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Synopsis
Every autumn, Moonbright, Maine, is the picture of charm with its piles of crisp leaves, flickering jack-o'-lanterns . . . and a touch of the sweetest kind of enchantment.
Witches, goblins, the occasional ghost-they're all sure to be spotted at the annual Halloween parade, where adults and children alike dress in costume to celebrate Moonbright's favorite holiday. And no place has more seasonal spirit than Bellaluna's Bakeshop, a family business steeped in traditional recipes, welcoming warmth-and, legend has it, truly spellbinding, heart-melting treats . . .
Between good-natured Halloween tricks, frothy pumpkin lattes, and some very special baked goods, for three Moonbright residents looking for love-whether they know it or not-the spookiest thing will be how magical romance can suddenly be . . .
Contains mature themes.
Release date: August 27, 2019
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 370
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Bakeshop at Pumpkin and Spice
Donna Kauffman
All Hallows’ Eve was fast approaching, and Abriana Bellaluna O’Neill couldn’t be happier about it. She and her grandmother were already hard at work at their family bakery, filling the display cases with delicious treats that celebrated their favorite magical, mystical holiday. What the townsfolk didn’t know was that the Bellaluna women were a bit magical and mystical themselves. A visit to Bellaluna’s Bakeshop, nestled in the little town of Moonbright, Maine, was guaranteed to cure any craving your sweet tooth might have. But if you happened to be the recipient of one of their special treats, they could satisfy the cravings of your heart as well.
Abriana—Bree to everyone except her grandma Sofia—loved this time of year. The harvest season was ending, the leaves on the trees were a rainbow of beautiful colors, swirling in the air like party confetti, celebrating the commencement of the holiday season. Temperatures had dipped, the sounds of logs being split echoed in the crisp morning air, and smoke wafted from chimney tops as fireplaces warmed the hearths in their cozy, little village. Sweaters were pulled out of storage, gloves were fished out of coat closets, and Bree could feel the excitement begin to build as everyone’s thoughts turned toward the celebrations to come.
Thanksgiving, then Christmas, New Year’s, and finally, Valentine’s Day kept things rolling along at the bakeshop, each holiday a festive, busy time for them, filled with traditions and joy. But for the residents of Moonbright, none was as festive and eagerly anticipated as the holiday that launched the season: Halloween.
There were parties, costume contests, and all of her friends and neighbors would outdo themselves decorating their yards for the wee ones who would be out on the trick-or-treating trail. The most anticipated part of the celebration, however, and what drew far-flung family members and tourists alike to their little coastal town, was Moonbright’s grand Halloween parade. And, oh, how grand it was!
Every man, woman, and child—and a fair number of household pets to boot—dressed up in costumes that ranged from rudimentary, handmade creations by the very youngest, to elaborate concoctions for some of the grown-ups that would have been right at home on a Hollywood movie set. Floats were made, and cars, firetrucks, along with a few tractors were decked out as well. The whole town got in on the fun.
The parade grew as it progressed, like a giant, costume-festooned conga line winding through the streets, as more and more people joined in. Music filled the air from the high school marching band, aided by those who brought along their instruments and played as they strolled. Impromptu sing-a-longs happened on every corner, and the shops that lined the main street through town stayed open until the wee hours, offering treats and specials to everyone who caravanned by.
Even though Bree spent most of the actual holiday inside the shop, baking, ringing up sales, and baking some more, she enjoyed looking out at the passing parade as she handed out treats. She loved the sense of community, of everyone she’d known her entire life coming together on one night to celebrate, sing, laugh, and have a good time. It was a no-pressure holiday. No gifts needed buying, no family ties needed testing. It was simply a night to play dress up, enjoy a few sweets, sing as loud as you liked, and dance until your feet gave out.
Bree spent all year planning her costume. Anticipating the holiday was as much fun as the event itself. She was always amazed at how fast the night flew by, and somehow, even though she’d been on her feet all day, the moment she and Sofia flipped the shop sign to CLOSED, Bree raced right out to join the happy throng. No matter how tired she was, the excitement, the music, the laughter always infused her with the energy to dance and sing long past the witching hour. The moment she recovered, she immediately set her sights on next year’s event.
Even when the shop was filled to bursting and she was certain this would be the year when they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the quickly depleting stock, she loved working side by side with her grandmother and her mom, too, when she and Bree’s dad happened to be in town. That occurred less and less often now, in the years since their only child had become an adult. Bree was already missing them both as this season approached. They’d barely returned from a summer trip to the Netherlands before heading off on another “gallivant,” as her grandmother called it. This time to the Galapagos Islands.
Bree missed her parents when they were gone—adulthood hadn’t changed that—but Sofia had always sent her daughter and son-in-law off with her love and full support, and Bree did the same. She was happy her parents were out in the world, doing what they loved, and joined Sofia in cheering them on as they each continued to celebrate greater successes in their respective fields.
In turn, after Bree had finished culinary school and, at her parent’s urging, agreed to a brief stint of formal pastry education in Italy, they’d respected their daughter’s decision to return home and work by her grandmother’s side, in the family bakeshop, happily content to remain in their small hometown.
Ultimately, as a family, they’d come to embrace that they were each doing what they were meant to do, and Bree held on to that. It had been her parents shared love of art that had brought them together in the first place, eventually leading to Bree’s existence in this world. Photographer Patrick O’Neill, passing through town while on a magazine assignment, had spied Carolina Bellaluna’s watercolors in the local gallery, which had led him to the bakeshop one fateful Halloween night. Well, fate might have had a little help from a certain Italian iced cookie. A Bellaluna Italian iced cookie.
