Epilogue Luca
A FEW YEARS LATER
Gabe wakes up first because he says his brain is faster.
I say it is because he is a grumpy oatmeal monster who hears the spoon in his sleep.
“I am not a grumpy oatmeal monster,” Gabe says from the top bunk in his serious voice. “I am a morning scientist.”
“Scientists love oatmeal,” I say back from the bottom bunk. “And arguing.”
We argue for five whole minutes about whether oatmeal needs raisins to be legally oatmeal.
Then we stop at the same time because we remember what day it is.
“Bakery Day,” we whisper together, and it feels like lighting a candle.
We jump.
The floor thumps.
The dog, who is named Churro even though he was almost named Motorcycle, lifts his head and gives us the kind of look that means do not run in the hall unless you are bringing me toast.
We do not bring him toast.
We bring him pats, which he accepts like toast.
Our matching aprons hang on the hook, small and perfect, with tiny motorcycles on the pockets and a smear of old icing that never wanted to leave.
We tie the strings in front because Mama taught us the double-knot that only unknots if you tell it a secret.
We whisper our secret into the bows: Please let there be frosting before breakfast.
Mama is already downstairs singing in Italian.
She sings with her hands because even when she stirs, she tells stories.
The song smells like heaven and oranges.
The kitchen air is sugar and warm butter and the sound of the wooden spoon hitting the bowl like a heartbeat you can eat.
Papa Cruz lifts us one at a time to the big mixing bowl. “Taste,” he says, and this is the best word.
He gives us each a finger to clean like a small spoon. The frosting is cloud-soft and sweet and it sticks to our lips. “Good?” he asks.
“Good is not enough,” I say. “It is yummiest.”
“Scientific,” Gabe says, approving, and licks the whisk so carefully some angels probably clap.
Papa Deacon shows us how to stack muffins into a castle that has a moat made of napkins and a drawbridge that is a butter knife you are not allowed to touch.
“Structures have feelings,” he tells us. “Be kind to the corners.” We are.
We tuck the muffins in like babies. Gabe raises a wall against dragons.
I put a blueberry on top for decoration and also because it can be a moon.
Papa Roman pretends not to smile when we sprinkle cinnamon on the dog by accident. “Churro is not a pastry,” he says, but Churro sneezes and looks proud.
Papa Roman wipes the dog with a towel and tells Mama in his quiet not-quite-smile voice that we were assisting with aromatics.
He makes tiny coffee that smells like bravery and says cold brew is for men who have given up on hope.
Papa Deacon drinks cold brew later very calmly while reading a book about bridges and does not look at Roman at all.
This is called a running joke. It can run around the table during breakfast and no one will catch it.
Isla comes in with her hair like a cloud and her socks in a fight with gravity.
She braids Gabe’s hair into something she calls wizard-core and tells him that wizards must eat blueberries for spell health.
She gives me two braids too because I ask very nicely and offer to give her all the cherries I am allowed, which is zero.
I eat a cherry off the tart anyway and hide under the table.
The table is not surprised; I hide there a lot.
Cara ties on her old apron that has a stain in the shape of a bear if you squint.
She kisses our heads and says, “Mis amores, we have a line already.”
She says there is a fox down by the orchard who listens to Mama singing, which makes me want to sing fox songs.
Gabe says we do not speak fox, but we can try.
We help carry the baskets out front.
The bell on the bakery door trills instead of clanging because Deacon says trills are friendlier.
The window glass fogs and clears because the oven is breathing.
Our stained-glass logo rides the light: a cupcake on a motorcycle with a candy cane lance, Isla’s drawing turned into church.
The cupcake looks brave.
We are brave too because we get to hand people napkins.
People like napkins from small hands.
It makes them remember things.
The old sisters from Hollow Glen sit in the corner window like they are in a picture frame.
They say, “Good morning, cherubs,” and we say, “Good morning, angels,” because we remember their names are not Angels but it is fun anyway.
They always argue about whose turn it is to pay.
Mama says the coffee is on the house if they stop flirting with her.
They do not stop; they only add compliments for her earrings.
A man with a green cap wants the corner lemon bar because it has personality.
We know about personalities.
Gabe says he is the brain; I am the cheer.
We switch when needed.
Today we are both something else.
