Chapter 3 — Closing Time
By seven-thirty that evening, Whitfield's Sweet Shop had finally gone quiet.
The last customer had left twenty minutes earlier with a box of peach turnovers and an apology from Clara because she'd accidentally burned one.
The apology had been unnecessary.
The customer had bought six.
Still, Clara couldn't help herself.
She apologized for everything.
Burnt pastries.
Slow coffee.
Rain.
Traffic.
The weather when it was too hot.
The weather when it was too cold.
Her grandmother used to say Clara had inherited the bakery's ovens and its habit of worrying.
Tonight, the worrying felt heavier.
Clara locked the front door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
The brass bell gave a final, delicate jingle.
Then silence.
She rested her forehead briefly against the glass.
Main Street looked different after dark.
The daytime crowds were gone. The festival decorations hanging between the buildings swayed gently in the evening breeze. Peach-colored ribbons fluttered beneath streetlamps. A few businesses remained open, their windows glowing against the darkness.
Three days.
Three days until the Summer Peach Festival.
Three days until the town would fill with visitors.
Three days until everyone would pretend things were normal.
Clara turned away.
“Okay.”
She clapped her hands once.
“Let's finish.”
There were trays to wash.
Counters to wipe.
Orders to label.
Dough to refrigerate.
She moved through the bakery automatically, cleaning as she went.
The familiar rhythm usually calmed her.
Tonight it didn't.
Every few minutes, her mind returned to the market.
To Dean Harlow.
To his warning.
To her own words.
You be careful.
You don't get to walk into my bakery and threaten my business.
And worst of all:
Then you will regret making this difficult.
Clara stopped wiping the counter.
“Oh, wonderful.”
She had said it loudly.
In public.
With witnesses.
Half of Main Street had heard.
She dropped the cloth into the sink.
“I should learn to keep my mouth shut.”
A soft meow came from the office.
Clara looked over.
Clove sat in the doorway.
“You're judging me.”
The cat blinked.
“You always judge me.”
Another blink.
“That's fair.”
He disappeared back into the office.
Clara smiled faintly.
She continued cleaning.
At eight-fifteen, she carried a tray of cooling pastries into the storage room.
At eight-thirty, she checked tomorrow's orders.
At eight-forty-five, she balanced the till.
At nine, she turned off the display lights.
The bakery became dim and shadowed.
Clara was halfway through writing the morning prep list when the bell over the front door rang.
She looked up.
The front door was locked.
For one strange second, she wondered whether she'd imagined it.
Then came three knocks.
Clara's stomach tightened.
She walked toward the door.
“Who is it?”
“Clara.”
She knew the voice.
She opened the inner door but left the outer one locked.
Dean Harlow stood on the sidewalk.
His tie was loosened.
His jacket was unbuttoned.
And he looked nothing like the polished executive who had confronted her that afternoon.
Clara stared at him through the glass.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“It's after nine.”
“I know.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“I can't.”
Something in his voice made her hesitate.
She unlocked the door.
Harlow stepped inside.
Clove appeared at the end of the hallway.
His crooked ear tilted forward.
He stared at Harlow.
Harlow noticed.
“Your cat doesn't like me.”
“He didn't like my new oven either.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“It shouldn't.”
Harlow almost smiled.
Then the expression disappeared.
He looked around the empty bakery.
“Are we alone?”
Clara's unease deepened.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He moved toward the counter.
“I need to tell you something.”
Clara folded her arms.
“About the building?”
“No.”
“The health code?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Harlow glanced toward the windows.
“Off the record.”
Clara stared at him.
“I'm a baker, Dean. Not a journalist.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking for an off-the-record conversation?”
“Because I don't know who I can trust.”
That sentence landed differently.
Clara remembered the morning.
Do you trust me?
She had dismissed it then.
Now she wasn't so sure.
“What happened?”
Harlow reached for his briefcase.
Clove hissed.
The sound was sharp enough to make Clara flinch.
Harlow froze.
His hand remained on the handle.
“What is it with that animal?”
“I don't know.”
Clove stood rigidly near the office doorway.
His eyes were fixed on the briefcase.
Harlow slowly withdrew his hand.
“Forget it.”
Clara frowned.
“You came here to tell me something.”
“I did.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked at her.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Finally, he lowered his voice.
“There are things happening with the redevelopment project that you don't know about.”
Clara waited.
“What things?”
“Things that could affect you.”
“That's not exactly reassuring.”
“I know.”
“Does this have something to do with the council?”
His expression changed.
Just slightly.
But Clara saw it.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because the council is voting on the zoning changes.”
“Yes.”
“And Delphine Ashworth has been pushing them.”
“She has.”
Clara studied him.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Harlow looked toward the front window again.
“I've made mistakes.”
