Susan Wiggs - The Winter Lodge

“Yo, Zach,” she called out, craning her neck to find the boy.

He emerged from the mixing area, pushing a rolling cart filled with raw dough. Now a senior in high school, Zach Alger had worked at the bakery for two years. He didn’t seem to mind the early-morning hours, always heading to school with a bag of fresh pastries. He had distinctly Nordic features—pale blue eyes, white-blond hair—and lanky, earnest good looks. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, feeling a bit sheepish. “Is Laura around?”

“Specialty loaves,” he said, gesturing as he wheeled the tub of dough toward the six-foot-tall proofing cabinet.

Laura Tuttle had worked at the bakery for thirty years, as master baker for twenty-five. She knew the business even better than Jenny did. She claimed to love the early hours, that the schedule was perfectly suited to her circadian clock. “Well, look who’s here,” she said, yet she didn’t glance up as she spoke.

“I had a craving for a kolache.” Jenny swished through the rubber-rimmed swinging doors to the café, where she helped herself to a cup of coffee and a day-old pastry from the case. Then she returned to the prep area, welcoming the familiar taste but feeling no calmer. Out of habit, she grabbed an apron from a hook.

Jenny rarely did the hands-on work; as owner and general manager, she stayed busy in a supervisory and administrative capacity. She had an office upstairs with a view of the town square, and a security monitor gave her a glimpse of the café counter. She spent most days juggling the needs of employees, suppliers, customers and regulatory agencies with a phone glued to her ear and her eyes glued to the computer screen. But sometimes, she reflected, you just had to roll up your sleeves and dive in. There was no sensation quite like plunging one’s hands into a warm mass of silky dough. It felt like something half-alive, squishing through her fingers.

Now she slipped the apron over her head and joined Laura at a worktable. The specialty breads were done in smaller batches and shaped by hand. Today’s selections would be a traditional Polish bread made with eggs, orange peel and currants, and a savory herb loaf of Laura’s invention. She and Laura worked side by side, weighing portions of dough on a one-pound scale, although both knew the size by feel alone.

Across the room, Jenny could see the refrigerated pie case, filled with her grandmother’s pies. Technically speaking, these were not Helen Majesky’s pies. But the original recipes for the lofty lemon meringue, the glossy three-berry tarts with the lattice tops, the creamy buttermilk chess pie and all the others came from Helen herself, decades ago. Her techniques had been passed on from one master baker to the next, and now, even after her death, she haunted the bakery as gently and sweetly as she had lived.

Jenny felt curiously detached from herself as she braided the dough into fat, rounded loaves. She looked at her white, floury hands and could see her grandmother’s hands, lifting and turning the dough with a patient rhythm that seemed to come from a place Jenny didn’t recognize in herself. The reality of Gram’s passing settled in Jenny’s bones. It had been three weeks, two days and fourteen hours. Jenny hated that she knew, practically down to the precise moment, exactly how long she had been alone.

Laura kept working, setting each oiled loaf in a pan, one by one. She bobbed her head along with the hiphop rhythm coming from the radio. She actually liked Zach’s music, though Jenny suspected Laura didn’t listen too closely to the lyrics.

“You miss her a lot, don’t you, doll?” Laura asked. She was the kind of person who knew things, like a mind reader.

“So much,” Jenny admitted. “And here I thought I was prepared. I don’t know why I feel shell-shocked. I’m not good at this. In fact, I’m terrible at it. Terrible at mourning the dead and at living alone.” She squared her shoulders, tried to shake off the mingling of panic and melancholy. The scary thing was, she couldn’t do it. She had somehow lost control, and even as she felt herself falling apart, she couldn’t do anything to make it stop.

Somewhere outside in the dark, a siren wailed. The noise crescendoed, sounding frantic, like a scream. A couple of dogs howled in response. Automatically, Jenny turned to peer through the double doors to the window of the darkened coffee shop. The town of Avalon, New York, was small enough that the sound of whooping sirens at night attracted notice. In fact, the last time she remembered hearing a siren was when she had called the paramedics.

They had not let her ride with her grandmother. She had driven her car in the wake of the ambulance to Benedictine Hospital in Kingston. Once there, she begged her grandmother to rescind the DNR order she’d signed after her first stroke, but Gram wouldn’t hear of it. So then, with her grandmother’s life force ebbing, there was nothing left for Jenny to do but say goodbye.

She felt a fresh wave of the panic attack trying to push its way to the surface. She stuck with the kneading rhythm her grandmother had taught her, working the dough with steady assuredness. Anyone watching her would see a competent baker, because she knew that on the outside, she appeared no different. The gathering steam inside was invisible.

“I’m going to step out back, grab a breath of fresh air,” she told Laura.

“I just heard sirens. Maybe Loverboy will show up.”

Loverboy was Laura’s nickname for Rourke McKnight, Avalon’s chief of police. He had a reputation that did not go unnoticed in a town this size. Jenny, of course, avoided calling him anything at all. There had been a time when she and Rourke had not been strangers. In fact, they’d known each other with searing intimacy, but that was long ago. They hadn’t willingly exchanged a word in years. Rourke dropped by the bakery for his morning coffee every day, but since Jenny worked in the office upstairs, they never crossed paths. They actually both worked hard at not crossing paths.

Avoiding him required that she memorize his routine. During the week, he kept office hours like any chief of police, but, thanks to a tight municipal budget, he had to make do with substandard pay and a force that was small even by small-town standards. He often took the third watch on weekends, driving patrol like any beat cop. Sometimes he even drove a snowplow for the city. Jenny pretended she didn’t know any of this, pretended to take no interest in the life of Rourke McKnight, and he returned the favor by ignoring her. He had sent flowers to her grandmother’s funeral, though. The message on the card had been typically taciturn: “I’m sorry.” It had accompanied a bouquet the size of a Volkswagen.

As she slipped on her parka and ducked through the back door of the bakery, Jenny felt the now-predictable pattern of the attack. There was the terrible tingling of her scalp, an army of invisible ants marching up her spine and over her head. Her chest tightened and her throat seemed to close. Despite the freezing temperatures, she broke out in a sweat. Then came the eerie pulsations of light, flickering in her peripheral vision.

Stepping into the alleyway behind the bakery, she sucked in air. Then she choked it back out immediately, tasting the acrid burn of Newport cigarettes.

“God, Zach,” she said to the kid leaning against the building. “Those things will kill you.”

“Naw,” he said, flicking his ashes into the Dumpster, “I’ll quit before that happens.”

“Huh.” She cleared her throat. “That’s what they all say.” She hated it when kids smoked. Sure, her grandfather had smoked, rolling his own cigarettes out of Velvet Tobacco. But back in his day, the dangers of the habit were unknown. Nowadays, there was simply no excuse. Grabbing a handful of snow, she tossed it at the cigarette, killing the red ash.