Something sweet hits my nose, growing stronger with every step I take, as if there is sugar floating in the air. I follow the scent to a bakery, the one I saw from my car my first night here. It doesn’t look fancy from the outside, but it appears sturdy. Made of brick, like the other storefronts on this street, and glass windows showcasing the treats inside. Passersby know exactly what they’re going to get if they go in. It just so happens coffee and a muffin are what I need to refuel and get back to my manuscript.
The door chimes when I step through, and the scent of warm sugar wraps me in a comforting hug.
“I’ll be out in a second,” a voice from somewhere in the back of the store yells. I’m perusing the cases of muffins and other baked goods when there’s a crashing sound from the back, the unmistakable clink of metal hitting the floor.
Cautiously, I round the counter, slowly pushing through the swinging partition to the back. A woman sits on her backside, her hands at her face. A large sheet pan lies sideways on the ground, propped up by her leg. Muffins are strewn around her.
“Can I help you up?” I ask, offering a hand.
She drops her hands from her face and looks at me. Recognition glimmers as she allows me to help her to her feet. “You’re Gabriel’s wife. Ex-wife,” she amends. “Sorry.”
I nod to let her know her faux pas is forgiven, but my curiosity rages. Who is this woman who seems to know about Gabriel? And me?
She wipes her palms on her backside and surveys the mess on the floor. “I didn’t sleep much last night. Guess I’m just a little clumsy today.”
She kneels, and I follow, retrieving the scattered muffins. We load them onto the sheet pan, and she slides the entirety into a nearby trash, a forlorn look on her face. “I got up an hour early to make those.” She tucks the pan under her arm and looks back at me. “If you’d like to take a seat out there”—she gestures to the front of the store—“I’ll be by in a moment with a coffee and a muffin. Does that sound ok?”
“Lovely,” I respond, making my way out to a small round table. The woman approaches a few minutes later, tray laden with two saucers and cups, a white porcelain creamer and coffee carafe, and two warm muffins.
I help her set down the cups and saucers, and she arranges the rest. “One is cinnamon spice, the other blueberry.” She points at each muffin. “Take your pick, and I’ll have the other.”
I reach for the blueberry and nibble at the side, sighing at the incredible flavor. “You made this?”
“Yes.” She takes the empty seat across from me. “Everyone chooses the blueberry. Except for Gabriel. He asks for whatever needs to be sold.” Her grin holds the affection of a mother.
I reach for the cup. “I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but…who are you?”
She smiles in this slow and patient way, and says, “My name is Jane. This is my bakery.”
“And you know Gabriel?”
Her cup pauses at her lower lip. She nods. “He’s only been here a short time, but he’s slipped into the workings of this place like he was a part we’ve been missing all along and didn’t know it.”
“How do you know him? Because he comes in here?” I have this sudden desire, this insistent nudging, to know more about Gabriel. Who he is today, the person he has become.
She nods again. “That, and he helps me when he can. He chopped firewood for me this past winter. He’d said he’d never done it before, but he caught on quickly. After that he came by every other week and did it. Sometimes I arrived home and it was there, neatly stacked, waiting for me. And Joel”—she waves a hand—“he’s really helping out Joel.”
“How so?”
“He works for Joel’s business, but I don’t think he knows what that’s doing for the man. And his wife. Their son died thirty years ago in the Gulf War. I think they’ve been slowly dying ever since then, too. Gabriel…” Her head shakes slowly, teeth running over her lower lip. “He fills a void.”
I have a strong sense she’s not only talking about Joel and his wife anymore.
My thumb traces the rim of my coffee cup. “Gabriel is a very good man.”
That’s never not been true. Even at his worst, he was good. Bad decisions are not the property of bad people.
“He’s finding his footing. I’m happy to see that.”
A stab of jealousy cuts through my chest. Gabriel is out in the world, muddling through and figuring out who he is now. He’s learning to chop firewood, working with his passion, and choosing near-expiration muffins. And he’s doing it without me.
I blink against my own thoughts, confused by them. I’ve known I still love Gabriel, but I told myself it was in that waywhere, once you’ve recovered from the heartbreak, you think of them with a nostalgic fondness. This doesn’t feel fond. Or nostalgic. It is sharper, more combative.
I do not know what to do with it.
I sip my coffee. “Do you know much about me and Gabriel?”
“He’s been open with me. Or as open as he wants to be, I suppose.”
