Chapter 01 - Bonnie

art by p0_chip

I sit across from my brother in the middle of the front end of our mother’s cherished bakehouse. Light filters through small spaces between paper that is taped to the large pane display windows that once hosted her acclaimed breads. The few operable lights illuminate a segment of the room, though it’s dim. The decorative shelves that housed knick-knacks are bare, clouded with dust from the recent weeks of neglect.

There is discoloring on the walls matching the exact shapes of Mother’s missing wall art, mostly landscape, cityscape, and framed newspaper clippings from the opening of the shop. I remember the day we headlined the papers; Mother and I ran all over collecting as many copies as we could.

I’m dividing half of the art for my brother to take with him to North Tarrytown. My brother’s head dips, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. It’s obvious Theo has something important in his pocket. His fingers keep brushing the fabric of his jacket, as if he’s keeping whatever-it-is safe, but he keeps it hidden. Instead, he plunks a single stem red rose down on the table between us. “Father’s last gift.”

Last. I stare at the wilted gesture. A rich red rose whose petals could fall apart and splay along the wooden table. And slowly it does, the petals separating like the way our family did—slowly and yet all at once. It reminds me of blood. 

But I know my brother didn’t come all this way just to deliver a rose. 

“And there’s something else,” Theodore adds, withdrawing a document to set on top of the stem. “Father’s will. There’s a clause in here about your twenty-fifth birthday.” He pauses, licking his lips before continuing. “You have to marry a chosen suitor of the Sweeney family. In order to obtain the money…” Theo clears his throat.

The idea of being a spinster in this time is considered a travesty. An old maid? I may as well start wearing bonnets, aprons, and gingham gowns. It’s easy to picture myself as one of those crotchety old women yelling at children from her porch.

But it’s 1923, the Great War is behind us, women have the vote, and life is vibrant. We’ve outgrown chaperones, matchmaking, and the idea that a woman’s worth lies in her marital status. My intention is not to wiggle myself into a marriage that has potential but not promise. I never could see myself promenading or being chaperoned. While we’re growing out of that as a society, my family is all about tradition.

Father forgive me for I have sinned… “No,” I say with disbelief. “Father could have put a stop to this, Theo.” Father left to tend to Sweeney Manor when I was ten. Despite the gifts and letters and the occasional call, I never saw him again after he was called back to the hellhouse. And now like Mother, I never will. The bakehouse is devoid of her warmth, replaced by a lingering chill despite the ovens fired up and tested. It feels as dead as she is.

Theodore licks his dried lips again before inhaling deeply. “I don’t want this for you, Bonnie. Father didn’t want this for you. But to get the money, you need to satisfy the family’s demands.”

Fuck the lawyers.

“Well,” I whisper, “this is a spot.” I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. My brother grants me a look.

There are two things I know to be true in this world. You can be poor and afford everything but daydreams, or you can be wealthy and afford everything but love. The two most expensive things in this world. I hate to admit that without the money, the bakehouse is nothing more than an expensive dream. After all, it isn’t our money but Sweeney money.

Sweeney Bakehouse was Mother’s true love. My brother and I knew that, despite her constant insistence it was our father, because of how much dedication she put into the old place. She regularly cleaned and redecorated it to keep it shining like a new penny. It wasn’t the most up to date, but it was hers. Her own piece of heaven on Fleetwood Street.

My brother adjusts himself to reach for my hand. “Bon, this is the last thing I want to do. But time is of the essence here. I combed through every clause in the will and there is no loophole.”

I curse beneath my breath. “Do I at least have the option of choosing a suitable match, or have the Sweeney’s taken care of that already?”

Theodore’s chestnut brown eyes, our mother’s eyes, regard me. He doesn’t immediately answer and that tells me everything I need to know without delving further.

“When I received your letter, I knew what your plans were. You’d want to save this place, and God knows I want to preserve Mother’s memory. There’s plenty of Father in Sweeney Manor. Mother deserves hers. So rather than make you wait…” He reaches into the interior pocket of his suit jacket to produce a thick worn envelope and sets it on the table between us.

