Stones for Bread by Christa Parrish

our own, that had lost some of its girth. I’d seen it in my own father, as one business venture after another failed. In my mother, as dishes piled up and cocoons of dust huddled in corners and her dark moments overcame her. No one should have to shrink this way. “I guess you could bring her here.”
    “What?”
    “After school. She can stay here.”
    “You’re serious?”
    “Gretchen leaves at five, and I’m always in the kitchen until at least seven. She can do her homework or whatever.”
    “She’s in kindergarten.”
    “Then she can do whatever she does while she’s driving around in the truck with you.”
    Seamus laughed. “Talk, mostly.”
    “I believe it.”
    “Liesl, thank you.” And then he crowed. Literally lifted his fists into the air and cock-a-doodle-doo ed like a fat, fortyish Peter Pan. When he brought his arms down, he closed them around me, the briefest squeeze, but long enough for me to breathe in Mennen and the workday soured on his shirt. He went, holding his daughter’s hand, some of his plumpness returned.
    Cecelia integrates herself into the rhythm of the bakehouse. She colors and drinks her milk and eats the grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches Tee prepares for her, thick wedges of bread coated with mayonnaise and fried brown. She charms the few late customers who come in to grab a loaf for supper. And even Gretchen, who declares several times a week she will never have children, allows the girl to follow her, filling napkin holders and saltshakers and scrubbing handprints off the front window.
    The phone rings. My hands are in dough. I call, “Gretchen, could you get that?”
    “She not here,” Tee says. “I send her to Coop for the chives you forgot yesterday.”
    I sigh. “Well, could you—”
    “I not secretary.” She turns her back to me, flips the sautéing vegetables in her pan.
    “Tee,” I say, but she begins humming.
    “The phone’s ringing,” Cecelia calls, spinning through the kitchen door. She holds the cordless receiver.
    “Just a sec.”
    I begin peeling dough from my fingers. Cecelia pushes a button. “Hello. Thank you for calling Wild Rise. This is Cecelia. How may I help you?” She grins, having repeated Gretchen’s script perfectly. “Yes. Just one moment, please.”
    She covers the mouthpiece with her hand. “It’s for you. Somebody from something-something. She talks really fast.”
    “That’s okay. Just come stick it here.” She holds it next to my head until I can clamp it between my ear and shoulder. “Hello?”
    “Is this Liesl McNamara?”
    “Yes.”
    “My name is Patrice Olsen and I’m a producer for Bake-Off with Jonathan Scott . Are you aware that one of your employees, a Gretchen Manske, submitted your bakery for consideration to be on our show?’”
    “She mentioned something like that,” I mumble. This is not happening .
    “It’s my pleasure to inform you that you’ve been selected. Congratulations.” She doesn’t sound pleased.
    My neck cramps. I rush to the sink, wash my hands, and look for a towel. I snap my fingers at Cecelia and point to the one across the room. She rushes to grab it and Tee sighs loudly. She’s forever ordering me to wear an apron, but I’ve never been comfortable in one; they were my mother’s realm. I swipe my palms over the rear of my jeans and reach up for the phone, but it slips through my still-damp fingers. Cecelia and I both crouch to find it, the towel forgotten, and I fish it out from beneath a metal rolling cart.
    “Sorry. I dropped the phone.”
    “That happens all the time. The excitement and all. Let me verify your e-mail address and I will send you all the necessary rules and regulations, contracts, release forms, and other paperwork. You may want an attorney to approve them for you. We at Bake-Off and the Good Food Channel are not liable for any misunderstanding you—”
    “What if I don’t want to be on the show?”
    Silence. Then, “Pardon me?”
    “I’m not sure I