“Don’t mind me,” Violet said, stretching her neck from side to side to work out the kinks the long drive had left her with. “I’ll have a look around and start making plans. We’ll catch up once you close shop for the day.”
Maisy bobbed her head and hustled over to assist the family studying the glass display of treats. Her chatter filled the air, and Violet wondered just how many espressos and cupcakes Maisy had downed today. And if she would hook her up with enough sugar and caffeine to counteract the bittersweet thickness coating her throat.
Being here was…surreal.
Speaking of surreal, let’s focus on art! Violet propped her fists on her hips and studied the dingy walls of the bakery. They definitely needed freshening, and she was confident she could do better than bleak white walls and sparse, dusty decorations.
The wall underneath the front counter could use a duskier color that’d turn the glass display into more of a focal point. The wood floors were beautiful, and with a bit of buffing and perhaps a coat of varnish, they’d be perfection.
There’s a lot of potential. As she watched Maisy place her sugary works of art in a pale-pink box while beaming at her customers, it was so obvious her sister was doing what she loved. Out of nowhere, a wave of affection slammed into Violet so strongly her knees wobbled.
It was so good to see Maisy in person again.
She’d thought the phone calls would fade, especially once Isla had been born—a whole month early. New babies were time-consuming, so Violet completely understood.
But if anything, she and Maisy talked even more.
And when Violet had broken down, spilled her guts, and added how much today was going to suck, Maisy insisted she come and stay with her for a while. At least until she got her feet back under her.
“I don’t want to impose,” Violet had said. Maisy had clucked her tongue and told her that with her husband deployed, she was desperate for company. Plus, she happened to have an extra room, no charge.
Not wanting to feel like a freeloader, she’d insisted they strike a deal: Violet would renovate the bakery while she was in town.
Which, if she had it her way, would only be a month. Two, tops.
“Have a sweet day,” Maisy said, bidding farewell to the final customer. She flipped the sign on the door to closed and walked to where Violet stood, still staring at the wall.
Blank canvases used to give her happy tingly vibes. Sadly, the spark didn’t magically ignite and spread.
“So?” Maisy asked. “What do you think?”
“The place has great bones, as they say. And the flooring is amazing.” Violet stomped on it, as if that were a proper test. “Fresh paint, color accents, and well-placed artwork, and it’ll reflect how people feel when they bite into one of your delicious desserts.”
Maisy’s smile was a lot like her mother’s, but unlike the “smiles” Cheryl Hurst gave Violet, Maisy’s was genuine. “I’m so glad you’re here to help. When I first bought the place, I had to focus on updating the appliances. After that, I hardly had money for ingredients. Now I finally have the means to revamp the rest, but, thanks to my adorable baby, not the time. Plus, I’m no good at decor.”
“Yeah, I remember your childhood bedroom. It was like a color-blind person had decorated it.”
Maisy shoved Violet’s shoulder. “Hey. It wasn’t that bad.”
Violet huffed a laugh. “As someone who’s been trained in complementary colors, I can confidently say it was. You also had a poster of that caveman-esque dude with the big head, large nose, and oddly tiny mouth above your bed.”
The gasp Maisy made echoed off the wall. “It was a One Tree Hill poster, and you must not’ve watched the show if you don’t understand the allure of Nathan Scott.”
“I have, and Lucas Scott was the better-looking brother by far.”
“Seriously? He has a squishy face. And he never fully opens his eyes.”
Violet started to argue but then slowly let her mouth close. “Fair point on that last part, but he had great hair. Besides, guys with the pale skin and dark hair combo aren’t my type.”
Maisy swept a chestnut strand that’d fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear. “You’d rule a guy out just because of that?”
While Violet had never accepted the Hurst last name, she didn’t have a choice about sharing the same dark reddish-brown shade as her father, half sister, and half brother. Whenever she visited, it was the trait that left the locals saying “Oh, you’ve got so much Hurst in you.”
As if that wasn’t a disturbing way to put it.
During her teenage years, she’d highlighted her hair uber-blond to avoid blending in to the family she’d never belonged to.
Sure, staying away from anyone semi-resembling her father was a flawed theory at best—one that hadn’t done a great job saving her from pain—but she clung to it anyway. Too many other things had changed in the last several months, and she craved the familiar. “I have a very precise system. Basically, I look at a guy, and if he’s a hot douchebag who strings me along for years and years, I decide he’s the one.”
Thanks to being based in reality, the joke didn’t quite land.
Before Maisy could send any pity her way, Violet swiped a hand through the air. She’d gotten good at pretending losing an entire decade of plans didn’t get to her. “Anyway, that was my old system, before swearing off men in general. Who needs ’em?”
“I do.” Maisy sighed, a dreamy lilt to her words when she added, “I just wish mine wasn’t so far away.”
Violet winced, and not only because the words pricked the spot over her heart. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. I know how much you miss him, and Travis is one of the good ones.”
This time, it was Maisy who waved a hand through the air. “Not a big deal. I get what you mean.” She draped her arm around Violet’s shoulders and rested her head against hers. “I do hope that someday, when you meet the right person, you’ll change your mind.”
A nice sentiment, but when it came to the “right” person, Violet had decided it wasn’t in the cards for her, and most days, she was fine with that.
It wasn’t like getting married was her main goal in life. And in spite of what her ex or anyone else who’d been around her this past decade might think, her near-obsession with planning her own nuptials truly hadn’t been about the wedding.
Back when the photography muse was being kind, weddings had been her favorite jobs. They runneth over with emotion, and Violet had mastered the art of capturing unscripted moments: the father of the bride choking up as he no longer became the main man in his daughter’s life; grandparents reminiscing on the day they’d wed as they shared a dance; kids sneaking cake in their fancy clothes; and the bridesmaids laughing together, working to ensure the bride had the perfect day.