Chapter 2
Denton
The precise click of my stopwatch marks the end of Tabby’s allotted five minutes of browsing the holiday market’s trinket stalls.
I pivot on the balls of my feet—a practiced move honed by years of anticipating opposing forwards’ breakaways—my gloved hand already extending towards the spot where my daughter should have been.
But she’s not there.
Where the top of her striped knit hat should have been bobbing beside a display of hand-painted ornaments, there’s only swirling snow and the oblivious backs of other shoppers.
A cold bolt, sharper than the Chicago wind cutting through my athletic jacket, slams into my chest. My breath stops mid-exhale, frozen like the ice beneath my skates during a sudden whistle.
Not again.
The cheerful cacophony of the market – carolers belting out "Jingle Bell Rock," the tinny chime of a Salvation Army bell, vendors hawking roasted chestnuts – dissolve into a meaningless roar, a white noise backdrop to the frantic drumming of my own heart against my ribs.
"Tabitha!" My voice, usually a low baritone used for barking plays on the ice, rips out raw and too loud, swallowed almost instantly by the market’s din. I surge forward, my powerful frame cutting through the crowd with none of my usual athletic grace.
My eyes scan frantically – left, right, over shoulders, under vendor tables – searching for a flash of pink coat, a glimpse of dark curls. Nothing. The world tilts, the snowy ground feeling unstable beneath my boots.
Too much open space. Too many people. My mind races through defensive strategies, but this isn’t a game. There’s no playbook for this gut-wrenching situation.
I push past a group laughing over steaming cups of cocoa.
My focus is narrowed to a laser point: Find her.
Every potential horror – icy pavement, speeding cars hidden by the snow flurries, faceless strangers with ill intent – flash through my mind, each one amplified a thousandfold by the memory of another sudden, devastating loss.
The scent of pine from a nearby wreath stall suddenly smells cloying, sickening, a cruel mockery of festive cheer. I hate Christmas. Hate the forced jolliness, the relentless reminders of a time when joy hadn’t felt like a betrayal.
Another bellow of her name tears from my throat, hoarse this time. I shove my way towards the edge of the market stalls, scanning the snow-covered sidewalk, the busy street beyond slick with gray slush. My gloved hands clench into useless fists at my sides.
Think. Assess the zone. Where would she go? What would catch her eye? The glittering shop windows? The giant inflatable snowman down the block? My gaze sweeps the storefronts lining the street – sleek boutiques, a coffee shop, a bookstore… and then I see it.
A shop that looked like Santa’s workshop has collided head-on with a candy factory. Twinkle lights blaze, garish and excessive. Tinsel drips from every conceivable surface. And inside, pressed against the glass with wide, wonder-filled eyes, is Tabby. Pink coat. Striped hat.
The relief hits me hard. It steals my breath, buckling my knees for a split second before the surge of adrenaline locks them straight. The vise around my chest loosens just enough to draw a ragged gasp of freezing air.
Safe. She’s safe. But the relief is instantly overshadowed by a wave of fury.
Fury at her for wandering off. Fury at myself for taking my eyes off her, even for a second.
And fury, hot and immediate, at the scene inside that window – the chaotic explosion of cheer, the woman kneeling beside Tabby, all flour-dusted mayhem and beaming smile.
I don’t think, I just move. I bust through the door and slam it back against the wall with a crash. The scent – cinnamon, sugar, chocolate, something spicy – is overwhelming, nauseating in its intensity after the clean, cold bite of the street.
My eyes lock onto Tabby. Unharmed. Holding a half-eaten gingerbread man cookie, crumbs dusting her coat.
The sight of her punches another hole in my fear, anger rushes in to fill it.
I cross the small space in three strides, dropping to my knees before her, my hands coming up to frame her small face.
My touch is gentle, a reflex drilled in by years of fatherhood, but my whole body thrums with barely leashed panic.
"Tabitha! Are you hurt? Are you okay?" The words are gravel, scraped raw from my throat. I scan her, searching for any sign of distress, any mark that doesn’t belong. Nothing. Just wide, dark eyes blinking up at me, momentarily startled.
"I’m okay, Daddy! Look!" She brandishes the half-eaten gingerbread man. "Sir Gingerbread! This nice lady gave him to me! He lives in the castle!" She points a sticky finger towards a ridiculous, glitter-frosted structure on a nearby table.
The confirmation – that a stranger had given my daughter food, had engaged with her without my knowledge or consent – ignites my fury into a white-hot blaze. My head snaps up, my gaze zeroing in on the woman who had risen from her crouch near Tabby.
She’s younger than I’d first thought, maybe late twenties, with warm brown eyes currently wide with shock and…
is that indignation? Her hair is a cinnamon-brown halo escaping a bun.
She wears an apron covered in dancing gingerbread men, an absurdly cheerful print.
Flour smudges one cheek. She looked like a hot mess – exactly the kind of person I’ve spent years ruthlessly eliminating from my life.
"What," I grind out, the word sharp and low, cutting through the heavy silence of the bakery. "Are you doing with my daughter?" The accusation hangs in the air, thick as the scent of molasses.
The woman – Holly, Tabby had called her – flinches almost imperceptibly, her hands smoothing across her ridiculous apron.
"I gave her a cookie," she states, her voice surprisingly steady, though a flush is creeping up her neck.
"After she wandered in here alone, looking lost. We were waiting for you, or whoever was responsible for her, to show up.
" The subtle emphasis on ‘responsible’ is a well-aimed jab.
