“So,” he says, slicing the loaf carefully. “How’s the shop?”
Gwen answers before I can. “Busy.”
“Good busy or bad busy?” he asks, sharp beneath the softness.
I shrug. “Busy busy.”
He hums, unconvinced, and then, casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, says, “I’ve been getting extra deliveries.”
My hand stills on my mug.
“Extra?” Gwen says.
“Yes,” he says. “Boxes. Nicely packed. Very professional. Show up right on time.”
I frown. “From…?”
“Oh.” He waves a hand. “Some company. Ashford something. It started right after those social media people crowded the shop.”
The room tilts.
I don’t react. Not outwardly. I’ve gotten very good at that lately.
“Excuse me?” Gwen says, far less subtly.
Mr. Henderson looks between us, confused. “Didn’t you know? They started coming by after you closed that one day. Said they were making sure no one missed their bread orders. They said you knew.”
My chest tightens, sharp and immediate.
“They asked about allergies,” he continues. “Preferences. Very thorough. Polite young man. Didn’t stay long.”
I stare at the table. At the crumbs. At the knife marks worn into the wood over decades of meals.
“He didn’t want us to go without bread after all those people came to the bakery,” Mr. Henderson adds gently. “Said it wasn’t right.”
Gwen opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That sneaky…”
“Gwen,” I say quietly.
She clamps her mouth shut.
Mr. Henderson watches me now. Really watches me. “I hope that was ok,” he says. “I didn’t think to question it.”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically.
It’s not. But it’s not wrong either. And that’s somehow worse.
He didn’t tell me.
He didn’t ask.
But he didn’t make it public. Didn’t brand it. Didn’t put his name on the box.
He just… made sure the bread showed up.
Mr. Henderson reaches across the table and pats my hand, his palm warm and steady. “Your family used to do that,” he says softly. “Quiet things. Making sure people had what they needed without asking for credit.”
My throat tightens.
