Chapter THREE-PENELOPE

September was my favorite month out of the entire year.

It was my mother’s birth month, and she used to always celebrate by baking special goodies with me.

It’s where I learned and honed my love of baking. So, no, I would not let this rotten sonovabitch ruin it for me.

Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes and listened to my ex whine and threaten me with more legal bullshit.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I snapped, unable to keep silent any longer.

“It’s only fair, Pig Pen,” Burt, my ex-husband, said in that whiny voice of his that actually made me sick.

“Don’t call me that,” I said, hating the nickname even more now that we weren’t married any longer.

“Well, I guess I will see you in court then,” he replied.

I looked down at the letter in my hand. The one he’d sent requesting I give him copies of all my business tax returns, demanding half my earnings. The prick was claiming he had a right to take what I gave my blood, sweat, and tears to build.

Over my dead body.

“I guess you will. And Burt? Tell your lawyer my name is Penelope Abruzzi. Not Downs.”

“Pig Pen, you couldn’t have possibly changed your name back already.”

“It’s Penelope. And actually, I changed it back as soon as you had me served with divorce papers you cheating piece of shit.”

“Look, I married her, so it was hardly cheating.”

“Burt, you fucked her while we were still married. That’s cheating. Oh, and one more thing, Burt.”

“This conversation is boring, Pig Pen. What?”

“Screw you!” I shouted and slammed my cell phone down on the counter.

I tried not to cringe at the telltale crack I heard as soon as the infuriating hunk of plastic connected with the unforgiving granite countertop.

Jerk.

My ex was not worth the money it would cost to repair the dumb thing. I was sure it wouldn’t be the last time I’d bang my cell phone because of him.

Burt the Dirtbag was an absolute turd.

No, he was lower than that. He was a complete waste of space. A blight on humanity. A total fucking dickwad.

“Uh oh, what did I miss?” Avery asked, coming in late as usual.

“What’s wrong?” I asked my best friend.

“Where should I start? How about with back when I, with what I thought was the approval and support of my now ex-husband⁠—”

“Burt the Dirtbag,” Avery helpfully supplied.

“—decided to open a bakery,” I continued, “I knew I would be the one doing the heavy lifting. I would take out the loans. Paying them back. Using every cent I had earned and received from my parents’ will, after paying off his medical school first, of course,” I snarled.

“I still can’t believe he let you pay for his med school,” Avery murmured in appalled agreement.

It was all true. I worked hard so that my husband could fulfill his dreams of becoming a doctor.

I didn’t grow up poor, but we weren’t rich either. I was the granddaughter of Mario Abruzzi, who once ran the famous Mario’s Bake Shop over on Spring Street in Little Italy over in New York City.

My father didn’t take after his, instead, he moved to the suburbs and had a small but successful car dealership for a little while. Mom was the baker in our house.

I only met Grandpa Mario once, years ago. I remember he was kind and smelled sweet, like almond paste and raspberries. Dad always said I took after him. But I liked to think it was my mom I took after.

Oh Mom, I should have listened to you.

She never liked Burt. Anyway, both my parents had retired a while back. They’d lived the last few years of their lives in a retirement community in Pompano Beach.

They passed last year within a week of each other, and now that the ink on my divorce was dry, it was official.

I was the last Abruzzi.

There was no one left.

I was utterly and completely alone.

“Um, hello? Best friend here,” Avery scoffed.

Shit. I must have said all that aloud.

“Yeah, and you’re still doing it, Pretty Penny. Now, what did Dirtbag want?”

“Oh, the usual. Just every bit of my money and my sanity,” I mumbled.

I nodded for Avery to don a chef’s coat and cap before she sat down in the commercial kitchen.

My bestie did it without complaint, knowing the drill well.

Avery worked as a nurse for the Dry Creek Elementary School here in town, which was just a couple of streets over.

Pretty convenient for these little tête-à-têtes.

Her daughter, Rosalie, attended school there. My honorary niece was just six years old, and every bit as sweet as her name. Her father was on the Northeastern rodeo circuit and had been MIA for five years now.

That loser had skipped town before Rosie could walk. It was likely better for them both, only now, I’d say he owed about a bazillion dollars in child support.

Rosalie deserved better from that man, but what she missed in a father she made up for in a mom and me, her Aunt Penny.

That was another thing I would never have now. Children of my own. Pain from acknowledging that lack was so great sometimes, I swore I could feel it way down deep inside my heart.

Like this enormous vacuum existed inside of me because of it. Sometimes, when I was alone, I wept for the mother I would never become.

Fuck you, Burt.

Betrayal was never an easy thing to face. But I had no choice. He didn’t tell me he didn’t want kids until after we were married for over a year.

At first, I thought it was because of med school and me working three jobs to make ends meet. But later, he said he just didn’t want them. I was shocked, of course. And now, well, now I was getting older, and my prospects were slim.

Sure, I could try a sperm bank. But I didn’t just want children.

I wanted a family.

A husband who loved me and would be a good dad.

Like mine was.

Shit.

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hands. I swore I wouldn’t do this today.

“Oh, Penny. Look, I know Burt is flexing his power right now. Ex wife. New wife. New partnership. But he doesn’t deserve a piece of this bakery. And he sure as fuck is not entitled to your peace of mind. Come on. You know that, right?”

“I know. I am just so sick of it. The fighting, the lawyers,” I moaned.

“I know you are, and I get it. But you can’t let him win. Burt is not getting a single sprinkle from this place! If he even tries to take it, I’m gonna enforce rule 76 of Girl Club!” she shouted.

“What’s that one again?” I asked and sniffed. Girl Club was a club that Avery and I started back in middle school.

“Penny! You know what it is, I am gonna put ipecac in his cupcakes! That two-timing dumb ass won’t know what hit him!”

I snorted a laugh, and Avery grinned. It was the same mischievous smile she used to make back when we were teenagers cutting class to sneak off to a carnival or the Cow Country Rodeo whenever it was in the area.

Those sure were the good old days. Before life got so crappy and complicated. Before husbands and deadbeats tried to get the better of us.

“Oh, um, Penny? Your ordering system is beeping,” Avery pointed out, and I groaned.

I had no gift for technology.

Or relationships, apparently.

I needed to focus on the positives. Business was good, and that was all that mattered, I supposed.

“What does this mean?” I moaned, trying to make heads or tails of the order that just came in.

“Let me see,” Avery said and chuckled at my expense.

“Oh, looks like you got an online order for some cupcakes for Wednesday night and the buyer is going to pick them up at six.”

“Perfect. Right at closing,” I mumbled and rolled my eyes.

I knew I shouldn’t complain about having more clients, but still, it wasn’t called Hump Day for no reason. Wednesdays were typically my Netflix and chill days.

Always the slowest day of the week, I usually only had my cashier work half a day and closed early. But this customer wanted me to stay open all the way till six just for him or her. I couldn’t tell which. The name on the order said MCR, whatever the fuck that meant.

Whatever.

One late night at the bakery wouldn’t kill me. Besides, Netflix would wait.