I rise to my full height, pulling Tabby firmly against my leg, a protective barrier between her and this woman, this place.
The warmth of the bakery feels suffocating.
"She doesn't take food from strangers," I state flatly, my voice icy.
"Ever." It’s rule number one, drilled into her since she could understand words. Safety. Control. Boundaries.
Holly’s chin lifts a fraction. The smallest spark of defiance lights her eyes, incongruous amidst the flour smudges. "Well, she took it from me. And seemed quite happy about it."
Her gaze flickers to Tabby, pressed against my leg, her earlier wonder replaced by confusion and a hint of fear at the tension.
That flicker, that hint of fear in my daughter’s eyes directed at me, snags uncomfortably in my chest, but I shove the feeling down.
This woman’s chaos had caused this. This is all her fault.
"She wandered off because she saw your..
. spectacle," I retort, the word dripping with disdain.
I sweep a hand around the bakery – the dizzying lights, the cloying scents, the sheer, overwhelming too-muchness of it all.
"Distracting. Irresponsible." The words are defensive missiles, launched to reassert control over the situation.
Holly takes a step forward, her flour-dusted boots planting firmly on the worn floorboards. "Irresponsible? I'm irresponsible? She was alone, Mr...." She trails off, waiting.
"Blake," I bite out.
"Mr. Blake," she continues, her voice tight.
"In the cold. Drawn by lights and smells, like any curious five-year-old might be.
My 'irresponsibility' involved giving her a cookie, keeping her warm, and sending my friend out into the snow to look for you." Her gaze is direct, completely unafraid of my glower, but yet she’s still smiling. It’s unnerving.
Tabby tugs at my jacket. "Daddy," she whispers, her voice small. "Holly's nice. And her cookies are so yummy."
I continue to focus my glare on Holly. "Your friend went out to look for me?" I demand, needing to redirect, to regain the upper hand.
"Charlie. Yes. She went looking the second we realized Tabby was alone." Holly crosses her arms over her apron. "Now, if you're quite finished accusing me of luring your sweet child in here with cookies, I have an oven full of snickerdoodles to tend to."
I want to argue further, to make her understand the depth of the terror she’d inadvertently caused, to wipe that stubborn look off her face.
But Tabby is shivering slightly against me and the customers are watching with undisguised curiosity, their earlier festive cheer replaced by awkward silence. It’s obviously time to go.
"Come on, Tabby," I say. I steer her firmly towards the door. The blast of cold air as we exit is a shock, but a welcome one, as we nearly collide with a blue haired woman in a ridiculous elf hat entering the shop.
I scoop Tabby up, tucking her securely against my chest. I stride toward my SUV which is parked a block away. She buries her face in my neck, the half-eaten gingerbread man still clutched in her mitten.
By the time I buckle her into her car seat, her initial fright seems to have faded.
I climb into the driver's seat, the familiar, minimalist interior of the SUV – leather, brushed steel, the faint scent of the car’s air freshener – a sanctuary after the bakery’s assault.
I start the engine, the low purr a grounding hum.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. My mom, Clarissa, of course. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then swipe to answer, putting it on speaker as I pull out into the slow-moving traffic.
"Den? Everything alright? You sound… tense." Her voice, warm and laced with its usual concern, fills the car.
I focus on the road, the rhythmic swish of the wipers clearing the snow. "Fine, Mom. Just… busy." I keep my voice deliberately neutral.
"We were busy shopping for boring things," Tabby pipes up from the backseat, her voice small but clear.
Mom laughs softly. "Oh? What kind of boring things, sweetheart?"
"Daddy was looking at ties," Tabby reports solemnly. "Very boring. But I found magic!"
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. "Tabby wandered off in the market for a minute," I interject before Mom can latch onto the ‘magic’ comment. "She’s fine. Just got distracted." I downplay it, a strategic deflection.
"Wandered off?" Mom’s voice sharpens instantly with maternal alarm. "Denton Michael! Is she alright? Where did she go?"
"She’s fine, Mom. Truly." I infuse my voice with a calm I don’t feel. "Just saw some Christmas lights in a shop window and went to look. It was a bakery." I can't keep the faint edge of distaste from the word.
"A bakery?" Mom’s tone shifts, the alarm replaced by something lighter, almost… hopeful? "Sugar Rush, by any chance? Over in Wicker Park? Oh, that place is delightful! Holly James is a treasure. Her gingerbread houses are legendary. Tabby, did you see them?"
I feel my jaw clench. Of course Mom knows the owner of the bakery. Of course she approves. "She saw it," I say quickly, signaling to change lanes. "She got a cookie. Now we're heading home."
"But Daddy," Tabby’s voice rises, filled with sudden urgency. "We have to go back!"
"Go back?" I keep my eyes fixed on the taillights ahead, red smears in the falling snow. "Why, baby?"
"Sir Gingerbread needs friends!" Tabby declares. "And Holly said… Holly said she makes magic cookies! And she has sprinkles! And she smells like Christmas!" The words tumble out in an excited rush. "She’s the magic cookie lady, Daddy! We have to go back! Tomorrow? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?"
In the rearview mirror, I see her eyes. Wide.
Dark. Shining with an earnest, desperate hope I haven't seen since… since before. It’s a light I thought grief had extinguished and it’s aimed squarely at me.
It unfortunately means returning to the pandemonium, the glitter, the woman who looked at me with defiance instead of deference.
Irritation wars with a profound sense of defeat. This Holly-the-baker-person has somehow infiltrated my life. Not through force, but through gingerbread and a five-year-old’s shining eyes.