him. So she
simply told him, “I have to go back to Avalon.”
Chapter Four
“How about a
cream-filled delight?” The waitress named Glynnis leaned toward Zach Alger and
moistened her lips, just in case he missed the suggestion.
He didn’t miss it. Kind of hard to miss a rack like Glynnis
had. She was one of several women he’d dated, but she wanted something from him
he had no capacity to give. Not to her, anyway. There wasn’t a thing wrong with
her…except that she was wrong for him.
“I’m good, thanks,” he said, swirling the coffee in his
mug.
“God, Zach, don’t you know I’m hitting on you? You used to be
fun. What’s the matter with you?”
Great, he thought. She’s going to make me say it. “Hey,” he
said, “that’s really cool and you know I like you, but—”
“Whoa.” She held up her hand, palm out. “I’d just as soon you
didn’t finish that thought. I can already see where you’re going with it.”
He tried not to show his relief. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”
“Clearly not. God, I need to get the hell out of this burg.
Don’t you ever get the feeling you’re fading away?”
Honestly, he didn’t. Right here, in the middle of this small
town, was where he felt most alive. Which probably meant there was something the
matter with him.
“Me? Fading?” he said, trying to lighten the moment. “No
way.”
“Have the cream-filled delight anyway.” She shoved a thick
white china plate onto his table. “And don’t forget to tip your server,” she
added as she went back to the counter.
Not only would it be rude to refuse the treat at this time, it
would be foolhardy. No one in his right mind refused a pastry from the Sky River
Bakery.
His love affair with the Sky River Bakery had begun way back
when he was a tiny kid. Now it was still his favorite place to sit with a big
mug of coffee and a cruller, getting into work mode for the day. The place
looked virtually the same as it had all those years ago, although it had been
stylishly updated by Jenny McKnight, the owner. There were café tables made from
rounds of maple wood, a changing display of work by local artists, and a
black-and-white checked floor. It still had an old-fashioned feel to it, and the
warm, fragrant atmosphere created an air of nostalgia. Zach sometimes used it as
the setting for wedding videos or personal narratives. The morning crowd was
present—locals grabbing a bite, retired folks chatting over the day’s New York Times , a couple of tourists perusing an area
map.
In fact, the family-run shop was the site of his earliest
memory. His mom was taking him to the first day of kindergarten and he was
practically catatonic with terror. She’d grabbed his hand and ducked into the
bakery, which was just a block from the primary school. He could still remember
the sugary, buttery smell of the place, the smell of comfort.
His mom had bought him an apple kolache and a cup of hot
chocolate, and she’d told him that going to school was a big adventure for a
little boy, and that he was going to love it. And she’d filmed the whole thing.
That was his mom’s thing—documenting her life. She’d been compulsive about it,
capturing moments on her video camera. His mom had filmed everything—his first
day of school, his first lost tooth, his exploits on the soccer field, his
disastrous attempts to emulate Jimmy Page. She didn’t put herself in the picture
much but her voice often came from behind the camera, always encouraging and
sweet-toned. It was as if she’d known she wouldn’t be around that long, and
wanted to capture the two of them together for posterity. And sure enough, one
day the filming had stopped, and she had moved away. Far away.
He hadn’t seen it coming that day, and he hadn’t been fooled
for a minute by her pep talk about kindergarten. His head was full of nightmare
visions of snarling teachers, an endless maze of hallways, rooms full of
strangers. But then, as he was chewing
simply told him, “I have to go back to Avalon.”
Chapter Four
“How about a
cream-filled delight?” The waitress named Glynnis leaned toward Zach Alger and
moistened her lips, just in case he missed the suggestion.
He didn’t miss it. Kind of hard to miss a rack like Glynnis
had. She was one of several women he’d dated, but she wanted something from him
he had no capacity to give. Not to her, anyway. There wasn’t a thing wrong with
her…except that she was wrong for him.
“I’m good, thanks,” he said, swirling the coffee in his
mug.
“God, Zach, don’t you know I’m hitting on you? You used to be
fun. What’s the matter with you?”
Great, he thought. She’s going to make me say it. “Hey,” he
said, “that’s really cool and you know I like you, but—”
“Whoa.” She held up her hand, palm out. “I’d just as soon you
didn’t finish that thought. I can already see where you’re going with it.”
He tried not to show his relief. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”
“Clearly not. God, I need to get the hell out of this burg.
Don’t you ever get the feeling you’re fading away?”
Honestly, he didn’t. Right here, in the middle of this small
town, was where he felt most alive. Which probably meant there was something the
matter with him.
“Me? Fading?” he said, trying to lighten the moment. “No
way.”
“Have the cream-filled delight anyway.” She shoved a thick
white china plate onto his table. “And don’t forget to tip your server,” she
added as she went back to the counter.
Not only would it be rude to refuse the treat at this time, it
would be foolhardy. No one in his right mind refused a pastry from the Sky River
Bakery.
His love affair with the Sky River Bakery had begun way back
when he was a tiny kid. Now it was still his favorite place to sit with a big
mug of coffee and a cruller, getting into work mode for the day. The place
looked virtually the same as it had all those years ago, although it had been
stylishly updated by Jenny McKnight, the owner. There were café tables made from
rounds of maple wood, a changing display of work by local artists, and a
black-and-white checked floor. It still had an old-fashioned feel to it, and the
warm, fragrant atmosphere created an air of nostalgia. Zach sometimes used it as
the setting for wedding videos or personal narratives. The morning crowd was
present—locals grabbing a bite, retired folks chatting over the day’s New York Times , a couple of tourists perusing an area
map.
In fact, the family-run shop was the site of his earliest
memory. His mom was taking him to the first day of kindergarten and he was
practically catatonic with terror. She’d grabbed his hand and ducked into the
bakery, which was just a block from the primary school. He could still remember
the sugary, buttery smell of the place, the smell of comfort.
His mom had bought him an apple kolache and a cup of hot
chocolate, and she’d told him that going to school was a big adventure for a
little boy, and that he was going to love it. And she’d filmed the whole thing.
That was his mom’s thing—documenting her life. She’d been compulsive about it,
capturing moments on her video camera. His mom had filmed everything—his first
day of school, his first lost tooth, his exploits on the soccer field, his
disastrous attempts to emulate Jimmy Page. She didn’t put herself in the picture
much but her voice often came from behind the camera, always encouraging and
sweet-toned. It was as if she’d known she wouldn’t be around that long, and
wanted to capture the two of them together for posterity. And sure enough, one
day the filming had stopped, and she had moved away. Far away.
He hadn’t seen it coming that day, and he hadn’t been fooled
for a minute by her pep talk about kindergarten. His head was full of nightmare
visions of snarling teachers, an endless maze of hallways, rooms full of
strangers. But then, as he was chewing
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