If It Makes You Happy(35)

“Oh. Never mind.”

For some reason, relief washes through me. It’s probably because I know the last thing Michelle needs is Lars and his crumb-filled mustache.

“Of course she’s nice,” I say. “But … she’s nice with many walls up.” I smile to myself. “But even brick houses have charm. So, I’m helping.”

“So, you annoyed her into submission, is what I’m hearing,” Carol says.

I snort in response.

Carol nods at the prep table, now smeared with watery flour, which is building up to a sticky substance becoming dough. “And what’s with the mess?”

Wisps of cinnamon litter parts of the table. They smell a bit like Michelle, but not quite. I have to start somewhere though. Birdie’s favorite pastry was cinnamon rolls. I’m determined to know Michelle’s too. It’s like an itch I need to scratch.

“I’m making cinnamon rolls,” I explain.

“Are they for your new friend, Michelle?” Lars asks.

I squint. “Why are you up my ass today?”

“You could use a smoke,” Carol adds.

“And when did you say you’re quitting again?” I ask.

She purses her lips. “Don’t turn this back on me. You’re a mess right now.”

“I’m making rolls, Carol. It’s not a big deal.”

Then Lars smirks. “You can’t relax for a second, not knowing how it’s going with Britt.”

He’s right. He’s been right about most things since we were kids, and I hate it. He was right about Tracy too—repeatedly asking on my wedding day if I was sure—but he’s too good a guy to hold that over my head.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m great even. I have so much time to do extra things now.”

Carol gasps. “Oh my God, I’ve rubbed off on you. You’re a basket case too.”

I pause mid–dough roll and lean my forearms on the prep table. “Are you always this pleasant in the afternoons?”

Carol smiles. “No, this is only for you.”

“Well, get used to seeing more of this face around this time of day.”

“What face?” she asks. “The Basket Case’s face?”

“Yeah, we don’t want him,” Lars throws in.

“No, I—” I pinch my nose. “My face, you two.”

“I don’t like your face,” Carol says.

“Too bad. I’m getting my life together. Baking more for this place. We’ll stay open later. Make more money. It’s good. I’m turning over a new leaf.”

Carol tsks. “Pretty sure the leaves outside are dead.”

My face falls. She shrugs innocently, pulling out her pack of cigarettes and walking out to the front. Lars licks the remaining glaze off the tips of his fingers and grins.

“Have fun,” he singsongs, leaving the kitchen and disappearing out the door too.

I glance through the large windows, watching the trees lean in the fall breeze. Below, curled—and very dead—leaves gather in a pile.

“Looks like turned leaves to me,” I grumble, throwing a balled-up rag like a basketball to the laundry basket in the corner and completely missing, the rag instead slapping on the tiled floor, as if taunting me.



Two hours later, I walk across Bird & Breakfast’s front yard with a box of cinnamon rolls balanced in my palm. Brittany sits in the grass with two teacups nestled in bare patches. Rocket stoically sits across from her as she tucks a teacup between his stiff paws.

“Drink!” she commands.

He doesn’t move, but his tail wags.

“Britt, I don’t think he understands,” I say, causing her to jump.

“Daddy!” she squeals.

I bend down, set the box on the grass, and capture Brittany in my arms.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Rocket and I are having teatime!”

I peer over her shoulder. The dog blinks at me, blank-faced and bored.

“That’s … sweet,” I say. “How was school?”

“We made pumpkins!”

“Real pumpkins?” I gawk. “No way.”

“No! Paper pumpkins!” she says with a giggle.

“Ohh,” I say, feigning surprise. “And how was the afternoon with Miss Michelle?”

“Miss Shell gave me apple slices, and I got to talk to some lady from Michigan!”

I swivel my gaze over to the porch. Michelle sits on the hanging swing bench with her legs tucked under her. I grin. She always presents herself so pristinely.

“That’s exciting,” I say to Brittany. “Well, you keep playing for five more minutes.” I pat her shoulder. “Then we’ve gotta eat dinner, okay?” She reaches for the box, and I swoop it in my arms. “Pastries later.”

“Ahh.” Brittany pouts in an over-the-top way.

I ruffle her hair. “Yeah, yeah,” I mock. “Dad sucks.”

She pokes out her bottom lip and reluctantly goes back to pouring invisible tea.

I crunch over fallen leaves, walk up the squeaking front porch steps, then fall down on the opposite side of the bench swing. My momentum has us swinging back wildly before evening out again. Michelle eyes the box in my lap.