Chapter 1- Once Upon A Time

“I need a red velvet pastry from the back!” my mother shouts to me. I toss my hands together, trying to shake off some of the excess flour that has crusted up as I was working. I quickly shuffle over to the sink and wash away the rest. Even in the back of the shop, I can hear the soft sounds of people speaking from the counter. I can make out the timbre of my mother's voice through the onslaught of sound coming from the front of The Bread Basket. I cannot make out her words, but I do not need to tell that she is slammed with customers. 

One of the other employees, Margaret, called in this morning. None of our other employees were available on such short notice, and so now my mother and I are doing our best to feed the hungry patrons. We baked a lot of our menu items in excess in the mornings, but we always have to cook more of some of our items as the day goes on. I had to go to the back and start the next batch of our loaves, leaving my mother to tend to the front on her own. 

With my newly cleaned hands, I scoop up a tray of our red velvet pastries and move to the front. My mother is taking the order of a young woman when she briefly looks over her shoulder at me. “Ah, there you are. The young man right there needs the red velvet pastry. Make sure you take the empty tray back with you, Ruby,” she gestures towards a not-so-young man to the left of the counter. His gray hair is ruffled, his right hand holding a cane, and his left resting on the counter. His expression is slightly sour. I smile, lifting the corners of my mouth in the way I was trained. 

“Just one moment, sir,” I say as warmly as I can. I slip the new tray of pastries into the display and place the old tray on a counter behind me for when I finish. I put on my gloves as quickly as possible, grabbing a little pastry box designed to look like woven wood rather than paper. I gently place the red velvet pastry in the box and give it to the man. “Sorry about your wait, I hope you have a wonderful day.” He grumbles his thanks and walks out. What a nice gentleman. The line is about 4-5 orders deep. Our sitting area is moderately full, with only a few chairs empty. For a random Tuesday, this feels like a bit much. 

My mother's bakery has always done well. I always joked that it’s her favorite child. When I was very little, my father passed away. We lived in a place called Blackwood at the time. After his loss, my mother moved us here, several states away, and bought a little run-down building with their savings. She started The Bread Basket while raising me as a single mother. She would bring me to work with her, hide me in the back after school until I was old enough to help. When I graduated from high school, I started working here full time. She tells me this place is my future. That one day it will be all mine.

As I glance over to my mother, her smile spreading to her eyes, I hope it’s a long time before this place is mine. It would be a loss I do not know what to consider. And I am not yet ready to live someone else’s dream. I turn and pick up the empty tray I removed earlier and return to the back. She’s far better with customers than I am. I could spend the entire day without talking to any of them and it would be a good day for me. 

I think my mother needs social interaction. Maybe that is why after she lost my father, she threw herself into this place. It gave her other relationships, even if they are just paper thin from the patronage of a shop. It made it so she wasn’t so alone. 

I return to my dough, preparing it for the oven. I noticed when I was in the front that she was down to a few loaves. We didn’t have any excess in the back either like we did with the red velvet pastries. These needed to be put in the oven an hour ago. I sigh, we can’t very well run out of the thing we are named after. 

I manage to get the bread slung into the oven right as my mother yells for me again,”Ruby!” I jerk towards the front and start moving to see what she needs. “Can you serve the next couple customers, please? Our line is almost out the front door.” I look and sure enough, the front door is being held open by a gentleman trying to carve himself some space to stand in line. I paste a smile on my face and take up the space at the other register. It was going to be a long day.

By closing time, we both were exhausted. My mother starts closing out the registers, counting the bills and making sure the change is in place for the next day. I take out my phone for the first time in hours. I have a few missed calls from my grandmother and some texts from. I knit my brows together in confusion. We talk occasionally, but this was definitely out of the ordinary. My mother must have seen my face because she says, “What’s wrong? I know it can’t be boy trouble.” I can hear the smile in her voice as I scoff and roll my eyes.

“No, just grandmother trouble,” I look up to meet her eyes. She lets the smile fall and irritation fills her face.

