Marco stirs and blinks, then grins like he just remembered presents are part of this month. “Is it pageant day?”
“It is.” I smooth his hair, and the world rights itself an inch. “Costume and breakfast, Captain.”
He props up on his elbows, very serious. “Shepherd or knight?”
“Your choice yesterday was shepherd,” I remind him. “And your staff's already leaning by the door.”
He considers this like a general considering routes, then nods. “Shepherd. The hat can go under the head scarf.”
“Fashion and function,” I say, determined not to let go of bits of me. “Let’s get you fed.”
We migrate to the kitchen in a small parade, my mother in front with the kettle, me with bowls and bread, and Marco carrying his staff like a knight behind us. He makes horse sounds because knights ride, not walk. By the time we reach the last step of the stairs, the knight’s gone and a shepherd boy’s taken his place. He’s in his pageant robe before the toast pops, a striped cottonthing with a rope belt and a felt sheep pinned near the hem, just in case the audience misses the point. He insists on taping new snowflakes to the end of the counter “for mood”, even though the seam’s already flying high with glitter.
When he's done, he spins, robe flaring, staff clacking, and declares, “I’m ready to guard the flock.”
“Start with guarding your oatmeal from that spoon,” my mother says, sliding the bowl to him. She kisses his head. Her voice is bright, but her gaze still makes the rounds—window, door, phone. We all do it now, even when we pretend not to.
We open on time because the world needs proof we're still ourselves. The bakery fills fast. Holiday boxes, last-minute pies, cookie trays the size of sleds leave in happy hands. The room's all color and sound and sugar. Children smear frosting on mittens. Teenagers sneak extra sprinkles when they think I’m not looking. The math teacher buys two cinnamon loaves and tells me again about the year the pageant sheep escaped their pen and wandered into the choir loft like saints. He laughs louder at his joke. It’s Christmas Eve.
I move in my old rhythm and let repetition be a rope. Bag, ribbon, receipt. Smile. Another smile. Thank you, Merry Christmas, see you tonight at the hall. The familiar tasks hold me together even as my stomach keeps trying to tie itself in knots.
Matteo’s nearby, doing what he does best—being useful without getting in the way. He salts the stoop methodically, then scans the street like it owes him an answer. He carries a couple of boxes to the delivery truck and walks back, coat open, jaw set, his whole frame quiet, coiled.
When I glance up, he’s watching me, thoughtful, reading the room the way he always does. Then Marco runs past with a box half his size, grinning like he’s got treasure, and something in Matteo shifts, softens.
“Thanks, Captain,” he says, taking the box with one arm and ruffling Marco’s hair with the other. Marco beams and bolts off again, mission accomplished.
Dot Kline steps in next, tweed coat and peppermint perfume leading the way, to pick up her molasses wreath cookies. She stops short when she spots Matteo by the counter.
“Well, if I were twenty years younger—or maybe just reckless,” she says, then grins at me. “Are you hiding him in the stockroom, honey? Do I need to shop more often?”
Heat climbs my neck before I can stop it. Matteo arches a brow—amused, curious.
I roll my eyes.
Dot winks like I’ve confirmed a secret and leaves humming, box in hand, pleased as if she’s won something. The town keeps arriving. The bell over the door hardly rests. Mrs. Brewster, red scarf wound tightly, organizes the line as if the pageant depends on it. She steers newcomers toward coffee, calls out cookie orders, and tells the daycare nurses to stop gossiping long enough to pick up their trays. Mrs. Doyle waves from the back and shouts something about how long the “cousin” plans to stay, earning a quick hush and grin from Maria.
The bakery hums with small talk and sugar. The window garland drips with paper snowflakes. Marco’s cutouts hang uneven but proud. Red ribbons frame the glass, and a pine wreath leans a little left above the register. Hal from the hardware storestudies the doorframe, then the crowd. “You’ll need cones for the crosswalk,” he says. “I’ll drop some from the shop.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I tell him. In Wrenleigh, traffic cones are a language, bright orange punctuation that sayssomeone cares enough to mark the way.
Mrs. Kelleher trades quiet advice with Mrs. Lawson, who rocks her baby’s stroller with one hand. The twins from the mill dust snow from their boots, arguing about sled runs. Mr. Farrell and Gus sit at their corner table, newspaper folded, coffee cooling, watching everything with the patience of men who’ve seen every version of this morning before.
A man in his forties slips in around ten, looking like half the men who come through any town this time of year—thick jacket, work overalls, cap pulled low, boots that lick salt. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was here for coffee and a sandwich. Matteo meets him outside the side door. They talk in the cold, short and quiet, faces turned slightly away from the street.
The bell over the front door jingles as Matteo brings him in. The man gives the room a quick, practiced glance that barely lands on me before he follows Matteo toward my mother. Maria’s wiping her hands on a towel, her expression calm, neutral, which she saves for strangers who aren’t.
I recognize him, Petro, from the day they fixed the camera feed, though Matteo says it like a polite formality. “Maria, this is Petro,” he says, as if we’ve got all the time in the world. “He will look at the back jamb.”
My mother offers a box before he can refuse. “Panettone ends,” she says. “Eat before they disappear.”
Petro tips his cap, accepts the box, and ambles to the exit. He sets it on a chair, crouches at the frame, runs a palm along the wood like he's checking for splinters. When he stands, he trades a look with Matteo. No words. Just a sharp nod. Then another. Fast little beats.
Matteo replies with clipped, quiet instructions—no wasted words, just movement and meaning. I shift a little closer, pretending to read the ingredients my mother wrote on a jar labeledChristmas, but my eyes aren’t really on the cinnamon or the cloves.
I catch fragments. “Clock the alley till shift…”
“Don’t cover the square and the hall at once. Rotate.”