“I’m giving this to you now. So long as you agree to the Sweeney’s choosing, your inheritance will still come to you in your account the day of the wedding. Consider the advancement a consolation prize for being the new Lord of Sweeney Manor.”

On the table, staring right at me, is my answer. No waiting, no scrimping. Rather than wait until my wedding day to receive the funds, my brother took matters into his own hands while boxing me into a corner. My heartbeat is in my ears. Swallowing, I fight the urge to pluck the envelope and run.

What’s stopping me?

We agree that the separation never should have happened. It was a ploy to ruin what Father tried to escape from. But why didn’t either of our parents fight harder?

We’ll never get those answers now. My brother and I are left to read between the lines. My hand rises from my lap, having a mind of its own to snatch the money. But I’ve never assumed that this was owed to me without constraint.

Theo’s larger hand covers the envelope. “I need your word, Bonnie.”

I can’t give him words that I don’t have. “You just sprang this on me. I…there are no words.”

His gaze softens as he retracts the envelope and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. “Think about it tonight. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

---

“Wait, tell me what he said again…”

I push the table off to the side, scratching the panels that need fixing or replacing. I’m not sure which is which yet. My nostrils flare in a huff that I may not be able to afford either as I give the small circular table for two a strong final push. 

My best friend doesn’t stop me. He lets me push off the steam as my hands shake. My entire body feels like a board, my chest tight. Theodore knows exactly what he’s asking of me as I pause and brace myself against the old table. “If I want the money, I have to marry. No idea to whom or when. It’s Sweeney tradition. Theo’s bribing me with his advance. He can shove it up his ass.” 

Footsteps close in on me, arms wind around my front. Fingers itch on whether or not to push him away or embrace him until those strong arms tighten in a squeeze that relieves the pent up pressure inside of me. “Thank you,” I breathe. 

Since Mother passed, Alain Descoteaux has been there. When informed of the news, he just appeared with an overnight bag. No questions asked. It was just the ticket that I needed for the ever present sounds of his typing, pencil scritching, or grunts of writer’s block frustration in the second bedroom of the upstairs apartment told me that I wasn’t alone. 

The silence of being by myself would have driven me mad. 

As a journalist, words are his life the way kneading dough is mine. 

I take a few uneasy, deep breaths and Alain remains perfectly still. He could say he’s paying it forward for when I stayed with him when his mother passed away. But he’ll always deny it. 

“I appreciate you being here,” I utter.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies. “Once you’re feeling up to it, let’s resume finishing what stays and what goes, shall we? I want to find your mother’s prized whisk.”

Father loved gifting. After he’d won the auction on the bakehouse, he surprised Mother with a beautiful steel whisk that was bound in what would become her signature color, her favorite color, French Santorini blue. At the end of the ribbon it was bound in was a tied key. Theo and I were all giggles as we each carried her first set of mixing bowls. Those bowls now have seen better days, but I remember them clearly—ceramic, banded with white, and Mother always said the weight of them were just right. 

Mother’s mixing bowls are chipped and cracked from wear, but that whisk should still be in good-enough condition to be displayed. 

She christened it Sweeney Bakehouse, which quickly became the most popular bakehouse on the block until Mrs. Abigail Coriander opened her Cake Shoppe. Mother said that she was the greatest example of healthy competition. 

Same field, different niches. It was our first lesson in marketing. 

Because while Mrs. Coriander had her cakes, my mother’s passion was her bread. Honey breads, peanut butter breads, date nut, and the classic white loaf. She taught others how to bake in afterhours sessions down in the basement to host class. My brother and I would watch, mesmerized, as our mother glowed in her glory with flour on her cheeks and the way the others would knead in tandem. 

She was always so patient, kneading through the troubles and frustrations, giving others an opportunity to prove to themselves that they were capable of making it on their own. If they could tackle something as tedious as waiting for yeast to rise, then they could handle anything. My mother always whispered endearments to them, making sure each loaf was baked with love, cafe, and consideration because it always came out in the taste. 

