Page 15

Rachel sat in her apartment alone on the edge of her bed, wineglass teetering between her fingers. Hours ago, she’d heard Daisy’s panicked footsteps clicking past her apartment, but as much as Rachel had wanted to go to Daisy, she understood her sister needed time alone to process.

And so she’d spent the afternoon prepping the front of the store for painting. She’d removed pictures, caulked holes, sanded rough spots, and wiped the dust from the walls.

It was after five when she’d finished, and she’d gone to Daisy’s room. To her surprise, her sister was sound asleep, looking more relaxed than she had in weeks. Rachel left Daisy sleeping and retreated to her apartment.

Alone in the quiet she’d poured herself a glass of warm wine and then dropped in a couple of ice cubes. She had two bottles of wine left from that long-ago party with Mike, and despite a lingering headache, she believed a glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.

This afternoon, when she’d taken a break, she’d considered putting these last two bottles in the refrigerator, but then that would have meant she planned to drink again.

There was something about intending to drink that was far worse than just drinking.

And so she’d left the bottles on the counter beside the refrigerator.

She held the glass up to the light, swirled it, and studied the way the wine glided down the inside of the glass. Lord knows Mike would have frowned at the idea of her drinking on a weekday alone. He’d never been much of a drinker and grew annoyed if she had more than a glass of wine at a party.

Rebellion stirring, she drained the glass in a gulp and refilled it before moving into her bedroom and opening Mike’s closet. Packed full of T-shirts, jeans, and white chef’s jackets. She could imagine Mike coming in the door and kissing her on the cheek.

He’d been gone a year and a half, and she’d still not cleaned out his closet.

It seemed she should have tackled the task by now, but then she wasn’t sure how to time the grieving/mourning process.

Should she have cleaned his clothes out within weeks of his death?

Months? Seventeen months didn’t seem excessive, but when did she cross the line between normal and weird widow lady at the bakery?

She gulped a mouthful of wine and set down her glass. Today was as good a day as any. She desperately needed more storage space as the girls grew. Saving Mike’s clothes was a space luxury she could no longer afford.

Intent on cleaning the closet out, she’d reached for the first shirt.

Her hand skimmed the rough white cotton.

And her fingers trembled. Pulling back, she retreated to the edge of the bed and her wineglass.

Swigging again, she stared at the collection of dark trousers, white coats, and dozens and dozens of white tennis shoes.

Mike had loved tennis shoes. And socks. In all the years she’d known the guy, she’d only seen him barefoot when he was in the shower or in bed.

Mike didn’t like his shoes to appear dirty or worn.

Pristine white had been so important to him, his shoes lasted three months max before he replaced them.

When she’d gone to meet with the funeral director about his final outfit, she’d brought his newest pair of white sneakers.

In fact, she doubted he’d ever even worn them, because she’d pulled them right out of the box.

The funeral director had not raised an eyebrow as he’d taken the shoes, jeans, and white Union Street Bakery T-shirt.

Mike had loved the bakery, lived and died at the bakery, and it had made sense he’d take a piece with him.

Rachel glanced at the empty bottom of her wineglass. She could fill up or clean out the closet.

She rose and grabbed a box of large green garbage bags from the kitchen. She jerked a bag free, snapped it open, and snatched her first handful of clothes from their hangers. The clothes weighed heavy in her hands as if they resisted her efforts. Don’t send me away, Rachel.

Her chest tightened, and she hesitated. Again, she glanced at the wineglass. “No.”

Fearing she’d stop to think, she shoved the first jacket into the trash bag and kept stuffing until it was full. Less than a half hour later, the closet was empty, and five trash bags bulged with clothes and shoes.

She dropped to her knees and reached for the last remaining pairs of shoes.

The clothes and newer shoes had been easy, but the remaining collection of white sneakers .

.. they were special, and Mike had saved them despite their state of disrepair.

They told the story of Mike. The chocolate cake stains on one pair spoke to the signature cake he loved to bake.

Red and green dye on another pair reminded her of their last holiday rush.

Yellow and green triggered memories of Easter and their last Mother’s Day all-night bake-a-thon.

Gently, she skimmed her fingers over the shoes.

The shoes, like the memories, had been valued treasures over the last year.