Bree readily admitted to herself that her fascination with baking went hand in hand with her fascination regarding that other part of the Bellaluna family business. The magical part.
Bree worked hard, wanting Sofia to be proud to leave the bakeshop to her when the time came, knowing it would be in good, capable hands. Bree also knew that her nonna couldn’t possibly be truly content with that plan until her only granddaughter came into her own, fully realizing that special skill all Bellaluna women were born with. That one, very particular skill was the only one Bree had yet to master, and the only one that really mattered.
In truth, she wasn’t even close. And at twenty-nine, she was quite behind the curve compared to the Bellaluna women who had come before her.
“But no pressure,” she murmured as she slid out the final trays carrying the results of her most recent attempt to achieve that particular goal.
Every year for as long as she could remember, part of the Halloween excitement for Bree had been waiting to see if there would be another Bellaluna match. Bellaluna magic worked on any given day of the year, but it seemed especially potent around this particular holiday. As the hallowed eve neared, Bree would spend her days wondering who it would be, what fortunate soul was about to cross paths with their one true love.
She tried not to be discouraged that she, herself, rarely got it right. But Sofia knew. Bree’s mom would, too. Just as every Bellaluna woman who’d come before them would have known. Sofia and her mother had always explained that no spells were being cast, no enchantment bestowed. True love could not be made with magic.
However, from time to time, true love did require an extra little push. A sweet bit of magic could make certain orbits collide. . . so fate could then take its natural course.
Bree looked from the cooling racks on the worktable in front of her to the other tables that lined the kitchen in the back of the bakeshop, and scowled. The stainless-steel surfaces were filled with rack after rack of beautifully perfect, delicately iced cookies, each one representing a previous attempt. A previous failed attempt. Proof that she wasn’t joining the Bellaluna magic circle this year, either. She picked up one of the finished treats. “How can something that looks so good taste so bad?” She examined it more closely. As if somehow the naked eye could see what her taste buds had already discovered. And deeply regretted.
The cookie appeared to be perfect in every way, something she could proudly display in the old-fashioned glass case that ran the length of the front of the shop. Perfectly brown around the edges, plump in the middle, with a dollop of their special Italian cream icing spread evenly on top. A delicate array of sprinkles added the perfect final touch. It looked like a little piece of bite-sized heaven.
Bree had followed her grandma Sofia’s recipe down to the tiniest detail. The same recipe that Sofia had gotten from her mother, who’d gotten it from her mother, who’d gotten it from her own, and so on, for as far back as the Bellaluna family history had been recorded. But somehow, Bree had failed to perfect Bellaluna’s secret trademark treat. What was not to love about butter, sugar, and Italian cream?
She set down the finished cookie and picked up a newly cooled one, taking her time to ice it with exacting precision, adding the sprinkles so they glinted in delectable, sparkling perfection as they caught the overhead light. Bree studied it critically. It looked perfect. But then, the others had, too.
“Focus,” Bree murmured. She took a steadying breath, staring at the cookie as if she could infuse it with magic from sheer force of will. If determination could get her there, then surely, she was about to experience her long-awaited triumph. There simply wasn’t any way this cookie could be anything other than perfectly delicious.
“Be the magic,” she whispered before taking a determined, confident bite out of the soft, creamy cookie. She immediately grabbed a napkin and spit it right back out again. It tasted as if she’d used two cups of baking soda instead of cake flour. Disgusted, more with herself than the offending cookie, she tossed the napkin and its acrid contents in the trash, then glared at the remaining eleven on the most recently baked tray, as if they’d personally ganged up on her to dash her hopes and dreams. Again.
“Abriana mimma, I need you to cover the front for a few minutes,” her grandmother Sofia called as she pushed through the swinging door that separated the public part of the shop from the extensive kitchen area in the back. “Ah, cuore mia,” she said as she spied what her granddaughter had been up to. Sofia’s voice was still softly accented from a childhood spent in the sunflower fields of Tuscany.
Sofia was seventy-six, but had the timeless beauty of her namesake, Sophia Loren. Actually, Sofia Scicolone was the name the famed beauty had been born with. Bree’s grandmother had been quite a stunner herself, and like her famous counterpart, her beauty had only deepened with age. Sofia’s warmly hued skin still held a luminescent glow and remained remarkably free of creases and lines. Except for the ones that fanned out from the corners of her soft brown eyes when she smiled, which was often. She kept her hair the same rich brown she’d been born with, always styled in a pretty French twist, with carefully curled tendrils in front of each ear, accenting the cheekbones of her heart-shaped face. Her “vanity curls,” as she called them.
She wore little makeup other than eyebrow pencil and a bit of lipstick. She didn’t need anything more and never had. Her figure remained trim despite the fact that she never tired of sampling the treats the Bellaluna family had baked and sold for more than fifty years in Moonbright, and another generation or two before that in the old country.
Bree could only wish she’d been as fortunate in the gene pool lottery. She’d taken more after her Irish father in coloring, her hair somewhere between auburn and brown that never managed to capture the luster of either shade, with hazel eyes that couldn’t quite decide between being brown or gray, blue or green. Her pale skin was only remarkable for the bane of her existence, the freckles she’d never outgrown. They didn’t just sprinkle across her nose in some cute, perky, delightful pattern. No, they’d splashed themselves with gay abandon on every part of Bree’s body early on, and decided they were there to stay.
