“Coming up here and negotiating with me is not exactly dancing with realism. Here’s a tip. Life is tough. It’s not fair. I don’t exist to make it fair for you.” He started to step back into the house, but Iris advanced.
This time, he’d succeeded in making her mad.
If she’d been a bird, her feathers would have been ruffled. As it was, her cheeks turned pink, her lips pulling down at the corners.
“I’ve never labored under the illusion that life was fair. You’re making assumptions about me because you think you can just look at me and see exactly what I am, but you can’t. I’m strong and I’m determined. I’m a hard worker and I’ve dealt with enough life to be certain I won’t buckle underneath stress. We can both make money on this business. I will promise you a percentage of my profits.”
Something about her persistent optimism made him feel mean. “And you’re so confident that your little bakery is going to make a profit on the main street of a nothing town where any number of businesses on that main street struggle to break even in their first five years of business?”
It was weird to hear that come out of his mouth. Weird to remember that at one time he’d been something else. Something different.
Different than a loner up at the top of the mountain?
It was difficult to remember life before that. Before days spent in this cabin, getting up when it suited him, putting in a hard day of labor before collapsing back in bed. Some days he allowed himself the time to ride his horse. Another echo from another time. This, though, this was part of a life long gone. But somewhere, inside of him, apparently dwelled a developer. He hadn’t really missed him.
“I’m telling you, I have an idea. It will be primarily sweets, but I would also like to make fresh meals to go.”
“Seems like splitting your focus.”
“Maybe. But the more something can be convenient, particularly right in Gold Valley, the better. Oftentimes to get a variety of food people need to go into Tolowa, and that’s forty-five minutes away. The more they can shop local, the better. If they can make a stop for a treat, and also pick up a convenient, healthy meal, I think they will. And there’s plenty of single men in town who would like a home-cooked meal.”
“Okay. So you’re proposing what? There’s a bakery counter and then...”
“The fridge. With to go meals.”
“What else?” He didn’t know why he was indulging this, and he was out of practice at reading his own motivations. Because one thing about being by yourself, having your life taken down to the studs, was that you didn’t have to.
He ate when he needed to, drank when he felt like it. Moved with the sun if he needed to, or didn’t if he was tired early, or not tired at all.
It didn’t matter. And because it didn’t matter, he didn’t have to engage in any internal dialogues about his intent.
He was curious about it now, though, and lacked the inner vocabulary to sort through it.
“I make bread. There will be a bread rack.”
“All right. Well, I guess that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
He was struck by the absurdity of it all. That he would be standing there on his front porch, talking to this little creature still plaintively holding a tray of cookies.
“But really,” she said. “You should try my cookies. And then, you might agree with me.”
“I’ve had any number of cookies in my lifetime, Iris. What makes you think yours are so special?”
Color mounted in her cheeks, and he searched the recesses of himself and it dawned on him that there were definitely two meanings to something like that.
“Just try them,” she said, quiet, but insistent. She was a strange thing. But by no means as timid or plain as he’d first imagined.
“Did you walk?” he asked, suddenly realizing there was no vehicle in sight.
“From a ways back,” she said. “There’s a tree in the road.”
There hadn’t been a tree the last time he’d been down. But that had been a couple of weeks.
“And if I try one of your cookies, will you leave?”
“Depends.”
“You’re trespassing,” he said. “I could call the police.”
“Sure. But my sister is the police. So, I’m not sure how far that would get you.”
“They say you can’t negotiate with terrorists, but apparently here you can’t negotiate with terrorists or little brunettes bringing cookies? Because you have the police in your pocket.”
“In this instance, yes. I do.”
He reached out, and picked up one of the cookies. It looked like it was chocolate chip. Standard cookie fare. Big mistake. If you were going to come all the way up the mountain and try to impress a man with your baking, you had to get beyond the basics.
Unless she put cyanide in it.
Entirely possible.
The thought of that didn’t really...faze him.
He popped the cookie into his mouth whole, and chewed.
And had to revise every thought he had previously.
Because it was the best damn chocolate chip cookie he’d ever had in his life.
And that was saying something. Especially nowadays. He didn’t really eat for pleasure. Didn’t do much of anything for pleasure. He ate to not die, he drank to not feel.
Dessert? Unless it was a convenience, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something sweet.
And maybe that was coloring his perception on these cookies. But there was something about them that was almost painful. A window into something domestic that he didn’t have anymore.
A look at another life.
Who knew that butter and chocolate could accomplish such a thing?
“It’s good, right?” she asked.
And the strangest thing was he knew that she was just confirming. Because she knew it was good. And there wasn’t a hell of a lot else that made her interesting. But her confidence did. That flat-out assurance that she had something here that was better than average. That she was better than good. And she had come all the way up the mountain to make sure he knew it.
Spare few things intrigued him, but that did.
He picked up another cookie off the plate, and her grin became that of a satisfied cat.
“I told you,” she said.
“I’m a soft target,” he said, “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a cookie.”
“I don’t have a lot of money,” she said. “A little bit that I have saved up from...things. And, what I’m anticipating I’ll make on the bakery. But by and large, the start-up is going to be pretty cost prohibitive.” She took a deep breath. “If I could do some things for you around the house, or bring you things...”