Page 15 of Window Seat for Two

THIRTEEN

THE BLOCK STEPS IN

The bakery felt like a tomb at five in the morning.

Ari stood behind the counter, staring at the abandoned bowls of half-mixed dough that had been sitting there since yesterday evening.

Flour dusted every surface in chaotic patterns, evidence of his failed attempts to lose himself in work after watching Nate disappear into his building.

Sleep hadn't come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the devastation on Nate's face through the window—the way his shoulders had sagged, the careful distance he'd maintained as he walked away. Ari had replayed that moment a hundred times, each iteration making his chest tighten further.

The eviction notice lay crumpled on the register, smoothed flat and re-read until the words blurred together.

Fifteen days. Marcus's business card sat beside it, pristine and mocking in its simplicity.

One phone call could solve everything. All he had to do was accept money from the man who'd already broken his heart once.

The front door chimed, startling him from his spiral. Mrs. Vasquez stepped inside, her usual morning smile faltering as she took in the scene—Ari's rumpled clothes, the disaster zone of his workspace, the dark circles under his eyes.

"Mijo," she said softly, her voice carrying the particular authority of someone who'd raised children through every possible crisis. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The lie felt weak even to his own ears. "Just had a long night. Coffee's not ready yet."

She ignored his deflection, moving around the counter with the confidence of someone who'd appointed herself neighborhood guardian. Her weathered hands brushed flour from the surface, revealing the eviction notice underneath.

"Dios mío." The Spanish slipped out as she read, her face hardening. "How long have you been dealing with this alone?"

"Mrs. Vasquez, it's fine. I'll figure something out?—"

"?Basta!" The sharp command cut through his protests. "Enough. You think you're protecting someone by suffering in silence? This bakery, this block—we're all connected. Sofia knew that. Why don't you?"

The mention of his aunt's name hit like a physical blow. Ari's carefully constructed composure began to crack, the weight of the past week pressing down on him. "I can't ask people to fix my problems."

"Who said anything about fixing?" Mrs. Vasquez planted herself directly in front of him, her small frame radiating fierce determination.

"You think when the Garcias had their immigration scare, they handled it alone?

When Mr. Patterson had his heart attack, did his wife manage by herself?

Families help each other. That's what communities do. "

"It's not that simple?—"

"It is exactly that simple." Her voice gentled, but her grip on his hands remained firm. "Tell me everything. Right now."

And somehow, standing in the early morning quiet with Sofia's friend—his friend—Ari found himself breaking.

The words came in a rush: the mounting debt, Marcus's unexpected return, the impossible choice between his pride and the bakery's survival.

He even confessed about Nate, about the connection that had been growing between them, about watching it shatter through a window because of his own cowardice.

Mrs. Vasquez listened without interruption, her expression cycling through outrage, concern, and something that looked suspiciously like plotting. When he finished, she was already reaching for her phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Mobilizing." She was already dialing. "Maya, mi amor, I need you at the bakery. Bring whatever legal knowledge you have about tenant rights. Yes, now."

The next hour passed in a blur of phone calls and arrivals.

Jamie appeared with coffee and determinedly cheerful energy, followed closely by Maya carrying a laptop and wearing the focused expression of someone ready for battle.

The Garcias from the corner market came bearing pastries from their own suppliers and decades of small business experience.

Even old Mr. Chen shuffled in, mentioning something about his grandson's accounting degree.

"I didn't ask for this," Ari protested as his bakery filled with neighbors, but Mrs. Vasquez just pointed him toward a chair.

"No, you didn't. That's what makes it family."

Maya spread the eviction papers across the center table, her photographer's eye scanning details with methodical precision.

"This notice has problems," she announced after several minutes.

"The timeline's off, and they haven't followed proper procedure for commercial evictions. We can challenge this."

"Challenge it how?" Ari's voice came out rougher than intended.

"Emergency filing for tenant protection. Buy you time while we explore other options." Maya's fingers flew over her keyboard, pulling up legal sites and forms. "The landlord's trying to rush this through, which usually means they're not confident in their position."

Mrs. Garcia leaned forward, her kind face creased with concern. "When we had trouble with our lease renewal, there were grants available. Small business preservation funds. The city doesn't advertise them, but they exist."

"I looked into loans," Ari said weakly. "My credit's not good enough."

"Grants, not loans," Mr. Garcia clarified. "Community development money. Jamie, didn't you research that stuff when you were planning your coffee business?"

Jamie nodded enthusiastically. "There's a whole network of support for neighborhood businesses. I've got contact information somewhere."

The conversation swept around him, practical solutions emerging from every corner. Mrs. Vasquez had somehow transformed his crisis into a community project, and neighbors who'd been mere acquaintances yesterday were strategizing his salvation with the intensity of family members.