Along with her dad’s fair coloring, Bree had gotten her mother’s soft curves. Okay, maybe “soft” was just another way of saying slightly plump. It wasn’t from oversampling the wares. Bree had been born soft, and no amount of three-mile-a-day running or brisk cross-country skiing had ever changed that. Nor had the salads. So many salads. But whether it was the running, all that lettuce, or a gift from the gene pool fairy, Bree did enjoy good health. Something she reminded herself to be grateful for every time she tried to find a blouse that would button over her ample bosom or jeans that would slide up her equally curvy backside.
“I’ve told you not to worry yourself with this, mimma.” Sofia was a good six inches shorter than Bree’s five foot eight, so she gave Bree a little squeeze around the waist. “You must have patience. Your time will come, cuore mia.”
“Thirty is right there on the horizon,” Bree reminded her grandmother with a wry smile. Bree hugged her back and pressed her cheek to the top of Sofia’s perfectly coiffed head. “Now would be a good time.” Then her gaze returned to the racks of cookies, and she sighed. “Shouldn’t they at least taste good? They look perfect. And I tested each ingredient.”
Sofia tipped up on the toes of the sensible brown pumps she’d worn every day of her adult life and kissed Bree on the cheek, then immediately wiped off the lipstick print left behind with the handkerchief she kept tucked in her apron pocket. “Looks can be deceiving,” she told her granddaughter. “Bellaluna magic comes when it’s time, and your time will come. You know you cannot help true love along until you’ve seen it for yourself.”
“I’ve been in love,” Bree said, though not with much confidence. This was well-trodden territory and she really wasn’t up for the conversation again. “Maybe not the forever-and-ever kind,” she grudgingly admitted, “but certainly enough to know it when I see it.”
Sofia’s responding smile was both gentle and wise. “When you’ve known it, mimma, you can’t help but see it.” She squeezed Bree’s forearm. “It will happen when it’s meant to happen. You cannot rush it, nor can you force it.”
Bree nodded. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard these words. Far from. She still felt like a failure, and as the years passed, it was hard not to feel a certain pressure to push, to reach. Okay, maybe to try and force. But what else could she do? It wasn’t as if she could simply will herself to fall madly in love with the next guy who walked into the bakeshop.
Sofia untied her apron as she walked toward the back door of the shop. “I just have to run down to the pharmacy for a moment. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most.”
“Is anything wrong?” Bree asked, concern wrinkling her brow as she was immediately pulled from her thoughts. Sofia might look and behave like a woman a good decade younger than her actual age, but time didn’t sit still. Bree had long ago promised her mother she’d keep watch over the woman they both loved so deeply, each of them knowing Sofia would never be one to complain.
Sofia waved away Bree’s concern. “I promised Janice Powell I’d help her pick out some lipstick and nail color for the cruise Hank surprised her with on their tenth anniversary last week.” She slipped a tube of lipstick out of her purse and took a moment to refresh the pretty rose color using the tiny locket-style mirror that she’d clipped onto the cap.
“Nice gift,” Bree said approvingly.
“Isn’t it, though?” Sofia agreed. “He even dropped by and picked up a box of profiteroles to go with the tickets. Given this is where they first met, it was a lovely touch.”
Bree nodded, knowing full well that the Powells were just one of the many couples who had fallen in love after meeting at Bellaluna’s Bakeshop. Their bakery had quite a reputation for that, in fact, though no one suspected there might be something more than chance at play. Sofia took a certain proprietary joy in the ongoing happiness of the couples she’d helped to match, as Bree supposed she should. What a marvelous thing it must be, to play even a small part in sparking one of the most important, magical moments in a person’s life. She carried her latest stack of bowls and spatulas to the big industrial sink, lost in her thoughts.
“Excuse me,” came a deep voice from the doorway. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“I’ll be right out,” Bree said automatically without turning to look. She lowered the stack into the sink and set them down. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she added, a cheery note in her voice. She washed her hands, then looked at her grandmother as she straightened and dried them off with a fresh towel. “I’ve got it. Go on ahead. I’ll clean up back here after you return. Tell Mrs. Powell I said hello.”
But Sofia had already stepped past her granddaughter and was waving for the gentleman to join them in the back. “Come in, come in,” Sofia said. “I’m so glad you could stop by.”
Confused now, Bree turned as a tall man with a shock of dark curls stepped fully into the kitchen. His pale-green button-up and khaki trousers accentuated his lean, fit frame. With all those curls, though, it wasn’t until he glanced at Bree that she noticed he wore glasses. Glasses that framed the softest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She’d never thought of blue as a warm color until that moment. In fact, she felt all kinds of warmth when a slow, quiet smile curved his lips. Which was odd. Wild curls, soft eyes, and a sweet smile weren’t usually the kind of things that caught her attention where men were concerned. Well, that’s definitely not true any longer.
“I know you told me to knock at the back door,” he said, that deep voice something of a surprise when contrasted with his low-key demeanor and studious appearance. Well, except for those curls. And who knew rimless glasses could be kind of sexy?
Bree realized she was curling her fingers into the palm of her hand to curb the sudden desire to walk over and sink them into that riot of black silk. Maybe steam up those glasses a bit while she was at it. Which made no sense at all. She wasn’t normally taken with wild manes any more than she was button-down shirts and professorial spectacles. Maybe it was the contrast of all those things combined in one guy . . . with a voice that could seduce a nun. Or her, at least.
