Retta was acutely attuned to certain sounds. In eighth grade, it was the scrape of the cafeteria chairs positioned exactly five tables down, signaling her crush had left his seat. When she worked at a call center after high school, it was the short exhale a potential donor would release before they either hung up or cussed her out. And these days it was the tinkering, however minuscule, in her bakery.
The specificity and joys of working at Dutch Oven Bakeshop—the tranquility of early mornings and the smell of various doughs—had been diminished, however, by the stop-start rattling of their water heater. Considering how late she’d gotten home last night, the noise felt like a personal attack.
“We can’t work in these conditions,” one of her bakers, Philippa, said from her place near the ovens where she was scoring sourdough with a sharp blade.
Retta threw a little flour on her work surface. “It’s temporary.”
Omar, a pastry chef and the only man who worked at the bakery, snorted.
She’d been saying that for weeks since contacting her evasive landlord about the problem. It was now clear the refrain helped her from losing her mind more than it comforted her team.
“I’m sorry. I know, I’m late.” Cheyenne, their spring intern, burst through the swinging kitchen doors then. Her long braids and apron strings flying behind her. “I had to park two blocks away.”
“That’s another problem,” Omar said, pointing at Cheyenne. “What are we doing about the parking?”
“Yes,” Philippa said, crossing her heavily tattooed arms. “Is that temporary too?”
Retta sighed. The parking lot dedicated to the staff of businesses in the strip mall was where hierarchies were forged. Older businesses in the complex had premium spaces, while newer stores were left with the least desirable spots.
Dutch Oven had paid their dues for over a year, parking in a cramped area near a huge green garbage bin dubbed The Hulk. But when the spa next door had moved out, her bakeshop secured three roomy parking spaces. Well, at least they thought they had until Spotlight Boxing Studio started moving in next door three months ago.
Retta looked at her staff. “I’ve been leaving Post-it notes on their windshields.”
“Okay, but it’s obviously not working,” Philippa said over the clanking water heater.
A headache pressed aggressively against Retta’s temples. She briefly wondered if she’d find relief if she loosened the low bun she’d smoothed down with Eco-Styler gel and a prayer. “When I have a moment, I’ll go over there and make an official request for them to stop parking in our spaces.”
Eight times out of ten, she and her staff got their rightful spots because they were at the bakery before dawn, but she wanted to guarantee that would always be the case.
That comment appeased her staff, and they returned to their prep work until they opened Dutch’s doors at 7 a.m. The first few hours saw regulars picking up their pastries and tarts on their way to work.
“Smells fantastic, as usual,” Tamara, a receptionist at a realtor office nearby, said.
“Thank you,” Retta replied, letting the compliment seep into her soul. “Also, you’ll be happy to know we’re bringing back the lavender lemonade in a few weeks.”
The woman waved her hand in celebration before finishing off her transaction.
By midmorning, Retta had completed some admin work and made sure the glass cases were streak free.
Her best friend, Kym, found her at the front when she walked into the bakery, mindlessly rubbing her very pregnant belly.
Retta relieved her friend of her bag. “Okay, dress.” She gestured to her friend’s light pink outfit that complemented the lilac walls surrounding them.
“Thank you, but,girl,” Kym said.
The heft of the word let Retta know her friend had things to say, and nothing would distract her.
“Let me grab something,” Kym said, retrieving her wallet and walking over to the front counter.
Kym was one of the few people in her life who insisted on paying for everything she ate in the bakery.
She returned with food and plopped down in her seat. Her curly hair bounced about before settling around her plump face. “All right, so this crisis—”
“I wouldn’t call it a crisis per se,” Retta said.
“You left me a two-minute voice mail.”
“Yes, but I’ve had time to process it, and I’m fine now.”
