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Sweeter with You

By Mary A. Felkins

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For a girl named after an iconic Parisian chapel built to offer peace, Serenity Chapelle Lewis was anything but serene. With the only remaining convection oven not in use suddenly on the fritz, hours before dozens of mini
cupcakes were due to Moreland Manor B&B, peace would
have to wait. Again.
“Please tell me we’ve enough cash reserve to deal with equipment failure?”
Brooke, Serenity’s former college roommate and parttime coworker, dotted her forehead. “Ask your sister
Everley. She keeps the books.”
“Let’s hope she’s got an affirmative on that. I’m worried.”
“Because behind that well-crafted, cheery optimism, that’s what you do, Serenity. Feed on worry like it’s a pastry.”
“Nothing a couple antacids won’t fix.”
“The first twenty-five dozen of these mini cupcakes are good.”
“Then let’s frost the ones we have and offer our apologies.”
She hated to disappoint. Really hated it.
Soulful jazz piped from speakers and offset the clang and clatter inside her buzzing bakery, but it failed to lift her sagging mood. She navigated past a lineup of counters and equipment over to boxed inventory set on bulky shelving. “What if that stupid new bakery chain costs me more business? I’m struggling to cover this month’s lease as is.”
“Relax. Bakery World doesn’t stand a chance against us. Our charming brick facade alone draws people in.
Once they taste and see our products, they’re believers.”
Fact was, since Serenity opened The Pear Tree Bakery and Coffee Shop on Ursuline Street eight years ago,
employing a modest, faithful staff, she’d enjoyed a slow and steady success. An impressive feat, really, considering the high-profile locale boasted a wide variety of eateries. That and parking availability in or around the French Quarter required strategy and tactic—no favors granted to proprietors, either. After having moved out of the upstairs apartment a year ago to her own place, she’d contended for a spot nearest her bakery each day she was open.
The recent decision to raise prices—yielding to Everley’s accounting wisdom—had garnered irritated huffs from a few regulars and resulted in the slow disappearance of others.
Brooke assumed the posture of a lecturer. “But Bakery World isn’t over there giving pastries to the needy. Everley has cautioned you about excessive benevolence. It’s only eating at profits.”
“I don’t do cookie-cutter. The Pear Tree is like a fingerprint. It can’t be duplicated.”
Loved by patrons for its uniqueness, it also boasted a gallery containing the workmanship of various artisans—pottery, oil paintings, and handcrafted Appalachian soaps from a retailer in western North Carolina.
A bakery owned by a woman unafraid to be … different.
Lettie Thibodeaux, head of product development, approached from the far side of the kitchen, hands parted
in a show of irritation. “Miz Serenity, I can’t do nothing with this oven. It appears to be giving up the ghost.”
“You already gave it a swift kick?”
Pain wrinkled over Lettie’s weathered face. “Nearly broke my toe.”
Lettie had served as the faithful Lewis family house manager until Everley released her after Momma died a
few years ago. Serenity valued Lettie’s work ethic and baking finesse and hired her. But the beloved woman’s
capabilities ended at working miracles.
“The irksome look on your face tells me we’re in a
pickle.”
“No more almond milk, neither.”
“I just bought some.”
“Spoiled. I tossed it.”
Serenity marched past Lettie to the walk-in refrigerator and yanked it open. Tepid air raked over her arms. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the assault of a rancid smell, and peered at the shelves. The heat in the kitchen thickened, the vents sluggish to draw it out.
Lettie took a hard stance aside the door, drawing her hands to her waist. “Fridge on the blink too I’s guessing.”
Serenity’s chin dipped to her chest, head shaking slowly as a withered sigh fell out of her.
Her phone rang. She slipped it from the front pocket of her apron. Envy kicked up steam at the screen image of Everley and her husband Gabe’s unrestrained smiles from their wedding day two years ago.
Conserving the little bit of cool air that remained, she shut the refrigerator door. “Hey, Sis.”
Please say the spring art festival was canceled.
“Quick reminder. The festival starts at 2:00. Artisans and guests will start arriving at 1:30. Any way you could
get those cupcakes over here by 1:00?”
“The thing is—”
“I want to be sure we’ve got enough table space for you to set up.”
At this rate, it would require a card table. “I’ll do my best.”
Loss. She hated it. But in a weirdish way, feeding on draughts of anxiety energized her.
A spark of an idea flared in Brooke’s gaze. “I know just the person to help us out around here who’d make a huge personality splash.”
“Who?”
“Owen.”
The tick of silence. “Walker.”
