Safe.She’s safe. But the relief is instantly overshadowed by a wave of fury. Fury at her for wandering off. Fury at myself for taking my eyes off her, even for a second. And fury, hot and immediate, at the scene inside that window – the chaotic explosion of cheer, the woman kneeling beside Tabby, all flour-dusted mayhem and beaming smile.
I don’t think, I just move. I bust through the door and slam it back against the wall with a crash. The scent – cinnamon, sugar, chocolate, something spicy – is overwhelming, nauseating in its intensity after the clean, cold bite of the street.
My eyes lock onto Tabby. Unharmed. Holding a half-eaten gingerbread man cookie, crumbs dusting her coat. The sight of her punches another hole in my fear, anger rushes in to fill it. I cross the small space in three strides, dropping to my knees before her, my hands coming up to frame her small face. My touch is gentle, a reflex drilled in by years of fatherhood, but my whole body thrums with barely leashed panic.
"Tabitha! Are you hurt? Are you okay?" The words are gravel, scraped raw from my throat. I scan her, searching for any sign of distress, any mark that doesn’t belong. Nothing. Just wide, dark eyes blinking up at me, momentarily startled.
"I’m okay, Daddy! Look!" She brandishes the half-eaten gingerbread man. "Sir Gingerbread! This nice lady gave him to me! He lives in the castle!" She points a sticky finger towards a ridiculous, glitter-frosted structure on a nearby table.
The confirmation – that a stranger had given my daughter food, had engaged with her without my knowledge or consent– ignites my fury into a white-hot blaze. My head snaps up, my gaze zeroing in on the woman who had risen from her crouch near Tabby.
She’s younger than I’d first thought, maybe late twenties, with warm brown eyes currently wide with shock and… is that indignation? Her hair is a cinnamon-brown halo escaping a bun. She wears an apron covered in dancing gingerbread men, an absurdly cheerful print. Flour smudges one cheek. She looked like a hot mess – exactly the kind of person I’ve spent years ruthlessly eliminating from my life.
"What," I grind out, the word sharp and low, cutting through the heavy silence of the bakery. "Are you doing with my daughter?" The accusation hangs in the air, thick as the scent of molasses.
The woman – Holly, Tabby had called her – flinches almost imperceptibly, her hands smoothing across her ridiculous apron. "I gave her a cookie," she states, her voice surprisingly steady, though a flush is creeping up her neck. "After she wandered in here alone, looking lost. We were waiting for you, or whoever was responsible for her, to show up." The subtle emphasis on ‘responsible’ is a well-aimed jab.
I rise to my full height, pulling Tabby firmly against my leg, a protective barrier between her and this woman, this place. The warmth of the bakery feels suffocating. "She doesn't take food from strangers," I state flatly, my voice icy. "Ever." It’s rule number one, drilled into her since she could understand words. Safety. Control. Boundaries.
Holly’s chin lifts a fraction. The smallest spark of defiance lights her eyes, incongruous amidst the flour smudges. "Well, she took it from me. And seemed quite happy about it."
Her gaze flickers to Tabby, pressed against my leg, her earlier wonder replaced by confusion and a hint of fear at the tension. That flicker, that hint of fear in my daughter’s eyes directed atme, snags uncomfortably in my chest, but I shove the feeling down. This woman’s chaos had caused this. This is all her fault.
"She wandered off because she saw your... spectacle," I retort, the word dripping with disdain. I sweep a hand around the bakery – the dizzying lights, the cloying scents, the sheer, overwhelmingtoo-muchnessof it all. "Distracting. Irresponsible." The words are defensive missiles, launched to reassert control over the situation.
Holly takes a step forward, her flour-dusted boots planting firmly on the worn floorboards. "Irresponsible?I'mirresponsible? She was alone, Mr...." She trails off, waiting.
"Blake," I bite out.
"Mr. Blake," she continues, her voice tight. "In the cold. Drawn by lights and smells, like any curious five-year-old might be. My 'irresponsibility' involved giving her a cookie, keeping her warm, and sending my friend out into the snow to look for you." Her gaze is direct, completely unafraid of my glower, but yet she’s still smiling. It’s unnerving.
Tabby tugs at my jacket. "Daddy," she whispers, her voice small. "Holly's nice. And her cookies are so yummy."
I continue to focus my glare on Holly. "Your friend went out to look for me?" I demand, needing to redirect, to regain the upper hand.
"Charlie. Yes. She went looking the second we realized Tabby was alone." Holly crosses her arms over her apron. "Now, if you're quite finished accusing me of luring your sweet child in here with cookies, I have an oven full of snickerdoodles to tend to."
I want to argue further, to make her understand the depth of the terror she’d inadvertently caused, to wipe that stubborn look off her face. But Tabby is shivering slightly against me and the customers are watching with undisguised curiosity, their earlierfestive cheer replaced by awkward silence. It’s obviously time to go.
"Come on, Tabby," I say. I steer her firmly towards the door. The blast of cold air as we exit is a shock, but a welcome one, as we nearly collide with a blue haired woman in a ridiculous elf hat entering the shop.
I scoop Tabby up, tucking her securely against my chest. I stride toward my SUV which is parked a block away. She buries her face in my neck, the half-eaten gingerbread man still clutched in her mitten.
By the time I buckle her into her car seat, her initial fright seems to have faded. I climb into the driver's seat, the familiar, minimalist interior of the SUV – leather, brushed steel, the faint scent of the car’s air freshener – a sanctuary after the bakery’s assault. I start the engine, the low purr a grounding hum.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. My mom, Clarissa, of course. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then swipe to answer, putting it on speaker as I pull out into the slow-moving traffic.
"Den? Everything alright? You sound… tense." Her voice, warm and laced with its usual concern, fills the car.
I focus on the road, the rhythmic swish of the wipers clearing the snow. "Fine, Mom. Just… busy." I keep my voice deliberately neutral.
"We were busy shopping for boring things," Tabby pipes up from the backseat, her voice small but clear.
Mom laughs softly. "Oh? What kind of boring things, sweetheart?"
"Daddy was looking at ties," Tabby reports solemnly. "Very boring. ButIfound magic!"
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. "Tabby wandered off in the market for a minute," I interject before Mom can latchonto the ‘magic’ comment. "She’s fine. Just got distracted." I downplay it, a strategic deflection.
