dough over the plump, rum-soaked raisins, tucking them in like well-fed babies under a fluffy blanket, then put them to bed in the nice warm oven. Down for their nap, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Sweet little raisin rolls, just the way Sarge liked them.
She closed the oven, moved to the other end of the counter, and checked the measuring cup in which she had sprinkled yeast over warm water and whisked in sour cream and sugar. Cutting together flour, butter, and salt, she glanced quickly toward the door. No Sarge yet.
She combined the ingredients to make a coarse dough that when properly rolled and folded should bake into lovely light croissants—not something Sarge could envision. The back door banged. He came in, hung his red plaid coat on the hook, and turned his head like a vulture’s on the end of his question-mark spine. She did hurt for him. The photo in the front of the store showed a strong, military physique. It couldn’t be easy to curl up like a lemon rind in the sun.
“Good morning, Sarge.”
“Humph.” His sunken eyes peered down his long bulbous nose. Lucky he had rank or his moniker might have been Beak. Or Gonzo. Sarge fit, although he didn’t look capable of any spit-flecked rants today. Lately his pain had been bad enough to reduce the rages to sarcastic skirmishes of parleyed insults she could swear he enjoyed. She’d even imagined a glimmer of relief, once or twice, that she was there.
“Are those the currant scones?”
“Already baking. The rolls too.”
He toddled toward her, hands bent at his chest like a bald eaglet just out of the egg. He scowled. “What is it this time?”
She checked her surprise. “Gruyère and sun-dried tomato croissants.”
“Not in my store.” He pushed through the swinging door to the front.
She stared after him. Progress. He’d asked what she was making, not accused her of stealing the ingredients.
Breathing the honey scent of beeswax, Tia lowered the candles into the clear amber liquid, curbing her natural impatience. Any pause or jerk would leave a flaw each ensuing dip would reinforce. She worked hard to keep her hand steady. Dipping tapers had trained her in self-control better than any scolding instructor.
She raised the wooden bar looped with six double wicks. As soon as the air touched the wax, it paled to ocher. She fitted the bar onto the side braces to cool the tapers before lowering them again, each plunge having the potential to reclaim with greedy heat what solidity the cool air had bestowed. The life metaphor struck her again. The destructive power of pain; the strength of endurance. She would give them all they needed to stand strong, even though their fate was to burn away, the glow and aroma of their passing a benediction.
A knock brought her out of her thoughts, and she wended through the dim shop where little by little she had replaced the former knickknacks with candles, scented oils, and hand-thrown melting pots. She looked around, satisfied that nothing she saw was made in China. “Just a sec,” she called through the door, tangling with the keys since she hadn’t opened yet.
“Try this.” Piper raised the drooping croissant.
Tia bit into the buttery, melted-cheesy pastry, savoring a chewy tang of sun-dried tomatoes and fresh basil. She leaned her shoulder to the doorjamb and sighed. Not all Piper’s creations worked, but this one … “Mmm.”
“You like it?”
“Oh yeah.”
“You’re not just encouraging me because you hope I’ll get better if I keep trying?”
“No, it’s really—”
Piper snatched the croissant out of her hands, turned the bitten end around in the parchment, and held it out to someone else. “Try something new?”
Tia leaned out far enough to see the person approaching. Lanky in jeans, mountain boots, and brown leather jacket bearing the police department emblem, he looked as ragged as a night spent with Johnny Walker, though she didn’t smell it on him, had not, in fact, for years. Even so, every muscle in her hardened—a visceral reflex as automatic as breathing.
He said, “Excuse me?”
His features were edged, and in an instant she realized what day it was.
“The croissant.” Piper flashed her sunny smile.
“Oh. No. Thanks.”
“One bite,” Piper cajoled, a hypnotic maneuver she had mastered. “And your honest opinion.”
He took a bite and chewed slowly, the muscles rippling along his jaw. “What are the red things?”