“I thought it might be best to introduce myself out front,” he finished.
Bree looked from the man to her grandmother, brow lifting in question. What was Sofia up to now? Swallowing an inward groan, Bree silently prayed this was not her grandmother’s latest setup for a date.
“Nonsense,” Sofia told him. “We’re all shopkeepers here. And cooks, too. Kitchen is home to us, and my guess it is to you as well.” She gestured with one hand, her smile warm and sincere. “Welcome to our home.” She turned to Bree, beaming with pride. “Meet my granddaughter. Abriana Bellaluna O’Neill, my only grandchild and dearest love. Cuore mia.”
“Nonna,” Bree whispered, a bit abashed by the grandiose introduction, though it was pure Sofia, who unapologetically wore her heart on her sleeve.
Sofia merely smiled at Bree and said, “Abriana, this is Caleb Dimitriou. He’s taking over his uncle’s restaurant over on Vine while they are out of the country. You know George Castellanos, of course,” she went on. “Caleb is his wife Alethea’s nephew.”
“Ah,” Bree said, and looked back at Caleb, her welcoming smile also sincere, and perhaps more than a little relieved. He was a temporary guest, so this wasn’t a setup. “Welcome to Moonbright. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope your aunt and uncle are okay and it’s a pleasure trip?” She glanced at Sofia again with a questioning look. It was unusual in a town their size that she hadn’t heard this news already.
“They’re fine,” Caleb responded. “Thank you for asking.” His smile broadened just enough to add a bit of a twinkle to his eyes.
Bree felt herself all but leaning toward him, as if invited to join in whatever might be behind that sudden infusion of affectionate amusement. Get a grip, she silently schooled herself, wondering what on earth had gotten into her. The guy was talking about his aunt and uncle, for goodness sake. Not coming on to her. Tell that to your parts that are ready, willing, and oh so very able if he suddenly decides to do just that.
“It is,” he replied. “A long-awaited one. Their honeymoon, actually.” At her surprised look, he added, “They married young and didn’t have the means then. As you probably know, my aunt and uncle never had children of their own, so work was pretty much their passion as well. They each love what they do for a living.” His expression warmed. “Of course, Uncle George believes that working hard at something you love is its own reward. My aunt Alethea, however, feels that you should love your work, yes, but should be working toward the reward. Eventually she got George to agree that as soon as one or the other of them was able to retire, she’d finally get her honeymoon. George promised they’d go to Greece for an extended holiday. See family on both sides, explore, relax for once.”
“Alethea retired last month,” Sofia told Bree, “after more than thirty-five years as a nurse.” She beamed at Caleb. “Long overdue, but something of a surprise, too. At least to her closest friends. She never mentioned she’d made the decision, just announced one day when we were playing cards that she’d already up and done it. I’m so glad George was able to live up to his end of their little bargain.” She glanced at Bree, then back to Caleb. “And I’m so pleased you were able to come.”
“It’s really nice that you’re able to do that for them,” Bree said. “I’m sure they both appreciate it a great deal. So, you’re here temporarily, then?” She’d included that last part for Sofia’s benefit. She hadn’t missed her grandmother’s glance between them and didn’t need her getting any ideas.
“Our family is a bit sprawling,” Caleb replied. “We don’t see each other as often as we’d like.” His smile was back, with a flash of white teeth this time. “Which might be a good thing. We can be rather, uh, boisterous.”
Even that brief flash made her heart flutter . . . and a few other places as well. Bree told herself it was the love and respect that shone from his eyes when he spoke of his family. She identified strongly with that deep, familial bond. Surely that was the reason for this over-the-top reaction she was having to him. Uh-huh.
“I come from a long line of chefs,” he went on, then looked to Sofia. “Cooks,” he amended with a smile. “You are right about kitchens being our home. Not even our second home where some of us are concerned,” he added, that twinkle flickering again. “My siblings and I spend more time at the restaurant than we do anywhere else. My sister actually lives above our restaurant. She converted what used to be unused storage space into a pretty decent apartment.” He flashed a full-on grin then. “We’ve all been known to bunk up there from time to time.”
“You’ve got feeding people in your blood,” Sofia said, “so of course that is home for you.” She nodded, as if that were that. And for Sofia and Bree, it was. Caleb, too, so it seemed.
Bree had just never really thought of it like that before. At the moment she was still busy being blindsided by the transformation to his handsome face when he grinned like that. She hadn’t expected to see such strong hints of alpha hidden behind those rimless spectacles and sweet smile.
Caleb had also nodded in agreement with Sofia’s proclamation, and Bree noticed his shoulders relaxed a bit, as did his stance, as if he’d found his people. She understood that, too. She could walk into any kitchen and feel at home. Finding someone who shared her feelings and connection to both family and food was new, though.
“We’ve got chefs and restaurant owners in pretty much every branch of our family tree,” Caleb said. “Our crazy hours make traveling to see each other a challenge, but for something like this, you find a way.”
“How long are George and Alethea planning to be gone?” Bree asked, telling herself she was staying on that topic just to make certain Sofia would see, unequivocally, that nothing could happen between them. Mmm-hmm.
“They’ve planned for a six-week stay,” he replied.
“Wow,” Bree said, having assumed it would be for a week or two at the most. “That sounds pretty wonderful.” And far, far too long to chance seeing you around town. If she was reacting to this simple introduction like a woman starved for a little attention, she didn’t want to contemplate how she’d handle repeated exposure.