“You've made a lot of them.”
“I deserve that.”
The answer surprised her.
He took a breath.
“I thought I could control this.”
“Control what?”
“Everything.”
Clara's arms dropped.
“Dean, you're scaring me.”
“I don't want to.”
“Then stop speaking in riddles.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the office.
Toward the back of the bakery.
Toward the place where Clove still stood watching him.
“Because if I tell you here, you could become involved.”
“I already am involved. You're trying to buy my building.”
“That's not what I mean.”
Clara felt a chill move down her arms.
“What do you mean?”
Harlow didn't answer.
Instead, he opened his briefcase.
Clara instinctively stepped back.
Clove growled.
Harlow stopped.
“No.”
He closed it.
“Not here.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To warn you.”
“About what?”
“I'll come back tomorrow.”
Clara stared at him.
“You just said you couldn't wait.”
“I know.”
“Dean.”
“I need to make sure something first.”
“What?”
He shook his head.
“I'll tell you tomorrow.”
Clara was frustrated now.
“Tomorrow when?”
“Morning.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Ten.”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
Harlow looked relieved.
He reached into his coat pocket.
“I brought you something.”
“A bribe?”
“No.”
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Clara recognized the logo.
One of Harlow's company's letterheads.
“What is that?”
“Nothing you need tonight.”
He folded it again and put it back into his pocket.
Clara frowned.
“Then why show me?”
“Because I wanted you to know I wasn't lying when I said I was trying to fix something.”
She didn't understand.
Maybe tomorrow she would.
Harlow turned toward the door.
Clara followed.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“Are you in trouble?”
His hand rested on the door.
He didn't look back.
“Maybe.”
Then he opened it.
Cold night air rushed into the bakery.
“Dean.”
He looked over his shoulder.
For the first time, Clara saw something almost vulnerable in his expression.
“If I don't come back tomorrow—”
He stopped.
Clara's heart gave an uncomfortable thud.
“If you don't come back?”
“Forget I said that.”
“That's not something you say and then ask someone to forget.”
He smiled faintly.
“You're right.”
He stepped outside.
“Goodnight, Clara.”
“Goodnight.”
The door closed.
Clara locked it behind him.
She stood there watching through the glass.
Harlow walked down Main Street.
Past the flower shop.
Past the dark windows of the hardware store.
Toward the harbor.
He never looked back.
Clara remained at the door until he disappeared around the corner.
Only then did she exhale.
Clove walked into the front room.
He stopped beside her.
“Something's wrong,” Clara whispered.
Clove stared toward the street.
“You felt it too.”
The cat gave no answer.
Of course.
He walked away.
Clara turned off the last light.
At nine-forty, she finished locking the bakery.
She checked the back door twice.
Then the office.
Then the refrigerator.
Then the front door again.
She had never been this nervous closing the shop.
Clove usually settled near the oven at night.
It was his place.
He would curl into a ball on the warm floor while Clara finished paperwork. Eventually, when she headed upstairs to her apartment, he would follow.
Tonight he didn't.
He paced.
From the office to the kitchen.
Kitchen to hallway.
Hallway to office.
Clara watched him make the same circuit for the fourth time.
“What are you doing?”
He stopped.
Looked at her.
Then continued pacing.
“Clove.”
Nothing.
She crouched.
“Come here.”
He ignored her.
She stood again.
“Fine.”
She picked up her keys.
“I'll see you upstairs.”
Clove remained in the office.
That was unusual.
Very unusual.
Clara hesitated.
Then she heard herself say, “You're worrying me.”
Clove stopped pacing.
He looked toward the closed back door.
Clara followed his gaze.
Nothing.
Just darkness beyond the glass.
She walked over and checked the lock.
Still secure.
“See?”
She tapped the metal.
“Locked.”
Clove didn't move.
Clara forced herself to smile.
“Goodnight.”
She turned off the office light.
Clove's silhouette remained in the darkness.
She left him there.
Upstairs, Clara changed into pajamas and stood at the bedroom window.
The town was almost completely quiet.
A few festival workers were still moving near the square.
The harbor lights shimmered across the water.
Somewhere in the distance, a car passed.
She thought about Harlow.
About his strange questions.
About his briefcase.
About the way he had said he didn't know whom to trust.
And most of all, about the words he'd started but never finished.
If I don't come back tomorrow—
Clara shivered.
“Don't be ridiculous.”
She closed the curtains.
Tomorrow, he would return.
He would explain everything.
Whatever strange problem had gotten into his head would be resolved.
The bakery would still be here.
The festival would still happen.
Life would continue.
That was what Clara told herself as she climbed into bed.
Downstairs, Clove paced the office one more time.
And on a dark stretch of Harbor Street, Dean Harlow walked alone into the night.
He would not see another morning.