The Little Brooklyn Bakery: A heartwarming feel good novel full of cakes and romance!
She reeled off the address she’d memorised.
‘Brooklyn?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie, smiling at his palpable disappointment. ‘Isn’t that very nice?’
He straightened and lifted his chin. ‘Born and bred, ma’am, I mean your ladyship. Brooklyn …’ he winced, ‘has changed a lot over the years. It’s very hip now. Not like in my day. I hope you like it.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you know the Queen?’ Expectant hope glittered in his eyes.
Sophie straightened and carefully looked over her shoulder before turning back to him, widening her eyes as if warning him that what she was about to divulge was top secret. She lowered her voice, ‘Yes, the family spends Easter at Buckingham Palace every year. Prince Philip’s an absolute sweetie and William and Kate’s children are such cuties. But don’t tell anyone I told you. We’re not supposed to talk about it.’
With a quick salute, a forefinger to his eyebrow, he nodded. ‘Mom’s the word. But you tell her hi from me. The name’s Don. Don McCready.’ He beamed. ‘Wait till I tell my wife, Betty-Ann, I met you. She just loves the royals. She’s gonna get such a kick out of this.’
Neon lights blurred as the cab sped past, the road still busy even at this time of night. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant post-take-away smell hovering in the back of the shabby cab, the ugly metal grill separating the passenger seats from the front and the cab driver’s surly indifference to her. A stream of Spanish came from the mobile phone mounted on the dashboard, punctuated occasionally by the driver’s monosyllabic responses. She settled back into the battered seats, watching the street scenes through the scarred windows, as the car veered from lane to lane. It looked like the America she’d seen on television as a child in old episodes of NYPD Blue. People of all races loping along the pavements. Nail bars rubbed shoulders with tire-replacement centers, the alien spelling striking home, and unfamiliar fast-food franchises – Golden Krust, Wendy’s, Texas Chicken & Burgers – as well as the ubiquitous McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts and Seven Eleven, which looked the same, but also different somehow.
For a minute, it was oh-so-tempting to tap the taxi driver on the shoulder and ask him to turn around, go back. She took in a deep shuddery breath. Man up, Sophie, you chose to do this. Your choice.
She pulled out her phone and re-read the email about the arrangements. The company had fixed up an apartment for her. A one-bedroomed place in Brooklyn, within reach of the subway and an easy journey to work. For a moment, she let the image of Mel’s limp balloon dance in her head. Brandi Baumgarten’s desk would be ready and waiting for her on Monday, just thirty-one hours from now. Scrolling across the touch screen, she brought up the subway map she’d downloaded. It looked horribly complicated compared to the tube map she was so used to. Taking a deep breath, she closed the app. Tomorrow there’d be plenty of time to get her bearings and work out the journey to work.
The taxi had slowed, turning off the main highway, and here the streets were suddenly interesting, lots of bars, vibrant with crowds of people, pavement seating full, a world of nationalities in the bars and restaurants they passed. With a sudden screech of brakes, the taxi stopped and almost before he’d halted, the driver turned around.
‘Forty dollars,’ he spat.
‘Is this it?’ she asked, peering out of the window at several shop fronts.
‘Number 425 – right there, lady.’ He indicated with a contemptuous thumb. ‘Just like you asked for.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Sophie, uncertain as to how he could see any numbers. Maybe it was a locals’ thing and she was looking in the wrong place.
The taxi driver had already got out and was heaving her cases onto the pavement.
‘Thank you,’ said Sophie politely, as she rummaged through her purse with the unfamiliar currency and located a fifty-dollar bill. She knew tipping was big in America and had a sudden moment of panic. ‘Keep the change.’ She had no idea if it was too much or too little but at nearly three in the morning, she just wanted to find the promised key safe, get into her room and collapse into bed.
He snatched up the money and jumped back in the cab before she could say another word and the red back lights of the car disappeared down the street, two eyes glowing in the dark like a fading demon.
With two suitcases and her cabin bag she stood on the pavement, sudden fear clamping her heart as she surveyed the shop fronts. Not one of them had a helpful number on the door. She looked down the street which stretched away into the distance. It was a very long street. A few people were about, and from the nearby corner loud voices shouted.
