10. Graham #2
Graham looked from the papers to the pastry.
One represented what Riley had already decided.
The other was something she might not even eat.
That was all he had.
He opened the driver’s door and stepped onto the gravel, then stopped beside the car with the bag in his hand. The Parish Hall doors waited across the lot.
“Please, Riley. Just take the bag. Give me one minute.”
He held the bag tighter and looked at the doors.
The double doors opened onto the parish hall gym, and Graham stopped long enough to keep from walking into a volunteer carrying two cases of canned beans.
“Stage is that way,” the man said, nodding toward the far wall. “Dry goods on the left. Toiletries on the right.”
“I’m looking for Riley.”
The volunteer glanced toward the center tables. “Blue shirt. Talking to the kid with the ponytail.”
Maisie stood beside Riley with a clipboard tucked against her hip, arguing about where to stack a row of cardboard trays. Riley pointed toward the far side of the room and sent her off with two volunteers. Graham stayed near the entrance until the aisle cleared.
Then he walked toward her.
The bag seemed more ridiculous with every step.
Riley turned before he reached the table. She checked his face first, then the pastry in his hand. No surprise. No anger. She looked at it the way she might have looked at a mislabeled donation.
Maisie reappeared with a roll of tape.
“You’re blocking the sorting lane,” she told Graham. “If somebody takes you out with a case of soup, I’m not doing the paperwork.”
“I’ll move.”
He stepped beside the table.
Riley returned to the clipboard in front of her. “What do you need, Graham?”
Not What are you doing here?
Somehow, that would have been easier.
He held out the bag. “You always used to crave a cherry danish after a long shift. I saw the sign outside, so I brought one.”
Her gaze rested on the folded top.
Wade approached from behind another table, carrying the white bakery box and Riley’s iced tea. He set both near her clipboard.
“Drink first,” he said. “You’ve been running around since I got here.”
“Thanks.”
Riley opened the box and took out the croissant.
Graham held the danish out for another moment before lowering his hand.
“Wade already handled my breakfast,” she said. “And I don’t have the stomach for sugar anyway. I’m fine.”
There it was.
Not cruel. Not theatrical.
Just obsolete information arriving too late.
Wade slid the tea closer to her, then picked up a carton from beneath the table. “Where do you want the canned fruit?”
“Stage left, beside the vegetables. Keep the peaches together if you can.”
“Got it.”
He walked away.
Graham looked down at the bag. A faint red stain had started bleeding through one corner where the cherry filling pressed against the paper.
“I’m just going to leave it on the back counter.” He nodded toward the wall behind Riley. “If there’s any heavy lifting I can do to help you out, just point the way.”
Riley tore a piece from the croissant and studied the room while she chewed.
For one stupid second, Graham expected another dismissal.
Instead, she pointed toward a stack of donation boxes beside the stage.
“Move those donation boxes onto the stage, then. This entire floor needs to be swept before the food-bank truck backs up to the doors.”
Graham followed the direction of her hand.
The stack reached past his shoulder, the cartons labeled in black marker: PASTA, RICE, CANNED MEAT, BABY FOOD.
The stiffness from yesterday’s work hadn’t left his back. His shoulders had started aching again during the drive.
None of that mattered.
“Where do you want them stacked?”
“Keep labels facing out. Three rows. Don’t block the stairs.”
“Anything else?”
Riley glanced toward the supply closet. “Brooms are in there. Finish the boxes first.”
“Okay.”
No thank-you for the pastry. No invitation to stay near her table. No reward for showing up.
Just work.
Graham crossed to the back counter and set the bag beside a stack of paper plates. When he turned around, Riley was already speaking to Maisie again, one hand holding the croissant while the other pointed toward another pile of donations.
He crossed to the boxes.
The box scraped across Graham’s forearms as he carried it up the stairs.
“Pasta goes behind the rice,” one of the volunteers called from below.
“Labels facing out?”
“Yeah. Riley wants everything visible before the truck gets here.”
Graham turned the carton and set it in the second row. His shoulders had begun to ache three boxes ago, and the burn in his lower back had settled into a constant reminder of yesterday’s loading dock. He ignored neither. He simply bent for the next carton and kept working.
From the stage, he had a clear view of Riley near the sorting tables.
Maisie stood beside her with a marker tucked behind one ear, holding up two cans as though presenting evidence in court.
“Explain why tomato soup is with vegetables but chicken noodle is with prepared meals.”
Riley looked at the cans. “Because tomatoes are vegetables.”
“They’re fruit.”
“Not today.”
A woman at the next table laughed. “Don’t start that argument unless you want to be here through dinner.”
Maisie pointed the marker at Riley. “I’m documenting this abuse of food science.”
Graham hauled another box toward the stack.
Riley laughed as she reached for a case of pantry goods, and the sound followed him across the stage. Months ago, he would have assumed that laugh was meant for him. Now he was another volunteer carrying cardboard where she told him to carry it.
“Careful with the stairs,” Maisie called. “You’re drifting into the aisle.”
Graham shifted the box against his chest. “I’ve got it.”
“Good, because I’m not catching you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Maisie snorted and went back to her marker.
Graham set the carton down, turned the label outward, and lifted the next one. Below him, Riley opened a box of donations and began arranging them across the table. A woman passed her a can of soup.
Riley took it.
Then the can slipped from her hand.
It struck the floor and rolled beneath the table.
Riley made a small sound and brought both hands to the side of her belly.
Graham let the box in his arms drop onto the stage.
“Riley?”
He took a step toward the stairs.
Maisie reached her before he did.
“What happened?”
Riley looked down at her stomach, then laughed.
The sound stopped Graham at the edge of the stage.
“She kicked.”
Three women from the nearby tables gathered around her. One of them pushed a chair aside to make room while Maisie stared at Riley’s belly.
“Again?”