The girl was better than she’d expected. Colleen O’Bannon had had her doubts when Roger sent Iris to work at the bakery, but Colleen could see glimmers of talent—when the girl stopped doubting herself and actually took a chance. Bridget had done her best to encourage Iris along, but with Nora out, most of the workload in the bakery had fallen to Bridget and Abby, leaving them little time to do more than bark orders. Iris shied away from the harsh, hurried words like a leery stray cat.
Iris came in through the back entrance, so quiet Colleen would have missed her except for the click of the door. The girl—dressed all in black again with her eyes rimmed like a raccoon’s—hung her ebony sweatshirt on the hook by the door and slipped an apron over her head. Without a word, she started loading the dishwasher with the dirty pans from Abby’s earlier bread baking.
Colleen marched over to Iris and shut off the water. “You and I are going to work together today.”
Iris blinked. “Uh…okay.”
“You could be doing a much better job than you are.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Bannon. I’ll try harder, I promise.” Iris stepped back, seeming to shrink into herself.
“And we will start with that.” Colleen waved a hand over Iris’s too-thin frame. Good Lord, the girl looked like she’d barely eaten in a year. Tomorrow, Colleen was going to start bringing extra leftovers for lunch and make sure Iris had some meat and potatoes. Michael, God rest his soul, might have died two decades ago, but Colleen still cooked like she had a family of six at home. This skinny girl could use a bowl or two of a hearty potato soup. Some starch for her body and a little starch for her spine too. “You are working at the O’Bannon family bakery. Which makes you an honorary O’Bannon. And all the O’Bannon girls are strong and confident.”
“But you just said I was screwing up—”
“I said no such thing. I said you could be doing a much better job than you are. That doesn’t mean anything other than what it says.” Colleen slid an apron over her head and knotted it in the back. She’d spent too much of her days taking orders, calling suppliers, and meeting with customers, instead of here, in the kitchen she loved. “Now, first thing we are going to do is decorate the wedding cake on the counter.”
Iris backed up a little. “Wait. Me? I don’t know how to decorate.”
“I have seen you doodling on that pad of paper of yours when you’re on break. That takes artistic skill. I suspect you can apply the same to a piping bag.” Colleen marched over to the cake and slid the tub of white buttercream frosting across the counter to Iris. “First thing we are going to do is the crumb coating, which is a thin layer of frosting that sets for a bit in the refrigerator before we start decorating.”
“Why do you do that?”
“It gives the decorative coat of frosting a solid base to work from. Also gives the cake itself a little strength. It’s amazing how a simple mix of butter and sugar can turn something soft into something much firmer,” Colleen said. “Now, you take that long, flat knife, scoop up some buttercream, and smooth it over the outside, like this.”
Colleen picked up a second offset spatula, scooped out some buttercream, and slid it over the top of the cake and then down the side. “You rotate the cake as you do the sides, so you get a smooth, even coat. The base coat is the foundation of everything this cake will become. That’s why it’s so important to get it right.”
Much like the daughters she’d raised, soft and tender at first. Then, as the layers of life—the joys, the tragedies, the challenges—filled them, they’d grown stronger. Into young women Colleen was secretly very, very proud of.
She glanced over at the young girl beside her. Definitely still rough around the edges. It made Colleen wonder about her family. Did she have a mother who cared? A mother who made sure she had a jacket on cold winter days and a warm meal in her belly before bed? Colleen hadn’t asked much about Iris’s family. It hadn’t occurred to her to care about anything other than the girl’s work habits. But now, standing beside this too-thin, too-quiet girl, she did care.
Colleen nudged Iris’s arm. “Go on. That cake isn’t going to frost itself.”
“Um, okay.” Iris mimicked Colleen’s movements, but as she spun the turntable, the spatula gouged the cake and sent a chunk tumbling to the counter. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Bannon. I’ll make another one.”