Steamy, fluffy, and the most important ingredient: authentic. 

Authentic. If I go through with this, my marriage would be anything but. 

Pushing the thought out of my head, I eventually detangle myself from Alain’s arms. “What am I even doing?” I murmur, my hand lingers on his chest before pressing off altogether. “Can I even keep this up the way she did?” 

The comfort of touch, the physical reminder of another’s presence keeps me going. I turn and his honey brown eyes are still on me, waiting for permission to speak. But he never does. Instead, he offers a hint of a smile before resuming shifting boxes around, separating them between what stays and what goes until he slows to a stop. He sets the box down onto the metal workstation. “Bonnie…you are every bit talented. Just as your mother was,” he pauses and inhales through his nose, turning me to face him. 

“You…do not do this to live up to your mother. We’ve discussed this.” He squeezes gently and now it’s my turn to inhale through my nose. “You are a talented baker. You were trained by the best in New York. Sweeney Bakehouse has had a pristine reputation for well over a decade.” 

Alain has been my best friend for longer than I can remember. When we were children, our mothers thought he and Theo would have been thicker than thieves. It came as quite the shock when he wanted to play with me instead. One could always find the two of us huddled by the corner by candlelight and oil lamps, reading ghost stories and any other piece of literature we could get our hands on. Our mothers were close. His was a talented seamstress, who encouraged my mother to pursue her dreams. 

“I know, but—”

“But nothing, Bon. You’ve going to be the cat’s meow once you decide on what you want to do. I’ve seen you do many great things in worse situations.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It is,” he grins. “But I know you have what it takes. You are Bernadette Miriam Sweeney, and I know what that brilliant mind is capable of producing. Don’t limit it by thinking otherwise. Mindset m’dear. Mindset!” He taps my forehead delicately with his index finger, prompting my eyes to close. 

Hard to have a good mindset when he calls me by my full name. I squinch. Bernadette is my grandmother’s name on my father’s side. It’s one of the old Sweeney names, like Theodore. Doesn’t mean I like it. No. I prefer Bonnie. 

It’s a name better suited for a baker, I think. Trustworthy. 

Get your cakes by Bonnie. Pies fresh from Bonnie’s oven. 

Bernadette sounds like I’m waiting for my cats to eat me as I die alone. 

He holds me at arm’s length, a pleased grin plastered on his features as I can’t help but stare up at him. I don’t feel my lips twitch, or pull. My eyes just attempt to register Alain’s pull to praise. 

“How about this? I won’t throw out anything that isn’t completely falling apart and you can choose from there what stays and what goes?”

I bob my head in a nod. “Okay.”

“Take a turn about the bakehouse, think about the colors, the upholstery…how would Bonnie envision it for herself? Your mother breathes in these walls—”

“As yours does in her sewing machine.”

His smile simmers. “Precisely.”

Alain releases me to return to his task of separating what is salvageable from beyond saving. Clearing my throat, I set for the back room with the old ovens, passing the split counter that bears the cracked display case. The floor creaks beneath my heels as my clacking slows. So much work, so much lost to time and money. My fingers bite into the sleeves of my beige pea coat as emotion clogs in my throat. 

How did this get past me? How did I never notice the deterioration up until now? Perhaps the warmth my mother brought with her did have a hand in the aesthetic of this place. Bereft now of its loss now brought all of its flaws forth.

Flaws Alain doesn’t want me to fret over. This is a space with massive potential. Room to offer coffee and tea for the locals, along with milk for the children to have with their cookies. 

Yes. There would need to be tables and chairs, butter yellow against purple. Maybe rich red walls. Checkered tile. He told me to let my imagination run wild and so I will.

Hot chocolate chip cookies…perhaps a hot cookie hour. Cakes and pies will fill the display cases, some fake decor for the front window displays—once the paper to keep the outside world out is removed—where I can’t wait to decorate come the holidays. All that it needs is a fresh coat of paint and a good window cleaner and this bakehouse will sparkle.