Nora
One year later, my husband comes into Honey & Rye wearing a black coat that costs more than our first oven.
June sees him before I do.
"Daddy!"
She runs from the end of the counter with both hands covered in flour because she has been helping Bex with "important display case decisions," which mostly means she points at cookies and says no with terrifying confidence.
Daniel catches her without hesitation. He does not look at the flour. He does not look at the coat. He just drops his briefcase, bends, and scoops our daughter into his arms like he has been waiting all day to be attacked by a small bakery ghost.
"Hi, sweetheart."
June smacks both floury hands against his shoulders.
"Daddy coat white."
"So it is."
"Mama mad?"
Daniel looks over her head at me.
His eyes are already smiling.
"Probably."
"I am not mad," I say.
Bex snorts from behind the display case.
"That is not what your face says."
"My face is tired. It is carrying a lot."
"Your face says, why did my rich husband let our child ruin wool?"
"Cashmere," Daniel says.
I point at him. "That did not help you."
He crosses the bakery with June on his hip and flour all over him, and then he kisses me. Not on the cheek. Not polite. On the mouth, in front of Bex, two customers, my mother, and a delivery guy who has unfortunately seen too much of our marriage at this point.
Daniel kisses me like he has kissed me every day for a year. Like it is ordinary now. Like it is also still the best thing that has ever happened to him.
I lean into it because I do not think about whether I am allowed anymore. That is the miracle.
Going to him is a given now. Kissing him is a given. Being held by him is not a question my body has to ask in a panic. It is a soothing fact. Warm hands, familiar mouth, his arm coming around my waist while he murmurs, "Hi, wife," against my lips.
June sighs loudly between us.
"Daddy kiss Mama again."
"Bossy," Bex says.
"Correct," Daniel says, and kisses me again.
The customer at table three makes a little sound.
I pull back and glare at my husband.
"You are bad for business."
"Table three just ordered another coffee."
"Because she is trapped in your emotional spectacle."
"She seems supportive."
Table three lifts her latte in a tiny salute.
Bex points at Daniel with tongs.
"I am still taking credit for everyone surviving."
"You do that every day," I say.
"Because every day I am correct."
Daniel sets June on the floor. She immediately starts brushing flour off his coat, which does nothing except move the flour around in a more artistic pattern.
Honey & Rye is open again on Newark Avenue. Not the old version exactly. Better. Warmer. Mine in a way it never was when I was trying to prove I could survive without needing anything.
The windows are painted deep green with gold lettering.
The display case shines. There are little round tables near the front, a long work counter in the back, and a staff that actually gets paid enough because my husband became the kind of man who funds my dream without making himself the owner of it.
I am a spoiled millionaire's wife now. Yes, millionaire.
The business press had a small breakdown about Daniel's "voluntary contraction of net worth" after Welling restructured his exit from the partnership track, his Crane Street bonuses got tied up, and he moved an amount of money that made my lawyer say holy shit into trusts I control.
He is still rich in a way that makes normal people angry. But not untouchable anymore. I like him better touchable. I touch him constantly. So does he. Honestly, we are a problem.
Daniel Welling, former billionaire engineer, current extremely handsome bakery nuisance, is the king of PDA.
He kisses me when he arrives. When he leaves.
When I pull a tray from the oven. When I am on the phone with a supplier and he thinks I cannot slap his hand away.
He comes up behind me while I am rolling dough, puts both hands on my hips, and kisses the side of my neck until I forget what number I was counting to.
"You are going to make me ruin the lamination," I tell him.
"I don't know what that means, but I support you."
"You are not supporting me. You are touching my ass."
"I can do both."
"That is not the defense you think it is."
He kisses me again, and I get flour in his hair on purpose.
He wears it for the rest of the day.
Not because he does not notice.
Because he likes it.
Because some part of him still loves walking into Welling with proof of where he belongs.
Welling is smaller in his life now. Still important, still loud, still full of people who say things like strategic visibility when they mean please stand near this logo and make us money. But it is no longer the house god.
Daniel consults. He chooses projects. He says no. He leaves meetings in the middle if June has a fever or I have an appointment or because he promised to be home for dinner and learned that promises do not become less serious just because the people waiting are wearing pajamas.
Vivienne has learned to ask before entering. This took nine months, two locked doors, one screaming match, and June saying, "Nana knock," with the authority of a tiny judge.
