1
LILA
Ipull the first tray of cookies and wince. My son, Marco, decides sprinkles are snow and our kitchen needs a blizzard, but the edges are already too dark. I’m no goddess before coffee.
I peel off two and knot them into the ‘imperfects’ bag for the counter, more from habit than mercy. The oven beeps again, the next tray lands perfectly, and I smile. I lift the hot tray with a towel, set it on the rack, and watch the heat fog the window over the sink.
A holiday playlist croons from the old speaker by the coffeemaker, and my four-year-old hums along, tongue tucked in concentration. He showers the cookies with red sprinkles that look like taillights in a flurry.
“Too much red. The city will fine us for a snow emergency,” I tell him as I cautiously step around a drift of sugar. Marco grins and shakes the jar again.
I stretch on my toes for the star cutters on the top shelf and feel the pull in my calves. At five foot eight, I reach easily, but I still need the extra inch. My hair slips out of a ponytail, chestnutwaves loosening in the kitchen heat that smells of butter, flour, and cinnamon. I tuck a strand behind my ear and meet my reflection in the microwave door. Hazel eyes meet mine, a scatter of freckles the industry tries to hide under makeup. It’s a face that could hold a story or sell a dream, but tonight it just looks back, calm and sure of its own light.
Marco looks up from his battlefield of icing. Those eyes, big and dark brown, take in everything. For a moment, my breath catches.
“There’s no such thing as too much red,” he announces, dark brown hair falling over his forehead. He tosses more sprinkles. They bounce across the sheet like confetti after a parade. His cheeks still hold a round softness, but his mouth sets stubbornly when he’s focused. He’s focused now.
“Customers are going to crunch through sugar,” I say, but I’m smiling. “Aim for the cookies.”
He shifts his stance on the stool. Striped socks peek from under his pajama pants. He’s a small general, and the counter is his campaign. I slide a tray of plain sugar cookies in front of him. Trees and bells, round ones for faces, stars for luck.
The front door chime sings. I lift the service hatch that opens to the sidewalk, and cold slips in. The city’s got a skin of snow this morning, not yet gray with traffic. The dog walker from the corner building’s first, scarf pulled up to his nose, two terriers bouncing at his boots.
“Two americanos, one oat milk. And one cinnamon roll, the one with icing still sliding into the spiral,” he says, tapping his card.
“For you, always,” I say. I pass the paper cups and a warm box through the hatch. The coffee’s strong. The roll smells of butter,cinnamon, and a glaze I’ve whisked with milk and vanilla. He taps the tablet to round up for the neighborhood coat drive, then the terriers tug him toward the door.
He lifts his cup in a small salute. “Morning, cookie boss,” he tells Marco before he hits the cold. “Those trees look parade ready.” Marco sits taller, pleased.
The bell rings again for the main door. The nurse from nights, hair tucked under a knit hat, eyes tired but kind. Behind her, Mrs. Kalinsky from 2B with the blue rinse and news headlines. They stamp the snow from their boots. Their hands spread toward the heater under the bench.
“Morning, Lila,” the nurse says. “I dreamed about your scones.”
“Lavender and orange today,” I say, tapping the tray under the glass. “And sandwiches after ten.” I smile warmly.
“Bless you,” she says and slides cash across the counter.
“You look thin. Eat more.” Mrs. K is next.
“Morning, Mrs. Kalinsky. Apricot Danish?” I tip the tongs toward the row she likes.
“Please. And I saw your friend at the market. Everyone asks about Marco.”
“That’s nice.” I duck my head and lift an almond croissant for the next order. She moves away with her Danish, sharing more headlines with the nurse by the heater.
I move through the steps without thinking. Grind, tamp, pull. Steam curls from the wand. The old register clicks, and the tablet pings with small round-ups for the coat drive. A line builds at the sidewalk hatch. Delivery cyclists bounce on their pedals andcall out orders. I pass pastry bags stamped with our small golden logo. The room fills with coffee smell, orange peel, sugar, and the faint scent of rain-soaked nylon and perfume caught in scarves.
Marco slides off his stool and digs in the cubby for his blue Matchbox truck. He loads two mini pastry boxes, empties we use for gift cards, sticks a tiny logo sticker on each, and steers along the grout lines, engine sounds soft in his throat.
“Delivery,” he announces, parking at my shoe. He pops one box open. A single star cookie rides inside like precious cargo.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “Table one’ll love it.”
He grins, backs the truck away, and does another slow lap toward the heater to warm the wheels, as serious as any courier.
“Upstate this year for Christmas?” Mrs. Kalinsky asks as she puts on her coat. Her lipstick is brave pink. “Your mother’s bakery must look like a postcard.”
“Maybe,” I say. I keep my eyes on the labels. “We’ll see.” She nods and leaves with her friend. She means well. People here like history. They like to place you on a map.