The formidable, unforgettable Owen Walker—a sternum crusher for the recently rebranded NFL team, the
Kings, under new ownership. Unwittingly, a heartbreaker.
His name in the moderate space of Serenity’s bakery expanded the walls and allowed forbidden delight to feather her heart.
“Absolutely not,” Serenity fumed, rallying her wits.
Untying her pink apron with a hard tug, Brooke bunched and tossed it onto the center island. “His influence,
persona, and following is the one big somebody who has the power to turn this place around.”
“The Pear Tree does not double as a football field.”
“It makes perfect sense, Serenity. From the way you two interacted in college, he’d probably work for cupcakes and purchase an entire factory of industrial equipment. Just for you.”
He might. She’d love that. Needed it.
“To set the record straight, Owen and I had no interaction outside of cupcake wars.” Um, and maybe one
passionate night of kissing that’d pushed limits, fogging the windows of his blue Chevelle.
“As aside, I think you two would be an ideal match.”
Lettie’s dark eyes ignited, playful and conspiratorial. “Hmm, mmm.”
She pivoted hard and gestured to Lettie. “This is where you take my side, Lettie.”
“You pay me to bake, Miz Serenity. Not tell tales.”
Brooke’s blue-eyed gaze lit up. “I mean, wow. Have you seen him?”
“Yes’m,” Lettie said. “Big handsome fella. All smiley.
A barracuda on the field. Runs faster than a jackrabbit.”
Unbridled determination blazed in Brook’s eyes. “It’d be a crime not to pass on his DNA.”
Though Brooke lacked a certain tact under pressure, it hadn’t stopped her husband, Justin O’Brien, from
asking her out. One romantic proposal, a picture-perfect wedding, and two kids later, she’d procured a happily ever after with frosting on top.
Time to squash this wildly ridiculous suggestion.
“Then lock me up and call me a felon.”
And just how did Brooke make the unconscionable leap from getting a girl out of a jam to being a conduit for
the replication of Owen’s DNA?
“This is no time to stonewall, Serenity.”
“Going to extremes is not necessary. I’ve got this art festival at Moreland Manor B&B today and a fairy princess birthday party order to fill by the end of the week. And then …” She darted her gaze upward to recall. The ceiling suddenly gave the effect of lowering, a heated chamber threatening to press air from her lungs.
“As your scheduling coordinator, I’ll tell you what you’ve got.” Brooke winged a brow and tilted her head. “The inability to pay this month’s rent. Maurice is hardly a sympathetic landlord.”
“That’s a fact.” Kourtney Young, a university student and Serenity’s part-time barista, breezed into the kitchen
and interjected her unsolicited opinion. She let out a slow whistle, her auburn ponytail swishing with each hard shake of her head. “If you ask me, the man could use some laxatives.”
Kourtney turned to Serenity. “I’ve gotta run. Mid-term paper due tonight.” She gave everyone a parting wave and exited out the back.
Listlessness drew out Serenity’s words. “I’ll post more images on social media … purchase ads or something.”
“Consistency is key here,” Brooke said. “In matters of vision and artistry and generosity and optimism, you
excel. But administration isn’t your strongest asset. It’s a wonder God has prospered you this long. Maybe he’s using equipment failure to pry you out of your stubborn
independence.”
“Why couldn’t he have started with a shortage of napkins?”
The oven dinged. Serenity tapped the digital display, slipped her hands into thick, quilted mitts, and pulled thedoor. Steam walloped her cheeks. Concave, golden domes tucked in their casings stared back. One or two split open like baby bird beaks.
The little devils.
“I’m on board with the idea of asking someone to help get me through the next several months and reignite
interest around here, but bringing in a personality like Walker? People will think I’m desperate. They’ll suspect
something’s wrong.”
“You kinda are, and it kinda is.”
“It’ll feel contrived. Artificial. I prefer a more organic approach.”
One that didn’t stir thoughts best left undisturbed.
Brooke’s arms came up and fell against her sides. “Can’t you just let down your drawbridge and envision
this for a moment? The presence of the Kings wrecking machine endorsing your product, a bright pink Pear
Tree apron strapped over his six-pack abs, would only result in a positive outcome. People will love it. You’ll be scrambling to keep up with demand.”
“It would be impossible for me to find an apron big enough.”
“Ah. You’re considering it. This is good.”
“Even if I did agree to ask for a little help—for a short while, mind you—” Serenity speared a finger at Brooke.
“How am I supposed to get in touch with the three-time Defensive Player of the Year?”
