“You need to get laid.” Fiona pursed her lips as I brushed past her and walked to the front.

Despite spending every single day in this space for the past five years, the impact of the effect the bakery had on me had not dulled. Not in the slightest.

The windows were frosted at the bottom, but the top half showed the beautiful New England coast, which at this point was working toward brooding as we said our last goodbyes to summer. The interior was painted a soft pink, so soft it was inching toward beige, creating a warmth that made me feel cozy even in the dead of winter. The walls were cluttered with mismatched, vintage frames and paintings that I’d picked up at thrift stores. The tables were round, a darker shade of pink. The chairs were velvet, comfy, inviting customers to stay a while. Round pendant lights hung from the ceiling, contrasting with the vibrant green hanging plants that Fiona had managed to keep alive. A pink neon sign reading The Chaotic Baker glowed on the wall.

The glass display of baked goods was giant and full of pastries, cakes, cookies and sugary filled goodness. Baskets of fresh baked goods were scattered across the surface.

Cake stands littered the counter, all of which were half full of fudgy chocolate tortes, apple pies and strawberry shortcake at this time of day.

Our coffee machine, imported from Italy because I knew the importance of good coffee, which was espresso, not what the US had brainwashed us into thinking was coffee—sat next to the cash register. I had that painted pink too, with The Chaotic Baker written in my own sloping script.

My heartbeat slowed as I made it to the counter, reassuring the patient customer that my muffins wouldn’t kill them, ringing them up, then getting their order ready.

Few things could calm me when I was spiraling, but the smell, the feel, the rhythm of the bakery that I’d created tended to do that.

Though I liked being at the back of the house, doing all of the baking, the task that made me feel safe and comfortable, it was nice to have the distraction of customers filing in, getting lost in the gentle rhythm of making small talk, preparing plates and takeout orders.

My health concerns dissipated with my own version of hustle and bustle in my bakery.

My adopted hometown, Jupiter, Maine, was a little, sleepy, seaside town that tended to keep generations of residents living here, residents who looked out for each other, who shopped small, and who had a penchant for sugar and coffee.

In addition to that, our town was charming and picturesque, therefore, there was a lofty tourist trade pretty much any time of year. And my place was on the list of ‘must see’ town attractions on every brochure in every inn, hotel, and bed and breakfast in the area.

Then there was our social media presence. Fiona took care of all of that since I abhorred any and all kinds of technology. She thought it was psychotic that I had no social media of my own. Which made sense since she was obsessed with all forms of social media and incredibly proficient at making us somewhat popular on platforms.