The floors were wood, as was the frame of the old-fashioned display case that was filled with beautiful cakes, cupcakes, and delectable-looking cookies, this topped with mismatching but very cool covered cake stands and glass cookie jars. There were battered wooden counters on either side of the display case that also held cookie jars and cake stands and there were shelves on the wall behind the case and counters with even more. Two big blackboards were on the walls on either side of the shelves with the day’s ever-changing goodies scrolled artfully on them in lavender and blue chalk, hibiscus and hummingbirds decorating the corners.

There were tables out front if you wanted to hang and eat your treats. These again all wood, again all mismatched. The only thing each of the chairs shared was being wide seated, sturdy, and comfortable. Each table was topped with a tiny steel bucket with a poufy display of flowers and there was a much bigger bucket filled with a spray of them on one of the counters. These were rotated twice a week by a local florist who gave me a killer discount because I had a small sign that advertised they were hers.

I served coffee, tea, and different flavored milk but no espresso drinks because my place was about baked goods, not coffee drinks, and I wanted the hum of the place not to include the blast of steam every five seconds nor the look of it marred by a behemoth espresso machine. I also didn’t want my kids spending their time sweating over making lattes. I wanted them to spend their time selling cakes.

As Brock was dealing with a dead person and this, in my mind, required cake to expunge any residual mental unpleasantness, I headed to the stacks of flat-packed boxes (piled alternate blue and lavender, all with my Tessa’s Cakes logo stamped on top). I grabbed a six-cupcake one, folded it, selected some treats for Brock then closed it and tied it with bakery string (again, two colors, blue on lavender, which was what I had, and then there was lavender string for the blue boxes).

I held the box by the string, called my good-byes, headed outside, and after the warmth of my bakery, the arctic blast was a physical hit.

We were having a harsh winter, lots of cold, bursts of snow. It was after five, full-on dark, and the air was crisp. As I disliked driving in snow, I checked the weather every morning with an obsession that was slightly scary (however, I never thought this. I only thought this after Brock told me he thought this but luckily he did it while chuckling).

Today they said forty percent chance of snow flurries. Considering my snow-o-meter was finely tuned, I thought the air said more like a one hundred percent chance.