Today we are official samplers.
We get half a morning bun each as wages. Wages is a word that means we work here.
“Deliveries at eleven,” Deacon says, making a box list in tiny neat letters. He writes: Pastor. Library. Firehouse.
He gives us a job nobody else gets: put the sweetest sticker in the corner of the box so the corners have company.
We do it exactly right. He nods like we built a bridge.
During the first rush the whole town shows up.
The road crew smells like cold and metal and they buy hand pies because
Cruz made them and that means they taste like comfort you can carry.
The teacher with the cat sweater buys two cinnamon twists and pretends she will share both; she will not.
The man who always looks surprised at kindness looks surprised at kindness and leaves a four-leaf clover on the tip plate, which Roman pretends is currency and says, “This buys one smile,” and the man takes it back and smiles like an apology for every time the world didn’t.
We stand on stools that say LITTLE HELPER and hand out napkins when Mama says napkin.
We do not touch the cake server.
We do not touch the espresso machine.
We put four chocolate chips in exactly four cookies because the bench boy did not count right and left them naked.
We are knights rescuing cookies from nakedness.
A lady with big sunglasses comes in, looks around like the room might bite her, and then breathes out when she smells the stollen. “I have not smelled that since my grandmother,” she says.
“Mine too,” Mama says, and their eyes do the soft thing. Mama gives her a slice on the house because houses do that.
The lady eats it slow and closes her eyes. She leaves with a bag and the kind of smile that makes a day last longer.
There is one almost-problem.
A boy who is bigger than us but still not big tells us that motorcycles are for mean people and that bakeries are for nice people and we cannot have both.
We blink at him.
“We can,” I say.
“We do. We are multiple.” Gabe says, very serious, “Our papas make rules that say be kind or be gone. And also no cold brew in the house, except in secret.”
The boy thinks about that and then takes a free sample and leaves without deciding.
Cara says sometimes people need to think on sweetness.
After the rush, we deliver boxes.
The pastor on the hill thanks us for feeding his people.
He gives us a blessing that feels like sun.
At the library, we whisper like proper citizens and give Ms. Lane a cinnamon roll.
She whispers back that books smell like everything and now her desk smells like cinnamon and she is not mad.
We take hand pies to the firehouse and the firefighters lift us like kettlebells, which makes Roman raise one eyebrow and makes Mama say, “Careful,” and makes us giggle anyway.
When we get back, the hens are taking a meeting by the steps. Cleopatra and Biscotti argue in clucks about property lines.
We throw them old bread diplomacy.
Churro carefully sits with his back to them like a man pretending he does not care about hens.
He cares very much.
Inside, Roman is pouring tiny coffees and judging no one, except one man who says, “Got any cold brew?” and Roman says, “We have hope,” and hands him an espresso instead.
Deacon takes a jar and labels it For Dreams and puts everyone’s wishes inside on slips of paper.
I write “A dragon,” and Gabe writes “A telescope,” and Isla writes “A flamethrower empire,” because balance is important.
At noon-thirty we get frosting before lunch because the house is in a generous mood.
We lick spoons like musicians and look at each other with blue tongues.
Mama wipes our faces with the back of her hand and then kisses the frosting anyway.
She does not fear sugar transfer.
She says, “Mi zucchero,” and we glow so hard we almost light the room.
Nap happens and then doesn’t.
We pretend to nap and instead plan the bakery castle defense.
Deacon brings in blocks and shows us buttresses.
“These keep things standing when the wind thinks it is funny,” he says.
“Wind is not funny,” Gabe tells him, very serious. “It pushed Mama once. We are not friends.”
Deacon touches his shoulder. “Then we build better.”
Afternoon turns soft.
Rain thinks about visiting and then doesn’t.
The cupcake motorcycle logo catches a piece of sun and throws it on the floor for us to chase.
We chase.
We do not slip because Roman says walking feet, and when Roman says a thing, the thing is as solid as a chair.
Cara braids my hair this time.
She tells us a story about a woman who used to sing to bees so they would not be lonely in storms.
“Do bees get lonely?” I ask.
“All busy creatures do if no one reminds them to rest,” she says, looking right at Mama. Mama sticks her tongue out at Cara like a girl and sits down for a whole minute.