“What’s she on about now?” she says, returning to her register. I grumble that I don’t know. After my father passed away, my grandmother couldn’t accept his loss. He died in a car accident when I was a child. My grandmother wanted answers and my mother said there were no answers to give, it was a simple car wreck, a bout of bad luck. Grandma was so certain they were wrong. I always asked my mother why and she said that it was just a mother not wanting to accept the loss of her child. She told me that if she lost me, she would want answers too, even if they didn’t exist. I think one of the reasons my mother left Blackwood was to get away from my grandmother and her insistence that there was something more. My grandmother stayed in touch with me some, once a month or so or other occasions such as birthdays, but we never had a close relationship. This amount of calls and texts definitely was unusual.

I unlock the phone and start filtering through.  I missed 4 calls from her total. Usually, she calls once and if I don’t answer, she waits for me to call back. I swap apps and open the messages she left.

_3:34 P.M. Ruby please answer _

_3:39 P.M. I think there is someone following me and watching me. I have been looking into your father’s death and I have been getting closer to answers. I don’t think this it’s a coincident Ru. I think whoever got him is coming for me. The cops told me there’s nothing to worry about and have found no trace of anyone watching me. But I just can’t shake this feeling. Do you think you can come stay with me for a bit and I finally tell you the truth on your father? The truth your mother won’t tell you._

_5:46 P.M. I am sorry about my message earlier. I am sure I was just overreacting. Don’t worry about me. I will be just fine and you don’t need to come here. I just miss him. The truth is he loved you very much. Don’t worry about calling back. I know you are busy. Love you sweetheart._

At some point in reading the messages, my jaw dropped. My mother stopped what she was doing and came over to me, peering over my shoulder at the phone screen. After reading it once, I read it again. Furrowing my brow, I call my grandmother, disregarding her advice to not worry about calling back. The line rings and rings and then sends to voicemail, no answer. I open the messages again and send my grandmother a text, “I’m sorry, I was working. Are you okay? Give me a call back so we can talk.”

“It’s probably nothing Ruby. You know how she is. She has quite the flair for the dramatic,” my mother places a hand on my shoulder, trying to comfort some of the anxiety that’s settled in the pit of my stomach. 

“Maybe,” I say quietly. Something about it unsettled me very deeply. She could be dramatic. She had said for years she was looking for answers on his death. It was no secret she thought someone was responsible for it. But, this level of paranoia was new. But what possibly unsettled me even more deeply was the length of time between messages. The first two came around the time of the calls. The third came well after. There was no call attempt with it. It just felt odd. 

I try thinking about the last time I had talked to her. Things seemed fine. She told me about how my father loved telling me stories before bed. He worked late some days but always made sure he made it home in time to put me to bed.  I don’t really remember him much. I was small, only about 5 when he passed. I do remember he worked a lot. He was a businessman and had to travel during the day for work or attend meetings. And, I vaguely remember waiting up some nights for him to get home. My mom would try to put me to bed and I would refuse. When he passed, he didn’t put me to bed that night. I fell asleep before he got home. When they tried telling me what happened, I thought that it meant the reason he wasn’t coming home was because I had fallen asleep. My grandmother said I cried and told them I would never do it again. So for weeks, they had to fight me and try to convince me to go to bed as I tried fighting my wrong. But the damage had already been done.

Obviously, falling asleep before he made it home had nothing to do with his accident, but I felt it was my fault for a very long time. When my grandma would say she looking for answers, I would shrink, hoping they wouldn’t see me for the monster I was. Eventually I understood it wasn’t my fault. But I’ve still had trouble falling asleep since.

My mother won’t speak on my father much. But when I was a teenager, she said it was his fault that I had trouble falling asleep. He just had to train “my little brain” that way. When I was little, she tried reading or telling stories, but they usually ended in a tantrum and me asking for my father. So she quit trying. I would ask questions about him and she would do everything she could to avoid the subject. I always have assumed it just hurt too much. She never remarried or even really dated, unless you count her love for the bakery.

