Chapter 4: Four-Thirty

At four thirty in the morning, Dahlgren's Bakery smelled like it always did, yeast and butter and old wood.

I switched on the kitchen lights, tied my lilac apron over last night's wrap dress, and told myself the night was over.

Then the back door opened behind me.

"You didn't lock it," Griffin said.

"I did lock it."

"It's a bad lock."

He had showered, because his hair was still damp, and he wore a charcoal sweater and jeans instead of the three-piece suit.

He looked even bigger in my kitchen.

The ceiling light was low, and his head cleared it by two inches.

"I said one night," I said.

"You did."

"It's four thirty."

"It's still dark," he said, "and I brought you something."

He took the lease notice out of his pocket and unfolded it on my steel counter.

He had written across it in black marker, in big square letters.

VOID. G. STROUD.

Under that he'd signed it, and under the signature he'd written the date and the words Dahlgren's Bakery, fifty-one years, renewed.

"You counted?" I said.

"It's painted on your window.

"I read it before I got out of the car."

I put my hand over my mouth.

"I called the property office at three," he said.

"I told the manager his employer was awake.

"The notice is withdrawn.

"The lease is yours for as long as you like, at the rent you pay now, and I'll put it in writing on Monday."

My eyes filled.

I hadn't cried on the night my mother died, because someone had to run the ovens.

I cried a little now, standing in my apron at the counter, with my forehead in my hand.

His arms came around me from behind and I turned into his chest.

He smelled like soap and pine and something warm and wild underneath.

"Etta," he said into my hair.

"Don't thank me."

"I'm going to thank you."

"I didn't do it for a thank-you."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because I wanted to see your face," he said, "when I tore it up."

I laughed into his sweater.

I wiped my eyes on my apron, and then I looked at him, and the old hot want went through me.

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