Chapter 1 - The Man Who Ordered One Apricot Tart
Every Tuesday at 8:17 in the morning, the bell above the door of Heart and Crumb Bakery rang exactly once.
And every Tuesday, Marlo Hart pretended she wasn't waiting for it.
She would be behind the glass display case, arranging pastries she had already arranged twice, wiping fingerprints from spotless glass, or checking the temperature of the espresso machine even though she knew perfectly well it was working.
Then the door would open.
And he would walk in.
The man never hurried.
That was the first thing Marlo had noticed about him.
Boston seemed designed to make people hurry. Office workers hurried through crosswalks. Students hurried toward trains. Delivery drivers hurried through doors carrying boxes against their chests. Parents hurried children toward school while holding coffee they barely had time to drink.
But this man moved as though the city had agreed to wait for him.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, usually dressed in black. Tattoos climbed from beneath his collar along one side of his neck, disappearing beneath expensive fabric. More ink covered parts of his hands.
He looked like someone who belonged in a place very different from Marlo's little bakery.
Yet every Tuesday, he came.
And every Tuesday, he ordered exactly the same thing.
"One apricot tart."
Nothing else.
No coffee.
No breakfast sandwich.
No second pastry for someone waiting outside.
Just one apricot tart.
The first time, Marlo hadn't thought anything of it.
The fourth time, she'd noticed the pattern.
By the tenth, she had privately named him Mr. Apricot.
She had never told him.
She wasn't suicidal.
That morning, sunlight poured through the tall front windows and scattered across the glass pastry case. Outside, pedestrians moved beneath bare branches while traffic crawled between old brick buildings.
Inside, the bakery smelled of butter, sugar, coffee, and orange zest.
Marlo glanced at the clock.
8:16.
She hated herself for noticing.
"Mom?"
Marlo turned.
Poppy sat at the little table near the kitchen doorway with colored pencils spread around her.
At seven years old, Poppy had already learned how to make adults underestimate how much she understood.
She had Marlo's brown hair but her father's blue-gray eyes.
Those eyes were watching her now.
"What?" Marlo asked.
"You're staring at the clock again."
"I own a bakery. Clocks are important."
"You only stare at it on Tuesdays."
Marlo raised an eyebrow.
Poppy smiled.
Then the smile faded.
She pressed one small hand against her chest.
Marlo was around the counter before she realized she'd moved.
"Poppy?"
"I'm okay."
"Look at me."
"I'm okay, Mom."
Marlo crouched beside her.
There were phrases she had learned to hate.
I'm okay was one.
We'll call you was another.
Your insurance doesn't cover that was probably the worst.
"Any pain?"
Poppy shook her head.
"Dizzy?"
"No."
"Breathing?"
"Fine."
Marlo watched her daughter's face for several seconds longer.
Poppy sighed dramatically.
"Mom."
"Humor me."
"I'm breathing."
"Good. Continue."
Poppy took an exaggerated breath.
"In."
Another.
"Out."
Marlo kissed her forehead.
"Smart aleck."
"You made me."
"Unfortunately."
Poppy grinned.
For a few seconds, Marlo could pretend they were an ordinary mother and daughter having an ordinary Tuesday morning.
Then her eyes landed on the envelope beside the cash register.
Boston Children's Hospital.
She knew what was inside.
She had read it three times.
The surgery Poppy needed couldn't be postponed indefinitely.
There were payment plans, assistance applications, insurance appeals and programs with forms so complicated Marlo sometimes suspected they had been designed specifically to make desperate people give up.
She had not given up.
She never would.
But determination did not magically turn into money.
Marlo stood.
8:17.
The bell rang.
Poppy looked toward the entrance.
"Your boyfriend is here."
Marlo nearly dropped the towel in her hand.
"He is not my boyfriend."
Mr. Apricot stopped just inside the door.
His gaze moved from Poppy to Marlo.
Marlo wondered how much he had heard.
Poppy looked delighted.
Marlo wanted the floor to open.
"Kitchen," she told her daughter.
"But—"
"Now."
Poppy gathered her pencils while unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.
Mr. Apricot approached the counter.
Up close, he was more intimidating.
There was nothing theatrical about it. He didn't scowl. He didn't swagger. He didn't deliberately invade people's space.
He simply possessed the unnerving stillness of someone who never needed to prove he was dangerous.
"Morning," Marlo said.
"Morning."
She reached beneath the glass.
"Let me guess."
One dark eyebrow lifted.
"Blueberry muffin?"
His mouth almost smiled.
"Apricot tart."
"Shocking."
She placed one onto a small white plate.
He reached for his wallet.
"No need to count," Marlo said. "It's the same price as last Tuesday."
He placed cash on the counter anyway.
Too much.
Again.
Marlo looked at it.
"Elias—"
She stopped.
She didn't know his name.
She had almost called him Mr. Apricot.
His eyes sharpened.
"Something wrong?"
"No."
She pushed some bills toward him.
"You overpaid."
"Keep it."
"You always say that."
"And you always argue."
"Because this isn't a charity."
"I didn't say it was."
"Then stop paying thirty dollars for a tart."
"Maybe it's an exceptional tart."
"It's butter, flour, sugar, almonds and apricots."
"So you're admitting there's butter."
Marlo stared at him.
A faint trace of amusement appeared in his eyes.
She hated that she almost laughed.
From the kitchen doorway, Poppy whispered loudly, "He likes you."
Marlo closed her eyes.
Mr. Apricot looked toward the kitchen.
Poppy vanished.
"Your daughter?" he asked.
Marlo opened her eyes.
"Yes."
He nodded once.
There was something strange in his expression.
Recognition?
Sadness?
She couldn't tell.
"You have kids?" she asked.
The question changed him.
Only slightly.
But Marlo saw it.
"No."
She wished immediately that she hadn't asked.
"Sorry. None of my business."
He looked toward the kitchen again.
"No. It isn't."
The answer should have sounded rude.
Instead, it sounded wounded.
Before Marlo could respond, a black sedan stopped outside.
His attention shifted toward it.
That car came every Tuesday too.
Always immaculate.
Always waiting.
He picked up his tart.
"See you next week," Marlo said.
He looked at her.
For some reason, he didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "Tuesday."
And walked out.
Marlo watched him climb into the sedan.
She had spent nearly a year wondering who he was.
She would later wish she had enjoyed the luxury of not knowing.
Because forty-three minutes later, the bell above the bakery door rang again.
This time, Marlo didn't look up immediately.
"Welcome to Heart and Crumb. I'll be right with—"
"Hello, Marlo."
Her hands stopped.
She knew that voice.
Some voices could drag years out of the grave.
Slowly, she looked up.
Preston Ashby stood inside her bakery.
Her ex-husband looked almost exactly as he had the last time she'd seen him: expensive suit, immaculate hair, controlled expression.
But he wasn't alone.
A middle-aged man carrying a brown leather briefcase stood beside him.
Marlo's stomach dropped.
Preston smiled.
It was the smile he used when he wanted people to believe nothing bad was about to happen.
"We need to talk about Poppy."
And suddenly, Marlo understood why he'd brought a lawyer.
May you like
Because Preston had not come to visit his daughter.
He had come to take her.