Isla shows us how to pipe icing roses on practice boards.
We make one that looks like a rose and five that look like octopi hats.
She says they are all art.
She says our bakery should have a gallery for brave shapes.
We say yes and show her the octopus hat that is also a rose if you squint and she says, “Avant-garde,” and I think that means very good.
A man with a leather cut from an allied club stops in and hangs it on the peg because the rule says people first.
He says to Roman, “Beautiful place.”
Roman says, “Behave,” and the man laughs like he understands every rule without hearing any words.
We close when the light goes gold. RESTING THE OVEN.
People always come right then and we give them one more thing because we are generous and because leftovers deserve homes.
Mama saves two lemon bars for tomorrow and Deacon writes LEMON, IMPORTANT on a sticky note and places it like a spell.
Dinner smells like stew and bread that sings when you break it.
We sit at the long table and pass plates and salt and stories.
I tell the fox story.
Gabe tells the wizard hair story.
Isla tells a story about a cupcake knight.
Papa Cruz sings while he wipes the table and the song gets in the cracks and makes them polite.
After, we all go outside for five minutes in the cold to see which stars showed up.
Roman points out the first one like it is his friend.
Deacon says the constellations in a voice like he is reading blueprints for the sky.
Cara wraps us in scarves and says, “Inside now, mis luceros,” and we do not argue because the fire calls us.
The fire makes the stones look like sleepy lions.
Churro sighs so loudly at the hearth it sounds like someone let air out of a balloon.
Mama sits with her feet tucked under her and the boys, who are us, folded over her like little commas.
Papa Roman reads a paragraph from a big book in a nice important tone that reminds me of espresso.
Papa Deacon fixes the hinge on the toy box without looking like fixing is work.
Papa Cruz rubs my back in circles that say everything without talking.
Sometimes I think about people who ask where our real dad is.
The answer is we have three.
We have all.
We have a house where men change diapers and label jars and cook at midnight and check door latches like prayers.
We have a bakery where grownups cry happy and pretend not to.
We have a lodge where rules are carved in wood and also on the backs of our hearts.
We do not need a bloodline to tell us anything we don’t know.
Bedtime comes the way it always does: first slowly, then all at once.
The fire settles like it is tired of being exciting.
The dishes are done because Roman does not sleep if a plate is lonely.
Cara hums in the kitchen, cleaning the day without washing it away.
Isla kisses our cheeks and says she will teach us how to make stained glass tomorrow from melted sugar.
Mama lifts us at the same time and we pretend to be heavier than science allows.
She says, “My little profiteroles,” and the name still fits even though we are big.
Upstairs, the hall is warm and night presses against the windows like a friendly giant.
Our bunk beds smell like soap and laundry and a story we already know but want again.
Roman tucks the blanket just so.
Deacon checks the night light then pretends he did not.
Cruz smooths our hair and we purr like a cat accidentally.
“Goodnight,” Mama says in Italian and also in the secret language of hands. We say it back in all our languages: English and Spanish and Cookie.
The door goes almost closed.
It does not click because no door here ever shuts all the way on purpose.
We lie on our backs and watch the little plastic stars Isla stuck to the ceiling.
The green ones glow.
The blue ones pretend.
The yellow ones do nothing but we believe in them anyway.
“Hey,” Gabe whispers from the top bunk. “We were right.”
“About what?” I whisper up into the soft underside of his mattress where people write their names in pencil.
My name is there.
So is his.
So is Mama’s.
We put a heart next to all of them in case we forget what those are for.
“Being loved,” he says. “It is like sugar. It sticks everywhere.”
I roll onto my side and look at the crack of golden dark under the door where the fire downstairs still thinks we might need it.
I nod even though he cannot see me, even though he knows, even though I am already half asleep and full of our whole life.
“And we’re never running out,” I say.
He laughs, small and sure, the kind of laugh you can put in your pocket and take to school when school happens later, much later, not now.
We breathe together.
The house breathes with us.
The oven rests.
The stars do their job without telling anyone how hard it is.
Churro snores.
Somewhere out in the dark the fox listens for a song, and if the wind wants to play a trick it does not dare, because the windows here remember every storm that tried and lost.
Tomorrow is Bakery Day again.
We already taste it.
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