“When you’ve waited as long as they have for a honeymoon, it seems about right,” he said with sincere affection, his gaze then shifting exclusively to her.
“You’re doing a really nice thing for them,” Bree said, trying not to sound breathless. He might look professorial with that mane and those glasses, but that deep blue gaze didn’t feel remotely. . . academic.
Sofia walked over to him. “George tells me you and your siblings have built up quite the place in Philadelphia. Coming all this way for such a long period couldn’t have been easy to arrange.” She took his hand and covered it with her own, giving him a pat. “You’re good to your family,” she said. “That’s a lovely thing. They must be very proud of you.”
Bree watched as a light flush c. . .
Abriana—Bree to everyone except her grandma Sofia—loved this time of year. The harvest season was ending, the leaves on the trees were a rainbow of beautiful colors, swirling in the air like party confetti, celebrating the commencement of the holiday season. Temperatures had dipped, the sounds of logs being split echoed in the crisp morning air, and smoke wafted from chimney tops as fireplaces warmed the hearths in their cozy, little village. Sweaters were pulled out of storage, gloves were fished out of coat closets, and Bree could feel the excitement begin to build as everyone’s thoughts turned toward the celebrations to come.
Thanksgiving, then Christmas, New Year’s, and finally, Valentine’s Day kept things rolling along at the bakeshop, each holiday a festive, busy time for them, filled with traditions and joy. But for the residents of Moonbright, none was as festive and eagerly anticipated as the holiday that launched the season: Halloween.
There were parties, costume contests, and all of her friends and neighbors would outdo themselves decorating their yards for the wee ones who would be out on the trick-or-treating trail. The most anticipated part of the celebration, however, and what drew far-flung family members and tourists alike to their little coastal town, was Moonbright’s grand Halloween parade. And, oh, how grand it was!
Every man, woman, and child—and a fair number of household pets to boot—dressed up in costumes that ranged from rudimentary, handmade creations by the very youngest, to elaborate concoctions for some of the grown-ups that would have been right at home on a Hollywood movie set. Floats were made, and cars, firetrucks, along with a few tractors were decked out as well. The whole town got in on the fun.
The parade grew as it progressed, like a giant, costume-festooned conga line winding through the streets, as more and more people joined in. Music filled the air from the high school marching band, aided by those who brought along their instruments and played as they strolled. Impromptu sing-a-longs happened on every corner, and the shops that lined the main street through town stayed open until the wee hours, offering treats and specials to everyone who caravanned by.
Even though Bree spent most of the actual holiday inside the shop, baking, ringing up sales, and baking some more, she enjoyed looking out at the passing parade as she handed out treats. She loved the sense of community, of everyone she’d known her entire life coming together on one night to celebrate, sing, laugh, and have a good time. It was a no-pressure holiday. No gifts needed buying, no family ties needed testing. It was simply a night to play dress up, enjoy a few sweets, sing as loud as you liked, and dance until your feet gave out.
Bree spent all year planning her costume. Anticipating the holiday was as much fun as the event itself. She was always amazed at how fast the night flew by, and somehow, even though she’d been on her feet all day, the moment she and Sofia flipped the shop sign to CLOSED, Bree raced right out to join the happy throng. No matter how tired she was, the excitement, the music, the laughter always infused her with the energy to dance and sing long past the witching hour. The moment she recovered, she immediately set her sights on next year’s event.
Even when the shop was filled to bursting and she was certain this would be the year when they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the quickly depleting stock, she loved working side by side with her grandmother and her mom, too, when she and Bree’s dad happened to be in town. That occurred less and less often now, in the years since their only child had become an adult. Bree was already missing them both as this season approached. They’d barely returned from a summer trip to the Netherlands before heading off on another “gallivant,” as her grandmother called it. This time to the Galapagos Islands.
Bree missed her parents when they were gone—adulthood hadn’t changed that—but Sofia had always sent her daughter and son-in-law off with her love and full support, and Bree did the same. She was happy her parents were out in the world, doing what they loved, and joined Sofia in cheering them on as they each continued to celebrate greater successes in their respective fields.
In turn, after Bree had finished culinary school and, at her parent’s urging, agreed to a brief stint of formal pastry education in Italy, they’d respected their daughter’s decision to return home and work by her grandmother’s side, in the family bakeshop, happily content to remain in their small hometown.
Ultimately, as a family, they’d come to embrace that they were each doing what they were meant to do, and Bree held on to that. It had been her parents shared love of art that had brought them together in the first place, eventually leading to Bree’s existence in this world. Photographer Patrick O’Neill, passing through town while on a magazine assignment, had spied Carolina Bellaluna’s watercolors in the local gallery, which had led him to the bakeshop one fateful Halloween night. Well, fate might have had a little help from a certain Italian iced cookie. A Bellaluna Italian iced cookie.
Bree readily admitted to herself that her fascination with baking went hand in hand with her fascination regarding that other part of the Bellaluna family business. The magical part.
Bree worked hard, wanting Sofia to be proud to leave the bakeshop to her when the time came, knowing it would be in good, capable hands. Bree also knew that her nonna couldn’t possibly be truly content with that plan until her only granddaughter came into her own, fully realizing that special skill all Bellaluna women were born with. That one, very particular skill was the only one Bree had yet to master, and the only one that really mattered.
In truth, she wasn’t even close. And at twenty-nine, she was quite behind the curve compared to the Bellaluna women who had come before her.
