A Dozen with My Name

The next morning, I sat at the worktable with the flour bin close enough to reach without standing. My ankle stayed braced on the low stool Clara had tucked beneath it. The splint pressed against my sock, and I kept my foot still while I measured cinnamon into a bowl.

Clara had set out the ingredients for another batch of rounds. She had also set out a small plate with one of yesterday’s left over, wrapped in cloth.

“You can taste it first,” she said. “If you’d rather make something else today, we can do that.”

I looked at the plate. I had made those rounds. The thought still felt a little like claiming a chair someone else had offered me.

“I want to make them again,” I said.

“All right.” Clara’s voice was easy. She didn’t tell me that I’d done well yesterday or that I ought to be proud. She moved the mixing bowl nearer my hands and asked me to check the flour measure.

I tasted the round. It was cool and slightly firm at the edge. The cinnamon was strong, but not too strong. I could remember every part of making it: the dough sticking to my fingers, Clara telling me to add flour a pinch at a time, the warmth of the oven when she opened it.

“It’s good,” I said.

“Then you know what you’re aiming for.”

I started measuring. The flour fell into the bowl in a soft heap, dusting the rim. I used the back of a spoon to level it, careful not to make a mess Clara would have to find by touch later. She was good at finding things. I still tried not to leave extra work for her.

The bell over the front door rang before the dough came together.

I stopped with both hands in the bowl. Clara turned her head toward the sound.

“Good morning,” she called. “We’re open.”

“I hope so,” the customer said. “I’ve come back for more.”

I knew her voice. She had bought my rounds yesterday. I pulled my hands out of the dough and wiped them on the towel beside me, then noticed how quickly I’d done it, as if I were about to be asked to show them.

Clara angled her face toward the counter. “Toby’s here, if you’d like to order from him.”

The words made the room feel smaller. My hands went back to the towel, rubbing at flour that was already gone.

“I came back,” the customer said. “The rounds were lovely. I shared them with my sister, and she asked where I’d bought them.”

I could have let Clara answer. She didn’t.

“Thank you,” I said. My voice came out quiet, but it reached the counter.