Page 4 of What Remains of Grace

Jenna stood there for a moment, staring at the case, remembering the smell of cinnamon and yeast, and the sound of Grace’s laugh floating from the kitchen. Then someone brushed past her, and the moment broke.

She checked the screen again. B6—On Time.

When they called her zone, she stepped forward automatically and scanned her ticket without remembering having pulled it up on her phone. The gate agent smiled, “Have a good flight,” and Jenna nodded, because that’s what you do.

The jetway smelled like metal and recycled air. Someone ahead of her laughed loudly, and a baby cried somewhere behind her. She found her seat, stowed her bag, and buckled in.

The man beside her was excited about his beach vacation. He showed her photos of a rental house with a pool and palm trees, the kind of place people went to feel alive. She smiled politely and nodded at the right times. The sound of her own voice felt foreign.

When the flight attendant handed her a napkin and a tiny cup of club soda, she whispered, “Thank you,” because that’s what you say. Because the world hadn’t stopped for her, even if she needed it to.

She’d never been on a plane headed home before. Not for birthdays, not for holidays, not even when Grace begged her to visit the bakery. There was always a reason to stay away: deadlines, budgets, inspections, some urgent thing that couldn’t possibly wait.

Aunt Marilyn’s four kids had all graduated from high school while she was gone. Some of them had married, some had babies she’d only seen in pictures. She hadn’t even realized her aunt’s marriage was falling apart until Grace mentioned that Sal had moved out, and by then the papers were already filed. Whole lives had unfolded without her, and she hadn’t been there for any of it.

But the Blue Cypress had always been there, whether she showed up or not. It was where Grace learned to braid dough before she could spell her name, where Jenna learned to count by sorting change in the register drawer, and where Brooks spent half his childhood perched on the counter, taste-testing whatever Grace pulled warm from the oven. It was a sanctuary of flour on the counters, bread cooling by the window, and Grace humming off-key in the back.

It had survived Grandma Hart’s passing, recessions, hurricanes, and one broken heart after another.

But when Brooks died, Jenna couldn’t stand to walk through its door. She told herself it was too painful, too many memories, but deep down, she knew better. The bakery was where everything still worked when she didn’t, and she couldn’t stand that.

Now, at thirty-four, she was finally on a plane. This time, not to start something new, but to face what she’d left unfinished.

2

The Air at the Edge of Home

The flight to Tampa was short. Too short.

The air outside was thick. Suffocating.

Florida heat wrapped around her the second the automatic doors slid open, clinging to her skin like memory. Salt, sunblock, jet fuel. The air smelled like summers spent barefoot on hot pavement, like boat rides at dusk and bakery deliveries at dawn. Jenna’s first deep breath almost undid her.

Even after ten years away, she remembered this exact feeling. It’s that mix of salt and humidity and something electric underneath, as if the ocean were close enough to touch. The air itself was so distinctly Tampa that Jenna felt something like homesickness swell inside her.

She followed the crowd toward the rental counters, her bag knocking against her hip. Smack, smack, smack. Tourists chattered about beach days and dinner reservations, children in flip-flops slapping across the tile. Thwack, thwack, thwack. The sounds felt impossibly alive. Unbearable.

At the counter, she handed over her license and nodded through the instructions. The clerk smiled, bright and oblivious.

“Enjoy your stay, Ms. Hart.”

Jenna took the keys without answering.

Outside, the evening light poured over the parking lot: hazy, orange, and endless. She slid into the rental, a white SUV that smelled of coconut air freshener, and pulled out of the garage.

The drive north was muscle memory.

As the bridge wrapped like a ribbon over the bay, a flash of memory hit. Long summer evenings when she and Brooks rode their bikes across this same stretch with their tires humming against the concrete path. The air always smelled like salt and warm tar, the sun beating down hard enough to sting their shoulders. They’d race each other halfway, the breeze whipping at their shirts, gulls swooping low over the guardrail, and Brooks grinning on a bike that had gotten too small after his last growth spurt, thrilled he could finally beat his big sister at something.

When the tide was high and the wind was right, the waves slapped against the rocks and sprayed up over the trail, soaking their legs and the handlebars. Brooks would shout, “Loser does the dishes!” and pedal faster, grinning like he could outpace the ocean itself. By the time they turned back toward Bayview Park, their clothes clung to their skin, and their shoes squished with every push of the pedals.

It shouldn’t have been cold—it was Florida—but the rush of wind would make her teeth chatter despite the summer sun and the sweat on their brows. They’d ride the last few miles in silence, shivering and laughing, their bikes throwing tiny arcs of salt water with every spin of the wheels.

Sometimes their mom would be waiting at the trailhead, shaking her head before they even reached her. She would pretend to be mad about the wet clothes, knowing she hadn’t packed extras for this nonsense, but everyone knew she stopped expecting dry seats and well-behaved kids years ago.

Grace would hand them towels, her smirk saying everything, that mix of relief and glee you feel when your siblings are in trouble and you’re not.

Those days usually ended the same way, with hot showers, dry shorts, and home-cooked dinners while their mom complained about the sand in the laundry room. Grace would steal the last roll, Brooks would make a face, and Jenna would just feel the warmth of it all, the comfort of belonging, of everything in its place.