My phone buzzes in the pocket of my apron. Agency. I set it on the stand by the espresso machine and swipe to the video call. The front camera catches my face and the background of racks and trays.
“Good morning, Lila,” says Jules from the agency. His face fills the screen from a bright office. His tie is cheerful for winter. “Tonight is confirmed. Fittings at three, call time five. I emailed the run order.”
“Got it,” I say. I keep my voice level and my mouth turned up.
“You look fresh,” he says. “Good. They want the holiday face. The campaign meetings are next week. Talbots wants to discuss spring.”
“Great,” I say, keeping it light. I’m elbow-deep in dough while he’s talking spring flights.
A second face appears, a stylist with vivid eyeliner. “We’re keeping your hair long and soft tonight,” she says. “Minimal jewelry. We want glow.”
“Then I will glow,” I say, lifting my chin a little, letting the light catch my freckles.
“And please, Lila, no interviews,” Jules says. “Smile, wave, backstage candids only.”
“I get it,” I say. I always understand. Public, private, the line between.
Marco leans into the frame. “Hi, Jules,” he says and waves with icing on his fingers.
Jules laughs. “Hello, sir. Are you the cookie boss today?”
“Yes,” Marco says. He wipes his hand on my apron. “I am the boss.”
“Then approve an extra cinnamon roll for yourself,” Jules says.
The call ends. I end the call and text Maya.
Fittings at three, runway at five. Can you grab the garment bag and pick us up at 2:50?
Her reply pings fast.
Done.
I slip the phone back in my pocket and switch to cash for a man who hands me a ten for a coffee. The chime goes again. A jogger in a neon beanie, cheeks bright from the cold, laughs as snow shakes from his sleeves. A woman with a dimpled smile and cherry-red lipstick compliments the tree-shaped sugar cookies. A neighbor pats Marco’s head and says his frosting technique has improved. His chest puffs and his shoulders straighten.
“Mom,” he says, voice smaller now because the song on the playlist is softer and the rush has thinned, “why does Liam’s dad pick him up and mine does not?”
The tray in my hands feels heavier. I set it down. Marco watches me with those steady eyes. He’s four, and he collects patterns. He sees who waits at the gate and who comes into bakeries holding hands. Marco and I have our rhythm, but he’s starting to note the places where it’s different from others.
“Some families have lots of people,” I say, tying a ribbon on a box. “Some have a few. Some have a mother and a child who are very good at cookies.”
He thinks. “Santa can bring a dad,” he says. He’s not teasing.
“Santa brings toys,” I say. I run my fingers through his hair. “Mothers bring everything else.”
He nods hard. In his world, rules can be adopted if they make sense and if there’s sugar after. I hand him a small gingerbread man from the imperfect pile. He bites the head with solemn focus.
“Clean hands, little boss,” I say. He wipes them and jumps down from the stool, the pride of a child trusted with a task.
By nine, the sidewalk has shoveled ridges, and cars on the avenue hiss through slush. The morning pulse slows. I refill the biscotti jar and line up croissants, apricot Danishes, and mini panettoni with red twine. I hand a hot paper cup to a man who works at the auto shop and take a bag of change from Ms. Alvarez next door. She insists that I break it for her. My helper, a college kid named Ren, slips behind the counter and takes over the espresso machine with competent hands. He has ink on his fingers and careful eyes.
“Go sit for five,” he says. “You’ve got flour on your cheek.”
I sit on the stool by the back door and breathe through my nose. I check the list on the wall. Catering at eleven for the school staff room. Brownies, snowflake sugar cookies, two dozen turkey sandwiches. I stack boxes and label them in neat letters. Marco draws on the corner of an invoice with a serious frown, adding buttons to a snowman.
Marco’s question keeps tugging at the back of my mind, small but steady, like a drip I cannot tighten. I press the thought down, hard, the way I press dough into shape. There’s too much work on my hands for ghosts.
Snow starts falling again in small, steady flakes. The city mutates into gray and white. I close the sidewalk hatch and turn the sign toBack in Fifteen. Marco and I carry boxes to my car and load them in the trunk. Snow dusts the windshield, the wiper clearing it in slow arcs. At the school drop-off, he insists on carrying a box himself. He gets the smallest. The secretary thanks him and presses a candy cane into Marco’s palm. He accepts solemnly, proud, already planning tomorrow’s delivery like it’s serious work.
