Chapter 5 - Nobody Gets to Replace Lucia
Vincent did not come downstairs for breakfast the next morning. Grace had set out flour when Rosa appeared, eyes weary. “June slept badly. He's taking the children to school himself.” She took a mug from the rack. “He asked me to tell you he won't discuss what she said without her permission. But he wanted you to know he heard you.”
Grace nodded. She had spent an hour the previous evening wondering whether leaving the house would be the kindest thing. Every instinct formed during her own childhood urged her to disappear before anyone could say she wasn't wanted. Then she remembered June's note: if you leave, please tell us first. She would not turn her own fear into another sudden adult departure.
When Oliver and Ben came home, they found a plain loaf cooling on the island instead of elaborate pastries. Grace gave them slices and butter, then asked whether they'd like to help plan Wednesday's breakfast. Ben voted for chocolate-covered pizza. Oliver suggested eggs in toast because Lucia had once made them with star-shaped holes. June passed the kitchen doorway without stopping. Grace let her go.
Vincent arrived fifteen minutes later with a paper shopping bag. He looked as though he'd argued with himself the whole drive. “I found Lucia's star cutter,” he said. “It was in a holiday box. The children can use it if they want.”
“Ask them,” Grace said.
He did. Oliver accepted it immediately. Ben wanted to know whether stars counted as vegetables. June came to the doorway when she heard their laughter. She watched her father place the cutter on the counter and then said, “You don't have to make Mom's food because everybody feels bad.”
Vincent faced her. “You're right. We don't.”
“Then why did you bring it?”
“Because I remembered she liked making stars with you. I thought you might want it. If you don't, I'll put it back.”
June walked over and took the cutter. “I remember she burned one side and said space was dangerous.”
Vincent laughed, surprised by the memory. “She did.” He sat down, and for the next twenty minutes the children told Grace stories about Lucia: how she sang badly on purpose when driving, how she let Ben wear a cape to the grocery store, how she once stepped into a puddle to prove waterproof boots worked and discovered they didn't. Grace listened without turning the memories into a therapy session. At the end June placed the cutter beside Grace's rolling pin. “We can make our own stars tomorrow,” she said. “Not exactly like Mom's.”
That evening Vincent asked Grace to stay after her shift. Rosa remained in the room so it would be a conversation about work rather than a private summons. He apologized for letting strangers turn her employment into a story about romance. “I should also have explained the position more carefully to the children,” he said. “Rosa and I have scheduled a meeting with their counselor. We haven't asked you to attend. I don't want to put you in the role of managing their grief.”
“Good,” Grace replied. “I'm still happy to bake. But they need a father who shows up even on days I don't make cinnamon rolls.”
“I know.” He looked down at his hands. “Sometimes I think if I work enough, I won't have to remember what it was like when Lucia was sick. Then I come home and find out the children have been remembering without me.”
Grace did not tell him grief happened for a reason. She didn't touch his arm. She said, “They seem to like you better when you're eating with them than when you're deciding everything for them.”
He gave a rueful smile. “I can manage eating.”
The next week proved more difficult than one conversation. Vincent missed a planned bedtime after a highway accident delayed a shipment. June was furious, and this time she told him so instead of folding the hurt into silence. He apologized without blaming traffic, then sat outside her room reading until she decided she wanted company. When Grace arrived the following morning, June told her, “Dad was late. But he came.”
Meanwhile the photograph of Grace at the gate kept circulating. A blogger called Avery Fine Foods asking about the woman who used to appear at its promotional events. Colin issued a bland statement saying Grace was talented and he wished her well. It contained no correction to the claim that she'd left him for Vincent. Customers at Mabel's asked increasingly pointed questions. Grace decided she wouldn't engage in public argument about her private relationships, but she would answer lies about her work.
She emailed the magazine editor, attaching dated photos and her original proposal for the holiday pastries. Her message was specific: the photographed product had been developed by Grace in her apartment, and the article should not call it Colin's original creation. She wasn't demanding that a food magazine adjudicate her engagement. She was asking it to print accurate credits. The editor acknowledged the request and said the team would review the materials.
Then a delivery arrived at the mansion: a branded box of Avery cinnamon swirls with a handwritten card addressed to Vincent. “Thought your new baker might appreciate a reminder of what a national rollout looks like. Colin.” Rosa was ready to throw it out. Grace asked her to photograph the card and keep it with the box until Vincent had seen it. The pastries were mass-produced, neatly glazed, and decorated with the same little curl of orange zest Grace had demonstrated for Avery employees two Christmases earlier.
Vincent looked at the package, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to send him a response?”
“No. I want you to tell me whether your company does business with his.”
He blinked. “Why?”
May you like
“Because he knows which address to use, and he didn't get it from me.”
Vincent called his operations office while Grace and Rosa waited. The answer came quickly: one Vale County warehouse operated by Marchetti Logistics was negotiating refrigerated storage for an Avery regional expansion. Vincent had been copied on the early proposal but hadn't read it. He ended the call, and the three of them stood beside a box of stale pastries that suddenly had nothing to do with dessert.