The foolish girl was shrinking again, as if she thought Colleen was going to do something silly like hit her. Colleen put a hand over Iris’s, preventing the girl from backing up any more. What had happened to this girl that made her draw into herself like a gopher disappearing into his hole? “You’ll do no such thing. Crumbs happen, and all we do is cover them up.” Colleen slid the spatula across the outside of the cake, and in an instant, the gouge was gone and the side was smooth again. “Now you try. Go slow. Better to take your time now than to have regrets later.”
Iris tried again, her moves more cautious. She turned the cake, sliding the spatula along the edges and then swooping the frosting up and over the top. A second spin, smoothing the edges. Then another time across the top before she stepped back. “How’s that?”
There were a few lines in the crumb coating, a couple of places where the layer wasn’t consistently even. With her girls, Colleen would have criticized and made them do it again until the cake was perfect. As they’d grown up, her daughters had become amazing bakers and artisans, but that criticism had nearly cost her the close relationships she held dear. Perhaps it was time to soften a bit, to leave some room for errors. Some dents in the cake, smoothed with the frosting of understanding, or some other such silly metaphor. Goodness, maybe she was just getting old if she was waxing poetic like this. “It’s perfect, Iris. Just perfect. Now let’s store it in the cooler and start the next one.”
A smile bloomed across the young girl’s face. The first genuine smile Colleen had seen on Iris since she started working here. The kind of smile that took root in her cheeks, her eyes. The kind of smile filled with a sense of wonder and pride.
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Bannon,” Iris said, her voice soft. As she turned away to store the cake, the smile lingered, and if Colleen wasn’t mistaken, it seemed that Iris was walking a little taller.
Nora laced her shoes and did a quick toe touch stretch. It had been at least two years since she had gone for a run, and even then she’d only been doing short distances. Before Sarah was born, Nora used to run six miles every morning before she went into the bakery. The runs cleared her head and helped erase some of the calories she consumed at work. Then her life had become cluttered with late-night feedings and early-morning bakery days, and running had taken a backseat.
Back in the old, prekid days, Ben had often joined Nora on her runs. They’d have long conversations about things that seemed so deep at the time—endangered animals, global warming, rising tensions in the Middle East. Now Ben ran alone, and Nora…
Well, she did everything but take care of her own needs. The running shoes she’d randomly grabbed from the closet when she’d packed were hardly used, still stiff and slow to yield when she walked out the door. Pretty much the same as Nora’s legs, already twinging at the thought of putting one foot in front of the other.
The sun was just cresting the Atlantic, casting the house in a soft gold color. The long, winding road to the beach house was quiet, most of the houses vacant. It was the kind of neighborhood with price tags that spelled second home, which meant the neighborhood was all but dead during the week.
She started out with a slow jog, easing into the rhythm, the pace. Her legs protested, little nagging aches and pains trying to urge her to head back to the couch. But she kept moving, and as she rounded a bend, she found her stride again, and her legs picked up speed.
Her feet hit the ground, slap, slap, slap against the pavement, her thoughts staccatoing at the same pace.
Ben’s smile, just before he kissed her on their wedding day. The way they’d laughed on the way out of the church, dumb and in love.
Decorating the Christmas tree and lying underneath it with the kids—Sarah only four, Jake a newborn—their family of four cast in sparkling light. When all seemed hopeful and perfect.
Waking up at two in the morning to find the bed empty and cold. Again. The suspicions that had chilled her spine.
Finding the credit card statement, filled with cash advances at the casino, pushing even the minimum payment over what they could afford. The shock that broke her.
Running out to the cold. Tears freezing on her cheeks. Crumpling to the bench, overwhelmed by a sense of loss so big, it almost drowned her that day.
The fights with Ben. The promises, the hope, and then the devastation when it happened again. And again. Until Nora stopped hoping and Ben stopped talking.
And then the auction notice, hanging on the door of the house they’d celebrated buying nine years earlier with an apple juice toast because Nora had been two months pregnant with Sarah at the time.
All of it gone. Just…gone.