She turned back and jumped as a man appeared from nowhere. At well over six foot five, he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, with long, lanky, slightly bowed legs that seemed to bounce as he walked towards her. Her momentary fear at being surprised and alone in the middle of the night in a strange neighbourhood receded when white teeth from ebony skin grinned at her.
‘Hey lady, you OK? You look a little lost.’
‘I’m … erm … looking for number 425.’
He loomed over her, smelling rather bizarrely of rosemary. With a surreptitious sniff, she also identified basil.
‘That’d be right here above Bella’s Place.’ He pointed to a bakery and then she spotted the narrow doorway squeezed between two shops. ‘You must be the English girl.’
‘I must be, yes.’ The scent of basil was stronger now and she blurted out, with drunken jet-lagged stream of consciousness, ‘You smell of herbs.’
‘Erbs,’ he corrected. ‘Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice.’
‘That’s what little boys smell of,’ said Sophie, now feeling a bit like Alice.
His grin widened as he pointed to a shop front a few doors down. Sophie nodded, feeling a little stupid when she realised Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice was the name of his shop.
‘You just arrived?’ He laughed. ‘Course you have, otherwise why would you be out on the sidewalk in the middle of the night with a bunch of baggage? I’m Wes, let me give you a hand with your things.’
Too weary to argue, she nodded, relieved to find the key safe by the door which gave up its contents as soon as she punched in the code. Wes led the way up the narrow staircase, carrying her cabin bag and suitcase with ease while she struggled up behind him, following the scent of herbs which spilled from a couple of pots wedged into his canvas satchel slung across his body.
On the top floor he stopped outside a bright-red door. ‘Here you go – 425A, Bella’s just upstairs. She rents this whole building.’ He took the keys from her and did the honours, dumping the case in the tiny hall and flipping the light switch. ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’ He fished out a rosemary plant and handed it to her, before saluting, ducking under the doorway and loping away down the stairs with a cheerful whistle.
Tired as she was, the brief, friendly encounter with a man who’d given her a herb pot made her feel that maybe life in Brooklyn might just be bearable after all.
The hallway opened into a lounge with several doors leading from it. She had an impression of polished wooden floors, two long tall windows through which the ambient light of the street spilled and a shadowy collection of furniture. She put the pot down on a table and opened the nearest door. Bingo first strike, the bedroom. A double bed, quilt, pillow, all bare of sheets. Bugger. It hadn’t occurred to her to pack those. Sod it, still fully clothed, she pitched forward onto the naked duvet, wrapping it around her. Her last thought, her teeth could have an extra minute’s brushing in the morning.
Chapter 3
Despite the god-awful time of 5 a.m., she was wide awake, her body clock, even after only five hours’ sleep, hell-bent on London time and, according to her biorhythms, enjoying a leisurely nine o’clock lie-in.
With a groan Sophie rolled over, feeling grimy, travel stained and full-on icky, her body still crimped from the plane journey. She stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling as half-hearted daylight clawed its way through the flimsy curtains. As usual, the thoughts began to crowd in. Memories of the last two years, fighting like gremlins coming up through the crevices. Nope, not going there. Refuse to go there. Shower. Unpack. Find tea. They were the priorities.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted them firmly on the wide-planked wooden floor and looked around the room. Just about enough space to swing a very small kitten, but clean and obviously newly painted. The tasteful shade of sage green was complemented by the cream-painted woodwork of the headboard and a matching chest of drawers and an oval mirror hanging above it. Space was tight, so the bed was pushed up against the opposite wall and there was no sign of a wardrobe.
She found the reason when she pushed open the second door leading from the bedroom. It opened into a tiny hallway with a built-in wardrobe and, at the end, another doorway which led into a long and very narrow bathroom. However, the shiny, glossy brick tiles and immaculate, gleaming chrome fittings more than made up for its corridor-like dimensions.
At the sight of the state-of-the-art shower, chrome-filled with numerous taps, heads and levers and big enough to take a rugby team, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the blissful streams of hot water. It was only as the water streamed through her long blonde hair, from two different directions, that she realised that there was no shampoo, no soap and no towel. She blinked hard at her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought to pack towels and sheets?
