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  “Have you ever made any big mistakes?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Of course I have.”

  “Would you mind if I asked what they were?”

  “No.” She paused, blinking. “I guess my biggest mistake was getting into an argument with my husband right before he died. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to die the next morning, and he could be a very ornery man. But still … that stung.”

  “Does it sting anymore?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I moved past it.”

  “How?”

  “You know … I don’t know.”

  “I mean, did you feel like you had to forgive yourself for it?”

  “Hmm…” Mira made a sound deep in her throat. “I suppose I did. Although I never thought of it in those terms.”

  I leaned closer to her. “How did you just forgive yourself?”

  “I think it happened when I realized that my guilt wasn’t actually making me feel any better. Seemed silly to hold onto it if I didn’t control the outcome. I mean, my husband had already died, and it had just been an argument. We had them all the time. I loved him, he loved me. That argument didn’t define our whole relationship.”

  That argument didn’t define our whole relationship. Just like, on some level, my past didn’t define my entire personality, I presumed. I sank deeper into the chair, riding that thought out.

  “Thanks, Mira.”

  “Anytime, honey.”

  By the time we made it to the Frosting Cottage, the open sign had already been flipped over and a customer was walking out of the shop. With a sigh of relief that I’d survived the trip, I climbed out of the car. Inside, Sophia stood at the prep table, a plethora of papers sprawled around her. She wore no hat today, which meant Mira and I would be running the food prep. Or would it just be Mira? Or just me? Now that Mira was back, I wasn’t sure what would happen. The thought that this might be my last day felt a little … empty.

  Fatigue lines rimmed Sophia’s eyes when she glanced up at us, which seemed an exceptionally bright hazel color without the brim of the hat in the way. She perked up when she saw Mira.

  “You’re back!”

  “Just to drop Rachelle off. I need to head into the sewing shop.”

  “That’s right. I almost forgot. Time moves so quickly.” Sophia turned to me. “Might as well get this over with, then. You want a job, Rachelle?”

  I paused halfway into the prep room, stunned by the unexpected question.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I used last week as a test to see if we would work well together. I definitely think we would.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t expected this. I … really?”

  Sophia laughed. “A promising start.”

  Mira nudged me from behind. “I know you’re afraid of all the food, but it’s not going to eat you. The reverse, actually. Besides, you’d be working in a bakery. That’s Lexie’s dream! You were made for this, Rachelle.”

  She had a point. No one knew sugar the way I did. Well, maybe Lexie, but she wasn’t versed in the technicals. If Mom had given me anything, it was the knowledge of how to putter my way around a kitchen and make food that was worth the time. Especially baked goods. Before she went on her Italian spree, I had years of growing up on homemade cakes, muffins, scones, and just about any pastry with sugar in or on it. We never bought donuts—we’d always made our own. Maple frosting and all.

  “I-I just mean … I didn’t know you were looking,” I said.

  What I meant to say was I didn’t think you could afford it, but luckily I restrained myself. Cupcake bulks sales had been slowing down in the past few days. Now that SummerFest had ended, only a handful of events would crop up here and there. If anything, it would make more sense for her to call me to fill in when she needed extra help.

  Sophia sighed, eyeing the paperwork sprawled across the table. “I’ll be honest—I can’t guarantee how long we’ll be open. Things aren’t going well right now. The only thing keeping this place alive—and my mortgage from crashing into the fiery pits of hell—are the wedding cakes.”

  My gaze drifted to the glass display. Her offerings lacked pizzazz in a desperate way. She donated food to the homeless shelter more than any business owner should have to.

  “It doesn’t bother you that I dropped out of college and used to be fat?” I asked. “I could go on a rampage one day and clean you out.”

  She tilted her head back and laughed. “I have my doubts that will happen. For what it’s worth, I dropped out of college too. Twice.”

  My eyes widened. Twice? The word unforgivable filtered through my mind. Once felt bad to me, but to drop out twice was serious business. How did she ever get through the third attempt?

