The Sweetheart Deal. Syndi Powell
head and stared into Grammy’s hazel-brown eyes, much like her own. “How can I be? He was my best friend. And now he’s gone. What am I going to do?”
The front door opened, and two customers walked in. Grammy greeted them, then escorted Megs into the kitchen. She pulled out a stool and motioned to Megs to sit down. “I’ll help these ladies, then I’ll be right back.”
Megs hopped up on the stool and stared at her hands folded in her lap. She should have kept her mouth shut. She should have let the bully say and do what he wanted. But no, she’d had to stand up to him, and now Kenny was dead.
The swinging doors opened, and Grammy stepped into the kitchen. Megs expected her to talk, to assure her that everything would be okay. Instead, she pulled out an old recipe ledger and flipped through the pages. She finally settled on a page and pointed it out to Megs. “Here we are. This cookie helps to soothe a worried soul.” Grammy chose an apron from a shelf and tossed it at Megs. “Put it on. You’re going to make these on your own.”
Megs raised an eyebrow at this. She’d helped her grandmother make cookies before, but it had never been suggested that she bake them solo. She slipped the apron over her head, then wound the strings around her waist before tying them in front. “But I don’t know this recipe.”
“You can’t always rely on what you know.” Grammy nudged the ledger toward her. “Follow the recipe. Trust in yourself. It will guide you.”
She started to gather the ingredients: flour, sugar, butter and eggs. And the tin of dark cocoa. Megs lifted the lid and took a deep breath. Ambrosia.
As Grammy watched, she carefully measured and sifted, creamed and mixed. She referred back to the ledger when she doubted the next step, and later suppressed a smile when the dough formed into a ball exactly like it should. She glanced at her grandmother, who beamed at her. “You’re a natural, Megs. Like me.”
The next step was to let the dough firm up in the refrigerator for a half hour, so Megs put the mixing bowl in the walk-in cooler and returned to the warm kitchen. Grammy held out a mug of tea to her. “I know that Kenny’s death doesn’t make sense. Suicide never does. But he’ll always have a special place in your heart. And as long as you hold on to that, at least he can live on in your memories.”
Megs cupped her hands around the mug and let the warmth extend down her fingers toward her arms. “I’m afraid that I wasn’t a very good friend to him lately.”
Grammy wrapped her arms around her and squeezed her tight. “I doubt that. You’re the best friend any person could ask for.” She tweaked the end of her nose. “After all, you’re the best granddaughter. One of them, at least.”
When the half hour was over, Megs rolled out the dough, then used a knife to cut it into strips. She twisted them into shapes before placing them on a buttered cookie sheet, then slipped them into the oven. She leaned against the marble worktable and crossed her arms over her chest. “Will it ever stop hurting like this?”
Grammy nodded. “One day, it won’t hurt as much. But you’ll always miss him.” She gave a soft smile. “I still miss your grandfather. And your dad.”
“Me, too.”
“But the pain’s gotten easier, isn’t that right?” She put a hand on Megs’s shoulder. “It will be the same with Kenny.”
When the timer went off, Megs used a pot holder to bring out the sheet of twists and placed it on the counter. She grabbed a metal spatula to hold out one of the cookies. Grammy took it and bit into it. Megs watched as she chewed, then relaxed when she smiled.
“You did good.” Grammy finished the cookie and peered at Megs. “One day, this place will belong to you. All my recipes and the business, too. And you will learn to feed people’s souls as well as their bodies. Just like me.”
At that moment, there was nothing Megs wanted more.
MEGS RESTED HER hand on the old recipe ledger, missing Grammy even more today than ever before. Had it really been four months already since she had died? It didn’t seem possible.
She shook off her grief and glanced at the clock. It was a little after four in the morning, her favorite time of the day, just before her employees arrived, when the bakery she had inherited belonged to her alone. She flipped through the pages of the ledger, looking for the right recipe. She needed something special. Something that would shake the dark foreboding that sat heavily on her shoulders.
With the radio blaring, Megs sang along as she creamed the butter and sugar. A strange sound made her look up, but only for a moment. Then she was sifting the flour into the butter mixture, beating the silver cup with the side of her hand.
Though many of her customers loved their standbys, she liked to introduce new items every once in a while. Sometimes to good reviews, others to less than stellar. Hopefully, these butter cookies would inspire new beginnings just like Grammy had promised in the ledger.
Another weird groan came from above her, then a crack as if ice were breaking. She glanced at the ceiling and frowned. One fleeting thought sprang to mind: Get under the table. She hugged the ledger to her chest and scooted beneath the worktable just before the roof gave way.
* * *
COLD. SO COLD. Megs peeked from under the table and saw chunks of ice and snow amid roof shingles and splintered wood littering the floor of the kitchen. She remained where she was, however, unsure of whether there would be more falling debris. She hoped not. She hoped this didn’t mean the end of the Sweetheart.
Megs tried not to cry. Would someone hear her if she did? She called out, but it was so early. Who else was up this early? “Help!” she hollered again. “I’m under here!” Only silence followed. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans, but she’d left her phone in her jacket, which was across the room. Out of reach.
Minutes passed. How long had she been under here? She wasn’t sure anymore. It felt like hours, but it couldn’t be. Didn’t matter, her back was cramping badly. Shivers raced down her spine. Staying here for much longer wasn’t an option. She tested her feet, her legs, her arms. Mentally checking if she was all right. She seemed to be. She could be grateful for that at least.
Grateful? How could she—
Was that...
The sirens of the fire trucks and police cars already. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, clutching the ledger tighter to her chest. “They’re coming. Everything will be fine now.”
Oh, how she wanted to believe those words.
* * *
ADAM HAWKINS’S PHONE rang twice before he had reached the bank. Because of the precarious conditions of the roads, he ignored it and continued on his way. He needed to get in early so he could get the sidewalks shoveled before customers arrived. He’d already called to ensure the plows had reached his parking lot, but the sidewalks were his responsibility. Welcome to small-town Northern Michigan.
As much as he hated to admit it, returning to his hometown as bank manager was pretty gratifying. The people in town hadn’t thought he’d grow up to be much more than a thug, but he’d shown them. He’d become respectable, even wore a suit and tie. A man that his father should be proud of.
Not that anyone seemed to have noticed the internal change in him. Not even his parents, who lived in the same town, but still refused to see him. They still saw the bully, though dressed in a suit. He pulled into the bank parking lot near the back, grabbed the shovel he’d stowed in the bed of his truck and walked carefully to the snow mounded on the sidewalks. Within minutes, he had a square foot of cement cleaned off and felt ready to quit and hire someone else to shovel the rest. Despite the deceptive white fluffy appearance, the snow was wet and heavy. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and his arms ached. Still, only thirty minutes remained until his employees would show, then