I look up to my mother, “I think I need to go get cleaned up and get some rest. Are you okay here?” She gives me a small smile and nods. 

“Try not to worry about her. I am sure she is just paranoid. And if she’s not, well,  I would be more concerned about their health after an encounter with Ravenna Vanderwoude. She is a force,” my mother has returned to the register and says this with her back to me. 

I crack a small smile and start to collect my things as I say, “You’re right. Not even the Grim Reaper would be brave enough to try.” She laughs and turns to look at me.

When she finishes laughing, she lets her smile fall to one that looks like it’s laced with sadness, “She was right about something though.” She pulls her lips up in a forced smile, one that tells me there’s hurt there. I let my facial expression ask her what she means. She clears her throat and says, “Your father. He did really love you. I’m sorry you didn’t get to feel that growing up.” I feel a sting in my eyes. It isn’t common for my mother to be so vulnerable, especially when talking of my father. Normally, she’s really closed off about him. Any time I would mention my father, she’d expertly steer the conversation away from him. Did I hear about the neighbors? Did I see the new recipe? These moments were rare. 

I clear my throat as I feel a hot streak roll down my cheek. How silly I felt, crying over a man I didn’t know 15 years after he passed away. “It’s okay. It’s been a long time since he died. I don’t really remember him. I’ve had plenty of time.” Her head drops a little at my statement. I set my belongings on the counter beside her momentarily and say,  “ Besides, I had you giving me enough love for both of you.” I offer her a small smile and put my hand on her arm.  Now her eyes are glassy as she pulls me into a hug. 

Muffled in my shoulder, my mother says, “There were days I worried if I was enough. Especially after you first lost him. You didn’t want anyone else putting you to bed.” She sniffles. I can’t imagine the hurt she would’ve felt. She had just lost her husband, father of her child. And when putting me to bed at night, I would throw a tantrum and tell her I didn’t want her. That I wanted my father, the father neither of us would have again. 

We stay that way for a moment and she grabs my shoulders and pulls back and looks at me. “Maybe you should go visit your grandmother. It’s been a very long time since you have seen her. Maybe she’s just lonely.”

“But what about the bakery?” I couldn’t imagine leaving her with the bakery alone. I couldn’t possibly go. Since I graduated high school 3 years ago, I have worked here full time. I haven’t taken a trip or had a vacation. 

She shrugs and says, “We’ll have someone pick up your shifts. I am sure some of the employees would love the cash. Besides, it may be good for you. I have kept you locked up in here too much,” she touches her hand to my cheek. “One day this place will be yours and you won’t be able to just leave on whim. Go visit her, give her some company, and give yourself a break.” I bite my lip, she makes it sound so easy. “You’re off tomorrow. We’ll get your other shifts covered.” 

“But what if it’s more days like today?” What if she can’t find coverage? What if it’s too much without me?

“Then I’ll hire some more help,” she shrugs as if it’s that easy. “My love, there are moments in your life where you can choose yourself, or you can choose others. And I’m afraid that all you’ve ever done is choose others. If you do not want to visit your grandmother, that’s fine. But please, take some time off.” I can see in her eyes the plea. The silent request to go. Maybe she’s finally realized what my life is. That I didn’t pursue my own dream so that I can continue hers. Or maybe she really is concerned for my grandmother. But either way, a selfish part of me wanted to go. To go see where I could’ve been raised and where my father was raised, ask the questions I have never been allowed to. Take some time to have my own thoughts and wants. And still guise all of this selfishness under the premise that I am checking on Grandma in the woods. But really, I’d be taking advantage of a temporary freedom I’ve so seldom had. 

I pull my lips tight and nod, “Okay, if you’re sure.” 

She laughs and says, “Of course, my love. Oh-,” she turns and grabs a loaf of bread and some pastries from the display. She starts packaging them. “Take these with you. I’m sure she’d love them.” 

Within a few moments, I gather my things and am heading out the front door, making a mental list of all the items I would need to pack for a trip. I would leave in the morning, just as my mother had said.