  Or did she?

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “I eventually went back when I hit my mid-thirties. Got my master’s in business once I figured out what I wanted to do.”

  “Was it hard to go back?”

  Or to accept that you’d failed twice? I’d been drowning in the shame of letting college go just once.

  “Yeah. Worked out great.”

  Her laissez-faire attitude hit me like a cream pie. She just … let it go. Forgave herself, just like Mira. It didn’t make sense. How could it be so simple for them?

  “Admittedly,” Sophia continued, “I probably should have at least taken a few classes in culinary science.” Her rueful gaze trailed back to the counter. “I think my recipe creation skills lack a little flair.”

  They definitely did.

  The idea of working full time here would have terrified me a week ago considering my historical love affair with baked goods. Aside from the lemonade, I still hadn’t broken my streak and eaten anything she’d offered. Not to mention that fifteen dollars an hour was more than I’d ever made. Once my ankle healed, I could still exercise before and after work, which meant training wouldn’t have to stop. I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

  What other prospects loomed ahead of me, anyway?

  “What are the details?” I asked.

  “Comes with full training on all of the desserts. You’d run the kitchen while I did the business and the cakes. Depending on how things go, we could have an eventual transition into the cakes. Pay’s $15.00 an hour. More as your skillset increases. Hours from 10-6. My hope is that turning my focus away from production will help me pull my marketing together.”

  “Sounds like a dream,” I murmured.

  She grinned. “It’s not so bad.” Her smile fell. “Assuming we stay open, that is.”

  “I’m not kidding about the fat thing. I could have wiped your store out for breakfast and come back for brunch.”

  She belly-laughed again. “Trust me, Rachelle. I’m harboring an inner fat kid too. Every now and then, she comes out. It’s all good.”

  “Then … yes. I’d love to work here full time.”

  To my surprise, a thrill of excitement fluttered through me. One I hadn’t felt in a long time. Mira clapped, and Sophia let out a long breath of relief.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Thank you so much. I’ll do my best to make sure you have a sustained job here, I promise.”

  I had no doubt she’d try.

  I had major doubts she’d succeed.

  My first few days as an official employee crept by.

  Not only had cupcake orders slowed almost to a halt, but it seemed as if everyone had left town in the middle of the week. Despite the summer tourism into downtown, no one wanted to stop in. Sophia stood at the window often, fists propped on her hips. Wedding cake orders came in at a steady trickle, so she trained me on three different types of frosting and, in the quiet hours, had me practicing piping techniques on pieces of cardboard.

  “It’s time you learned how to make macarons, Rachelle,” Sophia said as I walked into work one bright, hot morning. “I got a special order for a wedding. Isn’t that great? They want ove
r a thousand French macarons. What do you do with a thousand macarons?”

  A giddy thrill put a high pitch in her voice. I almost choked on my own spit. Over one thousand? It had been well over a week since we’d seen much activity beyond three very elaborate cakes I couldn’t do much to help with. The money would be good—maybe even push us through this month and into the next one—but it would require a lot of delicate French pastries.

  That I had never attempted.

  “Ah … sounds great,” I managed to say as soon as I realized she was waiting for me to say something.

  Sophia reached into the fridge, extracting several things at once. “Ever made them before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Know anything about them?”

  “Not really.”

  “There’s an ingredient you’d never guess.”

  “Oh?”

  She yanked a large white bag out from the bottom of the fridge and set it in front of me. Words in black marker were scrawled across the front.

  Almond flour.

  My eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

  “Really. The trick to a good macaron, in my opinion, is to beat the sugar mixture until it’s shiny. You’ll see what I mean. Grab an apron. See that paper over there? That’s the recipe. Bring it with you.”

  Without a beat of hesitation, Sophia dove into a speedy masterclass on French macarons. We made foamy egg whites, dumped in food coloring, discussed the importance of a white, peaky froth, and sifted through almond flour and confectioners’ sugar.

