I’m not fine with the pretending.
I’m standing in the corner of the bakery, trying to look like I’m not watching her, except I’m absolutely watching her. The way she moves. The way she listens. The way she’s somehow taken a terrible idea—salmon in pastry—and made it matter. The way she’s started to belong to this space like it’s always been waiting for her hands.
Around two o’clock, Morris wanders by the bakery window. He’s doing his late-morning patrol of the town, checking what’s new, what’s changed, what might be edible. He pauses at the glass, his massive head at eye level, and stares at Gabby like he’s evaluating her.
She laughs. Walks over to the window. She reaches into the small pastry bag she’s been saving and pulls out a piece of croissant. She leaves it on the outside windowsill—a small offering from the baker to the moose who eats buildings.
Morris eats it. Deliberate. Thoughtful. Like he’s considering the flavor profile.
He looks at Gabby. She looks at Morris.
They have a moment.
It lasts maybe three seconds, but it’s real. Then Morris ambles away, satisfied, and Gabby stands at the window with her hands on her hips like she’s made a deal with an actual moose.
“You’re feeding him,” I say.
“He’s part of the town ecosystem,” she says, not turning around. “Also he’s beautiful and terrifying and I’m pretty sure we’re friends now.”
“You can’t be friends with Morris. He eats everything.”
“Not the salmon croissants,” she says. “He seemed to appreciate it. Maybe he’ll stop eating my porch.”
He won’t. But I don’t tell her that. I like watching her believe in the possibility that kindness might change things. That feeding a moose a piece of pastry might be enough to make it stop eating buildings.
After the soft opening, when the last customer has left with whatever remains, I’m still here. I stayed because I was supposed to help her clean, which is a lie I told myself because I didn’t want to leave.
She sits down at the small table in the back, where she eats her lunch when there’s time. The table is worn wood, the chairs don’t match, there’s flour dust on everything from this morning. It’s not fancy. It’s just a place where people eat.
I sit across from her.
The light is coming through the window at an angle that makes everything look temporary. Golden. Like the sun is in no hurry to move on and the day is stretching long enough to contain something true.
“That was incredible,” she says, and she sounds like she’s still surprised. “I made salmon croissants. I made them, and people bought them, and nobody died. Yet.”
“Nobody dies from salmon croissants.”
“You haven’t tasted them lately,” she says. “For all you know, they’re toxic. You’re just being nice.”
I taste a piece she’d left in the case. It’s good. The butter is laminated perfectly. The salmon is seasoned but not overwhelming. The croissant itself is flaky, delicate, exactly whata croissant should be. It’s the kind of thing that shouldn’t exist and yet it does.
“They’re good,” I say.
“Ryder bought four. Four. And Marnie said my baking was better than hers. Do you understand what that means? Dotty has lived here her whole life. She’s the standard. And I beat the standard.”
She’s giddy. Punch-drunk on success. Her hands are shaking slightly, and there’s a wildness in her eyes that says she hasn’t let herself believe this would work until it actually worked.
“You made something people want,” I say.
“I made salmon croissants and a moose ate one and we’re friends now. That’s insane. That’s not a business plan. That’s chaos.” She hesitates, "I wasn’t sure I could do it without Marco and Valentina. I thought I needed them to be successful, but I did it. All on my own.”
“It’s working.”
She looks at me. Her eyes are bright. There’s flour dust in her hair and on her face, and she looks exactly like someone who just survived something difficult and came out the other side whole.
She looks like someone who might stay.
“Thank you,” she says.