“Marshall Jones,” she says. “You here to buy or brood?”
“Buy,” I say.
She hums, satisfied, already reaching for a box without asking what I want. She knows. Everyone does.
Two bear claws, one cinnamon twist, something glazed that sticks to the paper no matter how careful you are.
“Ranch still standing?” she asks, casual as she folds the box.
“For now.”
“That’s better than expected.”
She slides the box toward me, then follows my line of sight before I even realize I’m looking.
Because there they are.
Candles. Jars. Small, orderly rows of honey-colored light in glass.
Sweet Haven Honey Co.
Abilene’s.
I don’t mean to stop. My body just does it. Muscle memory I didn’t know I had. I stand in front of the display, reading labels I’ve already seen a dozen times, pretending this is just curiosity.
The jars are warm in color, even in the bakery’s fluorescent light. The labels are neat, careful, the kind of tidy that comes from patience, not perfectionism. Nothing flashy. Nothing trying too hard.
I pick up a candle without thinking.
Beeswax. Smooth glass. Warm, even before it’s lit.
Millie leans her elbows on the counter, watching me over steepled fingers.
“Smells like coming home, that one,” she says.
I don’t answer.
Because my mind has already gone somewhere it shouldn’t.
Abilene’s kitchen. Mud tracked in near the back door. Rain tapping against the window. Her standing there with that letter in her hands, shoulders tight, eyes too bright.
She was trying to hold herself together with willpower alone. Same as she always does.
I set the candle down.
Then pick it back up.
“Add this,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.
Millie’s mouth curves into a knowing smile.
“Good choice,” she says, ringing it up. “She pours those herself, you know. Every batch.”
“I know,” I mutter.
She bags the candle carefully and slides it across the counter with the pastries.
I take both.
