Butter & Bloom, Part 1

Chapter 1: Butter & Bloom

Author's Note: This is Part 1 of a 2 part series.

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It was early when Nora Bixby arrived at the café.

She got out of her aged Honda Civic, her prized possession since she graduated from high school and stretched her arms high into the air. Cool air licked at her soft stomach and the joints of her shoulders creaked. She stifled a yawn and reached back into her car, grabbing her purse and the keys from the ignition; and felt her stomach crease over the waistband of her pants. She let out an audible “oof” as she righted herself.

She pushed the car door closed, which it did under protest with an ominous creak. “We’re getting old, Bessie.” Nora, who was still in her twenties, said aloud, patting the car on the hood as she turned and headed towards the café entrance.

Nora hitched her purse over her shoulder and tucked a loose strand of chestnut brown hair back behind her ear and stared skyward. The canvas overhead was a purple-black, the stars were still twinkling, and the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon. Most of the people in town were still fast asleep—and Nora wished she was still one of them.

‘Guess that’s what you get when you drop out of college and have to start working.’ She thought to herself. Nora spun her keys in her hand, her thumb ran through the keyring until she found the one she wanted.

The key slid home. The lock gave a satisfying click, and Nora hauled the heavy door to the back of the café open. Next, she navigated her way through the back area and headed into the staff room where she promptly dropped off her purse and deposited her keys inside.

As she turned to head into the kitchen, she caught her reflection in one of the long mirrors on the wall next to the lockers. A tired but plain face stared back: Nora, all of 23 now, was of average height and build, though her physique had lost its lean lankiness of teenage youth. Though she was far from flat-chested (thank you, God!), she had lost the toned stomach she’d had from her track and field days—which had now been replaced with a soft paunch and budding love handles, which Nora attributed to her years of baking at the café.

She ran a hand surreptitiously down her flank while her other hand came up and touched the skin under one eye, verifying if the dark circle that formed there was due to lack of sleep, or hastily applied makeup. It was the former. Her brown eyes blinked warily back at her.

“Okay, enough glamorin’, time for workin’” Nora chided herself.

Nora moved through the pre-dawn kitchen like a ghost who used to be a ballerina. Her worn sneakers padded across the linoleum, left-right-left, while her mind was focused on the task ahead: sugar-flour-salt. Her apron, already dusted with the ghost of yesterday’s crust, clung to her like a badge. She tied it tighter, its imprint folded over her rounder stomach.

She stared up and her eyes found the wall clock. The silence of 4:42 a.m. was her sanctuary as she took a breath in the still-empty kitchen. Next, she went over to the oven and turned it on, letting the old girl heat up. Today was going to be a busy day—just like every other in her small Southern town.

Next, she lined her pans with parchment and began her most dangerous ritual: inventing a new pie.

“Today,” she muttered, cracking an egg with her thumb and a practiced flick, “we honor insomnia and poor judgment.” She glanced at her mason jar of blackberries. “And bourbon. You dark, reckless bastard.”

She called it No-Sleep Blackberry Bourbon. The name, like most of her pies, was half-joke, half-confession. She’d dreamed it sometime around 2:30 a.m., staring at the cracks in her bedroom ceiling while Wade’s snoring rumbled like distant thunder beside her. She’d tried to fall back asleep, but the sounds coming from his lungs and the faint mix of alcohol and a perfume that wasn’t her own, invaded her senses and her thoughts and so she let herself out and slept on the lard, lumpy sofa until it was time to go to work.

She folded sugar into melted butter, watching it glisten like gold. Then came the bourbon—just enough to bite but not enough to offend the church ladies. She considered taking a small nip for herself, but decided not to. They already had one alcoholic in the family—better not make it two.

The back door creaked.

“You’re late,” Nora called out in a sing-song voice, not looking up.

“I come bearing a hangover and an existential spiral,” came Penny’s voice. “Do I get grace for that?”

Nora snorted. “Only if you brought coffee.”

Penny Liu appeared in the doorway wearing sunglasses so oversized they could double as hurricane shutters. She dropped her purse with a sigh and leaned her forehead against the fridge. “I met a man last night named Tod with one ‘d’. You know what he said to me after karaoke?”

“No,” Nora said, now rolling dough.

“‘You’ve got solid clavicle energy.’ That was the line. Clavicle.”

“I mean, he’s not wrong. You do. Very supportive bones.”

“Are you mocking me or complimenting me?”