But somewhere along the way they’d wrapped around her and had secured her in the past. Carefully she collected them and put them into a garbage bag, hoping the Goodwill would find some use for them.

She moved at a steady pace until she reached the last pair.

They caught her short, slicing through her like a knife.

Stained with blood, they’d been the shoes he’d worn the day he had suffered his aneurysm.

Hands shaking, she clutched the shoes to her heart.

She’d been upstairs with the girls that day.

Both had had colds, and she’d not been able to work in the bakery.

Mike had been double-timing it to get the orders filled.

They’d both had so little sleep the night before because the girls had been restless.

She and Mike had been angry with each other their very last morning as a married couple.

Neither had wished each other a good day.

Neither had said I love you. He’d grunted to her as he’d left, and she’d not bothered to respond because she’d thought if he’d really wanted to speak to her, he’d have turned around and made eye contact. Fifty-six minutes later, he was dead.

Tears filled her eyes and rushed down her cheeks. They’d had one last chance to talk, and they tossed it away.

She’d carried the shoes along with his clothes home from the hospital after he’d been declared dead. She’d clutched them to her chest as her father had driven and her mother stared silently out her window. Later, Dad had disposed of the clothes Mike had been wearing when he’d died.

Now, fresh tears burning her eyes, Rachel dumped all Mike’s other shoes into a garbage bag and sealed it up.

As a strong pot of coffee brewed, she loaded all the bags into the Union Street Bakery van.

She ate a chunk of bread, drank a coffee, and filled a travel mug with a second serving.

Before she had time to second-guess, she drove them to the Goodwill trailer six blocks away.

The attendant, an old Black man with a graying mustache, glanced up at her from a magazine as if surprised.

“You made it in time. I’m closing my doors in a couple of minutes. ”

Rachel opened the back of the van. “Glad I made it.”

He took the bags from her car, but she didn’t accept the tax receipt he offered.

Instead, she climbed back into the van. For several minutes she sat, letting the day’s remaining heat seep into her chilled bones.

As the attendant loaded her bags onto the trailer, she thought about the shoes drizzled with chocolate. The ones he’d worn the day she gave birth.

Panicking, she climbed out of the car. “Mister, I need to look in one of those bags.”

His gaze narrowed. “Why?”

“I think I packed shoes I should have kept.”

He answered with a shrug, and he unloaded the six bags from the truck. Rachel dug through three bags and multiple layers of worn white shoes before she found the ones stained with chocolate.

Grateful, she clutched them to her chest and shoved out a sigh.

“That all you want?” he asked.

She studied the open garbage bags spilling over with shoes, shirts, and memories of Mike. She rose and carefully repacked the bags as the man watched. Quietly, he took the bags from her.

Salvaged shoes in hand, she took a step back. “Yeah, that’s all I need. Thanks.”

The old man reloaded the bags and locked the back of the trailer before walking to his old red Lincoln. He eased behind the wheel of his car and glanced in his rearview mirror at her. Finally, shaking his head, he started his car.

Anxiety tightened her throat as she watched him drive off. Carefully, she traced the shoe’s silver-tipped laces. More doubt circled as she wondered if she was abandoning Mike along with his clothes.

Gripping the shoes, she entertained ideas of waiting here all night and in the morning, when the attendant returned, begging for her bags back.

Tears dampening her cheeks, she didn’t know how long she sat until finally she put the car in gear. Heart racing, she drove.

Ten minutes later, she parked in the alley spot behind the bakery’s back entrance. As she got out of the van, a large green delivery truck pulled in behind her. Painted on the side of the truck was Holder Brothers Wholesalers . The driver set the brake and climbed out.

He was a short man, with a belly that overflowed a tight leather belt and stretched the limits of a dark-blue Holder Brothers Wholesalers T-shirt. Jeans and worn boots finished the look.

Rachel knew the guy. Jeb. She didn’t like him and had left the delivery side of the business to Mike and then Daisy.

“I got your delivery,” he said.

“Jeb, Daisy sent you an email. We’re closed this week for renovations.”

Jeb glanced at his clipboard. “It doesn’t say ‘closed’ on my clipboard.”

Of course it didn’t. “We’re closed this week. We can’t take deliveries.”