My carefully rehearsed speech blurs in my sleep-deprived, guilt-and-sorrow-ridden brain when I see her, and instead, I blurt out, “I can’t keep making you work and take care of Farmor without breaks. I’ll go back today. I’m not sick. I can go to work. I’mgoingto work.”
My mom looks at me for a second and then nods, stepping forward to envelope me in a hug. “It’s good to get your fingers back in the dough. Farmor taught me that. It always helps to bake.”
I squeeze Mom back tightly.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing behind my mom as she unlocks the front door to let us into Konditori. I pause on the threshold and glance toward the title company, but it’s barely five fifteen; no one is there yet. The sky is leaden. It’s a rare overcast morning, billowing clouds hovering over the Superstition Mountains; there’s a zing in the air—a foreboding of restless energy that hints at the possibility of a storm later. I wrap my arms around myself, chilled even though it’s already almost seventy degrees, even without the sun up yet.
When I finally walk into Konditori, shut the door, and lock it behind me, Mom is well into the kitchen. I head back, take my apron off its hook, and tie it on.
“What do you want to tackle first?” she asks, surveying the gleaming kitchen.
“Whatever you want me to do. Put me to work.” I think she can sense that I have no desire to make any decisions today, so she assigns me thesemlorbuns.
I begin to pull out and measure the ingredients. It’s a three-part recipe—the dough infused with cardamom for the actual buns, the marzipan, and the cream for the filling. Slowly, the familiar routine takes effect, settling my mind and soul, allowing me to turn off all thoughts except for measuring, mixing, kneading, and shaping. Gratefully, I lose myself to the baking.ThisI know.ThisI can do.
After I finish thesemlorbuns, I move on to thepepparkakorand then thekanelbullarwhile my mom leaves for an hour to go check on Farmor, promising to return beforeopening time. I pause only briefly around eight to eat a piece of toast and some yogurt—about all I can manage to force down; my stomach still feels on the verge of rebelling at any moment.
Before I know it, Mom walks back into the kitchen.
“Looks like you’ve been busy!” she says.
I shrug. “How’s Farmor?”
Mom’s eyes are brighter than I’ve seen in a long time. “She’s responding to stimulus consistently now! She squeezed my hand twice, and when the doctor pricked her toe, she moved her foot!”
I hardly dare let myself hope. “What did the doctors say?”
“The next stage is for her to actually wake up and that it could happen anytime. But they told me we should be prepared for her to be confused or angry or have memory issues.”
I swallow a lump of fear. “What if she wakes up, but she’s not okay? What if she’s paralyzed—or not herself? What if she can’t talk at all?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge if we have to. But for now, let’s focus on the good news and hope for the best. You should go see her after we’re done here today. Maybe hearing your voice will help her wake up. She’s always had a special spot for you in her heart.”
I clench my jaw, thinking of the journal and wondering if I should tell my mom about finding it—and the secrets it holds.
But before I can, she says, “Isthatthe time? We need to go unlock the door!”
My breath lodges in my throat as if I swallowed a piece of toast without chewing, and it’s blocked my airway. I didn’t think throughthispart of coming to work.
My mom must realize I’m panicking because she goes to the sink and washes her hands. “How about I run the front for now, and you can finish these up?”
I nod, thankful. The lump in my throat slowly dislodges, air moving through my lungs once more.
I know there’s little to no chance that Hunter will show up here this morning on a treat run for the title company, but I don’t want to risk it. I have no idea what I’ll say or do when—if—I ever see him again. For all I know, he’s packing his belongings and leaving Arizona to escape me as soon as possible. I wouldn’t blame him. In fact, it would probably be best for both of us if he did.
But there’s still the very small chance hecouldshow up.
So I stay in the kitchen to bake and bake and bake until there is no danger of us running out of anything today. The shelves and fridge and counters are quite literally overrun with Swedish treats. My mom comes back a few times to check on me but doesn’t comment on the surplus of baked goods. She merely boxes as many as she can between customers and carries them out front.
Finally, around one, she tells me I have to stop. “I know it’s helping you, but there’s no possible way we can sell all this today. And you need to eat. In fact, Lou said she’d come over on her lunch break and take you with her somewhere.”
I plop onto the only chair in the kitchen, trying not to think about Hunter gripping the back of this very chair, trying to “go slow” with me only a few days before, and exhale, letting my head tip back to rest against the edge of the stainless-steel counter behind me.
“Can you tell her I’m not up for it?”
“No,” Mom says.
My eyes widen, and I sit up straight to meet her stern gaze.
