Chapter 23: Opening Day

The bakery had its own sign by the thirtieth day, hand-painted by Hank's wife, in cream letters on green.

It said PEMBROKE'S, and underneath, in smaller letters, the rolls stay.

At a quarter to five on opening morning I stood at the front door in my apron.

The lights were off, and the key was in my hand.

I had been up since two.

Every loaf was on the rack.

Every cinnamon roll was lined up in its tray with the icing set.

The old owner sat on a stool by the register in a clean apron with her bad knees propped on a crate.

"They'll come," she said.

"How do you know?"

"They always do for the first week. It's the second week you pray about."

I turned the key and flipped the sign.

By six there was a line out the door and around the corner.

Hank was at the front of it in his cardigan, with his wife on his arm.

Three of the claims people were behind him, and the woman from billing.

The security guard had brought his own bag.

I rang up rolls until my wrists ached.

I had not heard from Floyd in thirty days.

I knew he was alive because Hank told me so every few days.

"He's well," Hank would say over the counter. "He's working. He asked nothing."

Many nights I sat on the bed in the empty apartment and asked myself something.

Did I miss him, or did I only miss the habit?

The answer came on the twenty-third night, and it was not a thought.

I had reached for the second pillow.

At ten past seven the line moved, and the next person stepped up to the counter.

He was in his canvas jacket.

His hair was shorter, and he looked thinner, and he held a ten-dollar bill folded in his fingers.

"One cinnamon roll," Floyd said.

I couldn't speak.

"I read the sign," he said. "It doesn't say I can't."

"You've been gone thirty days."

"Thirty-one. I counted."

"You didn't call."

"You said no calls."

Someone in the line made a small sound, and then somebody shushed them.

I put a roll in a paper bag and set it on the counter between us.

He didn't take it.

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