I stand back from the register, surveying the treats inside the glass cases. The only thing strawberry flavored are the pop tarts Hugo purchased yesterday, and if I try and put twelve candles in one of those, I think I'll end up with an inferno.
"Hello, young lady," Sal greets me. He's wearing the cutest apron, made of forest green thick material andlined in green and white gingham. I bet it's homemade. "You were in here yesterday with Hugo, weren't you?"
"I sure was," I confirm with a nod.
"I've known him since he was a tiny thing."
"I'm sure he was cute."
"Sure was. Damn shame what happened to his dad. Blows my mind that they never caught the guy. Small town like this? How does somebody get away with it?"
Sal's loose lips take me aback, but it may not be out of character for him. It doesn't seem like he has much of a filter. Something about his rhetorical questions digs in. The wording, the way he insinuated a person shouldn't be able to get away with murder in a small town.
"You think it was a local? Or it's not possible because of the town's size back then?"
Sal places his age-spotted forearms on the top of the case. "I don't know what I think," he says. "It's hard for me to imagine anybody wanting to kill a man as nice as Simon. Forget having enemies, the man didn't have anybody who wasn't a friend."
A friend of Simon… Is that where I should be looking? Simon's friends?
Sal pats his fluffy white head of hair. "Anyway, what can I do for you, hon? You got a sweet tooth today? Sugar craving?" His gaze drops briefly to my stomach.
I've always heard word travels fast in a small town, but I assumed that was small town lore. Looks like I'm officially being disabused of the notion.
"I came in here hoping to find a strawberry cake. Or slice of cake. Or cupcake. A morsel,really. I'm not picky."
Sal frowns. "I hate to deliver bad news, but we don't have strawberry cake." He turns back, cups a hand around his mouth. "Adela, we gotta put strawberry cake on the menu."
Her head of long, silvery gray hair pops up in the stainless steel window separating the store from the kitchen. "I'll put strawberry cake on the menu when I feel like putting strawberry cake on the menu." She glares, waiting for his return barb.
"There's a pregnant lady who needs strawberry cake," Sal argues, thumbing at me.
Adela's gaze shifts my way. "You're the woman who passed out." The nonchalant way she says it makes it seem like she could be commenting on an odd-shaped cloud in the sky.
"Guilty."
"You're pregnant?"
Sal's lips vibrate in a dramatic sigh. "I told you this already. Woman, I swear"—his hair shimmies with the shake of his head—"you should be sent to the nuthouse."
Surely Adela heard him, but she shows no sign of it. "You want strawberry cake?" she asks me.
I nod. "Please. With vanilla icing."
"Alright," she says, gathering her hair and twisting an elastic band around the base. "I'll bake you a strawberry cake with vanilla icing."
Tears fill my eyes. At least these feel more valid than recent bouts. "Just like that? You'll make one for me?"
"Haven't seen Hugo so alive in a long time." Shewinks at me. "I think that deserves strawberry cake." She disappears from the space, and me?
Tears, of course. Damn them. All I want to do is smile and thank her, but tears clog my voice.
Sal's mouth opens in horror, looking left and right like he's determining how likely he is to successfully escape the crying pregnant lady.
"We've got her, Sal," a voice says, stepping up beside me and draping an arm over my shoulders.
It's Daisy, on my right. Vivi, on my left.
Daisy's hand gently squeezes my shoulder. "Will you sit with us, Mallory?"
