The Little Brooklyn Bakery: A heartwarming feel good novel full of cakes and romance!

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Julie Caplin 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Julie Caplin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008259761

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008259754

Version: 2018-04-26

For Justine, who shared the very first New York adventure

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Keep Reading …

Coming Soon From Julie Caplin

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

‘It’s a great offer,’ said Sophie, with only the slightest sense of regret that she had to turn it down. One day she would visit New York. ‘But I don’t see how I could go at the moment.’

Angela screwed up her face. ‘I understand, it’s really short notice, I could bloody kill Mel for breaking her leg.’

‘I don’t think she did it on purpose,’ Sophie said gently.

‘Well it’s bloody inconvenient, and while I’ve got plenty of people queuing up to take her place in New York for six months, you’re my best food writer. You would be brilliant.’

‘That’s kind of you, Angela—’

‘Kind?’ Angela raised one of her scarily plucked, almost-to-the-death, eyebrows. ‘I don’t do kind. This is honesty. You’re a brilliant writer and I wish …’ she shook her head, ‘and don’t you dare repeat this, I wish you would spread your wings.’

‘And you’re desperate,’ teased Sophie.

‘Well, there is that.’ Angela laid down her pen with a self-deprecating laugh. ‘But at least think about it. It’s a fabulous opportunity. Job swaps don’t come up that often and if I didn’t have the twins, I’d be off like a shot.’

‘What about Ella? She’d love to go,’ suggested Sophie.

Angela tipped her head to one side. ‘That girl is twenty-nine going on twelve, she’d be an absolute disaster.’

‘She might not be that bad.’

Angela raised the other eyebrow, ‘And I know how much you help her. I don’t think she’d survive without you.’

Sophie gave her a cheeky grin, ‘So you can’t send me to New York, then.’

With a bark of laughter, Angela flipped her notebook closed, ‘We’d manage.’ Her face sobered as Sophie rose to leave. ‘Seriously, Sophie, say you’ll think about it.’

Sophie returned to the main office where everyone was still talking about the horrible crack of bone when Mel leapt off a table in the pub at the end of her I’m-swanning-off-to-New-York-for-six-months leaving do. Across the way, the limp helium balloon, bearing the words We’ll miss you, still bobbed above a chair. Someone really ought to take it down before the incoming, very American-sounding Brandi Baumgarten rocked up to take possession of Mel’s desk.

The poor girl deserved more than the current palimpsest of sticky rings of prosecco and crumbs of Monster Munch (Mel’s favourite) littering its surface. Grabbing a pair of scissors, Sophie advanced on the balloon and, with a satisfying snip, cut it down. She’d done the right thing turning Angela’s offer down. The thought of taking over Brandi’s desk on the other side of the Atlantic was far too much of a terrifying prospect. And poor Brandi, coming here. To a strange city. All on her own. Sophie almost shuddered. Maybe she should make her some cookies, big fat squidgy ones with lots of chunky chocolate to welcome her and make her feel at home. And coffee. Americans did coffee big time. Perhaps a little welcome-to-England pack. An A–Z of London. An umbrella. A …

‘Earth to Soph. How do you spell clafoutis?’

‘Sorry. What did you say?’ She tugged the balloon down and punctured it with her scissors.

‘Well done,’ said Ella, the other cookery writer on CityZen. ‘I meant to do that. Well, I thought about it. And how do you spell clafoutis? I can never remember.’

Sophie reeled off the spelling and sat down at her desk opposite Ella.

‘What did Angela want? You in trouble?’

Sophie shook her head, still slightly bemused at the suggestion that she should go to work on their sister publication in Manhattan, the American CityZen. If she told Ella she’d never hear the end of it.

‘How was your weekend?’ Ella screwed up her face. ‘Oh for feck’s sake, spellcheck’s changed it to clawfoot. Can you spell it again for me? I went to that new French place in Stoke Newington. A bit of a trek but … oh, how was Le Gavroche on Saturday? Oh … no, he didn’t!’

Sophie winced and summoned up a blithe smile. ‘Unfortunately, we didn’t get there. His mum was ill.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, the woman’s always ill.’

‘She can’t help it,’ Sophie protested, ignoring the inner bitch that agreed wholeheartedly. Was it wrong to wish Mrs Soames could time being unwell just a tad more conveniently? ‘And it was an emergency this time. Blue-lighted to hospital. Poor James spent all night in A and E waiting for news.’

With a scowl Ella said, ‘You are too bloody nice. And far too damn forgiving. He doesn’t deserve you.’

