Page 19 of Echoes of a Southern Song

I smile at her, grateful for her optimism. “Yeah, maybe. One step at a time, right?”

“Exactly,” Lisa says with a nod. “Now, let’s get these last few batches out before the lunch rush hits.”

We fall back into our rhythm, the familiar motions of baking and prepping helping to calm my racing thoughts. By the time we finish, the display case is full again, and the smell of fresh bread and pastries fills the air.

After a busy day, I leave the bakery and go to the grocery store in town. I’ve been meaning to restock my pantry for days, but between work and Jack staying over so often, I’ve barely had time.

The grocery store is quiet, allowing me time to think and peruse the aisles for the best deals. I weave through the aisles, grabbing the essentials—pasta, fresh vegetables and some of my favorite junk food. The cart fills quickly, and before long, I’m loading bags into the trunk of my car.

I shut the trunk and take my cart back to the return, thinking about Jack and Sam and a million other things.

And then I see him.

Sam.

He’s watching me with that same lazy smirk I used to find charming. Now, it just makes my skin crawl.

I stiffen, gripping my keys tighter. “What are you doing here?”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just grabbing groceries, Jinnie. Relax.”

I don’t believe him. Not for a second. “You don’t even live in this town.”

“Visiting a friend.” He shrugs, taking a step closer.

“Bullshit,” I hiss. “You’re here to mess with me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

I don’t believe him. “Whatever. Sign the stupid papers, Sam. Let’s just get this over with.”

“I’ve got something of yours,” he says, ignoring the statement.

I don’t move. “What?”

“Hold on.” He turns back to his car, rummaging in the backseat for a moment before returning with something clutched in his hand.

My breath catches.

Mr. Snuffles.

The stuffed bear Dad gave me when I was five, the one Sam took when he left. The fabric is worn, one ear slightly frayed, but it’s unmistakably mine.

Sam holds it out. “Didn’t mean to take it. Got mixed up with my stuff.”

“How does this get mixed up with your shirts?” I mutter. “You took it on purpose.”

He shrugs again, that infuriating smirk still in place. “Didn’t realize until I was unpacking. Figured you’d want it back.”

Hesitantly, I take the bear. The familiar softness of the fabric is a punch to the gut—memories of Dad handing it to me after a scraped knee, of nights spent clutching it after nightmares.

“Thanks,” I mutter, though the word tastes bitter.

Sam snickers. “Yeah, well. I sure as hell didn’t want it. Trust me, I didn’t take it on purpose.”

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, clutching the bear like a lifeline.

I walk to my car and put the bear in the front passenger seat. I don’t trust Sam. He didn’t give me the bear out of the kindness of his heart. There’s always a tit for tat. He’s up to something.