Chapter 17 - The Bakery on Main Street
Harriet's bakery opened in March.
She did not intend to open one.
That was how most important things seemed to happen.
A storefront became vacant beside the mercantile.
Pearl suggested it.
Harriet said no.
Josephine produced numbers.
Harriet still said no.
Harlan offered to build ovens.
Harriet threatened him.
Then Samuel quietly placed one of Eleanor Bell's old recipe books on the kitchen table.
On the first page Harriet's mother had written:
Someday I would like a bakery with windows facing east. Morning light belongs with bread.
Harriet cried for an hour.
Then rented the storefront.
The east windows caught sunrise perfectly.
They named it Bell Bread & Provisions.
Harriet refused anything more elegant.
Pearl wanted gold lettering.
Josephine wanted curtains.
Harlan wanted a larger stove.
Only Harlan got his way because the larger stove was practical.
Opening morning, a line stretched half a block.
Harriet nearly locked the door.
Pearl stopped her.
“What are you doing?”
“Panicking.”
“You faced Cyrus Vale.”
“He didn't want biscuits.”
“Open the door.”
They sold out by nine.
Within two months Harriet employed six women.
Three were widows.
One had left an abusive husband.
One was eighteen and saving to attend teachers' college.
The sixth was Pearl.
“Your frosting is terrible,” Harriet told her.
Pearl looked offended.
“My angel food cake sold for eight dollars.”
“Men were bidding on supper with you.”
Pearl considered.
“That's humiliating.”
“Yes.”
She tasted her frosting.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
Josephine handled accounts.
After Walter's indictment for bribery, most respectable women stopped inviting her to tea.
Josephine claimed she preferred bread.
Harriet knew loneliness when she saw it.
She made sure Josephine never ate lunch alone.
Harlan expanded his timber business but refused Vale contracts for almost six months.
Eventually Harriet convinced him to reconsider.
“People work for Vale.”
“Not the point.”
“Some contracts are fair.”
“Still Vale.”
“You made me negotiate instead of destroy.”
“I regret teaching you.”
“Clearly.”
Vale Consolidated had changed.
Not morally.
Harriet was not foolish.
Structurally.
Federal investigators imposed oversight.
Worker safety rules improved.
Independent inspectors monitored water usage.
Cyrus Vale paid fines large enough to make newspapers interesting.
He also never again entered Harriet's boarding house.
He did, however, order bread.
Through an employee.
At full price.
Harriet charged an extra penny.
Harlan called it extortion.
She called it delivery.
Samuel's health improved with spring.
He spent mornings sitting outside the bakery criticizing customers' horse choices.
Life settled.
Wedding plans began.
Harriet hated them.
Pearl loved them enough for both.
“You need flowers.”
“No.”
“Everyone needs flowers.”
“Why?”
“For beauty.”
“I'll have bread.”
“Bread is not decoration.”
Harriet stared.
Pearl sighed.
“Fine. Bread and flowers.”
Josephine looked up from the ledger.
“Marry in June.”
“Why?”
“Before mud season.”
“That is the first useful wedding advice anyone has given me.”
Harlan wanted a small ceremony.
Harriet wanted smaller.
Samuel invited eighty people.
They compromised at one hundred twelve.
Then one afternoon a familiar man entered the bakery.
Cyrus Vale.
Conversation stopped.
Harriet looked up.
He appeared uncomfortable.
That delighted her.
“Mr. Vale.”
“Miss Bell.”
“Still.”
His gaze moved to her ring.
“Not for long, apparently.”
“What do you want?”
He placed an envelope on the counter.
Harriet did not touch it.
“What is that?”
“Payment.”
“For?”
“Historical damages.”
Her expression hardened.
“You mean the fire.”
“Yes.”
“Your attorneys already settled repairs.”
“This is different.”
Harriet opened the envelope.
A check.
Five thousand dollars.
She looked at him.
“What is this buying?”
“Nothing.”
“Then take it.”
“Miss Bell—”
“No.”
He sighed.
“I came without attorneys.”
“Poor judgment.”
“Likely.”
She waited.
Vale looked older than when they met.
“I spent forty years believing any problem could be reduced to cost.”
Harriet almost laughed.
“I'm aware.”
“I was wrong.”
She said nothing.
“My methods created men like Dale Rusk.”
“Yes.”
“He believed results excused methods because that is how I operated.”
“Yes.”
Vale's jaw tightened.
“You're not making this easy.”
“Were you expecting a cake?”
For one second he nearly smiled.
Then he pushed the check toward her.
“I cannot undo what happened.”
“No.”
“But I can pay what the fire cost.”
“The insurance and settlement covered it.”
“Not all costs are repairs.”
Harriet looked at him.
There was no performance in his face.
Perhaps this was an apology.
A poor one.
But maybe it was the only kind Cyrus Vale knew how to make.
Harriet pushed the check back.
“Put it into the town fire fund.”
Vale frowned.
“You could use it.”
“So could the town.”
He considered.
“Very well.”
He picked up the envelope.
At the door he stopped.
“Your bread is good.”
Harriet stared.
Vale looked almost embarrassed.
“My cook purchases it.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You pay the extra penny.”
He blinked.
Harlan, standing in the kitchen doorway, began laughing.
Vale shook his head.
Then left.
Harriet watched him cross Main Street.
She did not forgive him.
Maybe she never would.
Forgiveness was not the same as peace.
She understood that now.
Harlan approached.
“You charged Vale more?”
“One penny.”
“For what?”
“Character development.”
He kissed her temple.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
The wedding was scheduled for June seventeenth.
Then on June sixteenth, Samuel Bell collapsed.
Harriet found him in the bakery pantry.
He was conscious.
Barely.
The doctor came.
Harlan stood outside the bedroom while Harriet waited.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Finally Doc Evans emerged.
Harriet stood.
“Well?”
The doctor's expression told her nothing.
“He has pneumonia.”
Her heart dropped.
“Again?”
“Worse.”
“Will he…”
She could not finish.
Doc removed his spectacles.
“The next twenty-four hours matter.”
Harriet looked toward her wedding dress hanging in the next room.
June seventeenth.
Tomorrow.
Harlan followed her gaze.
“We cancel.”
She looked at him.
“No question.”
“Harlan—”
“We cancel.”
Samuel's voice came weakly from the room.
“You absolutely do not.”
Harriet rushed inside.
Her father looked terrible.
And furious.
“You're sick.”
“Observant.”
“We're postponing.”
“No.”
“Papa.”
Samuel lifted one shaking finger.
“I have spent twenty-eight years waiting to get you properly married.”
Harriet stared.
“Properly?”
“Reasonably properly.”
Harlan coughed.
Samuel looked at him.
“If you agree with her, I'll haunt you.”
Harlan nodded solemnly.
“Understood.”
Harriet's eyes filled.
“This isn't funny.”
“No.”
Samuel took her hand.
“But tomorrow isn't about whether I am sick.”
“It is to me.”
“Harry.”
His voice softened.
“If I die—”
“No.”
“If I die next week or ten years from now, there will never be a day you won't wish I were standing beside you.”
Harriet began crying.
May you like
Samuel squeezed her fingers.
“So let me stand beside you while I can.”