“Give him a call.”
Serenity tossed mitts on the counter, curling a fist at her side. “Ha. Like I still have his number.”
“You do.”
She did. Hadn’t deleted the contact since college.
“Add nosey to your many attributes, Brooke.”
“I saw it the other day when I was looking for Maurice’s number to tell him about the leaky faucet in the kitchen,” Brooke seemed exceedingly pleased to announce, cornering Serenity as she strengthened her cause.
At the sound of fingernails drumming on the counter, Serenity peeked into the dining area. Her gaze connected with a woman whose expression held annoyance.
Serenity breezed over to the register. Big smiles. “May
I help you?”
“You could have. But you didn’t. I’ve been waiting here for several minutes. My GPS must have mistakenly routed me here. I’m actually looking for Bakery World.”
“Oh.” Serenity’s shoulders slumped. “Bakery World is located a few blocks north of the Quarter.”
Once the ill-mannered Broomhilda turned to go, leaving behind a noxious cloud of rejection, Serenity
turned to Brooke, who pressed a palm to the counter.
Her Irish gaze bored holes in Serenity’s resolve. “That does it. I’m making a call.”

***

God didn’t create perfect athletes, but in Owen Walker, he’d come close. Designed for the gridiron, Owen strove to make up the deficit. Six years playing for the Los Angeles Rams before he’d signed with the Kings provided empirical evidence of his record-breaking capabilities. Walker’s fans didn’t care that he had other abilities and interests, even some unconventional for a guy his size. Because football was life—or so said Harvey Blanton Walker, his Hall of Famer dad, who’d hammered the mantra into Owen’s brain as early as he could remember. As for head hammering …
It was all Owen could do not to tackle Dr. Liljeberg. The foolish orthopedic doc stood a mere two feet from Owen and had the audacity to suggest he retire after only eight illustrious years in the NFL.
Owen rolled up his sleeves and clamped his fingers under the exam table. “What are you saying here, Doc?”
“I realize you’ve still got two years on your contract and are enjoying hero status in New Orleans, bringing
home the wins—”
“A team that earned a berth in a wild card game in postseason play—”
“A fact that, from my perspective, is inconsequential.” Liljeberg turned toward an illuminated x-ray box on
the wall and folded his arms. “It would appear your radiograph depicts what looks to be a lesion on your left
temporal hemisphere.” He turned slowly, darts for eyes.
“More tests would need to be run—”
“To rule that out …”
“Walker, face it.” He unwound his arms. “Your body is reaching its limit.”
Limits are meant to be broken.
Gale force winds moved into Doc’s eyes, darkening them into a category 4 hurricane. “These hits you take
on the field are measured in g-force. In addition to the two concussions you’ve already sustained in the space of three years, you’ve had surgery to repair … let’s see …” He sat, swiveled in his chair, and awakened a laptop with rapid taps on the keyboard.
“I know, I know.” The tissue crinkled beneath him as he shifted his weight. No one had to detail a pro football
player’s injuries. Unlike his stats, he’d chosen not to memorize each and every one. “Retirement leaves me
with greater injury.”
Dipping his chin, Doc peered over his glasses and wheeled his chair back to face Owen. “How so?”
“Being judged from the neck up.”
Who was he, if not NFL’s most recent Walter Peyton Man of the Year and three-time Defensive Player of the
Year? He’d managed to successfully uphold league-wide respect. At this juncture, there’d be no stepping down. He’d retire when he was good and ready.
A reticent sigh drew Doc’s shoulders down. “A guy who rushes to take down the QB even after he’s lost his
helmet is a risk for injury—far beyond the tibial plateau fracture you sustained a year ago that took you out for the season.”
“Yeah. Bummer. I’d had a huge day against the Raiders. Three tackles, one for a loss, a pass breakup, and
a touchdown.”
Those games were always sweet. Energizing an already high-voltage crowd.
“Surgery, followed by aggressive PT sessions, will put you back in shape to re-enter. But don’t make light of hits to the head.”
Insidious, wicked rewiring of brain chemistry … turning a man into a monster.
Retire. The word read like a bad CAT scan and quaked through his musculature frame.
When his six-year contract with the Rams ended two years ago, he’d signed a four-year deal to play in New
Orleans, anxious to learn the town and establish himself among the fine folks of Louisiana. But the motivational fuel behind the move from LA had more to do with overseeing Dad’s care. He’d set Dad up in a house restored by his friend Gabe Bellevue and outfitted for, well, wheelchair access, if needed.
