Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Samantha
August in the bakery means sweating through my shirt before sunrise, the kitchen so hot it feels like I’m not just near the oven, but living inside it.
I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand, smearing flour across my skin, something I’ll only notice later, probably when I’m trying to look presentable in the bathroom mirror.
The baby gives a little kick, like she’s reminding me she’s along for the ride, and lately, she’s been making her presence known pretty much all the time.
"I know, I know," I say, resting one hand on the swell of my stomach. "Your mom's a glutton for punishment, working in a hot kitchen when she's five months pregnant."
Five months along, and it still sneaks up on me sometimes. Hiding it isn’t really an option anymore, not that I’ve put in much effort. Loose dresses and a well-placed apron can only do so much when you’re hauling around what feels like a regulation-size basketball under your ribs.
The baby does what I can only assume is a somersault, or maybe she’s just practicing for the Olympic gymnastics team. Hard to say.
"You're restless today, aren't you?" I say softly, pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven. "Join the club, kiddo."
The weirdest part is how natural it’s become to talk to the baby.
I fill her in on the weather, the customers, the fact that her Auntie Ella dropped off a mountain of parenting books yesterday.
Books I’m valiantly pretending aren’t giving me hives.
I tell her about the bakery, the recipes I’m still trying to get just right.
And sometimes, when it’s late and I can’t sleep, I tell her about Nick.
I tell her about silver hair and hands that always seemed to know what they were doing. About a voice that made me feel safe for the first time in years. About how I wish she could meet him, and he could meet her, and how I wish things were just a little less complicated than they are.
Mostly, though, I tell her we’ll be alright. That two is enough. That love doesn’t come with a minimum headcount.
The bell above the door chimes, and I straighten, pasting on my customer service smile as I head out front.
Mrs. Bamber waves from the counter. "Morning, dear! You're positively glowing."
I laugh. "That's one word for it. What can I get for you?"
But before she even opens her mouth, I know exactly what she wants. The thought just lands in my head, as clear as if she’d said it out loud.
"The blueberry scones," I hear myself say. "Two of them. And a large coffee with extra cream, no sugar. You're taking them to your daughter's house. She just had her wisdom teeth out."
Mrs. Bamber's eyes go wide. "How in the world did you know that? I didn't even tell anyone she was having the procedure."
I blink, the world snapping back into focus with that now-familiar jolt of weirdness. "Lucky guess?"
It’s been happening more and more since that first time with the older woman and her husband.
At first, I chalked it up to intuition. The sort you pick up after years of slinging pastries and coffee.
But intuition doesn’t hand you the specifics: the sick husband, the dental surgery, the precise way someone takes their coffee. This is something else entirely.
Mrs. Bamber doesn't seem bothered by it, though. If anything, she looks delighted. "Well, you're absolutely right. That girl is going to be so happy. You're an angel, Samantha."
I box up her order, take her money, and watch her go, feeling a strange little glow in my chest. Whatever this weirdness is, at least it’s doing some good. At least people are leaving happier than they came in.
The bakery’s busier than it’s ever been.
Word’s gotten out, don’t ask me how, that The Bluebell Bakery is the place to go if you need a little comfort, or just something to make the day suck less.
People drive in from towns I’ve never even heard of, and somehow, they always leave with exactly what they needed, even if they didn’t know what that was when they walked through the door.
Even my baking’s changed. Same recipes I’ve always used, but suddenly the bread is lighter, the cookies taste like actual heaven, and the pastries practically vanish on your tongue.
Ella says it’s pregnancy magic, that I’m channeling all my maternal energy into the food.
I’m not sure if I believe her, but I’m not about to argue with results.
But I’ve caught her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. That little crease between her eyebrows, the way she keeps an eye on me like I might vanish if she blinks.
Speaking of Ella, she’s been around a lot more lately. Not that I’m complaining. Having her here makes all the weirdness feel a little less overwhelming. If she’s seeing it too, maybe I’m not completely losing it.
The door opens again, and I look up from wiping down the counter, expecting another regular.
