits. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone and hit the number of Jake’s Contracting. He’d helped her out a few years earlier when she needed a new roof, and she believed in customer loyalty. Besides, it was the only number she had for this type of emergency. After seven rings and five urges to hang up a man’s scratchy voice mumbled, “Hello”.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Hi.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry to call so early. My—um—oven won’t work. The—ah—breakers keep—”
“Who is this?”
“Oh, sorry. Lotta Wilson. Over at The Trellis Bakery. You did some work for me a couple years ago?”
The man coughed, mumbled, and something rattled as if the phone had been dropped. Maybe it was too early to call, even for contractors.
“Sorry, dropped the phone. You lost power?”
“No—well, sort of. Half my bakery has power. There’s a puddle on the basement floor. A large puddle. Should I call a plumber?” Why did this happen today? Or at all? She paced to the window and back, wanting only to be in her bakery, alone.
He snorted. “Good luck finding one of those.” More coughing. “Sorry, I’ve got the flu. Give me your number and I’ll see if I can find someone. My crew is busy at the resort.”
The poor man was sick. Now she felt horrible for waking him. “I’ll call someone else.” Who? She didn’t know anyone else. She glanced at the clock. Dang, still too early to call Marcy.
He snorted again, which led to another fit of coughing. “You picked a bad time. Most of the guys are on big jobs. Look, lemme make a few calls.”
“Do you think you can send someone over within the hour? I’ve got to—”
“An hour? More like the end of the day. What’s your number?”
She gave him her number, disconnected, and then Googled electricians and general contractors in Serenity Harbor. No way could she sit around all day twiddling her thumbs. She had sandwich rolls to bake for the deli, the treats for the weekend to make, and a blog post to prepare.
Unfortunately, Jake had been telling the truth. After leaving a few messages and talking to one other contractor, all she had accomplished was a good-sized knot in her stomach. She stuck her phone in her pocket and slumped against the counter. She’d used up all her chit-chat for the day. Speaking to another stranger was beyond the realm of possibility.
Why couldn’t she have a plumber in the family? Or a close, personal friend? Well, that would be Marcy, and she didn’t do manual labor.
Back in her little house attached to the bakery via a breezeway, Lotta turned on the oven in her kitchen and got the coffee maker started. She loved the cozy, retro feel, but the space wasn’t conducive to large baking projects. It was retro only because it was the original kitchen, built in 1895. Well, original except for the fridge and stove. At least this part of the building had power. Luckily, when Aunt Florence built the addition onto the house in the 1960’s for her bakery, they’d put in separate power lines.
Lotta sat at her kitchen table and scrolled through her few contacts again, looking for someone, anyone, who might be able to help. Of all the times for this to happen, it had to be now when all the contractors were beyond busy at big construction and remodeling projects. The new resort down the road, the new condos in the next town, and two hotels being totally remodeled. A sure sign of thriving tourism, which was great for everyone. Busy restaurants needed lots of her bread, rolls, and desserts. If only she could get her mixers and ovens running.
She filled her favorite coffee mug. Shaped like a black dog, with a tail for the handle and a cute nose sticking out the opposite side, the mug always made her smile because it looked like Bella. Bella! She went into the hall, and whistled. Three seconds later the tip-tap of nails sounded from upstairs.
“Come along, Bella, time to go out.”
The black lab trotted downstairs, gave Lotta’s hand a lick, and made for the door. After doing her business in the side yard, she came in, drank some water, and joined her stuffed sheep toy on her bed under the small, round table. One giant yawn and she was asleep.
“Hunh…you do have a hard life, puppy dog.” Lotta yawned in sympathy. Even after three years, her pet, companion, and sounding board hadn’t adjusted to the early rising schedule of bakers.
She refilled her mug and was considering the logistics of moving all that dough and how best to time the baking of five dozen rolls, five full-sized loaves, and a large tray of brownies in her small oven, when a knock sounded on the front door. Thank you, Jake. He must have found someone. Perhaps he heard the panic and despair in her voice. She hurried along the hall after giving Bella the stink-eye. Some guard dog. She’d merely opened one eye. This was taking non-aggressiveness a little too far.
She peeked through the window and her heart did a little tap dance.
Amazon | Nook | Kobo