  I tried to keep my head from spinning.

  Sophia moved at light speed, her movements instinctual in the kitchen. Her recipe creation wasn’t exciting, but her culinary skills were undeniable. By the time she’d used a frosting bag to form a circle of dough on a piece of wax paper, the smell of sugar in my nostrils and the number of instructions whirring through my head made me dizzy. Just as she slipped the first batch into the oven, the bell on the door tinkled. Two forty-something women strolled in, peeling their sunglasses off.

  “Sophie?” a platinum blonde squealed. Sophia’s head snapped up.

  “Adrie?”

  “Sophie!”

  The woman, clad in flip flops, a brown tank, and a bright, gauzy pink skirt shuffled into the back at a half run. Sophia collided with her, and they spent twenty seconds in a squealing embrace. By the time they pulled apart, the other woman had entered the prep area with a beaming smile. Soon, all three of them were chattering like a flock of birds. Finally, Sophia put her hands on their shoulders and drew in a deep breath, calming the frenzy.

  “Okay, ladies. We have to calm down and start talking cake. All right? Because you’re getting married, and we have so much to catch up on!”

  Adrie squeaked. Her eyes filled with tears as she flashed a massive engagement ring on her left hand.

  “Everything!” she cried. “I want everything on this cake!”

  Before I could say a word, Sophia’s two friends—and apparently new customers—followed her into the consultation room. The door closed with a firm snick. I blinked, staring at the mess in front of me. Well, that was an unexpected deterrent. How hard could replicating macarons be anyway?

  Almond flour.

  Sugar.

  Egg whites.

  Blending with aeration.

  Sophia had already covered everything. With it fresh in my mind, I had this in hand. One deep breath and a nod later, I cracked my knuckles, re-situated my right leg on the chair, and faced the cacophony of ingredients.

  “One thousand French macarons,” I said. “Here I come.”

  I messed it up.

  The thought ran through my mind a million times as I stared at the disastrous pile of confections, if they could be called that, in front of me.

  Sophia’s macarons—that I’d pulled out of the oven at the timer’s insistence—were picture perfect. I’d lined them up on a fresh piece of parchment paper and studied them. Next to them, mine looked like gobs of colored mashed potatoes or crooked muffins. They billowed and peaked and bulged in all the wrong places.

  “Yikes,” I muttered again.

  I straightened, frowning. Not only were my macarons twice the size of Sophia’s and decidedly pink instead of red, but the bottoms had turned a toasty brown even though I’d kept the oven temperature and the cooking time the same. Yet another glance at the recipe confirmed that I’d done nothing different. Almond flour, confectioners sugar, and food coloring littered the table around the mixing bowl where I’d worked. Frothy white eggs still dripped off the hand mixer and onto the gleaming table.

  With a growl, I shoved away from the prep table, using it as my crutch when a customer stepped up to the counter.

  Totally failed. Messed up yet again. Can’t even make a batch.

  The thoughts whirled through at a million miles an hour, so fast I almost didn’t hear her ordering. Three attempts to ring her up later, I managed to shove the thoughts aside just long enough to complete the purchase, thank her for coming, spin back around, and glare at the atrocities on the other side of the room.

  “Can’t even finish college, either,” I muttered as the bell announced the store door closing again.

  As if on cue, Janine’s voice floated through my head. Think of all the times you hated yourself. Think of times when you felt you’d done something unforgivable. Then let it go.

  I scowled. “This isn’t unforgivable,” I said out loud, as if she were there. “This was just a stupid mistake that I shouldn’t have made.”

  But still … something about it did feel unforgivable.

  No response came, but I felt an unsettled stirring in my chest all the same. If this wasn’t an unforgivable thing—stupid and small, really—why did it matter if it had happened? I thought back to my second meeting with Janine, when she framed everything in terms of Lexie. Would I be annoyed with Lexie if she’d messed up a delicate recipe?

