This is a child who once described cheese crackers as “tiny orange squares of happiness.”
Something is wrong, very wrong.
Before I can press, the bell over the front door jingles. Voices drift in from the bakery. Two customers. Women.
I recognize one of them by voice before I see her. Linda from the library. The other sounds like Mrs. Callahan, who means well and gossips with the precision of a military strategist.
They don’t know that we’re in the back.
Or maybe they do and simply trust that a small-town bakery has no walls capable of containing information.
“Did you hear about Colby Reid?” Linda says.
My hand stills on the edge of the table. Jillie’s eyes lift slightly.
Mrs. Bellamy’s expression hardens instantly.
“No,” Mrs. Callahan says. “What now?”
“There’s talk he might be traded.”
My stomach drops, not because I haven’t heard whispers.
Everyone else apparently has.
Colby is a hockey star. Hockey stars come with rumors the way bakeries come with flour. The internet has been speculating for weeks because apparently strangers with Wi-Fi believe they are entitled to rearrange people’s lives for entertainment.
But the word sounds different inside my bakery. Closer. Sharper.
Traded.
Jillie’s face changes. Not much, but enough.
Her little fingers tighten around the strap of her backpack.
Mrs. Bellamy moves toward the swinging door with the expression of a woman fully prepared to commit social murder.
I shake my head once, not because I disagree.
Because Jillie is listening.
The voices continue.
“I saw it on one of those hockey pages,” Linda says. “Big-market team interested. Supposedly his people are considering options.”
“Well,” Mrs. Callahan says, lowering her voice in a way that makes it travel farther, “that would explain why he’s been spending so much time here. Maybe saying goodbye.”
Air leaves my lungs.
Jillie looks at me. One quick glance. Then away again.
Mrs. Bellamy slams a box lid shut in the front with enough force to startle both women into silence.
“Can I help you ladies find something?” she calls, in a tone so sweet it could frost cake and so sharp it could cut wire.
The voices stop immediately.
Good. Bless that woman.