Instead, a woman walks in, and every hair on my arms stands up like I’ve just stuck my finger in a socket.
She’s old. Not just the usual small-town elderly, but ancient in a way that makes you wonder if she remembers when bread was invented.
Her skin is so thin and pale it’s almost see-through, and her eyes are a cloudy gray, like the sky before a snowstorm.
She moves slow, every step careful, and somehow the air in the bakery feels heavier just because she’s in the room.
"Good morning," I manage, though my voice comes out thinner than I'd like. "What can I get for you?"
The woman doesn't respond. She shuffles to one of the small tables near the window and sits down, her movements stiff and mechanical. When she finally speaks, her voice is like dry leaves scraping against pavement.
"Coffee. Black."
I make her coffee with hands that want to shake. Every instinct I have is telling me to get as far away from her as possible, but I walk the cup over anyway, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.
She doesn't look at the coffee. She doesn't look at me.
She looks at my stomach.
And she stares.
It’s not a glance, or even curiosity. She stares at my belly with a focus that makes my skin crawl, like she’s trying to see straight through to the baby inside.
I take a step back. "Is there anything else you need?"
No response. Just that unblinking stare.
My heart’s pounding. The baby kicks hard, like she’s trying to get away from something, and I find myself wrapping both arms around my stomach, as if that’ll help.
"Ma'am?" My voice cracks. "Is everything okay?"
The woman's lips move, forming words too quiet for me to hear. But I swear I see her mouth the word "impossible."
My breathing goes shallow, little gasps that don’t do much good. The edges of my vision blur, and I’m teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack when Ella’s voice slices through the haze.
"Sam, hey, go to the back for a minute, okay?" Her hand is on my shoulder, firm and grounding. "I've got this."
I don’t argue. I bolt for the kitchen, press my back to the wall, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Through the little window in the door, I watch Ella lean down to talk to the woman, her whole posture screaming ‘don’t mess with my people.’
Whatever she says, it's brief. The woman stands, leaves her untouched coffee on the table, and walks out without a backward glance.
Ella appears in the kitchen doorway moments later. "You okay?"
"Who was that?" I ask, still clutching my stomach.
"No idea. But she's gone now." Ella crosses to me, putting her hands on my shoulders. "Just breathe, Sam. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."
I follow her instructions, feeling my heartbeat gradually slow. "She was staring at the baby."
"I know. I saw." Ella's jaw tightens. "Some people have no boundaries."
But it wasn’t just a lack of manners, and we both know it. There was something deeply wrong about that woman, something that had nothing to do with curiosity.
I keep that thought to myself. Saying it out loud would make it real, and I’m not ready for that.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of customers and orders. I try to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of the work, but I can't shake the image of those cloudy eyes fixed on my belly.
By early afternoon, the lunch rush has died down, and I'm arranging fresh cookies in the display case when the door opens again.
A man walks in, and my first thought is, well, he’s handsome. Tall, sharp suit, hair that probably cost more than my rent, and a face that looks like it belongs on a magazine cover. My second thought is that there’s something off about him. Way off.
He’s too perfect. Too polished. His skin has this weird, waxy shine, like someone buffed him before he walked in. And when he smiles, it never quite makes it to his eyes, eyes that are pale blue and cold as ice.
"Good afternoon," he says, his voice pleasant but somehow hollow. "I'd like two of your snickerdoodle cookies, please."
I box up his cookies with hands that are steadier than I’d expect, take his money, and watch him settle at a corner table.
He doesn't eat the cookies. Doesn't even look at them. He just sits there, motionless, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
After about ten minutes, I can't take it anymore. I wipe my hands on my apron and approach his table. "Is everything alright with your cookies?"
His head swivels toward me with a precision that's almost mechanical, and those ice-chip eyes land on my stomach. "How far along are you?"
The question isn’t weird on its own. People ask me that all the time now. But the way he says it, all clinical and detached, makes me step back without thinking. My hand goes to my belly like it’s got a mind of its own.
"I'm due in December," I say, trying to keep my voice even.
He nods slowly, still staring at my stomach. "And I assume the father will be present for the birth?"