Now Vivienne knocks. She still arrives with flowers too expensive to look natural, and she still says things like, "I hope this is not inconvenient," while absolutely planning to be inconvenient. But she asks. That counts.
Today, she stands near the front counter in a pale blue suit, watching June rearrange macarons with the seriousness of an art director.
"Darling," Vivienne says, "perhaps the pink ones should stay with the pink ones."
June looks at her.
"No."
Vivienne turns to me, something almost like amusement crossing her face.
"She has strong opinions."
"Genetic."
"From your side, I assume."
"Absolutely not," Daniel says from behind me. "Have you met us?"
Vivienne's mouth softens.
Not all the way.
But enough.
"Unfortunately, yes."
Bex whispers, "Growth," as she passes me with a tray.
I whisper back, "Do not encourage her."
Daniel's hand finds my lower back. There. Always there. Not claiming, not trapping. Just there.
My stomach turns over, but not in the old fear way. In the other way. The current problem way.
I am eighteen weeks pregnant.
Daniel knows this down to the day, the probable fruit size, and three different medical opinions on whether the baby can hear him yet.
He is unbearable. Beautifully unbearable.
He has been to every appointment, every ultrasound, every blood draw, where he stood beside me looking calm for my sake and then went pale in the hallway afterward because apparently watching me get stuck with a needle was too much for the man who once negotiated concrete failure liability in Singapore for fourteen straight hours.
He has six pregnancy books. Not one. Six.
One has sticky tabs.
Two have highlighted sections.
One lives on his nightstand, one in the car, and one in his briefcase because, and I quote, "You never know when someone will say something wrong about fetal development."
Bex is disgusted.
"No man should know that much about mucus plugs," she said last week, while Daniel calmly made tea.
"I am informed."
"You are gross."
"Supportive."
"Grossly supportive."
I laughed so hard I cried, and Daniel looked pleased with himself for the rest of the night.
The first time we saw this baby's heartbeat, he cried.
Openly. No trying to hide it behind a cough, no turning away.
Just Daniel standing beside me in the exam room, one hand wrapped around mine, tears running down his face while the doctor smiled like she sees this all the time and I silently forgave her for existing.
"I'm here," he whispered.
I squeezed his hand.
"I know."
That was the whole prayer.
That is still the whole prayer.
He is here.
He will be there for the birth this time. I know it in my bones. Not because life cannot go wrong. Life loves going wrong. It has a hobby. But because Daniel is not waiting for the world to make room anymore. He makes room. He cancels, he leaves, he shows up.
He knows the hospital route from the bakery, my parents' house, our house, and the penthouse we still own and mostly use when we need to remind ourselves we prefer New Jersey.
He has a birth plan printed in a folder.
Three copies.
Bex wrote NERD on the front in Sharpie.
He kept it.
My husband, ladies and gentlemen.
Hot, rich, emotionally reformed, and one contraction app away from being banned from my delivery room for over-participation.
I am delighted. Also horny. Pregnancy has done that to me. Daniel is delighted about that too. Deeply, enthusiastically, often.
Two nights ago, June slept at my parents' house because Nana and Grandpa had promised pancakes with sprinkles and nobody asked my opinion because apparently I am ornamental.
Daniel locked the front door of Honey & Rye after closing and turned around to find me sitting on the worktable in the back kitchen, legs crossed, one eyebrow raised.
"Nora," he said.
I pointed to the lights.
"Turn off the front."
He did.
Fast.
When he came back, his tie was already loose and his eyes had gone dark.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
I slid off the table, walked to him, and hooked one finger in his loosened tie.
"I want pastry cream."
His mouth twitched.
"Do you?"
"And I want you."
That erased the smile. Not the happiness, the amusement. What came after was heat.
He kissed me like the whole bakery belonged to us because it did. His hands went to my waist, careful at first, then lower when I told him I was not made of glass.
"I know," he said against my mouth. "I just like you where I can feel you."
I nearly melted onto the tile.
Very dignified.
Very millionaire's wife of me.
We did not make it upstairs.
We made it to the office couch, which is ugly and green and now emotionally significant.
He took his time getting my leggings off, kissing my thighs, my stomach, every place that made me squirm. He was ridiculous and mine and apparently determined to make me laugh while naked.