“But no pressure,” she murmured as she slid out the final trays carrying the results of her most recent attempt to achieve that particular goal.
Every year for as long as she could remember, part of the Halloween excitement for Bree had been waiting to see if there would be another Bellaluna match. Bellaluna magic worked on any given day of the year, but it seemed especially potent around this particular holiday. As the hallowed eve neared, Bree would spend her days wondering who it would be, what fortunate soul was about to cross paths with their one true love.
She tried not to be discouraged that she, herself, rarely got it right. But Sofia knew. Bree’s mom would, too. Just as every Bellaluna woman who’d come before them would have known. Sofia and her mother had always explained that no spells were being cast, no enchantment bestowed. True love could not be made with magic.
However, from time to time, true love did require an extra little push. A sweet bit of magic could make certain orbits collide. . . so fate could then take its natural course.
Bree looked from the cooling racks on the worktable in front of her to the other tables that lined the kitchen in the back of the bakeshop, and scowled. The stainless-steel surfaces were filled with rack after rack of beautifully perfect, delicately iced cookies, each one representing a previous attempt. A previous failed attempt. Proof that she wasn’t joining the Bellaluna magic circle this year, either. She picked up one of the finished treats. “How can something that looks so good taste so bad?” She examined it more closely. As if somehow the naked eye could see what her taste buds had already discovered. And deeply regretted.
The cookie appeared to be perfect in every way, something she could proudly display in the old-fashioned glass case that ran the length of the front of the shop. Perfectly brown around the edges, plump in the middle, with a dollop of their special Italian cream icing spread evenly on top. A delicate array of sprinkles added the perfect final touch. It looked like a little piece of bite-sized heaven.
Bree had followed her grandma Sofia’s recipe down to the tiniest detail. The same recipe that Sofia had gotten from her mother, who’d gotten it from her mother, who’d gotten it from her own, and so on, for as far back as the Bellaluna family history had been recorded. But somehow, Bree had failed to perfect Bellaluna’s secret trademark treat. What was not to love about butter, sugar, and Italian cream?
She set down the finished cookie and picked up a newly cooled one, taking her time to ice it with exacting precision, adding the sprinkles so they glinted in delectable, sparkling perfection as they caught the overhead light. Bree studied it critically. It looked perfect. But then, the others had, too.
“Focus,” Bree murmured. She took a steadying breath, staring at the cookie as if she could infuse it with magic from sheer force of will. If determination could get her there, then surely, she was about to experience her long-awaited triumph. There simply wasn’t any way this cookie could be anything other than perfectly delicious.
“Be the magic,” she whispered before taking a determined, confident bite out of the soft, creamy cookie. She immediately grabbed a napkin and spit it right back out again. It tasted as if she’d used two cups of baking soda instead of cake flour. Disgusted, more with herself than the offending cookie, she tossed the napkin and its acrid contents in the trash, then glared at the remaining eleven on the most recently baked tray, as if they’d personally ganged up on her to dash her hopes and dreams. Again.
“Abriana mimma, I need you to cover the front for a few minutes,” her grandmother Sofia called as she pushed through the swinging door that separated the public part of the shop from the extensive kitchen area in the back. “Ah, cuore mia,” she said as she spied what her granddaughter had been up to. Sofia’s voice was still softly accented from a childhood spent in the sunflower fields of Tuscany.
Sofia was seventy-six, but had the timeless beauty of her namesake, Sophia Loren. Actually, Sofia Scicolone was the name the famed beauty had been born with. Bree’s grandmother had been quite a stunner herself, and like her famous counterpart, her beauty had only deepened with age. Sofia’s warmly hued skin still held a luminescent glow and remained remarkably free of creases and lines. Except for the ones that fanned out from the corners of her soft brown eyes when she smiled, which was often. She kept her hair the same rich brown she’d been born with, always styled in a pretty French twist, with carefully curled tendrils in front of each ear, accenting the cheekbones of her heart-shaped face. Her “vanity curls,” as she called them.
She wore little makeup other than eyebrow pencil and a bit of lipstick. She didn’t need anything more and never had. Her figure remained trim despite the fact that she never tired of sampling the treats the Bellaluna family had baked and sold for more than fifty years in Moonbright, and another generation or two before that in the old country.
Bree could only wish she’d been as fortunate in the gene pool lottery. She’d taken more after her Irish father in coloring, her hair somewhere between auburn and brown that never managed to capture the luster of either shade, with hazel eyes that couldn’t quite decide between being brown or gray, blue or green. Her pale skin was only remarkable for the bane of her existence, the freckles she’d never outgrown. They didn’t just sprinkle across her nose in some cute, perky, delightful pattern. No, they’d splashed themselves with gay abandon on every part of Bree’s body early on, and decided they were there to stay.
Along with her dad’s fair coloring, Bree had gotten her mother’s soft curves. Okay, maybe “soft” was just another way of saying slightly plump. It wasn’t from oversampling the wares. Bree had been born soft, and no amount of three-mile-a-day running or brisk cross-country skiing had ever changed that. Nor had the salads. So many salads. But whether it was the running, all that lettuce, or a gift from the gene pool fairy, Bree did enjoy good health. Something she reminded herself to be grateful for every time she tried to find a blouse that would button over her ample bosom or jeans that would slide up her equally curvy backside.
“I’ve told you not to worry yourself with this, mimma.” Sofia was a good six inches shorter than Bree’s five foot eight, so she gave Bree a little squeeze around the waist. “You must have patience. Your time will come, cuore mia.”
