Chapter 25
The store had gone quiet the moment the wagon pulled away, and Ella allowed herself a small, satisfied breath before turning to the work ahead of her.
She found flour and butter enough for scones, and set to it in the back room, keeping half an ear on the front in case a customer wandered in early.
While the first batch baked, she walked the aisles with a critical eye, the way she imagined a woman who'd run a dozen stores might walk them, and found small things worth noting.
A shelf of ribbon that wanted reorganizing by color.
A display of tinned peaches pushed too far back to catch the eye of a fruit-lover passing the window.
She fixed both, and made a note in her head of a few more things she could mention to Samson later.
Small enough to seem like nothing, substantial enough to be remembered.
By early afternoon, the store had filled the way it sometimes seemed to, and Ella found herself moving between three customers at once, answering questions, wrapping purchases, all without once losing the thread of what she was doing.
"You've a real gift for this," Mrs. Fenwick told her, waiting on a length of muslin. "Reminds me of Livvy, watching you work. She had that same way of making a body feel like they were the only customer in the store, even with six others waiting."
"That's kind of you to say," Ella said, and did not look toward the door, though she was aware, in the periphery of her attention, of the wagon pulling up outside just as the words left Mrs. Fenwick's mouth.
Samson came in first, then the children, then Maria a step behind, and the store was busy enough that nobody's arrival drew much notice beyond a general nod of greeting.
Ella kept working, answering a question here, wrapping a parcel there, and was aware, with some pleasure, of Samson's eyes moving over the store, over the reorganized ribbons and the peaches brought forward, over the ease with which she handled four customers at once.
"Busy day," he said, when he found a moment near her.
"Kept me on my toes," Ella said, unruffled.
"You seem to have it well in hand."
"Your Ella's a marvel," old Mr. Pruett said, passing by with his purchase. "Spitting image of Livvy too, God rest her. Same way of laughing at a body's bad joke like it's the funniest thing she's heard all week."
Ella smiled, said nothing, and was aware, without turning to check, of Maria standing near the counter, close enough to have heard every word of it.
When the rush finally eased, Ella pulled a tray of scones from the back and set them out, warm still, and the family gathered round while a few lingering customers took one on their way out the door.
"These are Mama's," Meg said, delighted, before she'd even bitten into one. "The ones with the currants."
"I thought you might remember them," Ella said. "You used to beg her for more."
"I forgot about that," Meg said, laughing, and looked to Billy. "Remember when she caught you sneaking one before supper and you hid it in your pocket?"
"It got all crushed," Billy said, laughing too. "Mama was so mad."
"She wasn't really mad," Ella said. "She just liked pretending, so you'd think twice next time."
The three of them laughed together, easy, familiar, trading a memory Maria had no part of and no way into, and Ella, biting into her own scone, allowed herself the smallest private satisfaction at how naturally it had all come together, without her ever once having to try.