“Both.” Nora gave Penny a pointed look and smiled. “It’s part of my charm.”

Nora continued to roll out the dough, taking in the temporary silence. “So, what became of this Tod with one ‘d’?” She looked up. “Did you--?” Nora bumped her hips suggestively into the counter.

Penny groaned and slumped onto a stool, holding her forehead like it might fall off. “Hmm? What—no. God, no!” she looked up at Nora. “I’ll have you know I have standards, okay.”

They both looked at one another. Nora gave her a shrewd, calculating look while Penny tried to maintain a look of innocence that was melting faster than a snowball in heat.

“Alright—fine!” She said, getting up and pacing the kitchen, “I gave him a hand job in the alley outside in the parking lot. He had a smile that could melt butter, and you know how superficial I am when it comes to good looks.”

Nora smirked and continued to roll her dough. “That all?” she said quietly, focusing her attention on the task at hand.

At this Penny smirked, “Absolutely. The man had a penis tinier than my pinky.” She held out her hand and waggled the fifth finger on her right hand. Nora looked up and snorted with laughter. “There was no way I was going to let him put that tiny thing into my clam, no sir, good looks be damned!” she mimed giving the world’s tiniest hand job by approximating her thumb and index finger.

At this Nora burst out into a full cackle.

Penny smiled and put one hand on her hip. “Okay, enough about me and my love life—what’s today’s pie?” Penny knew better than to ask Nora about how things were going between her and Wade. Nora had confessed to her months ago that she suspected—but as of yet, had no proof of—Wade’s potential infidelity.

“No-Sleep Blackberry Bourbon.” Nora said.
“Sounds like a cry for help with a butter crust.” Penny had learned that Nora’s pie names were half-joke, half-confessions about her life.

“Bingo.”

Penny smiled and headed back to the staff locker area and prepared herself for the morning. She returned a few minutes later, apron on and hands washed.

They worked in tandem, as always. Nora pressed dough into tins while Penny handled the eggs and dry ingredients. Flour dust floated between them like fog in a church. They didn’t need to talk much—just traded murmurs, sarcasm, and the occasional sideways glance that said, ‘yeah, me too.’

“You look like hell,” Penny said eventually.

“I feel like leftover gravy.”

“That bad?”

Nora cracked her knuckles and didn’t answer. Instead, she focused on slicing the pie tops into careful lattice strips. Her fingers were steady, but her shoulders sagged more than usual. Penny noticed, but said nothing. For now.

The kitchen smelled of blackberries and bourbon and something unspoken. While Nora toiled with the new recipe, Penny was busy preparing their usual breakfast fare for the morning rush.

“Come hell or high-water, we’ll have a line up out the door by six.” Penny said as she removed a tray of muffins from the oven, only to replace them with another batch.

She left them on the counter to cool and wiped sweat from her brow. Nora nodded encouragingly, but her mind was elsewhere. Still back on Wade.

The day hadn’t even begun, and already, her metaphorical crust was cracking.

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“Welcome to Butter & Bloom, what can I get ya?”

“Welcome to Butter & Bloom—the usual, Mrs. Banks?”

“Welcome to Butter & Bloom, comin’ right up Pat. One large coffee. Light and sweet, just like you like your women.”

The bell over the door had barely stopped jingling since 6:00 a.m. and folks would swear they could tell when the bakery was open, just by the smell that permeated throughout the quaint little downtown: brown sugar, butter, and the scent of strong coffee.

Inside, the place hummed like a hive of caffeine and sugar-starved bees. Greetings were exchanged, orders were placed and money changed hands all in a routine that felt as old as the town itself.

Butter & Bloom sat on Main Street, right between the hardware store that never updated its sign and the library that doubled as a post office on Wednesdays. It was a squat brick building with ivy trying to strangle the side windows and a striped awning that flapped like it had opinions. The hand-painted sign—white script on wood—read: Butter & Bloom.

The interior was a cozy rectangle of charm and chaos. Two foggy windows flanked the door, and a long wooden counter stretched the left wall—painted teal, nicked by years of elbows, and framed by coffee machines, pie domes, and a chalkboard menu with items like The Emotional Support Muffin and Try Our Regret-Free Biscotti—all inspired by Nora’s panache for fun recipe names and approved by the café’s owner Delia, though everyone called her Del.

