Chapter 7
LILA
Lila Grant counted out the change for Mrs. Devereaux, slipped the warm cinnamon buns into a small paper bag, and folded the top down with the practiced quickness of someone who had been working a register since she was seventeen years old.
Mrs. Devereaux was the last customer of the day.
The clock above the doorway read a few minutes past seven, and the long Shell Street began to glow as the street lamps came on, softening into early evening through the bakery’s front windows.
“You give Tom my best when he gets back from the hospital, Lila,” Mrs. Devereaux said, tucking the small bag against her chest. “Poor George. Such a good man. We’ll all be praying for him.”
“I’ll tell Tom,” Lila promised warmly. “He’ll be glad to hear from you.”
She walked Mrs. Devereaux to the door, held it open for her, and stood for a moment in the doorway watching the older woman make her unhurried way down Shell Street toward the small parking spot where she always left her car.
The light over the street had gone a soft lavender, the kind of light that settled across the island in early summer when the heat had begun to ease.
A few palm fronds shifted gently in the breeze that came in off the bay.
Lila stood breathing in the salty air and closed her eyes for a few minutes.
She’d found such peace in the small community.
Her eyes scanned the street out of habit from having lived in a big city most of her life, where you always found yourself being fully aware of your surroundings.
Lila stepped back inside, flipped the small wooden sign hanging in the window from open to closed, and turned the lock.
The bakery was quiet around her. The front lights had dimmed to the warm wash of the small display lamps over the cake counter.
The ovens had cooled. The smell of the day’s last bake, sourdough and butter, and a faint sweet undertone of cinnamon, settled into the corners of the room and stayed there.
Lila stood for a moment at the locked front door and let the silence sit on her shoulders like a soft shawl.
Then she went back to finish off her work for the day.
The leather order book lived beside the register in a small wicker basket Tom kept lined with a clean cloth.
Lila pulled it out, sat herself on the stool behind the counter, and turned through the pages to the next morning’s entries.
She traced her finger down the column of standing orders and ran the small mental check she always ran at the close of the day.
The Bay Café’s daily breads were six small sourdoughs and four loaves of soft white.
Two trays of cinnamon rolls for the marina office.
The standing weekly delivery to the three families on Bay View Drive, the Donnellys with their plain country bread, the Vance family with their blueberry muffins, and the Petersens with the rye Tom had been making for their grandfather since long before Lila had started at the bakery.
Two birthday cakes Tom had taken on for the Friday morning, a simple lemon and a chocolate ganache.
Lila tapped her pen against the page and made small, careful notes in her own hand at the side of each entry. The lemon cake would need fresh lemons. The Petersens’ rye had been promised an extra loaf this week.
She closed the book and slid it back into the wicker basket.
The walk-in cold room was at the back of the bakery, behind the swing door that led from the front into the kitchen.
Lila pushed through, and the cool air met her with its faint metal edge.
She stood for a moment, counting butter blocks on the second shelf, the small white cartons of cream above them, the brown speckled eggs in their wire trays.
She did this last check every evening because Tom had once mentioned, in passing, in her first week at the bakery, that the morning could go entirely sideways if a person discovered they were two eggs short at five-fifteen in the morning.
Lila had taken the comment to heart. She had not let the morning go sideways since.
She made small marks on the running shopping list pinned to the cold-room door.
Eggs were fine. Butter was fine. They were down to the last carton of cream, which would not see them through to Wednesday’s deliveries.
Stoneground rye, low. Almonds for the Friday cakes, low.
The early summer blackberries Tom liked to fold into the morning scones were almost gone.
Lila wrote each one in her neat, looping hand and tucked the pencil back into the small clip at the top of the list.
Out in the kitchen, the trays of pie shells she had blind-baked earlier sat cooling on the long wooden table.
Lila washed her hands, then tested one of the pie shells with the side of her thumb to make sure they had set properly.
She carried each tray carefully across to the proving cabinet and slid them into the cool middle shelves.
Tom liked the shells held overnight when the next day’s pies were going to be heavy on the filling.
The slow rest helped the pastry hold its shape.
Lila had picked up the trick from him in her first month at the bakery and had been doing it his way ever since.
She closed the proving cabinet, dusted her apron off, and went back out to the front of the shop.
The four small wooden tables Tom had set out for his morning regulars were scattered with the day’s gentle clutter.
Lila wiped each one down with the soft cloth she kept tucked into her apron pocket, pushed the chairs in neatly, and stacked the small crockery saucers from the last few coffee customers onto her tray.
The two glass coffee pots on the back counter had cooled by now.
She rinsed them out at the sink, set them upside down on the rack to drain, and emptied the small pot of leftover tea leaves into the green compost bin Tom kept tucked beside the back door.
The tea bag rack she had refilled that morning was already neatly squared away.
Lila tied her apron back on and settled herself at the register. The day’s takings sat in the small drawer in their soft paper sleeves, waiting for her. She pulled the cash book toward her, opened it to the day’s page, and began to count.
She had counted out the first two stacks when the jingle of keys at the front door snapped her head up sharply enough that her hand jerked against the small pile of receipts beside her, sending several fluttering down to the polished floor.
