Twenty months after Cara and Callum’s Wedding
(two characters you read about in my novel Trusting Love)
May
Tori made a sudden U-turn, cutting off a car and nearly causing an accident. Her tires squealed as she turned sharply and pulled into the abandoned coffee shop’s parking lot, lucky the police hadn’t caught her. The station was one street away. She’d spotted the for-sale sign five days ago as she buzzed down route 150 on her way to church. Less than a year ago, the previous owners had moved to Florida, leaving town folk wondering what the owners planned to do with the quaint home.
For two days in a row, she’d sat in its parking lot bending God’s ear for guidance. Today was the day she was going to make hay while the sun shined. She would take her first step in making this charming Hansel and Gretal storybook building hers. She’d make her dream of running a French pâtisserie come true right here in Middletown.
Even from the parking lot, she easily imagined herself buzzing around in her own French pastry shop, sunlight tumbling through its two front cathedral style windows. Deep windows, now dusty, would display her pastries and steaming cups of café crème. The scent of rising dough and sugar-dusted pâtisseries in display cases greeting customers as they stepped through the arched door and hurried, wide-eyed, across wide-plank, honey-gold oak floors. Mismatched jars of her homemade confiture—two serving miniatures and family size would line shelves. Fraise, home grown from her mom’s strawberries and framboise from her Granddad’s raspberry bushes. She’d add her French spin to make croissant cinnamon rolls.
Exiting her car to the front of the building to get a better look inside, she scurried across the six-lane parking lot. Someday, she hoped she’d need to expand that. Walking around the front, a peaked roof, shingled in brown with black algae streaks, sloped gently above a porch cover framed with hand‑carved scalloped trim. She swiped off the dust on the window and pressed her face against the glass for a peek inside, cupping her hands around her eyes to block outside light. Her breath hitched. Tori was in love.
This had to be hers. What would she call it? Ma Chérie? Café L’Amourd?
A wooden porch jutted forward with just enough space for two sets of café style tables and chairs. She could build a sitting area to run the full length of the bakery. Flower boxes below the two windows facing highway 150 would look stunning, overflowing with basil, lavender, or early‑morning daisies. Did the front door lean slightly to the left? It was greeting every passerby with a cheerful nod. Her dad could easily fix that. Then she’d paint it a cheerful butter yellow.
This would no longer be an abandoned shop. Its faint heartbeat waited for the right person—her—to believe in magical small beginnings and nurture it back to life. This place beckoned to her.
Around back, overgrown ivy covered half of the red and brown brick. Tuckpointing would be needed when she tore it off. Before doubt could squeeze her excitement dry, she dug up her family’s realtor’s number. She had to see the inside. She texted an eager message.
This labor of love was a ginormous learning curve. What did she know about running a bakery or remodeling a home? Funny how those thoughts invigorated her instead of scaring her. Working as a lead barista for years and a café manager of the barista for two years in college had given her a lot of time to imagine what she’d do and wouldn’t if she ran her own shop. She had skills. She knew people. She could learn.
But before she fell completely in love, logic and reality swept in like a dark cloud and dimmed the glow of her excitement. She’d face bank loans, inspections, zoning permits, commercial food handling permits, and who knows what else.
Money. Everything would require money.
She’d worked like crazy to pay off her education semester by semester, to graduate without debt. She had savings, but not enough for a down payment on this house. And certainly not enough to do all the repairs and renovations she wanted.
At a glance, she’d need to paint the front door and window frames in a charming French palette. Painting was a cheap improvement, though, she corrected herself. She’d need to install sturdy wrought iron handrails. With flower boxes, a couple bistro tables, new signage with a French flair, and warm lighting that spilled on the porch at dusk, she’d have an inviting start.
Most likely, the interior needed work to achieve a café feel she wanted. She’d assess the kitchen when she saw it, but her plans required a commercial-grade kitchen. In the front room she could see, she’d add a glass pastry case for croissants, madeleines, tarts, macarons, and delicacies. There was room for only a few cozy tables. The grimy floors needed refinishing. She could easily paint a chalkboard menu and repaint the walls in soft French hues: buttercream, muted lavender, and airy whites.
And then there would be she’d need to secure a business license, create a brand and a website, figure out marketing, and find suppliers for coffee and ingredients. None of that sounded ultra hard, but she was just one woman.
Tori, you’re doing it again—being head over heels enthusiastic. You’re thinking and running ahead of yourself at the same time. She tried reigning in her exhilaration. She should scrap this crazy scheme of a French bakery in Middletown. She could work for a few more years as a nurse, save money, and then if the idea were still hot in her heart, she’d have more money to pursue it. But this spot next to the flower shop on one of Middletown’s main drags was perfect. It won’t be available later. And everyone in business knows it’s all about location, location, location.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, admit defeat. This idea was too delicious, even if it would take a miracle—and surely a Daddy Warbucks—to pull it off.
She couldn’t wait. Even as she slid into the driver’s seat, she was already calling the realtor. Looking didn’t cost anything, right?
Unless she fell in love for real.
She smiled, started the engine, and whispered a quick, hopeful prayer. If this dream was meant to bloom in Middletown, the Lord would open the right doors—one small step at a time.
Deana answered on the second ring.