As she shook herself like a dog to try and dry off, using her jeans as a bathmat, she glared at the idiotic image in the mirror, her hair wrapped in her T-shirt to soak up the drips.
For God’s sake, she was normally the person who could be relied on for having packed spares for everyone else.
She went through her case pulling things out, appalled at the random contents and glaring omissions. Hair straighteners. No hairdryer. Fourteen pairs of knickers. One bra. Three tubes of toothpaste. No toothbrush. Tweezers. No nail scissors. Her second-favourite cookery book. And decaffeinated tea-bags? Just when she could have mainlined caffeine with bells on. Who drank decaffeinated anything? There should be a law against it.
Sitting back on her heels, she looked back at the last week with sudden clarity. Lord, hindsight was a wonderful thing. Now, when it was far too bloody late, she could see that her packing had been done in a blur of denial and downright indecision. Convinced she wouldn’t ever really leave. Right up to the last minute when the taxi driver rang the bell, she’d not really been sure she’d go through with it.
Biting her lip, kneeling among discarded shirts, jeans and Converse hi-tops, she picked through her final days in London. Once she’d said yes to Angela, it was as if she’d stepped on a treadmill and had neither the will, the energy nor the reasoning capacity to do anything but keep putting one foot in front of the other. Misery, it had turned out, was a useful shield, blurring away reality until it was too late to get off the treadmill. The taxi was there, her passport was in her hand and she had two cases and a cabin bag at her side.
And here she was. In America.
‘Right.’ She stood up, tugged the T-shirt from her wet hair and looked firmly at herself in the mirror. ‘You are here now.’ She glared into her own eyes. ‘You, yes you, Sophie Bennings … Beauchamp, Bow-champ to the nice customs man, need to knuckle down. Sort yourself out. Sheets. Towel. Toiletries.’
Those stupid omissions at least gave her a mission for the day. She had to go out and buy those as an absolute minimum.
‘And shopping.’ For Pete’s sake, she was so wet, she hadn’t even explored her new home. And she was talking to herself. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Come on. This is an opportunity.’ Saying things out loud made her feel less stupid. Perhaps she ought to buy one of those self-help manuals, come up with a few more convincing mantras. ‘It is an opportunity. Some people would kill to be me.’ OK, kill was perhaps going a little too far, but all her friends had been frankly envious. Not one of them had said, ‘Oh, God just think how big and scary New York is and how lonely you’re going to be.’
Her exploration didn’t take long. The apartment was small, but perfectly formed. Modern, urban and very sophisticated. Not what she was used to at all, but as she stood in the open-plan lounge-kitchen, she nodded to herself. OK, she could live here. The polished, wide-planked, wooden floors were lovely and the huge sash windows let in loads of light and provided a great view out over the street. There was a television and a black box thing, with several remote controls, which she glanced at briefly with a wince. That had been James’s department. The bright-red sofa, with grey cushions positioned opposite a fireplace, looked inviting and welcoming.
On the other side of the room, along the back wall, was a long galley kitchen, with white brick tiles on the walls separating units of glossy, dark red. A wooden-topped island with a breakfast bar created a division between the living room and the kitchen. It contained the sink, drainer and more counter space, and she was pleased to see that the hob, oven, fridge and sink were arranged in the perfect cook’s triangle of practicality.
When she opened a couple of cupboards to find ubiquitous Ikea china mugs and plates, she was unable to decide whether they were disappointing or reassuring. One half of her hoped that there’d be some exoticism – chic American branded crockery, proof that she’d flown 3,000 miles to be here. But the other half – the more dominant half, to be perfectly honest – was relieved by the sight of the familiar tall-bodied mugs and the chunky primary-colour plates. They said, See, not so far from home after all.
With a nod of approval, she was about to turn when her eye caught sight of an unexpected door, tucked out of sight at the end of the run of units.
‘Oh, hello.’ She stepped through the door out onto the deck, immediately tipping her face up to let the warm sunshine dance on her skin. The sun burnt bright in a cloud-free sky. For a minute she stood there, letting the heat wash over her. The golden glow held her in a timeless embrace, giving her battered spirits an immediate boost.
