I’m just about to call it a day when Joel passes through. He peers over at the work, nodding his head in approval. “We’ll get Mason to take the photos tomorrow.”
I’m glad he has his grandson to run the social media, because that’s way out of my wheelhouse. Even before I went to prison, I never bothered with it.
“Sounds good,” I answer, packing away my pens and tips.
Joel pushes off the table, and starts to walk away. He turns back. “You may be down”—he slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs—“but you aren’t out.”
I like that. A lot. It sparks hope into a place I’m not sure hope is allowed to be.
I finish out the day, and go home to an empty house. I make dinner for one, which is depressing because most recipes are meant for at least two. I wrap up the leftovers and store them for tomorrow. Instead of reading one of the books I’ve borrowed from the Sugar Creek library, I page back through Avery’s manuscript, picking and choosing what I read a second time. I like how she describes our first date, and all the intimate moments. I love reading about how I made her feel. In this form, I get to relive it as much as I want.
The brightness of these parts still manages to cast a shadow. Tiny stabs assail my heart, and still I marvel at the woman behind the words.
Avery wrote this. I let her go, and look at her.
She soared.
I hate to know I was right.
It would be worse had I been wrong.
Joel volunteeredme to help unload and set up tables for the county fair being held this weekend. He made a comment about needing brawn, and he would serve as the brains. Not that much of either is needed in this situation.
Which is fortunate, because only half of me is here, unloading tables and carrying them to where I’ve been directed to go. The other half is stuck on Avery’s book, living our relationship through her eyes.
I vividly remember the day we met, too. Not in the fire, but for real, in the fire station. In my version, she was the one who stopped my breath. She wore a skirt that swished around her ankles, and a white T-shirt tied in a knot at her waistline. When she lifted her hand to shake mine, her shirt rode up and revealed a line of her skin. She stunned me that day. She stuns me now.
On my way here I drove past the cabin where she’s staying, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I didn’t, but I saw her car. She was there, and somehow that was enough. Well, not enough, but it was something. More than I’ve had in a long time.
“Gabriel?”
I turn toward my name. Jane from Lady J Bakery walks my way.
“Where is your head right now?” The bracelets on her arm clack together as she gestures in the air. “I’ve said your name three times.”
“Sorry about that.” I duck my head at her. “In my own world, I guess.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her eyebrows raise. “Does this world of yours have a young lady in it?”
I palm my chest with exaggeration. “Jane, come on. You know you stole my heart the first time I stepped foot in your bakery.”
Jane laughs, her lined face wrinkling further. “My blueberry muffins have a reputation for doing that.”
Jane is fifty-eight, and splits her time between her bakery and church. She’s beautiful, in a regal sort of way. Kimberley once told me Jane showed up in town one day, all by herself. No ring, no moving truck, no nothing. She rented a little place outside town that doesn’t even have a proper address, but every Sunday she went to church. Before long Jane had melted into the town of Sugar Creek as if she’d always been there. She was gorgeous, according to Kimberley, and fielded advances from single men of varying ages, but always said no. Eventually they all quit trying. Kimberley swears Jane’s true love is baking, and there isn’t room for anything else.
I disagree. After Kimberley told me all this, I watched Jane every time I went into Lady J. There is something inside her that keeps her from being truly happy. She ran away from wherever she was before, and she came all the way here to Sugar Creek. How can I tell?
It takes one to know one.
I ran here, too. It wasn’t just the difficulty finding a job, but everything else. Going to a restaurant and listening to someone complain about the food not being to their liking. My mother, hovering over me. My dad, slapping me on the back and tellingme I needed to get back on the horse. If only it were that simple. Maybe for some people it is, but not me. I couldn’t slip back into my old life. For one, there was no Avery. For two, nothing fit quite right anymore. As if all the old shapes were circles, and now I’m a square.
Jane pulls the lid of a plastic container and holds it out to me. “Hungry?”
I reach in eagerly. Jane’s blueberry muffins are legendary.
“So,” Jane says, putting the top back on the container. “What has you so distracted you don’t hear your own name?”
I brush crumbs from my lips as I chew, shaking my head. “Memories.”
