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“Do you watch a lot of crime shows?” I smirked.
“Define a lot,” she countered.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I concluded.
Smiling on the way to my meeting, I was starting to understand what my brothers had found so captivating about Madison.
5
MADISON
When times were rough, I wanted so much to call Addi. We had been best friends for so long, and I’d come to rely on her the way you rely on family. We’d been as close as sisters. It was a loss that kept hurting. Anytime something happened in my life—the success of a new muffin recipe or a favorable review from a food blogger—she was the person I wanted to tell, even though she’d betrayed me. Maybe it was loneliness, the lack of any family or other close friends. Working to save the money, building the business had been so time consuming, so absorbing, that I hadn’t had the energy or opportunity to try to meet new people. I liked my customers, but I didn’t have much more than speaking acquaintances.
None of my employees had fit in and developed the kind of rapport I’d enjoyed with Addi, the inside jokes and shared hardships and mishaps and victories. I wanted someone to commiserate, to tell me that, hell no it wasn’t fair that I had to figure out how to budget for a replacement oven or try to get my landlord to do the right thing and make the necessary electrical repairs. There weren’t a lot of options. I didn’t have anything to fall back on if I had to close the place, even for a week if my landlord decided to be a decent person. I certainly didn’t have the money to hire a lawyer if he didn’t.
I sifted through my closet listlessly, looking for anything worth selling on eBay. The only things I owned that were worth money were commercial kitchen supplies and a pair of birthstone earrings I got for my fifteenth birthday that may have cost fifty dollars when they were new. I looked on Etsy to see if I could tie dye aprons or something, a tie-in with my business, to make a few bucks on merch. It did not look like the demand for aprons branded with obscure neighborhood shop names was booming, whether they were colorful or not.
I didn’t have time to make appealing digital content about my baked goods and coffee, build a following and monetize my social media platform. It was more of a long-game strategy that took more time and attention to detail than I was willing to devote. I’d considered a YouTube channel to promote my muffins of the month at one point, but I got up so early, put so many hours into the shop itself, that I was exhausted at the end of the day.
Several orders for local offices had to be filled or I’d risk losing the repeat business that I relied upon. So, I was baking in my apartment kitchen. It was a violation of the health code, but I didn’t have an operational commercial oven. All I could do was try to keep up with the bare minimum and hope no one figured it out and reported me. Apple cider scones filled the little kitchen with a rich spiciness.
I loved baking batch after batch, loved lining the box with parchment and nestling each pastry in its spot. The accountant firm and the tattoo and piercing shop would have their full orders tomorrow morning on schedule. I mixed up some blueberry muffins to add to the chocolate raspberry batch I’d made earlier—they’d be all the stock I had for the morning coffee run crowd. I was working with an abridged menu at best, but I had to have something to offer my customers besides excuses.
I was scrolling through some gig work opportunities on my phone, wondering if delivering groceries or DoorDash would be a better bet for me to do in the afternoons until the repairs were complete. I rubbed my eyes and made myself get up and stretch and drink some water. I spiraled toward hopelessness, and it wasn’t a good direction to go. My phone seized up into a ringing and shaking fit, blanking the screen where I had been reading about fast side hustles.
“Hello?” I stammered.
“It’s Leo Foster. I know it’s after business hours, but are you busy?”
I looked around at my kitchen, strewn with baked goods, the oven timer ticking down another four minutes until my last batch was done.
“I’m just finishing up some baking,” I said with a little sigh.
“Baking? How?” he asked.
“I’m at home in my own kitchen. Please don’t report me to the Better Business Bureau or the Health Department,” I said somewhat glumly.
“Oh, I never would,” he said. “Listen, I just got off work and wondered if you had a minute to meet me down at your shop.”
“Sure. I’m about ten minutes from being done here,” I said. “I could meet you in twenty give or take traffic.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then,” he said.
I wondered what Leo Foster needed at seven-thirty on a weeknight that he couldn’t just text me, but, despite how tired I was, I found a fizz of excitement running through my veins at the prospect of seeing him.
It took closer to half an hour to get to the shop, and I found him waiting by the door as I hurried up the sidewalk. He held a brown carry out bag that smelled amazing—like a garlic heaven.
“Oh my God,” I murmured as my stomach gave a loud and embarrassing growl. “I’m sorry.”
I let him in and switched on a light.
“Mind if I have a seat?” he said. “Food’s still hot.”
“Go ahead,” I said gamely. “Do you need a plate or fork or anything for your dinner? A drink?”
“This is for both of us, Madison. I didn’t bring food to eat in front of you,” he said, a concerned wrinkle between his brows. “What the hell kind of people do you usually hang out with anyway?”
“I mostly hang out at work, and you don’t have to share your food with me, Leo. You’ve already been very kind,” I said, a little embarrassed. I was starving. I wanted the yummy Chinese food. I busied myself pouring some orange juice into a glass and sipping it.
