Chapter 2 - The Pastry Her Mother Remembered
I followed Lily’s finger.
“The honey-pear galette.”
She leaned closer to the glass.
The expression on her face changed so quickly I almost missed it.
Interest became confusion.
Confusion became something else.
Something painful.
“What’s in it?” she asked.
“Pears, brown sugar, cinnamon, lemon zest, a little ginger, and honey.”
Her eyes lifted sharply.
“What kind of honey?”
“Wildflower.”
Roman stopped moving.
I noticed because Roman Duca was the kind of man who never seemed truly still. Even when he stood silently, there was always something controlled in him—some calculation occurring behind his eyes.
Now there was nothing.
Just stillness.
Lily swallowed.
“My mom used wildflower honey.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
I looked between them.
“You want one?”
Lily hesitated.
Roman said quietly, “You don’t have to.”
She immediately shot him an irritated look.
“I know.”
It was the most normal teenage expression I had seen from her.
I liked her instantly.
I opened the case.
“It’s on me.”
Roman reached toward his coat.
I pointed my tongs at him.
“Do not.”
His hand stopped.
“I was going to pay.”
“And I was going to let a kid have a pastry without you turning it into an acquisition.”
Lily actually laughed.
Not loudly.
Not for long.
But enough.
Roman looked at her as if somebody had turned sunlight on inside the bakery.
That look did something inconvenient to my chest.
So I ignored it.
I put the galette on a plate and set it in front of Lily.
She took one bite.
Then she froze.
Roman moved first.
“Lily?”
She chewed slowly.
Her eyes filled.
“Oh, honey,” I said.
She pushed her chair backward.
“I need the bathroom.”
She disappeared down the short hallway.
Roman started after her.
I caught his sleeve.
He looked down at my hand.
I let go immediately.
“She’s sixteen,” I said. “Give her thirty seconds before you storm in like a federal raid.”
His expression hardened.
“She doesn’t cry.”
“That’s not necessarily good.”
His eyes moved toward the hallway.
For the first time since meeting him, I understood something about Roman.
He wasn’t calm because he didn’t feel anything.
He was calm because feeling anything terrified him.
I lowered my voice.
“Her mother?”
“My sister.”
The answer was clipped.
“How long ago?”
“Eleven months.”
“I’m sorry.”
His face closed instantly.
It was like watching a steel door drop.
“She died in a car accident.”
I knew better than to keep asking.
Instead, I poured coffee.
“You’ve been bringing Lily here because of her?”
Roman glanced toward the hallway again.
“She stopped eating properly after Elena died.”
“Elena was her mother?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought pastries would fix it?”
“No.”
There was almost offense in his voice.
“Good.”
“I found a Honey & Rye receipt in Elena’s desk.”
That surprised me.
“From when?”
“Two weeks before she died.”
My bakery had thousands of customers. I tried to picture his sister and came up empty.
“What did she buy?”
“A honey-pear galette.”
I stared at the pastry Lily had abandoned.
Roman continued.
“Lily found the receipt before I did. She kept it.”
“So you came here.”
“I came here to see what kind of place it was.”
I crossed my arms.
“And accidentally acquired a fake girlfriend?”
His mouth twitched.
“That was unexpected.”
“Flour usually is.”
He almost smiled.
Then his face changed.
“She hadn’t smiled in four months.”
The humor disappeared from me.
Roman looked toward the hallway.
“She barely speaks to Sophia. Barely speaks to me. She quit piano. Quit seeing her friends. She eats because I stand there until she does. Two nights ago, she asked if I had ever been here.”
“And you had.”
“Yes.”
“So you brought her.”
He nodded.
I looked at him differently then.
I didn’t want to.
Roman Duca was still arrogant.
Still dangerous.
Still the kind of man whose name made people lower their voices.
But he loved that girl.
There was no pretending about that.
The bathroom door opened.
Lily returned with dry eyes and a determined expression.
She sat down.
Then she finished the entire galette.
Roman said nothing.
Neither did I.
Sometimes silence was kinder.
When she finished, Lily glanced toward the kitchen.
“Did you make it?”
“I did.”
“Can you teach me?”
Roman turned toward her.
Lily immediately stiffened.
I answered before he could.
“Sure.”
She looked surprised.
“When?”
“Saturday afternoon. We close at two.”
Roman said, “Clare—”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
Lily smiled again.
“Two-thirty?”
“Two-thirty.”
Roman looked like he wanted to object.
I gave him the same stare I used on delivery drivers who arrived with broken eggs.
He wisely remained silent.
They stayed another fifteen minutes.
Lily asked about sourdough.
Roman drank his coffee.
I tried not to notice that he took it black.
Or that his tie was slightly crooked.
Or that a man who probably had entire buildings named after his family was holding his niece’s backpack because she had handed it to him without looking.
When they finally left, Lily paused beside me.
“Can I get another one to go?”
“Absolutely.”
I boxed a galette.
As I slid the box toward her, something small landed near my wrist.
A folded piece of paper.
Lily’s fingers covered it immediately.
My eyes met hers.
She shook her head once.
Almost imperceptibly.
Then she moved her hand away.
The note remained.
Roman was paying attention to Sophia’s call on his phone.
I slipped the paper beneath the register.
“Saturday,” Lily said.
“Saturday.”
Roman opened the door.
Cold Chicago air rushed inside.
Then they were gone.
I waited until the black sedan disappeared around the corner.
Then I unfolded the note.
My stomach dropped.
There were only two lines.
MY MOM DIDN’T DIE BY ACCIDENT.
PLEASE DON’T TELL UNCLE ROMAN I SAW THE MAN.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My first instinct was to call Roman.
My second was to wonder why Lily had specifically told me not to.
I turned toward the window.
Across the street, a silver SUV sat at the curb.
I had noticed it earlier.
Now I noticed the man sitting behind the wheel.
He was watching my bakery.
Even through the glass, I could see the large silver ring on his right hand.
A ring with a black stone.
The man lifted his phone.
My bakery phone rang.
I nearly jumped.
I picked it up.
“Honey & Rye.”
Nobody answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice said quietly:
May you like
“Whatever the girl gave you, Clare, burn it.”
The line went dead.
