CHAPTER1
–harriet–
Harry’s House of Crêpesand Croissantshas been open for one month today—yay! Go me!
My parents didn’t believe I could follow my dream of opening a café, let alone keep one open.
What would they know, anyway?
They were barely around when I was growing up—too busy traveling with Dad’s job to raise me—leaving Grand-Mère to do it. She always knew me best and passed on her love of French baking, which she learned from her mother back in France when she was a girl. She also dreamed of opening a café, which inspired me. She taught me everything I know, so I’m bound and determined to prove them wrong and make Grand-Mère proud.
Just thinking about showing them what I’m capable of lights a fire inside me as I make the short bicycle ride from my apartment to my favorite place to be as the barest sliver of orange fights to take over the midnight sky. Besides, I have to make this work because I’ve used my entire inheritance from Grand-Mère as well as all of my savings to do it. I glance upward and whisper, “Love you, Grand-Mère Mae.”
I pedal into the lot behind my café and lock my bike to the fence.Ugh!A sour stench infiltrates my nose before I even see the state of the area outside the back door to my brand-new café.
Almost every freaking day, this is what greets me. What’s worse is, before I realized what it was, I stepped in the disgusting mess. At least I haven’t done that for a few weeks now. But I’m tired of starting my day like this. It’s ruining my dream. In all of my imaginings, I never imagined having to step over vomit to enter my building daily. Not only that, but the trash, which is left strewn halfway down the sidewalk and behind my café because of late-night drunken antics, is shameful. And let’s not forget to mention the smell of urine along the side of my building and at the front door. All of these misfortunes are directly caused by that damn pub next door. With a huff, I toss the evil eye over my shoulder at the building—like the building itself is to blame for what’s happening—glaring at the painted sign that says,Brady’s Pub. It’s like the owner doesn’t give a shit about any other businesses around them.
I’ve had enough. I’m going to give the owner a piece of my mind. Every time I’ve gone over there to have a civil conversation with the owner, he’s not available or hasn’t yet arrived for work. I guess he starts late because the bar is open late, whereas I need to be here early to prep for the day. Our schedules couldn’t be more opposite, but I’ve decided to send him an email with photographic evidence of his patrons’ misdeeds. I have his email address sitting on my phone, ready to go, and I’ve had plenty of time to draft what I’m going to say in my head.
Using my phone, I snap a quick photo of today’s mess to add to my evidence folder. The pictures should get the message across loud and clear. He won’t be able to dispute it.
I unlock the door, careful to step over the foul mess using the light on my phone. Once I’m inside, I flick the switch for the kitchen light, which also illuminates a small area of the back stoop, grab the kitty litter—an added expense I never thought I’d have—and sprinkle a generous amount over the vomit, gagging while I work. People are gross. I leave the litter to do its job, spend half an hour collecting trash—all the while cursing under my breath as I stomp my way around the area out the back—wash my hands thoroughly, turn on the ovens, then grab everything I need to start today’s prep.
I flic