“Thirty is right there on the horizon,” Bree reminded her grandmother with a wry smile. Bree hugged her back and pressed her cheek to the top of Sofia’s perfectly coiffed head. “Now would be a good time.” Then her gaze returned to the racks of cookies, and she sighed. “Shouldn’t they at least taste good? They look perfect. And I tested each ingredient.”
Sofia tipped up on the toes of the sensible brown pumps she’d worn every day of her adult life and kissed Bree on the cheek, then immediately wiped off the lipstick print left behind with the handkerchief she kept tucked in her apron pocket. “Looks can be deceiving,” she told her granddaughter. “Bellaluna magic comes when it’s time, and your time will come. You know you cannot help true love along until you’ve seen it for yourself.”
“I’ve been in love,” Bree said, though not with much confidence. This was well-trodden territory and she really wasn’t up for the conversation again. “Maybe not the forever-and-ever kind,” she grudgingly admitted, “but certainly enough to know it when I see it.”
Sofia’s responding smile was both gentle and wise. “When you’ve known it, mimma, you can’t help but see it.” She squeezed Bree’s forearm. “It will happen when it’s meant to happen. You cannot rush it, nor can you force it.”
Bree nodded. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard these words. Far from. She still felt like a failure, and as the years passed, it was hard not to feel a certain pressure to push, to reach. Okay, maybe to try and force. But what else could she do? It wasn’t as if she could simply will herself to fall madly in love with the next guy who walked into the bakeshop.
Sofia untied her apron as she walked toward the back door of the shop. “I just have to run down to the pharmacy for a moment. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most.”
“Is anything wrong?” Bree asked, concern wrinkling her brow as she was immediately pulled from her thoughts. Sofia might look and behave like a woman a good decade younger than her actual age, but time didn’t sit still. Bree had long ago promised her mother she’d keep watch over the woman they both loved so deeply, each of them knowing Sofia would never be one to complain.
Sofia waved away Bree’s concern. “I promised Janice Powell I’d help her pick out some lipstick and nail color for the cruise Hank surprised her with on their tenth anniversary last week.” She slipped a tube of lipstick out of her purse and took a moment to refresh the pretty rose color using the tiny locket-style mirror that she’d clipped onto the cap.
“Nice gift,” Bree said approvingly.
“Isn’t it, though?” Sofia agreed. “He even dropped by and picked up a box of profiteroles to go with the tickets. Given this is where they first met, it was a lovely touch.”
Bree nodded, knowing full well that the Powells were just one of the many couples who had fallen in love after meeting at Bellaluna’s Bakeshop. Their bakery had quite a reputation for that, in fact, though no one suspected there might be something more than chance at play. Sofia took a certain proprietary joy in the ongoing happiness of the couples she’d helped to match, as Bree supposed she should. What a marvelous thing it must be, to play even a small part in sparking one of the most important, magical moments in a person’s life. She carried her latest stack of bowls and spatulas to the big industrial sink, lost in her thoughts.
“Excuse me,” came a deep voice from the doorway. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“I’ll be right out,” Bree said automatically without turning to look. She lowered the stack into the sink and set them down. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she added, a cheery note in her voice. She washed her hands, then looked at her grandmother as she straightened and dried them off with a fresh towel. “I’ve got it. Go on ahead. I’ll clean up back here after you return. Tell Mrs. Powell I said hello.”
But Sofia had already stepped past her granddaughter and was waving for the gentleman to join them in the back. “Come in, come in,” Sofia said. “I’m so glad you could stop by.”
Confused now, Bree turned as a tall man with a shock of dark curls stepped fully into the kitchen. His pale-green button-up and khaki trousers accentuated his lean, fit frame. With all those curls, though, it wasn’t until he glanced at Bree that she noticed he wore glasses. Glasses that framed the softest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She’d never thought of blue as a warm color until that moment. In fact, she felt all kinds of warmth when a slow, quiet smile curved his lips. Which was odd. Wild curls, soft eyes, and a sweet smile weren’t usually the kind of things that caught her attention where men were concerned. Well, that’s definitely not true any longer.
“I know you told me to knock at the back door,” he said, that deep voice something of a surprise when contrasted with his low-key demeanor and studious appearance. Well, except for those curls. And who knew rimless glasses could be kind of sexy?
Bree realized she was curling her fingers into the palm of her hand to curb the sudden desire to walk over and sink them into that riot of black silk. Maybe steam up those glasses a bit while she was at it. Which made no sense at all. She wasn’t normally taken with wild manes any more than she was button-down shirts and professorial spectacles. Maybe it was the contrast of all those things combined in one guy . . . with a voice that could seduce a nun. Or her, at least.
“I thought it might be best to introduce myself out front,” he finished.
Bree looked from the man to her grandmother, brow lifting in question. What was Sofia up to now? Swallowing an inward groan, Bree silently prayed this was not her grandmother’s latest setup for a date.
“Nonsense,” Sofia told him. “We’re all shopkeepers here. And cooks, too. Kitchen is home to us, and my guess it is to you as well.” She gestured with one hand, her smile warm and sincere. “Welcome to our home.” She turned to Bree, beaming with pride. “Meet my granddaughter. Abriana Bellaluna O’Neill, my only grandchild and dearest love. Cuore mia.”
“Nonna,” Bree whispered, a bit abashed by the grandiose introduction, though it was pure Sofia, who unapologetically wore her heart on her sleeve.
