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Inside, the decadent aromas of Mom's toffee interlaced with her famous cinnamon rolls proving on the counter for morning enveloped me just as tightly as her embrace. "You have to let me pay you like any other client, Vero." Mom shook her head as we unloaded the rest of the boxes. Hers wasn't the only bakery in the small town, but the ingredients I sourced for her made her menu unique. No one else had hibiscus croissants or Napoleons made with hand-whipped crème anglaise, flavored with extract she'd made herself. She paired the vanilla pods I sourced with alcohols that would tease out the best flavor and perfume. She loved soaking the spicy Tahitian pods in a top-shelf rum or the floral Madagascar in brandy. I wasn't sure what she'd do with the Hawaiian varietals I'd found for her, but I was excited to find out. 

I took my familiar arms-akimbo stance. "You're not like any other client. You're my mom. I accept payment in samples only."

Her hands were already busy dusting the top of her famous Christmas Eve lasagna with a final layer of Parmesan before putting it in the oven, but she angled her cheek for another kiss. "I owe you a bakery's worth of samples at this point, darling. You're too good to me. What did your client think of my vanilla?"

"Fairbanks has taken my ideas and run with them." I was unable to conceal my pride. He was one of the most prestigious chefs in all of Denver and was hungry for a Michelin star. My idea for him to stack his holiday menu with dishes inspired by my mother's assortment of homemade vanilla extracts had infused him with some much-needed inspiration. Not just desserts, but some sauces for the savory dishes and a whole line of out-of-this-world cocktails I was particularly proud of.

"Well, it was a brilliant idea, my dear. I'll get all these lovely vanilla beans soaking in a few days. They'll be ready by next Christmas if he wants more."

"If his receipts were what I expect they were, I'm sure he will." I whisked in next to her to toss together the vinaigrette I made every year to go on the salad that accompanied the meal. "Every time I've gone past 540 Blake this month, it's been packed."

"Just think how well your own place would do," Dad chided.

I felt the enamel of my teeth begin to strain as my jaw clenched, which it did whenever this topic bubbled to the surface.

Mom shot him one of her infamous looks. "Martin James Stratton, don't you dare. Veronica doesn't need your prodding today. It's Christmas Eve for heaven's sake." The rest didn't have to be said: And she's just been through a breakup and is living in that tiny apartment all by herself. She's three cats away from being the punchline of a joke.

I leaned over and planted another kiss on her cheek in wordless thanks.

Dad held up his hands in defeat. "I know, Elena. I know."

I put on a falsely bright voice. "Hey, we got it out of the way early. What's a family meal without the 'when is Veronica opening her own restaurant' spiel? It's refreshing to have it over so early in the day."

This was Veronica-speak for please drop it already. The argument was an old one, and there was no good to be had from rehashing it. Mom and Dad had been fortunate enough—privileged enough—to craft the life of their dreams. I got the feeling that my not having met some of the same benchmarks by the age of twenty-six worried them a bit. Not because they had many specific expectations for my future but because they were so adamant that whatever bent my life took, it should be as happy as theirs had been.

We'd lived in the suburbs in a spacious house, usually with a lovable cat or two underfoot. Mom didn't have to work, so she spent her days making Martha Stewart and Paula Deen look like talented amateurs. It was an idyllic upbringing. But the agreement was, once Dad retired, it was Mom's turn to call some shots. Most of them. She had put all her energy into supporting the three of us for so long that when she said she wanted to leave the 'burbs and move to the small town where we'd vacationed two weeks every summer, Dad put our childhood house on the market and found a rambling cabin before the month was out.

Once settled, Mom never adjusted to the reality of her empty nest. She needed to occupy her time, her hands. Dad helped her secure a bakery on a prime spot of real estate on the bustling downtown avenue that served as the tourist hub, and The Summit Sweet Shop was born. In the four years she'd been in business, she'd created a zealous following of the carbohydrate agnostic. My sister, Avery, helped her with social media and marketing, but really, the food stood for itself. It seemed like an SUV load of high-quality ingredients was the least I could do to support her dreams.