From Scratch by C.E. Hilbert Page B

spoken to his brother, the youngest Taylor seemed to have lost some of his unending supply of self-confidence. The team was done for the season, but Sean prayed that God would give Joey a glimmer of hope in his exit interviews with the coaches. He often allowed his ability to play baseball to send him on a dangerous roller coaster, and one bad season could have his little brother turning his back on his one true love.
    As he passed the police station, a piece of plywood, awkwardly nailed over the broken glass, shifted his prayer to a few thanksgivings for the day and the previous evening. The puzzle pieces didn’t fit for him. Why would someone deliberately break in to a police station and not take anything? He was a little anxious to discover the answer. He always did like a good mystery. There were so few in Gibson’s Run, he was worried it would take a few days to shake the rust off his gold shield. He hoped his long unused skills wouldn’t hamper the investigation. Whoever chose to attack the police station deserved justice, and he wanted to be the man to serve it with a lock and key.
    He closed his prayer with an “Amen” as his gaze shifted to Only the Basics and his thoughts settled on the shop’s owner. After the previous evening’s chaos, he hoped she wasn’t freaked. As irritating as she could be, he would hate to have to search for another baker to come to town. Although he could likely find a tenant less demanding, he doubted he could find one who could bake as well as Maggie.
    He glanced down at his watch and wondered how early she clocked in to begin prepping for the day. Crossing the street, he closed the half of a block from the station to the bake shop in under a minute.
    The front of the café was dark, but he saw a flicker of light from the kitchen area in the back. Turning down the side alley, he made a quick right behind the building. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet filled the stillness of the parking lot as he slowed to a walk, allowing his breath to settle.
    The backdoor handle reflected a dull shine from the single security lamp posted on the opposite end of the lot. He cranked the knob to the left and shoved open the door, silently berating Maggie for not locking the dead bolt. Hadn’t he just warned her that someone had tried to break into the shop? Wasn’t a near bombing across the street enough to be vigilant?
    He closed the door with a click and followed the fresh aroma of baking bread. He took a single step in the direction of the kitchen, intent on giving her the stern reminder about adhering to upped security measures. But his heart was stunned into silence by the angelic tones wafting over the scent of the bread and the notes filled his spirit with an otherworldly melody. He moved toward the sound; the music grew more intense and vibrant with each step.
    Through the doorway of the kitchen, Maggie’s shoulders rolled as she kneaded the dough on the marble slab. The rhythmic movement was one he had witnessed much of his childhood when his mother stood in nearly the same spot. But Mom never sang like Maggie. No one ever sang like Maggie.
    He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, lacing his arms, and listened.
    Her voice was full and rich; she hit notes that sounded as if they’d been transported from the original Christmas Eve angels’ choir when Christ was born.
    He recognized the song from a musical he endured during a trip to New York years earlier. His girlfriend at the time thought he needed to be culturally aware. Three rows back, he’d achieved cultural awareness via osmosis. But if the lead that night had a voice like Maggie’s, snoring would have been the last thing on his mind.
    She lost herself in the final bars, tilting her head back as if she were singing for God alone. When she finished, she dropped her head for a moment and then began leisurely kneading the mass of dough, a hum still softly slipping through her lips.
    He stood frozen, reveling in the music