Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (35 page)

“What’s going on?”

Polly looked up as Ramona pushed her way past the crowd—amidst grumbles and shouts of “Get in line, lady!”

Ramona came around the front counter, looking from the customers to Polly in bafflement. “Where did all these people come from?”

“They heard about the Declair,” Polly replied, handing a paper-wrapped pastry to a little boy who was waiting with his mother. “Word somehow got out about it because now everyone wants one.”

“We could use some help here,” Hannah added.

“It was the Labradorite.” Ramona pulled on an apron. “Aura healing.”

Polly wasn’t about to argue that point, since there was no reason it couldn’t be the truth. She hurried back to the kitchen to keep production rolling.

The morning flew past, and by the time Clementine appeared to take over at noon, the Declairs were long gone and most of the other baked goods had been depleted as well. But customers continued to linger at the tables, drinking coffee, playing board games taken from the shelf in the corner, and leafing through the newspapers and magazines. Tom had arrived mid-morning for his usual chai tea, and he sat in the corner strumming his guitar.

Hannah put a sign in the window that proclaimed:
Declairs sold out today! More tomorrow at 7:00 sharp.
After Polly explained the situation to Clementine, her friend only smiled.

“I’m not surprised, with the news report and all,” Clementine said. “That kind of publicity is priceless.”

“What news report?”

“The one KCBN ran last night.” Clementine arranged a fresh batch of muffins in a basket. “Didn’t you see it?”

Polly shook her head, her excited rush dissipating a little at the mention of
last night.

“I wasn’t home,” she said. “What was it?”

“Remember I told you that cameraman and reporter came in here when you were away for the weekend?” Clementine pulled up a video on her phone. “They were doing a segment on local bakeries and bought a few of the Declairs. Turns out the reporter loved them so much they dedicated the whole segment to Wild Child.”

She turned the phone to Polly. A pretty blond reporter stood in front of Wild Child’s window, holding a Declair and smiling.

“If you thought there were no new pastries in the world, you’d be wrong,” she announced. “Here at Wild Child Bakery on Hunter’s Avenue in Rainsville, we’ve discovered what will surely be the Next Big Thing in pastry creation. A hybrid éclair and doughnut, this incredible creation is a deliciously airy, fried
pâte à choux
filled with a chocolate cream so rich and smooth it’s almost sinful.”

She talked about the history of hybrid pastries before biting into the Declair with a moan of pleasure. She held it up to the camera and smiled.

“This is without question the best pastry I’ve ever had,” she said. “I do Declair.”

Polly looked at Clementine in astonishment. “When you said the news people stopped by, I didn’t realize you meant they were doing a story about
us
.”

“Neither did I,” Clementine replied. “The reporter said it was something to do with the new interest in reality baking programs. I should have gotten a hint when she bought a box of Declairs to bring back to her office, but I really had no idea what their angle would be.”

Polly was lucky to have gotten on the good side of the press. By all accounts, Luke hadn’t had the same experience when he and his family had had all that bad publicity over the paternity lawsuit.

The thought of Luke diluted some of her elation, but because he’d been instrumental in helping her, she took out her phone and sent him a link to the news segment along with the message:
Wild Child is on the map. Just wanted to let you know. P.

She went into the kitchen, where Hannah was sitting at a stool with a bottle of water. Strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and stuck to her damp forehead, and her apron was covered with streaks of chocolate and powdered sugar.

“You look like a real baker now.” Polly hitched herself onto the stool beside her sister.

“I guess I feel like one too, if exhaustion and at least three burns from hot pans are part of the deal.”

“They are. And so is the feeling of making people happy with yummy pastries and chocolate cream.”

Hannah gave a short laugh and lifted the water bottle to take a drink.

“I couldn’t have handled the rush this morning without you,” Polly continued. “Thanks for your help.”

“I’ve worked in enough bars and restaurants to know what I’m doing.” Hannah glanced at her. “And you did good, Polliwog. Mom would be proud of you.”

A rush of emotion filled Polly’s heart.

“I’m really glad you were here,” she said, hesitating for a minute before asking, “You’re still planning to leave?”

Hannah nodded, reaching up to tighten the band in her ponytail. “Whenever Dave gets here.”

Though it was the response she’d expected, Polly’s throat tightened at the idea of losing Hannah again, especially since she was already missing Luke. But he would eventually return—to his family, at least. She had no such confidence that her sister would return to
her
.

“Are you still going to Portland?” she asked.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Hannah said. “I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

Polly smiled faintly. “Sounds like love.”

“What does?”

“Sometimes you don’t know that’s where you’re headed. But you sure do know when you get there.”

THE INITIAL SURGE OF EXCITEMENT
over the Declairs lasted for a week after the news report aired, but the flow of customers remained steady, with intermittent lulls throughout the day allowing them to restock and regroup before the next rush.

Polly and Hannah both woke at three so they could go downstairs and start prepping the Declairs, and then Polly either worked through the morning or until she had a class, after which Clementine took over.

Rather than close for renovations and risk losing momentum, Pendergrass and Peabody Designs sent in a crew to work overnight, and soon the interior was freshly painted with new shelves and tables stenciled with mandala designs, bright hammock chairs, an array of earthy plants, colorful lanterns, an antique birdcage, and framed art from local artists.

