The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender(55)

Wilhelmina’s long braid was dusted with white, whether from flour or age Emilienne was no longer sure. Wilhelmina tossed the tray on top of an already-wobbling stack waiting by the sink to be washed. Emilienne meant to move then, to get a start on those dishes she knew would take all night to clean, but her feet seemed unwilling to move. She leaned heavily on the wooden table in the middle of the room. Nostalgically, she smoothed her hands across the top, feeling the little cracks and nicks that covered it. Over the years this table had been used to pound out the dough for baguettes, croissants, morning rolls, and cinnamon buns. When Viviane was a baby, this was the table upon which Emilienne set her bassinet while she made all those loaves of bread no one would buy.

“Lord knows that man could stand to miss a few sweets now and then,” Wilhelmina added, puffing out her cheeks and making a big arch over her own flat abdomen to indicate the girth that hung over Ignatius Lux’s belt.

Wilhelmina’s hands were quick as she arranged a tray of tartes tatins for display.

She glanced over at Emilienne. “You sure are quiet tonight, boss-lady.”

Emilienne rubbed her eyes. “Just a long, strange day. That’s all.” It seemed to Emilienne that more than her three deceased siblings were haunting her today. Earlier she could have sworn she’d seen Levi Blythe, the first love of her life, ordering a solstice cookie. The boy she knew only as Dublin had winked at her through the window. Satin Lush watched her from one of the wrought-iron chairs in the middle of the bakery. And each step she took was echoed by the hollow thump of her husband Connor’s cane. All the loves of her life.

Wilhelmina whistled. “Has the solstice gotten to you? Made ya all nostalgic and weepy?” She threw Emilienne the dish towel she had slung through her apron strings. Emilienne hadn’t known she was crying. She quickly wiped her eyes with the damp towel. Emilienne hated to admit it, but the busy day had been especially hard on her. The backs of her knees throbbed with fatigue, her feet and wrists ached, and she could feel a headache coming on. The pain was so sharp, it glowed behind the lids of her eyes. Maybe it was the rain.

“Did you know I was raised by my grandmother?” Wilhelmina asked.

Emilienne shook her head.

“I surely was. I was five years old when they took me from her — both of us screaming and hollering. They took me from my home and put me in that school where I was beaten for just thinking in my own language.” Wilhelmina gave a sad chuckle. “And sometimes when I’m feeling extra down, when I’m missing my grandmother, I have to remind myself that love comes in all sorts of packages.” She motioned to the bakery. “I got this place. Hell, Emilienne, I got you.”

Wilhelmina went over to place a hand on Emilienne’s cheek. “Just because love don’t look the way you think it should don’t mean you don’t have it.”

Emilienne could barely see him when he appeared, his flickering form translucent under the glare of the overhead lights. Despite this, Emilienne could still make out the mangled mess of René’s once-beautiful face.

The last customer bid them good night and walked out into the rain. Penelope locked the door behind him and flipped the sign in the window to read CLOSED.

“How’d we do?” she asked, slipping off one of her shoes and wincing as she rubbed her red feet.

Wilhelmina’s hands flew as she counted the till, nodding to Penelope that they’d done well.

“Do we have anything left for tomorrow?” Penelope asked, fluffing her youthful blond ponytail. Even after a full day’s work, Penelope managed to look fresh — her skin dewy, her nose lightly kissed by a splash of freckles. Emilienne couldn’t help but envy the woman for her youth, though many people would argue that — in terms of beauty — Emilienne far surpassed Penelope.

“We’ve got a couple of batches of pain au chocolat,” Emilienne told them absentmindedly, distracted by the way René glided around the bakery, passing through the castiron tables and chairs. She was fairly certain that the majority of tomorrow’s customers would consist of the neighborhood housewives donning dark glasses and toting cranky children. The chocolate croissants would keep the children quiet; for the parents’ hangovers, Emilienne brewed a special tea she kept hidden behind the counter. It was only peppermint, but Emilienne believed self-induced illnesses were all in the head; that is, if someone believed Emilienne’s “special tea” would cure them, it usually did.

“What will we serve once we run out?” Penelope asked, drawing her pretty eyebrows together in concern. “People are going to want more than a couple of batches of croissants.” Emilienne sighed, suddenly feeling as though she hadn’t slept since moving to the house at the end of Pinnacle Lane, as if she’d been forced to spend the last thirty-four years without the comfort of a single night’s rest.

“We’ll close,” she answered.

Both women turned to stare at Emilienne; Wilhelmina lost count of the till money. “We’ve never done that before,” she said, shuffling the wrinkled bills into a single pile and starting the tally again.

“Well, here’s something else we’ve never done.” Emilienne pulled the leather rope of keys from her wrist and placed it on the counter before Wilhelmina. “You open.”

Wilhelmina looked up in surprise, but this time she didn’t lose count. Emilienne could see the number balanced on the tip of her tongue. She patted Wilhelmina on the shoulder. “I’m going home,” she announced, and pulled her apron off in one grand gesture, slapping it onto the counter next to the keys.