Chapter 5: A Loaf a Week

Three weeks later I was back at the ovens at four in the morning, with two hundred and twelve dollars to my name.

Agnes's bakery on Brady Street had one deck oven, one mixer older than I was, and a radio that only got the polka station.

"Shape slower," Agnes said. "You're a sixteen-year-old with a boyfriend again."

"I'm shaping fine."

"You're shaping like you want to throw it at somebody."

"That's also true."

She snorted and slid a tray into the rack.

My ribs had knitted enough that I could lift a ten-pound bag of flour if I breathed out first.

Nobody had asked me about the divorce, and I had not asked myself.

Dalton's lawyer had sent two letters.

I had put both in the flour bin.

At six, the bell over the front door rang, and Agnes jerked her chin toward the counter.

"Your turn. He's here."

"Who?"

"Tall man. Buys one sourdough and a coffee at six every morning. He's been coming since you moved in."

I wiped my hands on my apron and went out front.

He was standing at the counter with his back to me, looking at the pastry case.

He was big and wide through the shoulders, in a dark wool coat, and when he turned around I knew him by the way his hand closed on the counter edge.

It was a large hand, and it was not quite steady.

"Good morning," he said.

His voice was lower than I remembered, and rougher.

"You're the man from the bridge."

"Gabe Hollander." He nodded once. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me."

"You paid my hospital bill."

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