  My nostrils flared as the answer struck me.

  No.

  In fact, I’d probably laugh at the decrepit-looking cookies that seemed more like mushrooms and tell her to start over. She must have missed a small detail, which was understandable with such a finicky dessert. Let’s do it again, I’d tell her. It will be fun.

  If Mira could let go of arguing with her husband before his death and Sophia could move past dropping out of college twice, surely I could let go of a bad batch of macarons.

  However I was supposed to do that.

  “Fine,” I muttered to the macarons. Then I closed my eyes, channeled my inner Megan, and tried to tap into yoga breathing. I let out a long breath. “I made a mistake. I don’t know how to stop beating myself up about this, and I feel crazier than ever because I am talking to air, but I choose to, ah … let this go? Yes. I’m letting this go. I choose to forgive myself and attempt another batch.”

  When my eyes fluttered open, nothing had happened. The same empty bakery stared back at me. No swelling of love bloomed in my chest, reassuring me that everything was all right now that you’ve reached self-acceptance. But when I looked back at the macarons, my lips pressed into a thin line to stop a smile. They were pretty ridiculous looking. Maybe we could start a discounted rejects pile and sell them at half price.

  Or give them away, if anyone would take them.

  With a half chuckle, I grabbed my phone, pulled the parchment paper closer, and snapped a picture. Then I texted it to Megan, Lexie, Mira, and Bitsy in our group chat with the message #nailedit.

  When I shoved the phone back in my pocket, a little of the tension had left my chest. Moments later, Lexie replied with a giggle emoticon. Mira LOL’d. This time, I did laugh. Out loud. Into the strange air. I faced the recipe with renewed determination, feeling oddly better for having laughed about it.

  “You and me, macarons,” I muttered, snatching the eggs. “You’re going down.”

  Two hours and the littered corpses of four different batches of poorly shaped macarons later, the consultation door ope
ned. Sophia and her friends spilled out, giggling about something. No doubt having recently sampled some celebratory champagne that I knew Sophia kept in there. I straightened up from placing a frosted macaron top on a flat, rounded bottom just as Sophia waved goodbye to Adrie and the other woman.

  Sophia spun on her heels and headed toward me, then stopped halfway. “Whoa.”

  The prep area had become a disaster zone. When the second batch didn’t work out, I consulted the internet. When that batch came out runny, I went to YouTube. The fourth batch was burned and lay in scattered remnants across the table. Still, I felt triumphant when I planted my hands on the counter.

  “I did it,” I said. “I finally figured it out after five batches. See?”

  Sophia blinked. The arrested, blank expression on her face alerted me to a new worry: had I just wasted too much food? Any ingredient I used was money out of her pocket. Would she be upset that I couldn’t figure out a recipe she had just shown me on the first try? Almond flour couldn’t be cheap.

  For a long eternity that was probably only five seconds, Sophia’s gaze swept the prep table, finally landing on the perfectly sandwiched, frosted, and developed French macarons sitting right in front of me. Red, this time, not pink. Then her eyes met mine.

  She grinned.

  “Well done, Rachelle. Five batches isn’t too bad.” She reached over and gave me a high five. “Not bad at all. Now, get back to work. You have nine hundred and ninety more to go.”

  A couple of days later, Dr. Martinez tipped her head to the side and frowned, sending a waterfall of ebony hair cascading onto her shoulders. My bare ankle lay open on the awkward patient bed. The bruising had receded into swirls of green and yellow. Still as hideous as before, if not more so.

  I really should have shaved my legs.

  “I’m sorry, Rachelle. There is some progress in decreased swelling at the top of the foot, but not enough for your broken metatarsals to support weight yet.”

  Disbelief swelled in me. “But I’ve done everything!”

  “I believe you.”

  “So why…”

  “Sometimes you can do everything right and it still doesn’t work out the way you want. We can’t force the body.”