Chapter 7
A month later, David showed up at the shop.
He was dressed in a sharp black suit that looked completely out of place against the bakery’s whimsical pastel pink decor.
He loosened his tie and got straight to the point.
“All right. I’m not going to waste time. Leo has a parent-teacher conference on Thursday, and his school play is Friday. You need to come back.”
David stood in the middle of the shop like a black hole, his expensive suit swallowing the warm, buttery light. He didn’t look at the display cases filled with delicate fruit tarts. He didn’t notice the intricate sugar-spun flowers Sadi and I had stayed up until three in the morning perfecting.
To him, this place wasn’t a business. It was a tantrum. A pastel playpen I had built to pout in.
I wiped down the espresso machine without looking up.
“Ardencraft is a four-hour flight from home, David. I’m not flying back to sit in a tiny chair and listen to a teacher explain why Leo threw sand at another child.”
“He didn’t throw sand,” David snapped, stepping closer. “He bit a kid. He’s acting out because his mother abandoned him to play shopkeeper.”
I finally looked at him.
The David of my twenties would have made my heart flutter with anxiety just by frowning. Now I only noticed the faint sheen of grease on his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes.
He looked tired.
Not the noble exhaustion of hard work, but the hollow fatigue of a man whose domestic machinery had ground to a halt.
“Did Rosalie not know how to soothe him?” I asked conversationally.
His jaw tightened.
“Rosalie is busy. She’s closing a major merger. She can’t be expected to drop everything to handle a temper tantrum.”
“But I can.”
It wasn’t a question.
“You’re his mother, Allera. It’s your job.”
He leaned over the glass counter, planting both hands flat.
“Look, I get it. You were hurt. You made your point. You proved you can run away and bake cookies. Now pack up. My mother is coming into town next week, and I’m not explaining to her why my wife is living in another state.”
The bell over the door chimed.
Sadi walked in carrying a crate of fresh strawberries. She stopped when she saw us. Her eyes narrowed, but I gave her the slightest shake of my head. She set the crate down with a thud and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the swinging door cracked open.
I picked up a damp cloth and wiped the already immaculate counter right beside David’s hands.
“I’m not coming back, David.”
He blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m filing for divorce.”