Rachel's deli kitchen smelled like yeast and garlic, a combination I'd always found comforting. It wasn't a proper baker's kitchen—the counters were a little too high, the workspace a little too cramped—but Rachel had always baked her own bread for the sandwiches, so the oven was commercial-grade and cooked hot and even. That was all I really needed.
"You're a lifesaver," I said, tying my apron around my waist.
Rachel waved me off, wiping down the counter near the register, her light brown hair swinging with the movement. "Please. You've helped me out more times than I can count. Besides, I love having fresh bread around here that I didn't have to make myself." She grinned, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "What are you making today?"
"Sourdough, some dinner rolls, and I thought I'd try my hand at focaccia." I pulled out my starter from the bag I'd brought, the jar pleasantly bubbly and alive, the tangy scent rising as I unscrewed the lid.
"Fancy." Rachel leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms with an approving nod. "Testing recipes for the restaurant?"
"Some of it. The rest is just... I needed to keep my hands busy."
Rachel gave me a knowing look but didn't push. That was one of the things I appreciated about her, she knew when to ask questions and when to let me work through whatever was churning in my head.
I lost myself in the rhythm of it all. The measuring, the kneading, the way the dough came together under my hands. There was something meditative about baking, something that quieted the restless noise in my mind. The dough was warm and elastic beneath my palms, yielding and then resisting in that perfect balance that meant it was coming together just right. I shaped the loaves carefully, my fingers remembering the motions my grandpa taught me years ago, the way he'd shown me to tuck the edges under to create tension on the surface.
While the bread rose, I prepped the focaccia, dimpling the dough with my fingertips and drizzling it with olive oil and rosemary. The scent filled the kitchen, earthy and bright, the herbaceous notes mingling with the rich, fruity oil.
Only when I slid the last pan into the oven did my mind start to wander again, back to this morning, back to the fire.
Craig had stopped by earlier, his uniform crisp despite the early hour. We'd grabbed a few newly baked pastries and coffee and settled in a corner of the deli to talk.
"We traced the accelerant," he'd said, accepting the coffee I'd poured him. "Shuttle fuel. I even know the freighter it came from but I haven't been able to contact the crew yet."
"So we still don't have idea who started the fire?" I'd wrapped my hands around my mug of coffee needing the warmth.
"Not yet." He'd taken a sip, his eyes troubled. "We know how it was done, just not who did it."
I'd hesitated, then asked the question that had been gnawing at me for a few days. "What about Farris Clegg?"
Craig's eyebrows had risen. "Farris? What about him?"
"I saw him that night. In the crowd." The memory made my skin crawl. "Just standing there, watching my home burn. He had this look on his face..." He'd looked almost giddy.
Craig had set down his cup, his expression thoughtful but not surprised. "Farris and his friends are asses, Ruby. I won't argue that. But they're mostly all talk."
"All talk?" My voice had come out sharper than I'd intended. "You remember the fit they pitched when they found out about Space Pearls, don't you? Farris stood right in the middle of Main Street and said he'd see the place burned to the ground before it opened."
"I remember." Craig had rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I recognized as frustration. "But Ruby, those boys stay too drunk off Clemon Peters' moonshine to organize something like this. They can barely organize a poker game without someone passing out in the yard."
I'd wanted to argue, but he'd continued.
"That said, I'm heading out to see Clemon this morning. Old man called me, says he's got information he wants to share. I'll ask him what he knows about Farris and his cronies, see if they've been running their mouths about anything more than usual."
I'd wrapped both hands around my coffee mug, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. "I hope that's all it was," I'd said quietly. "I hope someone was just trying to stop the restaurant from opening and got mixed up somehow." Space Pearls was right next door to the bakery, it wasn’t too much of a stretch.
Craig had looked at me, understanding softening his features.
"I know that sounds terrible," I'd continued, the words tumbling out. "I know it's awful to hope someone was trying to commit arson instead of... instead of something worse. But the thought that someone might have wanted to hurt Teddy..." My voice had cracked. "I can't... I'd rather believe they were just trying to destroy the building. That they didn't realize we lived there." Of course, Tau Ceti was a small place, a little over 600 inhabitants in total. There weren't many who didn't know Teddy and I lived over the bakery.
"That's not terrible, Ruby." Craig had reached across the table, his hand covering mine. "That's being a mother. And for what it's worth, I hope you're right too." His face hardened. "And don't forget for a minute that I don't remember what those bastards said to Teddy."
Alien mutt.
That's what one of them had called Teddy at the general store a few months ago, loud enough for my son to hear. Teddy had gone quiet, his face crumpling in that way that made me want to burn the world down, his eyes filling with tears he'd tried so hard to hide.
Craig had been there that day, too. He’d stepped right up to the guy—twice his size, all muscle and meanness—and said in a voice like gravel, "You say one more word about that kid, and I'll whip your ass so hard you'll be eating through a straw for a month."
That was part of the reason I'd said yes when Craig asked me out. Not the main reason—he was a genuinely good man, with a kind heart—but it had mattered. He'd stood up for Teddy when he didn't have to.