"I don't understand," Ari said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you all doing this?"

The room fell quiet. Mrs. Chen, who rarely spoke beyond pleasantries, cleared her throat. "Your Sofia," she said in careful English, "she bring me fresh bread every day when my Robert was sick. Never charge money. Say family don't pay family."

"She helped my daughter with college application essays," added Mrs. Garcia. "Wouldn't take payment for that either."

"Fixed my espresso machine three times," Jamie contributed. "Said good coffee was a neighborhood necessity."

"She taught me to make empanadas for my photography clients," Maya said softly. "Claimed it was payment for fixing her ancient computer, but we both knew better."

The stories kept coming, each one a thread in the web Sofia had woven through their small community. Ari had known his aunt was beloved, but he hadn't realized the extent of her quiet generosity, the way she'd connected lives through small acts of service and stubborn kindness.

"So you see, mijo," Mrs. Vasquez said gently, "we're not helping you. We're helping Sofia's nephew, who sits in Sofia's kitchen, surrounded by Sofia's recipes and Sofia's love. The bakery belongs to you now, but it belongs to all of us too."

The afternoon brought concrete action. Maya filed preliminary legal challenges that would delay any eviction proceedings.

Maya knew someone from art school who worked at legal aid—they handled small business stuff.

The neighbors established an impromptu "Save Blue Moon" fund, with everyone contributing what they could—Mrs. Chen pressed a crumpled envelope of cash into his hands with a fierce glare that dared him to refuse.

Jamie coordinated a social media campaign with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly been planning his own business launch, creating hashtags and posting photos of the bakery that highlighted its role in neighborhood life.

"Trust me," he said, thumbs flying over his phone screen.

"People love supporting local businesses when they know the story. "

By evening, Ari's quiet crisis had transformed into a community rallying point.

The legal challenges bought them weeks instead of days.

The emergency fund provided a cushion for immediate expenses.

Better than anything else, though, the crushing isolation finally lifted, replaced by the warm weight of shared responsibility.

As the last neighbors filtered out, promising to return tomorrow with more contacts and ideas, Mrs. Vasquez stayed behind.

She moved through the bakery with familiar ease, cleaning up the day's chaos while Ari sat motionless at the center table, surrounded by evidence of support he'd never asked for and didn't know how to accept.

"You're overwhelmed," she observed, not unkindly.

"I don't know how to do this." The admission felt like another kind of breaking. "Sofia made it look so easy—caring for people, building connections, being part of something bigger. I just hide behind this counter and pretend I don't need anyone."

"Sofia didn't start out knowing how to build community," Mrs. Vasquez said, settling into the chair beside him. "She learned the same way you're learning now—one person at a time, one small kindness at a time. The only difference is she started sooner."

"What if I mess it up? What if I take everyone's help and still fail?"

"Then you fail surrounded by people who love you." Her voice carried the weight of long experience with disappointment and recovery. "That's still better than succeeding alone."

They sat in comfortable silence as darkness settled over Maple Walk.

Through the front windows, Ari could see lights beginning to appear in apartments above the other businesses, the daily rhythm of a neighborhood settling into evening.

Somewhere up there, Nate was probably working, probably still believing the worst about what he'd witnessed yesterday.

"You're thinking about that boy," Mrs. Vasquez said, following his gaze.

"I ruined it before it even started." Ari's voice felt raw. "He thinks I chose Marcus over him."

"Did you?"

"No. God, no. I told Marcus to leave, told him I didn't want his money or anything else. But Nate was gone before I could explain."

"So explain now."

Ari shook his head. "I lied to him all week. Let him think everything was fine when I was falling apart. Why should he trust anything I say now?"

"Because," Mrs. Vasquez said with infinite patience, "love isn't about being perfect. It's about being honest when perfection fails. Sofia spent thirty years building this community one honest conversation at a time. You want her legacy? Start with one honest conversation."

After she left, Ari remained in the quiet bakery, but this time the solitude felt different.

The legal papers stacked neatly on the counter offered hope instead of despair.

The cash box held tangible proof that he wasn't alone in this fight.

More than anything, the dozens of phone numbers and email addresses collected throughout the day represented something Sofia had tried to teach him all his life—that accepting help wasn't weakness, it was wisdom.

He picked up his phone, Nate's number highlighted on the screen.

His thumb hovered over the call button as fear and hope warred in his chest. Tomorrow, he decided.

Tomorrow he would find the courage to be honest about everything—the crisis, the community response, and the feelings that grew stronger every time he looked across the street.

Tonight, he would bake. Not from desperation this time, but from gratitude. Sofia's community had shown up when he needed them most. The least he could do was make sure they had fresh bread in the morning.