‘I want to see the sunshine after the rain, I want to see bluebirds flying over …’ she hummed as she surveyed the bistro table and two chairs and the empty planter, which begged to be filled with herbs. She would speak to Wes, the mysterious herb man from last night. Musing whether to add a chilli plant in there as well, she turned to survey the backdrop landscape of rooftops and secret insights of backyards. You could see down into the neighbouring plots. Some held climbing frames and swings squeezed onto tiny lawns, while others held compact decks handsomely furnished with expensive-looking garden furniture. She came back to the refrain, ‘Sunshine after the rain,’ and swallowed back the lump, fighting against tears. OK, so it was going to take a while, a long time before she saw anything flying over mountains or otherwise, but one day she’d feel better. She cast a bitter look at the second bistro chair.
With a sigh she went back into the kitchen. She needed to keep herself busy. There were lists to be made. If only she’d packed a bloody pen. She knew she was putting off the moment when she had to leave the apartment.
And there, taped to the back of the door, was a large piece of greaseproof paper, a jagged tear down one side as if someone had grabbed the first thing at hand, with a note scribbled on it in what looked like bright-blue Sharpie pen.
Welcome. Pop down to the café and say hi. First coffee is on me and I’ll throw in breakfast, because I didn’t get to the store for you. Your landlady Bella
Coffee. Now the thought was in her head, her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten a proper meal? She couldn’t stay here all day … actually, she probably could … but she needed stuff, towels and sheets. This gave her the perfect excuse to get going and stop being such a wuss.
Grabbing her guide book and purse, she hastily packed everything she thought she might need and headed out.
For a moment, she stood utterly entranced by the window display, which she’d completely missed the night before. A picture of Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady in her iconic black-and-white Ascot costume was suspended mid-air above what Sophie could only describe as the most magnificent display. Matching black-and-white decorated cupcakes arranged on two candelabra-style cake stands stood like ladies in waiting behind a five-tiered wedding cake, its elaborate icing and shape cleverly referencing the design of the hat. Underneath the picture was a quote:
Nothing is impossible, the word itself says I’m Possible! Audrey Hepburn
Reading it, Sophie gave a nod. She needed to start being more positive. Her can-do spirit seemed to have evaporated. With a professional eye, she studied the cakes, marvelling at the precision and creativity, until the door opened beside her and someone came out of the café, followed by a waft of coffee.
Her stomach complained again and she grabbed the door as it started to close. The minute she stepped inside, she paused and closed her eyes, inhaling. What the sunshine upstairs had started, the familiar magic alchemic smell of butter and sugar, eggs and flour finished. She felt lighter, as if some invisible weight had dislodged itself from her shoulders, as she registered the soothing hint of vanilla, the richness of chocolate, the sharp citrus of lemon. The scents swirled around her, grounding her. She almost laughed out loud. Grounding her, really? But it was true, for the first time in two weeks, she felt a bit more like herself again. And then she spotted the notice above the counter. You’ve got 86,400 seconds today. Have you used one to smile?
Taking the message to heart, she let her mouth relax into a broad grin, taking another discreet sniff. This almost felt like home and suddenly she wanted to be in the kitchen, mixing, stirring, tasting and baking.
She opened her eyes and headed for the counter. Her eagerness felt rusty and unused. Now she was dying to see what was available, where all those delicious smells were coming from and what she could learn. She’d never been to America before, there was a whole new world of food to explore. Her eyes lit up. Oh yes, there surely was.
‘Good morning. How are you today? What can I get you?’ asked a petite redhead with a mass of curls bundled up in a bright-green scarf, wiping down the coffee machine.
‘Hi, I’m … very well, thank you. I’m Sophie. From upstairs.’
‘Sophie!’ The girl squealed, dropping her cloth and racing around the counter, and putting her hands on Sophie’s arms, surveying her with bright-eyed enthusiasm, rather like a great aunt who hadn’t seen her for years. ‘Hey! It’s so great to see you. I’m Bella. Your landlady. I’ve never been a landlady before. Is the apartment OK?’ She let go of Sophie and gesticulated eagerly, letting her hands take a share in the conversation. ‘Do you need anything? I’m sorry I didn’t get any groceries in. I think maybe I should have, I didn’t know but then we had a rush order and I just … well it’s always mad on a weekend. Welcome to Brooklyn.’
