The Name on the Next Card

The first thing Mrs. Dorr asked me was whether the cinnamon rounds had been meant to pull apart.

I had been wiping the counter. My cloth stopped halfway across a streak of flour.

She stood on the other side with a mending basket tucked against her hip. I knew her by the gray wool scarf around her neck. She had been at the circle, she said, and had brought a torn cuff to repair. There was a little thread caught on one of her sleeves.

“They pulled apart easily,” I said.

“That’s what I thought. A few of us tried.” She looked at the empty tray beside the register. “They were good. People kept reaching for another.”

I folded the cloth once. The answer I had practiced in my head, in case anyone came to ask about them, had been something like thank you. It seemed too small now, and the rest of what I might say felt too large.

“Thank you,” I managed.

Mrs. Dorr nodded as if that was enough. She had come in to buy a spool of brown thread from the little tray Clara kept near the till. She found one and held it up to check the color.

“I was told you made them,” she said. “Toby, right?”

My name sounded different in her voice. It belonged to me, but it had traveled farther than the bakery door. I glanced toward Clara. She was at the oven, sliding a pan into place. She didn’t turn or answer for me.

“Yes,” I said.

Mrs. Dorr tucked the thread into her basket. “Would you make another dozen for next week? We meet on Thursday. There are enough of us to finish those before the tea goes cold.”

The cloth was still in my hand. I could smell cinnamon on my fingers, though I had washed them twice since making the first batch. I looked at the card she had brought with her: a list of stitches, a name, and a time. There was room beneath it for an order.

“Next Thursday?” I asked.

“If that works for you.” She waited, her hand resting on the basket handle. “We can ask someone else if you’re busy.”

The offer to leave it there made it harder to hide behind Clara. If Mrs. Dorr had pressed, I could have gone quiet and let the silence decide. She was giving me a choice, and I had to choose something.

“I can make them,” I said. My voice came out thin. I cleared it. “A dozen.”

“Good. Same cinnamon?”

I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see that from across the counter. “Yes. Same as before.”

Clara set the oven mitt down. “Toby keeps the recipe card by the mixing bowl,” she said, matter-of-factly. “He can tell you what goes in them.”