Faster, faster, she pounded the pavement, until her breath was coming in short jerks and her calves burned. Another hundred yards, another, and finally the exertion broke that wall of stress in her chest, and endorphins rushed in to fill the space. Nora bent over, heaving in deep gulps of air, while her heart thudded in her chest and sweat beaded on her brow.
And for the first time in months, her mind finally went blissfully and sweetly blank. One brief millisecond of peace. She wanted to catch that moment and stuff it in a bottle, save it for the dreaded days and moments ahead.
“Here.” A bottle of water, attached to a male hand, appeared in her line of vision.
Nora jerked into a standing position. A man stood in front of her wearing paint-speckled jeans and a loose-fitting, wrinkled pale blue dress shirt. His feet were bare, and he had a short beard that was a shade lighter than his dark brown hair. He was about her age, handsome in that careless, rolled-out-of-bed way.
“Don’t worry. I’m not a crazy stranger, and it’s not poisoned.” He grinned. “Bottled right here in Massachusetts.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking the water from him. She uncapped it and guzzled half.
“I saw you running. The way you were attacking that road, it looked like you were running from something. Last I checked, there weren’t any bears or wolves here, just so you know. And the sharks tend to stay in the water.”
She smiled at the jokes, her breath still coming in heaves. “Just…working off some stress.”
“You should try painting,” he said. “It’s better than any antidepressant out there.”
She glanced at his jeans, mottled with a rainbow of paint dots. “I take it you do that?”
He thrust out his hand. “Will Gibson. Artist in residence, which really just means I’m the only one crazy enough to stay here for the winter.”
She shook with him, his grip warm and sure and…nice. She let go and thumbed toward the beach house. “Nora O’Bannon. I’m just here for a few days, staying with my sister at her friend’s house. I think she said his name is Charlie?”
“I know him well.” Will grinned. “Charlie’s house is great. I’ve been over there before. And you came at the right time of year, after the tourists are gone.”
She smiled. “It is quiet and peaceful here. Such a change from Dorchester.”
“I grew up in Mattapan, so I know what you mean.” Will shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Hey, I’m having a barbecue tonight. Just a few of the neighborhood diehards, if you and your sister want to come by. Make a few friends for the next time you’re here.”
“Oh, I don’t think…”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Besides, you probably burned a thousand calories on that run and could eat all the burgers you want.” He gave her a grin, and she found herself wondering how sweaty she looked. If her hair was a disaster. If her inside emotional mess showed on the outside.
Nora shook her head again. “My kids—”
“Bring them. My friend John has three, and my sister, who lives down the road, has two. It’s a kid-friendly barbecue and did I mention fun?”
Fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any of that. Still, she should probably stay home and crunch some numbers or go through the classifieds to find an apartment. Instead of putting all that off. Again. “I’ll think about it.”
Will reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a business card. “Here’s my cell. I just live over there”—he pointed to a periwinkle cottage on the corner—“but feel free to call me if you want some sandcastle-building tips.”
She laughed. “Is that also part of your job?”
“That and greeting all the beautiful women in our neighborhood.”
Beautiful women? Surely he didn’t mean her. She was a sweaty mess, with a slight belly from two kids and a butt that hadn’t seen a squat in years. The same shyness that had persisted in her high school years returned. It was Tommy’s basement all over again, and Nora’s nerves made her words stumble and her cheeks heat. “Uh…thank you.”
He flashed her another grin. “See you tonight. Around six. And don’t worry about bringing anything. We have more than enough food to feed the entire town.”
He turned to go. Nora stood there, in the middle of the street, stunned and confused. Had he just asked her out? Was it a date if they were in a group? And what about that flirting? The last person she’d flirted with had been Ben, and that was at least twelve years in the past. She should call after Will, tell him she was still married, say she couldn’t make the party. Instead, she said, “Thanks for the water!”
He turned, gave her a wave and a grin, and headed into his house. Nora stayed there a moment longer, feeling a strange mix of guilt and elation, and then jogged back to the beach house and all the responsibilities she’d been avoiding, the business card tucked in her sports bra.