‘I wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t so nice. How many men do you know that put their family first?’

Ella pursed her pale-pink sparkly lips. It looked as if she’d been pillaging the beauty editor’s cupboard again. ‘True. Greg forgot Mother’s Day, my birthday and our anniversary.’

Sophie wanted to roll her eyes but refrained. Greg barely remembered anything but his next five-a-side football fixture.

‘You’re such a brilliant cook,’ said James, putting down his knife and fork. Sophie nodded, rather pleased with the way her Massaman curry had turned out, sweet and spicy with the right amount of heat, and the potatoes not too soft and not too firm.

They were sitting in her spacious kitchen, with a candle burning between them. Mondays were her favourite night of the week when she would cook a special meal because she knew James had been running around after his mother all weekend. He lived with her three days of the week and stayed at Sophie’s flat the other four. Sophie suspected Mrs Soames wasn’t really that unwell but liked having her son at home. And who could blame her?

‘I should marry you one day.’ He winked and picked up his wineglass, swirling the ruby-red liquid and sniffing with appreciation. As well he might, it was a very nice Australian Merlot that she’d tracked down on the recommendation of the wine writer at work and had cost a small fortune.

‘You should,’ she replied, her heart bumping uncomfortably. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. And she’d thought on Saturday, at Le Gavroche, the second anniversary of their first date … well, she’d hoped …

‘So how was work today?’ That was the lovely thing about James, he was always interested.

‘Remember I told you Mel left on Friday? She broke her leg. Can’t go to New York now.’ Sophie hesitated, and laughed. ‘Angela offered me her place.’

‘What … to go to New York?’ James looked alarmed.

‘Don’t worry, I turned it down. I wouldn’t leave you.’

James smiled and patted her hand, ‘If you really wanted to go, I wouldn’t have minded.’ He paused and then pulled her hand to his lips. ‘But I would have missed you dreadfully, darling. I’d hate it if you went away.’

Sophie got up and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest, glad that she’d not given too much credence to Angela’s flattery. She would love to go there one day. Maybe she and James could go together. A honeymoon, perhaps.

James turned and nuzzled her neck. ‘Early night? I’m knackered. Driving back from Cornwall is such a killer.’

‘I need to tidy up.’ Sophie gave the utensil-strewn kitchen a quick look, wishing she hadn’t made quite so much mess and that James wasn’t always so tired, but she could hardly ask him to help when he’d just driven over two hundred miles.

And she really couldn’t complain. How many people her age had a kitchen like this? Or lived in a palatial flat in Kensington? Dad had insisted. It would have been mean to say no. She loved him to bits but that didn’t mean she was going to let him help her find a job (have a word with someone on the board), or send her to an expensive private school (she was already settled in the local comprehensive) and it didn’t feel right using the title.

By the time she’d tidied everything away and went into the double bedroom, James was sound asleep and the room was in darkness. He never remembered to leave a bedside light on for her. Quietly, she undressed and slipped into bed beside him, snuggling in, but there was no response. Poor thing was exhausted. Dead to the world. She smiled and pushed his floppy fringe from his forehead. He was a good man. Looking after his mother, without a complaint. Sophie closed her eyes. She was so lucky. Who needed New York?

Running late, see you there. And it’s my day off but love that you’re so loyal Kx

Sophie smiled at the text. Kate was even worse than she was, always trying to cram too much in and she could bet her last pound that Kate had stayed overnight at her boyfriend Ben’s last night, which was the real reason she was running late. They were still in that loved-up, passion-boiling-over, can’t-bear-not-to-touch-each-other-all-the-time phase. Not that Sophie could quite recall anything like that with her and James. Theirs had been a much gentler, soft landing into love rather than a plunge off the cliff-edge. Sophie wasn’t sure she’d know how to deal with that sort of fiery sexual chemistry. It wasn’t her style at all and part of her wondered if it wasn’t a tiny bit selfish. Shouldn’t love be gentle, embracing and warm? Something that grew with nourishment and care. Although she couldn’t deny that Kate’s happiness and joie de vivre were heart-warming, and when Ben suddenly narrowed his eyes while looking at Kate, the intensity of his look gave Sophie goose-bumps.

As she waited for her cappuccino, listening to the industrial hiss of the espresso machine operated by one of the Saturday girls, she gave the Danish pastries a second look. She shouldn’t but they looked so delicious. Nope, it was no good, she couldn’t possibly resist the cinnamon rolls.