To the right: mismatched tables and chairs gathered like gossiping cousins. A creaky booth in the back hosted breakups and breakdowns. A two-top near the pastry case was reserved for couples in the honeymoon phase—though no one made that official, it just happened. And below the countertop was a long display case that showcased the remainder of their baked items.

Locals nicknamed it "The Gossip Loaf," thanks to its perfect acoustics and better-than-average blueberry scones.

The café had been in Del’s—the owner’s family—for three generations and bore its history proudly—chipped tile floors, handwritten menu boards, and shelves lined with pie plates older than Del herself.

Mornings brought in a reliable rotation: Mrs. Thistle with her crossword and her quiet judgment, Dale the retired bus driver who ordered black coffee and left generous tips, and the Sullivan twins who swore by breakfast pie as part of a balanced spiritual practice.

People came from three towns over. For the pecan pie, yes—but also for the energy. For the warmth. For the fact that you could come in crying and leave with a slice of something that said: Yes, it’s awful. But also, try this. It helps.

And it did.

“Hey Nora, when’s that batch up? Customers have been askin’,” came a voice from the front of the store. Clara, one of the servers poked her head into the back kitchen.

Nora looked up, setting down a tray of scones and picking up another uncooked batch to throw into the oven. “Give me 2 minutes to let ‘em cool, and I’ll bring them out. How many ya need?” Nora asked. She looked at Clara and blew a strand of hair out of her face.

Clara held up two hands.

“Eight.” said Nora aloud, counting Clara’s fingers.

Nora turned to Penny, who was whipping up fresh batter in a large mixing bowl and caught her attention.

“What’s up?”

“Put a rush on that batter, we’re running through scones today like it’s the Fourth of July.”

Penny grinned, “Well, no duh, Nora—they’re lovin’ your new recipes. New flavors every few weeks. I’m surprised half the town ain’t obese yet.” She laughed at her own joke and resumed tending to the batter.

Nora grinned inwardly as she loaded the scones, now cooled, onto a tray to bring to the front of the café. Her stomach gave a low grumble, and she brought a hand to it, feeling her domed softness beneath the apron and her eyes caught the time on the wall, which read: 11:30.

In her haste to get to work this morning, she’d forgotten to drink her breakfast shake that she’d made for herself in the fridge the night before. And even though she’d picked at a cookie here and a muffin there this morning as she fulfilled their morning quota, she needed something with real substance.

Nora eyed the creation set aside on the far counter, that she’d made first thing this morning. Her newest creation: No-Sleep Blackberry Bourbon Pie.

“I’m going to take a quick fifteen before the lunch rush, m’kay?” she called to Penny, who gave her the thumbs up.

“Got it from here, let me know how it tastes.” She called as Nora cut off a large wedge, nearly a third of the pie and placed it on a plate.

The golden crust made Nora’s face break out into a smile as she took the slice out front and grabbed a fork from under the counter. She caught the eye of Del, the owner, who was now serving a customer, and she mimed she was taking her break. Del beamed and gave Nora the thumbs up and pointed to a table at the far corner of the café that had just been vacated by a pair of folks Nora presumed were travelling through.

Nora grinned and sat down. She placed her pie on the table after grabbing a bar towel that she always had tucked into the waistband of her apron and gave the table a quick wipe down. She stacked the leftover dishes into a neat pile and pushed their offered tip next to it. After she was done her pie, she’d bring the dishes to the back and deposit the tip into the communal pool up front.

“Hello gorgeous.” She said to the pie as she picked up her fork and sunk the tines into the very tip of the pie. Nora relished in the sound the fork made as it pierced through the flaky crust at the bottom and made a satisfying ‘ting’ against the plate.

She brought the bite up to her mouth, first examining the color and consistency of the filling. The blackberries smelled sweet and there was just a hint of bourbon coming through. Nora’s mouth instantly began to water.

The first bite was heavenly, just as she suspected it would be. She closed her eyes, allowing the bite to dissolve on her tongue as her teeth gently broke down the food. She swallowed and repeated the gesture.

‘Man, that’s good pie.’ She mused as she took in her third, then fourth bite. Nora looked out from her booth at the café which was bustling with customers, both local and non and took in the various expressions on their faces as they took a bite of this or a sip of that.

Nora had been working at Butter & Bloom since before she could drive, and the sight of a happy customer made her heart fill with warmth. As she ate another bite of pie, she reflected that it was indeed another perfect day and there was absolutely nothing that could tarnish it.

Well, almost nothing.

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