“No formal training?” She looks up, and I already know what she’s thinking: I’m an amateur, not someone who should be featured in a food magazine. My eyes slide over to Lucian for help and he gives me an encouraging nod.
“No.” I hesitate. “I went to a community college, not culinary school.”
“That’s okay,” she interrupts. “I find classically trained bakers are often too bound by rules.”
I blink, surprised by the assessment. “I…I do like to experiment. They don’t always turn out, but that’s the risk you take. I test all my recipes in the shop. And I only sell what gets two thumbs up from the townsfolk.”
“I can see that,” she says, looking at the crowd behind her. She picks up the maple-pecan cupcake I’ve placed before her, then takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly. Her lips curve into a slight smile. “This is exceptional. The balance of sweet and salty, the moistness of the cake, the frosting that complements—it shows real understanding of flavor composition.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you.”
She makes occasional notes in her phone as she continues trying both desserts. “I’ve tried cupcakes all over Seattle and the Pacific Northwest.”
“Oh yeah?” My heart skips a beat at the mention of Seattle, and whether I could compete in the market there. I know my cupcakes are good, but are they good enough to rival bakers trained by the best?
“Most of them are perfectly adequate,” she continues. “A few are genuinely good. But very few have the X-factor. You create agreat cupcake all around. And that comes through clearly with every bite.”
“That means so much,” I say, floored that she would offer such kind words, given the fact that I’ve never had any real training.
She finishes the cupcake and reaches for her coffee. “Tell me, what are your plans? Surely you don’t intend to remain hidden in the back of a bookstore forever?”
“Actually, I’ve been considering opening a bakery in Seattle.”
“Ah, going the commercial route.” She nods. “Good location, high tourist traffic. But a lot of competition. I really wouldn’t advise you to start there.” It’s blunt, but right now, she knows more about surviving this industry than I do.
“Oh,” I say, deflated. “May I ask why?”
“Because those kinds of areas are saturated with good bakeries. It’s an over-served market and ridiculously expensive. Without a strong financial backing, it’s going to be next to impossible to make it beyond the first year.”
My stomach sinks. “So you’re saying…totally unrealistic?”
“Not forever—just starting out. You need to find the people who want specialty cupcakes without having to travel to Seattle. Shipping cupcakes from Maple Falls could be a very good option for you. Or even a food truck that gives you the ability to sell regionally. This town is adorable, and with the new hockey team, you’re going to get more traffic. You could even set up near the arena.”
I’d never thought of that. “But hockey and cupcakes don’t really go together, do they?”
She tilts her head. “Says who? Think about the marketing possibilities. You haveicingin the sportandon the cupcake. Seems like a perfect match.”
“A perfect match,” I say slowly, my eyes catching Lucian’s across the room.Maybe in more ways than one.
“You know,” she continues, “there’s something to be said for businesses with roots in a community. The most memorableplaces I’ve discovered in my career aren’t necessarily the most famous. They’re the ones where the owner has a connection to the place, where the business feels like an extension of the community. I’ve traveled the world for my job as a food critic, and there’s a certain magic in hometown success stories—in watching someone build something that matters where they’re known and loved.”
I think about all the times I’ve daydreamed about my Seattle bakery—always focusing on the space, the location, the business plan—but never on the life I’d build there or the people who would become my everyday support system.
“Would you still consider featuring me in your article, even if I decide to stay in Maple Falls?” I ask.
“I think a small-town baker with big talent makes for a much more compelling story than yet another Seattle enterprise, don’t you?”
“Thank you so much, Ms. Johns.”
“Call me Vivian,” she says, putting her phone into her bag and pulling out a business card. “It seems I have a story to write. I’ll be in touch when it’s done. I’m heading over to the assisted living center to see my mom. I’ll say hi to Mimi, too—she’s quite the lady.” She hands me her card before she leaves the store and all I can do is stare at it.
How is this even my life?
The bell jingles again, and this time it’s the mayor, looking frazzled.
“Neesha!” he calls. “Thank goodness you’re here. We have an emergency in the mayor’s office. The dessert caterer for my upcoming gala was canceled. The committee is desperate. We need at least five hundred cupcakes by Saturday. Would you consider it?”
“Five hundred?” I repeat. “My kitchen is too small for an order that size.”