Balancing a plate in one hand, the cup in the other and trying to keep her shoulder straight so her bag didn’t slip off and bash any of the tables, she managed to weave her way through vacant chairs to her favourite spot in the corner, looking out onto the busy street.

Unfortunately, her usual table was taken by a tired-looking woman with a young baby who was squeaking with indignation, her big blue eyes flashing outrage as she waved a plastic spoon at the pot of yoghurt her mother held just out of reach in one hand. Sophie could see why the pot was out of the danger zone. The little girl had already managed to smear most of it into her hair and her mother was trying to clean her up. From where Sophie stood it looked more like octopus wrestling.

She sat down at the adjacent table, watching their antics with a gentle smile, and was about to turn away when the young woman looked up and shot her a vicious glare, her mouth pinched tight in sneering disgust.

Taking a far-too-hasty gulp of hot coffee, which burnt its way down into her stomach, Sophie looked away, shocked by the fierce, direct hatred which made her feel almost as if she’d been physically assaulted. She took a couple of deep steadying breaths. The poor woman was probably very stressed, it wasn’t personal. Plastering a smile on her face, she took a more measured sip of coffee and looked over at her, hoping that a reassuring, friendly face might make the woman feel a bit better.

Whoa, she got that wrong. If anything, the spite on the woman’s face intensified, wrinkles fanning out around her lips like an ancient walnut, and she was dabbing angrily at the child’s face, the wipes in her hand flying like sheets in the wind.

It was impossible not to feel the woman’s distress. Sophie hesitated for a second. She couldn’t ignore the poor woman, who was clearly very unhappy.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Sophie with a tentative smile, feeling as if she were attempting to reason with a lioness.

‘Am I alright?’ spat the woman, as the little girl began to wail, and then the mother’s face crumpled, falling in on itself, the anger and spite replaced by pure misery. ‘Oh Emma, baby.’ She scooped the little girl up, sticky fingers and all, and hugged her to her body, rubbing her back. ‘There, there. Mummy’s sorry.’

Sophie felt the slight pang of envy and the very merest tightening in her womb. One day …

The little girl held on tight to her mother and stopped crying, lunging with sudden glee towards the yoghurt pot. Her mother smiled, resigned, and shook her head. ‘You pickle.’ She pressed a soft kiss on the top of the child’s candyfloss-soft curls and put her on her lap, moving the yoghurt pot in front of them, giving her the spoon.

With a calm measured look, although her eyes were still full of anger, the woman stared back at Sophie. ‘You asked if I was alright?’ Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, her head tilted defiantly.

‘Yes, did you want a hand? It looks like hard work.’ Sophie smiled at the little girl, who seemed a lot happier now. ‘She’s gorgeous. Although I don’t envy you the mess. Do you want me to get you some more napkins or anything?’

‘Gorgeous and mine,’ said the woman, looking alarmed, wrapping a protective arm across the little girl’s chest.

‘Yes,’ said Sophie warily. Surely this woman didn’t think she was a child-snatcher or something?

‘Although that doesn’t bother you, does it, Sophie? Sharing things?’ The woman’s tone turned weary and her shoulders slumped, an expression of pain darting across her face.

Sophie’s smile froze into place. Something about the woman’s tone suggested she should have some inkling of what was going on here. How did she know her name?

‘I was just trying to help.’ She regretted even making eye contact now.

‘You? Help?’ The woman let out a bitter laugh. ‘I think you’ve helped enough. Helped yourself to my husband.’

‘Sorry?’ Sophie’s hand stilled as she paused to take another sip of coffee.

‘Are you proud of yourself? Miss Rich Bitch with your flat in Kensington and Daddy’s country estate in Sussex. I looked you up. Lady Sophie Bennings-Beauchamp.’

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. This woman had done her homework. None of her colleagues at work had any idea. She kept her passport well out of sight from prying eyes. In fact, Kate was the only one who had seen it and at the time, she’d been professional enough not to say a word.

‘I don’t use—’ she protested automatically because she always did, but the woman interrupted.

‘Nice cushy life. No wonder James would rather spend half his life with you. No washing hanging everywhere. No babies crying in the night.’

‘James?’ Sophie stiffened. Even as she opened her mouth, she knew her words sounded like every last cliché in the book. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’

‘James Soames. My husband. Lives in London four nights, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Comes home to his wife and daughter in Newbury Friday to Monday.’

‘But he goes to Cornwall.’ Sophie’s legs felt leaden as if she were weighted into her seat. ‘He’s in Cornwall now.’

‘No, he’s not, you stupid cow. He’s mowing the lawn at 47 Fantail Lane in Newbury and then he’s going to build a swing for Emma.’

