Bring Down the Stars

“Do you know why the dawn is so beautiful, Autumn?” Dad asked. “Because every day is another chance for something amazing. You just have to be ready for it.”

Maybe that’s why I dressed as nicely as my tiny budget would allow, and got up early, even on Sundays, and made lists of my goals, and worked my butt off with the hopes of doing some good in the world. When something amazing came my way, not only would I be ready, I’d have helped make it happen.

I wasn’t about to let Mark’s betrayal—or anything else—get in the way of that.

I put on a smile as I stepped into the bakery at a few minutes to five. The scent of warm bread, sugar, and coffee wrapped pleasantly around me, along with a baritone voice singing an operatic aria.

“Good morning, Edmond,” I called, stowing my bag behind the counter. I took my apron from a front peg on the wall and tied it around my waist.

The singing grew louder and the large frame of Edmond de Guiche burst through the back door, his hands folded over his heart as his aria took a turn for the dramatic.

Edmond only sang about love. Lost love, true love, unrequited love. The big Frenchman with the elegant mustache was like an opera character himself, dispensing lines of poetry or bursts of song to his customers with every pastry, convinced love and food went hand in hand.

“Ma chère,” he said, when the last notes faded. He wrapped his thick arms around me in an embrace I desperately needed. Edmond’s hugs felt as good as getting a full night’s sleep.

“So good to see you again,” he said, holding me at arm’s length. “How was your summer? How is your family?”

“They’re fine,” I said, crossing two fingers to hide the white lie. The farm wasn’t doing so well. Dad said none of the farms in our county were, but we shouldn’t worry. Yet. Of course, I’d spent the summer watching him and Mom do nothing but worry, while I worked waiting tables at Cracker Barrel.

“I missed you,” I told Edmond, and that wasn’t a lie at all.

“I missed you, ma petite chère,” he said. “This place is dimmer without your beauteous light.”

Tears sprang to my eyes again. Crying twice in one morning was unacceptable. I turned away quickly to work on prepping the coffee machines.

“Always the romantic, Edmond.”

“Always,” he said. “Are you ready to begin a new year at the big school?”

“I think so. This year is tough because—”

He cut me off by tipping my chin up with one finger. His large brown eyes were heavy with concern. “I see a new sadness here.”

“It’s nothing.”

Edmond frowned.

I sighed. No sense in hiding it. Mark and I had been inseparable for two years. He’d dragged himself out of bed many a morning to have a coffee at the Panache Blanc while I worked, just so he could be close to me. Edmond knew him well.

No, he didn’t. Turns out, no one knew Mark well. Least of all me.

“I broke up with Mark,” I said.

“Quel bordel!” Edmond bellowed.

“I’m fine. I’d rather not talk about it—”

“Why? What happened?” He waved his flour-covered hands. “I know, you will not want to discuss, but he is a fool, that is plain. Pfft.”

He made me feel the fool.

I smoothed my skirt. “Done is done. I’m going to move past it.”

Edmond wrinkled his nose. “A tough cookie, as you Americans say. Bon. I have no cookies for my tough cookie but…” He took a cranberry scone from the tray he’d just pulled from the oven, put it on a plate and handed it to me.

“Oh no, I don’t need…”

“You do. I insist.” Edmond called to the back. “Eh! Philippe!”