I twist around, finding Erin Daniels seated at atablewith another woman who I know, but can’t recall her name. "Oh, hi!" I say, waving, hoping to end the conversation because I know the questions about Dad are coming.
I turn back toward the head of the line but hear the scratching sound of a metal chair moving against the wooden floor. An arm folds around my shoulders. "How are you doing?" Erin asks, her voice so soft no one else hears her question.
I don’t know when the human touch made me want to choke up and cry, but that’s what it seems to do to me now. I pull in a deep breath and release a shuttering exhale. "Not great," I tell her. "It will probably be any day now."
Erin places her hand on her heart. "Oh my God, Mel. I’ve been thinking about you since we ran into each other the other day. I didn’t want to bother you, but I was hoping you were doing okay."
"It’s been tough. I feel like life is spinning out of control at the moment, you know?"
"I don’t know, but I can imagine the pain. I wish I could do something for you."
"I appreciate you asking me how I’m doing. It means a lot," I say, noticing I’m only one person away from the counter.
The person in front of me completes his order, and I’m next, but Erin takes my hand and pulls me to the counter. "Put her order on my tab, Miranda," she tells the cashier.
"No, Erin, it’s fine, really."
"I insist," she says. "Is your dad at home or—"
"He’s in the hospital right now. I don’t think he’ll be going back—"
"I see," she says. "I assume you’re spending the day there—at the hospital?"
I nod with agreement. "I’m going to come meet you for lunch. We can go to the cafeteria there."
“Oh, you don’t have to go out of your way.”
"I know," she says. "But I’m going to." Erin squeezes her arm around me again. "I’ll see you this afternoon."
"I—thank—"
"No thanks needed," she says, walking back to her table.
I place my order, keeping it light with the consideration that Erin asked the cashier to put my order on her tab.
A small wave is all I can offer when I leave the bakery. I can only imagine what the other local chatter will sound like once I’m out of sight. I’m sure the town knows about Dad. He hasn’t been in the shop for weeks.
I jog across the main street between the bakery and The Barrel House, then walk in the front door, expecting to see Brett counting change from the register as he’s been doing the last couple of mornings, but Mr. Crawley is behind the counter instead, wrapping labels around bottles.
"Hey, kiddo. How’s your pops today?"
"Um—" I glance down at the white paper bag in my hand. "I brought muffins."
"You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says, running his thumb across the fresh label.
"Did Brett come in this morning?" I ask.
"He’ll be late today. He had to handle something with his daughter," Mr. Crawley says.
My mind is going tothe worst place, and I hope whatever he’s dealing with is unrelated to what happened last night after the talk about Parker’s mother.
"Melody," Mr. Crawley says, his tone firmer this time. "How is your father?"
I nod the other thoughts out of my head to find the right words. There are no right words. "It’s not looking good. We aren’t sure he’ll make it through the week."
Mr. Crawley eases the bottle down and runs the palm of his hand down the side of his white beard. "Where is he now?"
“He’s at the hospital in Tillensdale. I’m heading there in a minute."