Chapter 2

Her heart bumped uncomfortably as the Fasten Seatbelts sign blinked on. Too late now to change her mind. To wonder whether her snap decision had been too hasty.

All around her people were gathering the belongings they’d spread around their seats on the seven-hour journey, packing up laptops and iPads, turning down corners of books, folding up blankets. Across the aisle through the window she could see lights twinkling, coming into sharper focus as the plane descended. Her ears popped, feeling full and heavy.

With a thud and bounce, the wheels touched down, the roar of the engines going into reverse thrust as the plane decelerated. She was really here, with a purseful of dollars, an address in Brooklyn and a suitcase packed with a desperately slim wardrobe to tide her through the next six months. Had she even packed a warm jumper? Gloves? Didn’t New York get really cold in the winter?

Still pondering the ineptitude of her packing, she forced out a tight goodbye to the smiling cabin crew, refusing to give in to the overwhelming temptation to grab one of them and beg to fly back to London with them on their return leg.

It was tiredness, she told herself, as she tramped up the echoey tunnel, the floor bouncing slightly beneath her feet as the rumble of cases rebounded from the metal walls. Ahead there was so much to navigate, customs, a taxi, meeting strangers and a new home. For the last few hours she’d existed in an almost pleasant no-man’s-land limbo, not needing to think about anything beyond choosing which film to watch, whether to have the beef or chicken and how to break into the plastic packaging of the bread roll.

Grasping the handle of her cabin bag as if it might give her some kind of magical courage, she followed the trail of people ahead, most of whom were head down with intent, clearly sure of where they were going. She rounded a corner and came into the huge passport area, instantly looking up at the American flag hanging from the ceiling. Nerves shimmered in her stomach. She knew all her paperwork was in order, but she’d heard horror stories about American customs. It wasn’t looking too good. Only a few of the booths were manned and the queue was enormous. As it snaked its way forward she gripped her passport tighter and tried to look innocent, an automatic response to the gun-carrying officials wearing stern, shoot-you-in-a-second-and-not-bat-an-eyelid expressions on their faces.

By the time it was finally her turn, she felt exhausted but also irritated. The plane had landed nearly an hour and a half ago, her body clock was working on UK time and she was used to European indifference and laconic inspection. This lengthy eye-scanning, finger-printing process at silly o’clock, when her legs ached and she felt positively light-headed, was testing even her considerable reserves of Pollyanna-like amiability. Long minutes passed as the middle-aged customs officer scrutinised her passport with a stone-like expression, his greying eyebrows drawn together but separated by a trough of wrinkles. He looked at her, down at the passport and then back at her. Her stomach tightened. The spaced-out feeling in her head made her sway slightly. He looked back at the passport again.

‘Is this for real?’ he asked, his eyes widening as he once again looked at the passport and back at her. ‘Lady Sophie Amelia Bennings-Beauchamp.’ It took her a minute to attune to the heavy nasal American accent and then she nodded with a well-what-can-you-do smile and a tiny shrug.

‘D’ya have a tiara in your baggage?’ The direct question held a confusing combination of aggression and curiosity.

Some imp of mischief made her say, very seriously, ‘Not this time. I tend not to travel with the family jewels.’

‘That so, ma’am. Or should I call you your ladyship?’

‘Sophie’s fine.’

He looked appalled.

‘Or Miss Bennings,’ she added with a smile, pleased that she’d broken his scary official person’s expression.

‘Not Miss Bennings-Beauchamp.’ He pronounced it Bow-champ, leaving her wondering if she should explain that it was really Beecham, but she decided against it. Not at this time of night.

She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I try and travel incognito. So, I stick to Miss Bennings. It’s easier that way.’

He nodded and put his fingers up to his lips, his eyes sweeping over her shoulder and around the room. ‘Mum’s the word.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure, Lady Bennings-Bowchamp.’ He winked at her and then frowned. ‘You’re working?’ His eyebrows sank deeper over his eyes. ‘L1 Visa.’

‘Daddy gambled away my inheritance,’ said Sophie out of the corner of her mouth, starting to enjoy herself.

‘That so.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘That’s bad, your ladyship.’

‘And I couldn’t sell the family heirlooms. So, I had to get a job.’

‘Well, that don’t seem right,’ he stopped, his whole face screwed up in sympathetic distaste, then with a respectful nod, he added, ‘but good for you, your ladyship.’ There was a brief pause before, as if jolted back in line, he remembered he had a script. ‘So where will you be staying for the duration of your trip?’