So, no. Retirement wasn’t an option. It held the tornadic force of a tiny black speck on a rippled gray horizon that threatened to morph into a sea monster and swallow him whole.
“Hear me out, Walker.”
Owen blinked to awareness. He turned a wary glance at the good doctor.
“To continue in the game means putting yourself at great risk and causing angst for your loved ones.”
Those who loved him amounted to Dad, his big brother Derek—a New Orleans cop— Jude Buchanan, his part-time driver and companion, and a vast number of fans whose names he didn’t know and whose admiration rose and fell depending on his performance.
Standing, Liljeberg patted him on the shoulder. “There’s an expiration date on that body of yours. I advise you to turn your attention toward non-impact activities and continue to pour your heart and soul into those sports
camps for underprivileged kids. Or start a business that doesn’t involve damage to your head.”
He turned a hard stare at Doc.
“You’d once confided in me that you had a vision for going into a business with a buddy someday.”
He’d let it slip?
“My plan is to retire injury free and at the top of my game, on my timetable. I’ve got plenty of years left in me.”
“Owen, you’ve observed symptoms of CTE, Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, in your dad. Mild ones, but it’s a darn shame they didn’t have the concussion protocol back then. I’m not a gambling man, but I’ll bet that’s not a route you want to take.”
Dad’s route.
Having enjoyed an illustrious career, an essential element in Pittsburgh’s Steel Curtain Defense, and a sixtime
Pro Bowl choice, Dad played in every championship game and enjoyed four Super Bowl victories. A brain
pummeled by concussions, Harvey the Hammer had lumbered off the field and presently lived his days largely
secluded inside that restored farmhouse, watching the only game he loved on a flatscreen. Forever sidelined.
“I’m telling you, big guy.” One hard pat. “Hang up your helmet.”
“And what, bake … or something?” Owen scoffed.
Doc’s raised brow suggested he’d detected the renegade bubbles of passion in Owen’s expression. And, okay, he’d lied. Off the field, Owen loved to bake. A lot. Like football, he excelled at it. But life off the field
held too much risk. He could lose himself. Would God be there to catch him? At times, his prayers turned into a holy tug-o-war to call it quits, but he’d let the decision simmer
and negotiate with God later.
Days, weeks ... years ... later.
Leaving Liljeberg’s office near an outskirt of lesstraveled roadway, he drove the red, twin-turbo V-8 Ferrari rental to the NFL Network studio in Culver City, California, for a 2:00 interview before he’d jet back to New Orleans. His phone rang. He slipped it from the console, set it to speaker, and spoke over the pulsing beat of his training playlist. “Hello?”
“Hey, Walker. It’s Brooke O’Brien, Justin’s wife. How are you?”
“Just ask my fans.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I’m perfect then.”
“And prideful as always.”
He’d let that go. “How’s life with Justin treating you?”
“We’re good. A boy. A girl. As rascally as their daddy.”
“Your choice to marry that guy,” he teased.
“Hey now, don’t diss your best friend.”
A friend whose back injury in college ended his shot at the pros and set him on a sure and steady course away from the turf. But Justin enjoyed a pretty wife, a couple kids, a retirement plan that probably stretched well into his early sixties, and good health.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve taken a part-time job at a darling little bakery here in the French Quarter, working for this super sweet,
charitable friend of mine—actually, no, she’s gorgeous.”
At that, the thrum of LA traffic receded to the back of his mind.
“She’s been thriving until a well-established bakery chain opened up a few months ago and has lured clientele
by way of lower prices and an easy, in-and-out parking lot.”
Bakery? Now, really listening—though he knew next to nothing of anything darling and little.
“Why’d you take a job? You and Justin strapped for cash?”
“No, not at all. Justin’s job is solid. It’s just an outlet during the day while the kids are in school.”
“All right, so back to the girl. How big is she?”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Seen my stats? Comes with the game.”
“The girl—”
“Gorgeous, you said.”
“She’s struggling. Equipment failure, landlord slow to make repairs. Since you showed a bit of baking prowess
back in the day, I’m wondering if you’d be willing to give some of your off-season time to help us out and give the business a boost.”
“Yeah, but a bakery?” He palmed the wheel, the sun warm against his neck.
“You’re a generous guy. I’ve seen your social media posts to help raise funds and awareness for Walker
sports camps. You’re always pictured with dozens of kids swarming around. Will you at least come check it out?”
Risk low. Injury free. And in more lucent and fleeting moments of late, Dad had prompted him to consider ideas for post-football careers.
Maybe this was the start of something … different

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