Sofia merely smiled at Bree and said, “Abriana, this is Caleb Dimitriou. He’s taking over his uncle’s restaurant over on Vine while they are out of the country. You know George Castellanos, of course,” she went on. “Caleb is his wife Alethea’s nephew.”
“Ah,” Bree said, and looked back at Caleb, her welcoming smile also sincere, and perhaps more than a little relieved. He was a temporary guest, so this wasn’t a setup. “Welcome to Moonbright. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope your aunt and uncle are okay and it’s a pleasure trip?” She glanced at Sofia again with a questioning look. It was unusual in a town their size that she hadn’t heard this news already.
“They’re fine,” Caleb responded. “Thank you for asking.” His smile broadened just enough to add a bit of a twinkle to his eyes.
Bree felt herself all but leaning toward him, as if invited to join in whatever might be behind that sudden infusion of affectionate amusement. Get a grip, she silently schooled herself, wondering what on earth had gotten into her. The guy was talking about his aunt and uncle, for goodness sake. Not coming on to her. Tell that to your parts that are ready, willing, and oh so very able if he suddenly decides to do just that.
“It is,” he replied. “A long-awaited one. Their honeymoon, actually.” At her surprised look, he added, “They married young and didn’t have the means then. As you probably know, my aunt and uncle never had children of their own, so work was pretty much their passion as well. They each love what they do for a living.” His expression warmed. “Of course, Uncle George believes that working hard at something you love is its own reward. My aunt Alethea, however, feels that you should love your work, yes, but should be working toward the reward. Eventually she got George to agree that as soon as one or the other of them was able to retire, she’d finally get her honeymoon. George promised they’d go to Greece for an extended holiday. See family on both sides, explore, relax for once.”
“Alethea retired last month,” Sofia told Bree, “after more than thirty-five years as a nurse.” She beamed at Caleb. “Long overdue, but something of a surprise, too. At least to her closest friends. She never mentioned she’d made the decision, just announced one day when we were playing cards that she’d already up and done it. I’m so glad George was able to live up to his end of their little bargain.” She glanced at Bree, then back to Caleb. “And I’m so pleased you were able to come.”
“It’s really nice that you’re able to do that for them,” Bree said. “I’m sure they both appreciate it a great deal. So, you’re here temporarily, then?” She’d included that last part for Sofia’s benefit. She hadn’t missed her grandmother’s glance between them and didn’t need her getting any ideas.
“Our family is a bit sprawling,” Caleb replied. “We don’t see each other as often as we’d like.” His smile was back, with a flash of white teeth this time. “Which might be a good thing. We can be rather, uh, boisterous.”
Even that brief flash made her heart flutter . . . and a few other places as well. Bree told herself it was the love and respect that shone from his eyes when he spoke of his family. She identified strongly with that deep, familial bond. Surely that was the reason for this over-the-top reaction she was having to him. Uh-huh.
“I come from a long line of chefs,” he went on, then looked to Sofia. “Cooks,” he amended with a smile. “You are right about kitchens being our home. Not even our second home where some of us are concerned,” he added, that twinkle flickering again. “My siblings and I spend more time at the restaurant than we do anywhere else. My sister actually lives above our restaurant. She converted what used to be unused storage space into a pretty decent apartment.” He flashed a full-on grin then. “We’ve all been known to bunk up there from time to time.”
“You’ve got feeding people in your blood,” Sofia said, “so of course that is home for you.” She nodded, as if that were that. And for Sofia and Bree, it was. Caleb, too, so it seemed.
Bree had just never really thought of it like that before. At the moment she was still busy being blindsided by the transformation to his handsome face when he grinned like that. She hadn’t expected to see such strong hints of alpha hidden behind those rimless spectacles and sweet smile.
Caleb had also nodded in agreement with Sofia’s proclamation, and Bree noticed his shoulders relaxed a bit, as did his stance, as if he’d found his people. She understood that, too. She could walk into any kitchen and feel at home. Finding someone who shared her feelings and connection to both family and food was new, though.
“We’ve got chefs and restaurant owners in pretty much every branch of our family tree,” Caleb said. “Our crazy hours make traveling to see each other a challenge, but for something like this, you find a way.”
“How long are George and Alethea planning to be gone?” Bree asked, telling herself she was staying on that topic just to make certain Sofia would see, unequivocally, that nothing could happen between them. Mmm-hmm.
“They’ve planned for a six-week stay,” he replied.
“Wow,” Bree said, having assumed it would be for a week or two at the most. “That sounds pretty wonderful.” And far, far too long to chance seeing you around town. If she was reacting to this simple introduction like a woman starved for a little attention, she didn’t want to contemplate how she’d handle repeated exposure.
“When you’ve waited as long as they have for a honeymoon, it seems about right,” he said with sincere affection, his gaze then shifting exclusively to her.
“You’re doing a really nice thing for them,” Bree said, trying not to sound breathless. He might look professorial with that mane and those glasses, but that deep blue gaze didn’t feel remotely. . . academic.
Sofia walked over to him. “George tells me you and your siblings have built up quite the place in Philadelphia. Coming all this way for such a long period couldn’t have been easy to arrange.” She took his hand and covered it with her own, giving him a pat. “You’re good to your family,” she said. “That’s a lovely thing. They must be very proud of you.”
Bree watched as a light flush c. . .
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The Bakeshop at Pumpkin and Spice
Donna Kauffman
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