Chapter 8 — Cousin Trouble
Clara knew Theo was back in town because Clove knew first.
The cat was sitting on the windowsill when Clara saw him.
Not Theo.
Clove.
His ears suddenly lifted.
His tail flicked once.
Then he jumped down and hurried toward the front door.
Clara frowned.
“What?”
The bell above the bakery door rang.
Theo Whitfield stepped inside.
Clara stopped moving.
For several seconds, neither cousin spoke.
Theo looked older than she remembered.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
His dark hair was longer than it had been the last time she'd seen him, and there was a tiredness around his eyes that hadn't been there years ago.
He wore a navy jacket, jeans, and the uncomfortable expression of a man who knew he had arrived at precisely the wrong moment.
“Hi, Clara.”
She stared at him.
“Hi?”
Theo gave a small smile.
“I wasn't sure how you'd react.”
“I haven't decided yet.”
“That seems fair.”
Clove walked straight to him.
Clara watched in disbelief as her cat rubbed against Theo's ankle.
Theo crouched.
“Well, hello.”
Clove purred.
Clara's mouth fell open.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Theo scratched beneath the cat's chin.
“Still remembers me.”
“He barely remembers customers who feed him.”
“I used to feed him.”
“When?”
“When Grandma was alive.”
Clara's expression changed.
She remembered.
Theo had been around constantly then.
Before everything fell apart.
Before arguments about the bakery.
Before their grandmother's illness.
Before the will.
Before Theo left town.
Clove rubbed against Theo again.
Traitor.
Theo stood.
“I came to see you.”
“Why didn't you tell me you were back?”
His smile disappeared.
“I wasn't sure you'd want to see me.”
“How long?”
Theo hesitated.
“Two weeks.”
Clara stared at him.
“You've been here for two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“And you never called?”
“No.”
“Texted?”
“No.”
“Sent a carrier pigeon?”
“Clara.”
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
She folded her arms.
“Why didn't you?”
Theo looked toward the bakery's front window.
“Because I didn't come back for the reason you think.”
“I don't know what reason I think.”
“The building.”
There it was.
The old wound.
Clara felt it immediately.
“You came back because of the bakery.”
“No.”
“You want your share.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Theo sighed.
“Can we talk somewhere else?”
Clara glanced at the clock.
She had no desire to have this conversation.
But she had even less desire to have it where customers could overhear.
“Dinner.”
Theo blinked.
“Dinner?”
“My apartment. Seven.”
“All right.”
Clove followed him to the door.
Theo scratched his head.
“See you tonight.”
Clara watched him leave.
Then looked down at Clove.
“You're supposed to be on my side.”
Clove sat down.
He washed one paw.
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“Unbelievable.”
At seven, Theo knocked.
Clara opened the door.
He held a bottle of sparkling water.
“Peace offering.”
“I don't drink peace offerings.”
“Then it's just water.”
She stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The apartment smelled like roasted vegetables and chocolate.
Theo looked around.
“Nothing's changed.”
“Some things have.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
They sat at the small kitchen table.
For several minutes, neither touched the food.
Finally, Clara said:
“Why are you here?”
Theo looked down at his plate.
“I came back because I wanted to talk to you.”
“You had two weeks.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of what you'd say.”
“You could have found out.”
He smiled faintly.
“You always were direct when you were angry.”
“I've been told I need more of that.”
Theo looked at her.
“By the detective?”
“Among others.”
His expression changed.
“How bad is it?”
Clara knew immediately what he meant.
“The case?”
“Yes.”
“Bad.”
“Because of you?”
She stiffened.
“Because of me?”
“I didn't mean—”
“It sounded like you did.”
Theo leaned back.
“I'm sorry.”
Clara pushed her plate away.
“Everyone keeps looking at me like I did something.”
“I don't.”
“Why?”
“Because you couldn't kill someone.”
She looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“Because you once cried for twenty minutes after accidentally stepping on a beetle.”
“That was a spider.”
“Even worse.”
Despite herself, Clara smiled.
Theo smiled too.
Then the moment passed.
“I heard about the argument,” he said.
“Of course you did.”
“Everyone did.”
“Harlow wasn't exactly popular.”
“No.”
Theo became quiet.
“He came to the bakery, didn't he?”
“Yes.”
“The night he died?”
Clara looked up.
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Why?”
“I'm trying to understand what happened.”
“You weren't here.”
Theo's expression tightened.
“I was.”
Clara froze.
“What?”
“I was here.”
“You weren't.”
“I came back two weeks ago.”
“No. I mean that night.”
Theo hesitated.
“I drove past the bakery.”
“When?”
“After nine.”
Clara's heart began beating faster.
“Did you see Harlow?”
“I saw his car.”
“Where?”
“Behind the bakery.”
She stared at him.
“You never told the police.”
“I didn't think it mattered.”
“Why wouldn't it matter?”
“Because I didn't see him.”
“But you saw his car.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
Theo shook his head.
“No.”
Clara studied him.
“Why were you there?”
He sighed.
“I wanted to see Grandma's old house.”
“You could have told me.”
“I wasn't ready.”
“For what?”
“To come inside.”
Clara looked away.
There was too much history between them.
