"There," she says, her voice close to my ear. She points to a small valve tucked awkwardly behind a drain pipe. "That one. I turned it clockwise."
I check it. Securely closed. "Good." I pull back, wiping water from my face. "Secondary shut-off? Basement?"
She shakes her head. "There’s no basement. This is it."
"Okay." I stand, surveying the damage. "The priority is getting this water out before it hits the outlets." I point to the electrical sockets near the floor, ominously close to the waterline. "That vacuum’s a toy. We need more firepower. Buckets. Mops. Towels. Everything you've got."
She nods, scrambling up. "Laundry closet. Back here." She sloshes towards a door near the rear exit.
We fall into a rhythm. No wasted words, no unnecessary gestures. It’s like a well-executed penalty kill. I handle the brute force – hauling the heaviest, most waterlogged boxes of flour and sugar onto the dry center island.
I dump the vacuum tank again and again, the sloshing water heavy and cold. The tank fills faster than I can empty it.
Holly drags bar towels, throwing them onto the wettest areas near the burst pipe. She attacks the spreading edges with a wide industrial mop, pushing water back towards the vacuum hose I’m manning. She finds a second, smaller shop vac in a storage closet and fires it up, adding its higher-pitched whine to the symphony of disaster recovery.
We don’t talk. Not really. Just clipped directions.
"Bucket."
"Here."
"Tank’s full."
"On it."
"Need a hand with that crate?"
"Got it."
The physical labor and the sheer urgency of the task keeps the emotions at bay. It’s easier to focus on the next box, the next tank dump, the next sweep of the mop than to think about the way her damp shirt clings to the curve of her breasts.
Hours fly by. The light fades from the windows, replaced by the gray gloom.
My muscles burn – shoulders, back, legs. My hands are raw and cold from the icy water. My socks are soaked inside my boots.
But the water level is receding. The immediate danger zone around the electrical outlets is clear. The worst of the floodedarea is a sopping wet disaster of towels and damp floor, but the standing water is mostly gone.
We stand in the aftermath, surrounded by the wreckage, soaked to the skin and shivering. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this exhausted and that’s saying a lot.
She leans against the island, her head bowed, shoulders rising and falling with deep, shaky breaths. "Think… think that’s the worst of it," she rasps, her voice hoarse. She gestures weakly at the soaked towels, the ruined boxes. "The floor… the drywall…" She trails off, shaking her head. I’m sure she’s thinking about how much all that’s going to cost.
I nod, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. It comes away gritty with flour and pipe grime. "Need to get the heat cranked. Dry this place out."
She moves stiffly towards the front of the shop and cranks a dial on the wall thermostat. The ancient furnace groans to life somewhere deep in the building, promising warmth.
The contrast between the cozy, festive front of the bakery and the ravaged kitchen is jarring. Like two different worlds colliding.
She walks back, her steps slow with fatigue. "Would you like some coffee? Or tea? To warm you up.”
"Tea’s good." My throat is dry and some hot tea sounds pretty damn good.
She nods, moving towards a small electric kettle perched precariously on the counter, miraculously untouched by the flood. Her hands tremble slightly as she fills it from the tap and plugs it in. The little red light glows, a tiny beacon of normalcy.
While the kettle heats, she bends, rummaging in a lower cabinet that escaped the worst of the water. She pulls out a dented metal tin. "Cookies," she announces. She opens the tin, revealing a jumble of slightly misshapen gingerbread men and stars. "A bit… mangled, but edible."
She grabs a clean dish towel from a drawer and spreads it on the relatively dry floor near the center island, away from the worst of the dampness. She sits down heavily, her back against the island cabinet, and pats the space beside her. "Floor’s cleaner than we are at this point. And I can’t stand anymore."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Sitting on the floor. In close proximity. Sharing cookies. Shit…
