Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
She’s always been like that. The walking savior complex, the find-something-broken-and-fix-it type, and God bless her.
Sometimes, though, I feel like I’m the thing she’s trying to fix most.
“Junie,” she says brightly, opening the door and giving me a peck on the cheek before waving me in. “You’re a little late, honey. How’s the store doing?”
“Better,” I say, following her inside to the kitchen. Anyone who visits can immediately tell this is the central hub of the house—the place where everything happens. There’s a table in the middle of the room, fresh herbs lining the windowsill, and an enormous oven that seems like it’s always running or it’s just cooling down.
“Get that sign fixed yet?”
“I booked a guy to come and replace it tomorrow, yeah.” I grab my apron from behind the door and tie it. She bought it for me a long time ago when I was in high school and it still says Juniper in faded letters across the front.
“That’s what I like to hear! Now, I was looking through my cookbooks and I found a recipe for a Samoa cheesecake which I thought might be really interesting.”
I frown. “Samoa, like the cookies?”
“What else? It’s got a lovely, sweet coconut base for texture that should go well with the rest.” She opens her cupboard and looks inside. “Of course, we’re only using fresh coconut and ideally, chocolate sourced from the Pacific. You’d have to price it higher if you decide to put it on the menu.”
Ouch. My face wrinkles.
“Nana, the cheesecakes are a staple. We can’t just jack up the prices for this new one.”
“No, but you could raise the prices on all of them by a smidge. In this economy, you’ll be underwater soon if you don’t start bumping up prices,” she says, tilting her head and looking at me. There’s no sign of the sweet old lady now, but a hard-nosed businesswoman. “Oh, Junie. You feel so guilty, don’t you? Like I’ve said before—you’re selling yourself short. Nobody enjoys rising prices, but when it’s basic survival for a small business, you have no alternative. You simply must keep up with inflation or you won’t keep up at all.”
“But everything just sucks right now. A lot of people are barely scraping by, their wages haven’t—”
“You’re not an economist, Junie. Your job isn’t to make life fair—it’s to make a living. This is business.” With that, she gets her ingredients down and lays them on the side. “You can never forget that.”
“I know.” Deep down, I know she’s right. I trail my fingers on the tablecloth she always puts out when she’s baking. It takes me back to when I was a kid, helping her mix cakes and sneaking bites of the batter when she wasn’t looking. “But we’ve got to stay competitive. We definitely can’t alienate the regulars who’ve been with us for years.”
“A few bucks here and there won’t break the bank, but it’s surprising what a difference those margins will make to you.”
I laugh, even though it’s not really funny.
“Remind me why you left the store to me again? I think the cutthroat business gene skipped a few generations,” I joke.
She levels a look over her glasses.
“All good things have an end. I had my time in the sun, Junie. It’s about time you had yours.”
Way to make my heart hurt, Nana.
Especially when it’s so true.
No, I don’t have the same business knack and tolerance for brass tacks that she does. Financial advice mostly goes in one ear and out the other, whether it’s educating myself with podcasts or trying to listen to tax suggestions from our CPA.
Making treats, I can handle.
Keeping the shop family-oriented, yes.
Greeting customers and smiling even to the busybodies who demand to see the manager, sure.
But running the show? Like actually making money at this that amounts to more than a starving artist’s wage?
I’ve had a huge case of imposter syndrome ever since I inherited the place.
“You know,” Nana says, peering at me closely, “we haven’t spoken since I came around about the lights.”
Oh, here we go. “If you’re talking about Dexter—”
“I am your grandmother,” she says. That’s a card she pulls pretty often, and I hate to admit it works. “Are you hiding something from me?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Is there something about him you think I won’t like?”
Like the fact that he coerced me into a fake relationship?
Perish the thought.
“No.”
“Then what’s your issue with discussing your boyfriend?” She takes out her bowl—the same old chipped one she should have replaced years ago but won’t when she claims it’s her lucky bowl—and starts weighing flour. “It’s been a long time since Liam. We can talk about these things again.”
I try not to think about the way I shut her out after Liam left.
Her excitement leaves this prickly feeling all over my body—this fear like I’m going to let her down again. Like she’s going to get her hopes amped up and be disappointed, and I’ll be the reason.