Sophie laughed and held up her hands to fend off the rush of words and the semaphore fingers, and to reassure the other woman. ‘It’s all fine. The apartment’s lovely. And a nice man called Wes helped me carry my cases in. Even left me a pot of herbs.’
‘Ah yes, the luscious Wes,’ Bella’s mouth dipped slightly before she continued, ‘he’s a sweetie. And always pushing those herbs.’ She nodded towards the aluminium pots of lavender on the tables. ‘Phew, it was a rush to get it finished in time, but when Todd, he’s my cousin, said the magazine needed a short-term rental, I couldn’t turn it down. Now what can I get you? Are you horribly jet-lagged? Is it the middle of the night for you?’
‘No, it’s early afternoon but I’m trying not to think about it. Coffee would be lovely, thank you.’ Normally she was a die-hard tea drinker but she knew New Yorkers were fond of their coffee and she suspected getting a decent cup of tea would be a challenge.
‘Gee, I love your English accent, it’s so cute.’
‘Thank you.’ Sophie had to beam back. It was impossible not to. Bella bounced around like an animated pixie caught in a whirlwind, her hazel eyes sharp with interest and intelligence.
‘How about something to eat? I made these lavender-and-vanilla cupcakes this morning, or there are carrot-and-cinnamon or orange-and-lemon.’
‘St Clements,’ said Sophie automatically.
‘St what?’
‘It’s cockney rhyming slang, orange-and-lemon flavours are sometimes called St Clements. It’s one of my favourites.’ For some reason she softly sang, ‘Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clements.’
‘Aw, that is so cute. I’ve never heard that before.’ Her face took on a dreamy expression. ‘Cockneys. They’re in Mary Poppins. I could do a whole theme. Supacallafragilistic cakes.’
‘I love the window. Did you design that cake?’
Bella beamed and Sophie swore the dusting of freckles on her nose danced too. ‘Sure did. You like?’
‘Love! It’s amazing. Those black-and-white frills and the sugar-paste feathers are so clever.’
‘Awesome. Thanks. Now you must be hungry, so what would you like? First one’s on the house.’
‘Mmm, they look delicious.’ Sophie’s stomach grumbled obligingly as she examined the contents of the glass cabinet. One side was stacked with interesting-looking loaves, walnut-and-raisin, rye, five-grain, along with cheese-and-herb plaits and pumpkin-seed rolls, while the other had rows of beautifully decorated cupcakes, topped with pale cream frosting and sugar-paste flowers like Easter baskets, as well as several fruit-topped cheesecakes, a line of giant cookies, chunks of melted chocolate glistening, and a couple of full-sized cakes.
‘Do you make all of this?’
‘No, I don’t have time. The celebration and cupcakes are mine. And I live in hope that the wedding-cake side will take off. The cheesecakes come from the fabulous Maisie, who lives around the corner and bakes them while her kids are at school. She uses organic cream cheese from the family dairy upstate in Maine. They are to die for. And the breads and bagels are delivered in daily by a two-man team. Ed and Edie. Well, a man-and-woman team,’ she laughed, ‘their company is called Two Eds. And their slogan is When it comes to breads, two Eds are better.’
Sophie groaned, ‘Oh my word. I just got even hungrier. And if the cakes in the window are anything to go by … you should have plenty of customers.’
Bella pulled a face. ‘It gets a bit crazy in here at the weekends. And this week has been crazier than normal. I had two birthday parties, two hundred and fifty cupcakes to make and then ice and decorate with baseball players. I tell you, those little striped shirts are darn fiddly. But then, who doesn’t love a cupcake?’ She caught Sophie’s eye and winked.
Sophie grinned back, ‘I love the sugar-paste flowers you’ve done,’ she pointed to the cupcakes on display. ‘They look such fun. I’d love to learn how to do those.’ She gave them a considering look. ‘I’m a cookery writer, so I do a lot of baking. Testing recipes.’
‘Really? Todd didn’t say what you do. That’s so cool. Maybe we can swap some ideas some time.’
‘That would be wonderful. There’s something about baking that …’ Sophie sniffed the air again, feeling a tiny bit better about being here.
‘Oh, I think I’m going to love you. Yes, there’s something about baking … it’s almost magical. I love seeing the customers. Coming up with new ideas. Watching their eyes light up. Cakes make people smile.’