Tiffany smiled.
“I knew we could count on you.”
She and Kevin left ten minutes later.
The moment the door closed, I picked up the list again.
“We don’t have to do this.”
Gloria was already opening the refrigerator and counting eggs.
“It’s Kayla’s birthday.”
“That doesn’t make this reasonable.”
“No,” she said softly. “But Kayla didn’t make the list.”
An hour later, we were driving north through wet city streets, searching three different grocery stores for specialty flour, puff pastry, fresh basil, and ingredients Tiffany had decided were essential.
The final receipt was $587.
I knew exactly where that money came from.
Gloria had been saving her restaurant tips in a coffee can beneath the register because the oven at Gloria’s Corner needed repairs.
She folded the receipt and handed it to me without mentioning the oven.
We reached home shortly before midnight.
Gloria tied on her apron.
I started coffee.
For the next several hours, our kitchen became a quiet production line. She mixed dough, seasoned meat, prepared custard, rotated baking trays, and labeled dishes according to every dietary request.
I peeled potatoes and washed mixing bowls from a chair beside the kitchen island because twenty years of driving had left my lower back too stiff for long periods of standing.
At one in the morning, Tiffany sent another message.
She had forgotten two guests who avoided red meat and another who was vegan.
Could Gloria add a few more options?
“Nothing fancy,” the message said.
Gloria turned the phone facedown and continued kneading dough.
At 4:07, a sharp breath woke me.
I had fallen asleep in the chair.
Gloria stood beside the oven with one hand pressed against the other. A red mark crossed two fingers where she had touched the edge of a hot rack.
“Sit down,” I said.
“The croissants—”
“Can wait.”
“They can’t.”
For five minutes, I held a cold towel against her fingers while she watched the stove.