Their grandmother had raised them together in many ways.
Then the will had split them apart.
Theo had believed he was entitled to half the bakery building.
Clara had believed he wanted the money.
Neither had ever properly asked the other what they actually wanted.
“I thought you hated me,” Theo said.
“I didn't.”
“You never called.”
“Neither did you.”
“I thought you'd chosen the bakery over me.”
Clara swallowed.
“You disappeared.”
“You told me to.”
“I was nineteen.”
“I know.”
“You were twenty-one.”
“I know.”
The silence stretched.
Finally, Theo said:
“I didn't come back for the building.”
“Then what do you want?”
He looked directly at her.
“You.”
Clara's eyes stung.
“I mean my cousin,” he added quickly. “My family.”
She looked down.
“That might be harder.”
“I know.”
Clove jumped onto Theo's lap.
Both of them looked down.
Theo laughed softly.
“Apparently I've been forgiven.”
Clara shook her head.
“He has terrible judgment.”
Clove curled into a ball.
Theo stroked his back.
“I missed this.”
Clara watched them.
Clove had never done that with a stranger.
Not once.
Something inside her loosened.
Not completely.
But enough.
“Tell me about the will,” she said.
Theo's hand stopped.
“I don't want to fight.”
“Neither do I.”
He took a breath.
“Grandma told me she wanted us both to have the building.”
Clara's heart tightened.
“I know.”
“She said the bakery belonged to both of us.”
“She left it to me.”
“She left you the business.”
Clara frowned.
“What?”
“The will separated the business from the property.”
She stared at him.
“I didn't know.”
“I know.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was angry.”
Theo's voice became quieter.
“And because I thought you knew.”
Clara leaned back.
“So you don't want to sell?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want my half of the building recognized.”
“That sounds like you want money.”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
“I want a place in the family again.”
Clara didn't know what to say.
She looked at Clove.
The cat was asleep.
Completely relaxed.
As if this conversation were exactly where he wanted to be.
After dinner, Theo followed Clara into the kitchen.
“What are you making?”
“The competition cake.”
“The chocolate one?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the ingredients.
“Grandma's recipe?”
“Mostly.”
Theo smiled.
“She used orange zest.”
Clara stopped.
“No, she didn't.”
“She did.”
“I've made this recipe dozens of times.”
“The original version did.”
Clara frowned.
“Where?”
“In the filling.”
“You're sure?”
Theo nodded.
“Grandma said chocolate needed something bright to keep it from becoming heavy.”
Clara stared at him.
She had been fighting that exact problem.
Her third attempt was good.
But heavy.
The chocolate dominated.
She opened her notebook.
“Show me.”
Theo reached for a pencil.
“Not much. Half a teaspoon of zest.”
“That's it?”
“And a pinch of salt.”
“I already use salt.”
“Not enough.”
Clara looked at him.
“You remember all this?”
“I baked with her too.”
She smiled.
“Apparently.”
Theo pointed toward the peaches.
“And she used fruit preserve instead of fresh fruit in the middle.”
“Why?”
“Fresh fruit released too much moisture.”
Clara's eyes widened.
That explained the soggy layer she'd been fighting.
She quickly wrote it down.
“Why didn't I remember that?”
“You were always busy decorating.”
“I was eight.”
“You were very serious about frosting.”
“I still am.”
Theo laughed.
Clara looked at the recipe.
For the first time, the cake seemed to make sense.
Chocolate.
Peach.
Orange.
Salt.
Balance.
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Clove suddenly lifted his head.
He looked at Theo.
Then at Clara.
Then settled back down.
Clara smiled.
Maybe the cat had gotten one thing right.
She turned toward Theo.
“Stay for coffee?”
He smiled.
“I'd like that.”
Later, after Theo left, Clara stood alone in the kitchen.
She looked at the revised recipe.
Attempt #4.
She added another note.
Orange zest. Peach preserve. More salt.
Then she closed the notebook.
Theo had surprised her.
He hadn't come back for the building.
Not really.
He'd come back because he missed his family.
And yet—
There was still something she couldn't ignore.
He had been near the bakery the night Harlow died.
He hadn't told the police.
That mattered.
Clara went to the window.
Across the street, Whitfield's Sweet Shop stood dark.
She thought about Harlow's car.
The cooler.
The cake stand.
The perfume.
The blue fabric.
Six suspects.
Six secrets.
And now Theo.
She didn't know whether she trusted him.
But she knew one thing.
Clove did.
And for once, Clara decided not to dismiss that completely.
She looked down at the cat, who had followed her into the kitchen.
“Don't make me regret trusting your judgment.”
Clove blinked.
Then climbed into the empty mixing bowl sitting on the counter.
Clara stared.
“That is not an answer.”
Clove curled himself into a perfect circle.
Clara laughed quietly.
For the first time since Dean Harlow's death, the sound didn't feel forced.
She picked up her recipe notebook.
Tomorrow, she would bake again.
And perhaps this time, she would get the cake right.
As for Theo—
She would keep asking questions.
Not because she believed he was guilty.
But because she was finally learning something important.
Trusting someone didn't mean refusing to look closely.
Sometimes, it meant looking closely enough to know what was really there.