Julia Bennett strode in one morning and told Polly it was imperative that she didn’t succumb to “mass production” of the Declairs.

“Keep your batches small and stick to a limit of three per customer,” Julia said. “Not only will that maintain consistent quality, it will let people know that they have to come back if they want more. And when a person has to work a bit for that which they desire, they will value it even more.”

She gave Polly a pointed look, which made her wonder if the other woman was also talking about Luke. But she didn’t ask about him, not wanting to even think about him over in Switzerland, touring a building site and burying himself in work. He’d responded to her text with a short
Congrats—I knew you could do it
, but it was clear they were on separate paths now, with no chance of meeting in the middle. Polly wasn’t sure there even was a
middle.

The Wild Child accounts began to show a significant profit, and because of the business structure Luke had helped her put in place, the bakery could maintain the momentum to the point that she could hire more employees. He was part of the reason Wild Child was able to handle the sudden influx of customers and production.

Polly set a fresh batch of doughnuts on the front counter, enjoying the conversation from the customers who were sitting at the tables, talking and eating. The strains of “Here Comes the Sun” drifted from the speakers.

After cleaning a few smudges from the glass counter, Polly looked up as a young man with a scraggly beard approached.

“Hey.” He pushed his overlong hair away from his face. “I’m looking for Hannah.”

Apprehension flickered through Polly. “Hold on, I’ll get her for you.”

She went to the kitchen, where Hannah was piping éclair dough onto a tray. “There’s someone here to see you. I think it’s your friend Dave.”

Hannah almost dropped the pastry bag before setting it down. She wiped her hands on her apron and followed Polly to the front.

“Hey.” Dave smiled at the sight of her. “You ready to hit the road again?”

“Yeah, sure.” Hannah glanced uneasily at Polly. “Um, can you give me some time to get my stuff together?”

“Sure, but I’d like to get going early tomorrow morning,” Dave said. “A friend said we could crash at his place when we go through Eureka.”

“I’ll be ready.” Hannah put a cranberry muffin into a bag and passed it across to him. “Come back here around six tomorrow morning, okay?”

Dave nodded, peering into the bag as he headed back out the door. Hannah pulled a few dollar bills out of her pocket and put them in the cash register.

“Still going to Oregon?” Polly tried to ignore the ache in her chest.

“I guess so.”

Hannah hesitated, as if she wanted to say something else, then went back into the kitchen. Polly looked at the customers clustered around the tables. She listened to the lyrics of the song and breathed in the scents of coffee and chocolate.

Find your happiness.

She had done exactly that. And she’d discovered that happiness didn’t have to be found in just one place. Yes, her happiness had always been right here, wrapped up in Wild Child and memories of her mother. But Polly had also found a bright, glowing happiness with Luke, even if it had been temporary. She’d found happiness in spending time with her sister after so many years of separation, in being with her friends, in watching movies and reading good books. She found happiness in baking, in learning about the culinary arts, in the idea of creating new innovative pastries.

And she’d found an intense happiness and excitement in the discovery that she’d been accepted to an Art of French Pastry course that would be a life-changing adventure.

She turned and went back to the kitchen. Hannah straightened from taking a tray of éclairs out of the oven.

“I’ll make the custard and leave it in the fridge,” she said. “Do you need me to finish these?”

“I need you to stay here,” Polly replied, her heart thumping against her ribs as she added, “Please.”

Hannah’s mouth tightened. She grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter.

“You told me I couldn’t turn the chance down,” Polly continued. “And of course you were right.”

“You not turning it down doesn’t mean I want to stay.”

“Do you remember when we lived at Twelve Oaks? There was a grove of trees out past the apple orchard.”

Hannah shook her head, focused on putting the baked éclairs onto a cooling rack.

“It was this really nice, shaded area where we always played,” Polly said. “There were old logs and stumps to climb around on, and one summer you helped me turn the place into a French restaurant. You corralled the other kids into being customers and waiters, and I was the chef sending out escargots made of acorns and muddy-water soup. We spent the whole summer running the French restaurant before the boys took it over as a fort.”

Hannah pulled the parchment paper off the tray and tossed it into the trash.

“Clearly running a French café is something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid.” Polly rested her hand on her sister’s arm. “I couldn’t have run the French restaurant without you. And I can’t go to Paris without you.”

“Yes, you can.” Hannah picked up the pastry bag again, her eyes downcast. “You’ve always been able to do everything without me. You and Mom.”

“Mom isn’t here.” Polly was unable to keep the desperate note from her voice. “I need you, Hannah. I need you to take care of Wild Child so I can go to Paris. The Declair sales have put us back on the map, and I want to take this pastry course so I can bring back everything I learn. I want to create specialty éclairs and perfect macaroons. I want to make chocolate truffles, pralines, and croquembouches, and can you even imagine what I’ll learn how to do with puff pastry? When I come home, I’ll have a whole repertoire of experience and ideas for Wild Child.”

Her heart was beating fast with excitement and the striking realization that this was what she was
meant
to do. The Art of French Pastry course hadn’t dropped into her lap out of sheer luck. She’d proven to the admissions committee that she had both the wherewithal and talent to be chosen as one of their students. She’d already measured up.