Tom let himself in.
For one quick second, Lila’s heart did a small, foolish thing in her chest that it always did when she saw him.
She sat very still on the stool and let the moment pass.
Tom had been on her mind all afternoon, the way he had been on her mind in small, careful doses since a few days after she’d started working at his bakery.
It was a quiet ache she had been refusing to look at squarely.
It would not do. Lila Grant was sixty-eight years old, four years a widow, and a sensible woman who had no business letting a man’s silhouette in a doorway flip the small thing in her chest the way it had just flipped.
She straightened her back, tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear, and pushed the feeling firmly aside.
“Tom,” Lila said warmly. “You’re back.”
“Sorry to have startled you.” Tom let the bakery door close softly behind him and turned the inside lock. “I’ve just come back to shower, change, and get back to the hospital.” He smiled. “I’m taking the night shift tonight.”
His shoulders sat heavier than they had that morning. Lila could see that the day had taken an emotional toll on Tom. She slid off her stool and gathered the spilled receipts off the floor as she stood.
“How is George?” Lila asked, straightening up with the receipts in her hand.
“The surgery went well.” Tom set his keys on the small dish by the door.
“His hip is set, and when I left, he was sleeping. The surgeon is confident George will make a full recovery. He did say that rehab is going to be a long road, and they’ll need to put a cane in his hand once the cast is off, but he’s going to be all right. ”
“That’s good news.” Lila nodded, relief flooding her. She knew how much George meant to Tom. They were like brothers. George and Tom’s late wife’s family were the only family Tom had. “Thank goodness for that. I’ve been thinking about him all afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Tom ran his hand tiredly through his hair. “Linda and the kids arrived. She took them to Heart House and left them with Rosa before going back to the hospital. I think Maggie is going back as well.”
“You must be so relieved that they are here,” Lila said, sorting the receipts neatly.
“Yes. I always worry when the kids are on the road,” Tom admitted.
“Linda and the kids are going to be staying the whole summer.” He walked toward the counter.
“She said that Michael is bringing Lilly here in a few weeks as well.” He watched what she was doing.
But Lila could see his mind was elsewhere.
“They were going to the lake for the summer. Linda had rented the cabin there as she’s now completely moved out of her house. ”
“It’s never nice leaving a home you’ve lived in for most of your adult life,” Lila acknowledged softly, her heart squeezing as she remembered selling her home after her husband passed away.
“On one hand, it’s like this big weight has lifted, but at the same time, the house holds half a lifetime of memories. ”
“For me, my heart has always been here.” Tom glanced around the bakery. “And this small town.”
“So you’ve never lived anywhere but here?” Lila asked before she could stop herself.
“I moved away from Sweet Blossom Bay when I went to college,” Tom told her.
“I moved to Boston, where I studied. After college, I got a good job as an engineer at a development company. Then my father got ill and never recovered.” His eyes darkened, and Lila’s heart ached for him.
“He was my only family. This bakery has been in my family for generations. I couldn’t let it go, so I packed up in Boston and moved home. ”
“You were an engineer?” Lila looked at him in surprise.
“Yup.” Tom nodded. “But that was a lifetime ago.” He laughed. “I’m a baker now.”
“And a very good one,” Lila noted.
“That was thanks to Eleanor.” Tom laughed, his eyes darkening as they always did when she was mentioned.
“She was the baker and helped me revive my talent.” He ran a hand through his hair again.
“I learned to bake when I was a boy. Just like my father and grandfather before me had. But I’d always been fascinated by engineering.
My father never tried to stand in my way.
My mother passed away when I was in high school. ”
“Well, maybe that’s why all your baked goods are perfect,” Lila pointed out. “It’s your engineering skills combined with your baking ones.”
“Trust me, I have a lot of flops,” Tom assured her. “I just hide them well.” He winked at her, and it did that thing to her heart again and made her stomach all fluttery.
Lila shook it off and changed the subject as her stomach took that moment to remind her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Tom,” Lila said, “when did you last eat?”
“Breakfast.” Tom rubbed his jaw. “I think.”
“Then come and sit down. Let me make you something.” Lila bit her lip, thinking about what all she saw in the refrigerator that she could turn into a dinner.
“Lila, you’ve been on your feet since five o’clock this morning. The last thing you need is to be cooking for me,” Tom said.
“You’ve been at the hospital all day. I need to eat too.
” Lila crossed to the kitchen door and pushed it open with her hip.
“So if you don’t mind company, I can make us both something to eat.
I would have to do it if I went home anyway.
” She smiled. “There’s bacon in the cold room, half a dozen eggs, and the last of today’s sourdough. I’ll make us breakfast for dinner.”
“Sounds good,” Tom called after her. “Let me help.”
“You can help by finishing cashing up.” Lila lifted her voice over her shoulder. “I had only just started. The book is open. The takings are in the drawer.”
“Deal,” Tom agreed.
Lila walked into the kitchen and got started on their meal.
Her hands shook as she lit the stove and got the skillet.
Had she just asked Tom to have dinner with her?
Lila shook the thought away. No, she’d merely offered to cook herself and her boss some dinner.
She took a deep breath and concentrated on preparing their meals.