Page 12 of Infernal Affairs

The bakery lights are still on, even though it’s past closing, so I detour instinctively.

Through the steamed glass, I see Daisy cleaning the display case and singing to herself—a sound I can’t quite make out, but the cadence is sweet, half lullaby and half bravado.

Her hair is down for once and a little wild.

She’s wearing an old cardigan with elbows mended in red thread.

She turns, sees me, and waves without embarrassment or hesitation.

I don’t go in.

Not yet.

I watch her float between the tables, wiping away the day’s evidence, moving like someone who believes things can be made new again with enough elbow grease and hope.

The door opens behind me with a jingle of bells and a rush of icy air.

“Enoch.”

It’s Clover, her arms full of empty bread trays.

She’s less shy than Daisy, but just as quick to smile.

“She’s got a box for you,” Clover says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Wants to know if you like passion fruit or if you’re more of a chocolate guy.”

I’m about to answer, but Clover is already gone, leaving the door swinging behind her.

Inside, Daisy gives another wave, this time with both hands.

I nod, stand there a moment too long, and then turn toward the lighthouse.

My home.

My monument to being alone, even when the whole town insists it’s a quirky choice.

But tonight, as I climb the spiral stairs, I think about how recipes change when you share them.

How sometimes, if you’re very lucky, someone will mess with the proportions and make it better than you ever planned.

I lick a fleck of powdered sugar from my thumb and wonder whether Atlas’s girl will say yes.

I hope she does.

Tomorrow, I’ll try one of those dance classes.

Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll bring a box of pastries to share instead of hoarding them.

But first, tonight, I’ll eat the last kolache and let myself be grateful for what I have—and for what I might someday dare to want.

CHAPTER 4

DAISY

If I’d known what kind of day it would be, I would have picked a different sweater. Not the mohair one that leaves pink lint on everything, practically screaming desperation, but something more subtle—maybe the gray one with faint blue flecks, the one that feels like a sky about to crack open. Instead, here I am, sweating beneath two layers and a municipal-issued rain poncho, cradling a cardboard box with both hands and trying to look casual as I hike up the spit to the lighthouse.

Clover’s parting words still ring in my ears.

“If you show up after six, he’s obligated to invite you in. It’s lighthouse etiquette.”