Hannah turned, forcing a smile. "I saved you the cherry ones. Made them fresh this morning."Just like always, she didn't add.Just like nothing has changed.
Mary stood clutching her purse with both hands, her blue eyes not quite meeting Hannah's. The silence stretched between them, heavy with so many years of morning Danishes, of gossip shared over coffee, of Mary sneaking extra cookies to Hannah when she was small enough to hide behind the counter.
"I—" Mary's fingers tightened on her purse. "I'm afraid I won't be needing any today, dear. The bridge club, you see..."
Hannah's throat closed. "The bridge club?"
"They've decided..." Mary swallowed hard. "Given the circumstances..."
Given the circumstances. As if her entire life could be reduced to a polite euphemism.
"It's nothing personal," Mary added quickly. "Just until things... settle."
Hannah's fingers curled around the pastry tongs. The metal bit into her palm, grounding her. "Of course," she heard herself say. "I understand."
She didn't understand. Didn't understand how twenty years of trust could evaporate overnight. How the woman who'd brought soup when Hannah had the flu, who'd cried at Hannah's graduation, could suddenly look at her like she was a stranger.
Mary took a half-step backward. "I should go. The ladies will be waiting."
The bell chimed again as Mary left. Hannah stood motionless, staring at the cherry Danish she'd set aside—still warm, still perfect, still waiting for someone who wasn't coming back.
Without conscious thought, she found herself moving to the kitchen. Her hands reached for flour, yeast, salt—her grandmother's bread recipe embedded in her muscle memory. The familiar motions carried her forward: measuring, mixing, kneading. The dough came together under her fingers, soft and alive.
She could do this. She could keep going. Keep baking. Keep breathing.
The morning sun slanted through the kitchen windows as she worked, casting long shadows across the flour-dusted counter. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her head:"Bread is simple, Hannah. It doesn't care who you are or what people say about you. It just needs patience and steady hands."
The dough doubled in size as the morning grew brighter. Hannah punched it down, divided it, shaped it with practiced movements. One loaf. Two. Three.
Her hands kept moving. Four. Five.
She reached for the last portion of dough and froze.
Six loaves.
She always made six on bridge club days. One for each of the ladies who'd been meeting in Crystal Lake's community center every Tuesday morning for longer than Hannah had been alive.
The weight of it hit her then—not in her chest where the hurt lived, but in her hands. In the muscle memory that still shaped bread for women who would never eat it.
Hannah stared at the sixth ball of dough, her fingers covered in flour that suddenly felt like chalk. Like dust. Like everything in her life that was crumbling away.
She didn't cry. Wouldn't cry. Instead, she shaped the last loaf with the same care as the others. Let it rise. Scored the top with three perfect lines.
Because that's what Everett women did. They baked. They endured. They kept their heads high even when the world fell apart.
The phone'sfirst ring cut through the quiet of the empty bakery just as Hannah slid the last loaf into the oven. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving streaks of flour across the worn fabric.
"Sugar & Spice, this is Hannah."
"Yes, about the Thompson wedding cake—" The voice was clipped, formal. Hannah recognized it immediately—Caroline Thompson. They'd spent three hours last week choosing flavors, designing the perfect cascade of sugar flowers. "We'll need to cancel."
Hannah's fingers tightened on the phone. "Mrs. Thompson, the deposit?—"
"Bill us for any expenses." Paper rustled in the background. "We'll pay the cancellation fee."
"The flowers are already ordered." Hannah hated how small her voice sounded. "The sugar work?—"
"Bill us," Mrs. Thompson repeated. Then, softer: "Emma always loved your cakes, Hannah. But given the circumstances..."
