licenses. A side wall featured a number of matted art photographs and articles, including a yellowed newspaper clipping about the bakery’s grand opening nearly sixty years ago.
George seemed like a different person here: gentle and pensive, shedding the impatience he’d shown occasionally on the drive from the city. A small line of patrons were clustered at the main counter. George waited his turn, then ordered indulgently—a cappuccino, a kolache and an iced maple bar. He also ordered a box of bialys and a strawberry pie to go.
She ordered a glass of iced tea sweetened with Stevia.
They took a seat at a side table decorated with a large travel poster depicting a scene at the lake. A guy in a flour-dusted apron and a name tag identifying him as Zach brought their order. He was an unusual-looking young man, his hair so blond it appeared white—naturally, not bleached. Claire had changed her own hair color enough times to know the difference.
“Enjoy,” he said, serving them.
“You didn’t order anything.” George aimed a pointedlook at her glass of tea. “How can you come to a place like this and not want to sample at least one thing?”
“Believe me, I want to sample everything, ” she admitted. “I can’t, though. I, um, used to have a pretty bad weight problem. I really have to watch every single thing I put in my mouth.”
“You’re showing remarkable self-denial.”
So much of her life boiled down to that, to self-denial. What she couldn’t tell him was that her diet was not a matter of vanity alone. It was a matter of survival. As a teenager, she had used food as a comfort and a crutch, turning herself into the dateless fat girl. She was the nightmare everyone remembered from high school—overweight, reviled and given over to foster care.
When everything fell apart, her survival had depended on altering the way she looked as much as possible. In addition to changing the cut and color of her hair, the way she dressed, acted and talked, losing weight had been a key element of disguising her former self. Thanks to her young age at the time, and the stress of being on the run, the pounds had come off swiftly. Keeping the weight off was a daily battle. It was dangerously easy to pack on the pounds. It started with a simple, innocent-looking pastry like the one George was holding out to her.
But she had the ultimate motivation—staying alive. “Thanks, you go ahead and enjoy that.”
“And what the devil are you going to enjoy?”
“Watching you eat a kolache, ” she said.
He shrugged. “My funeral. Whoops, I’m not supposed to be saying things like that, am I?”
“You can say anything you want, George. You can do anything you want. That’s what this summer is going to be about.”
“I like the way you think. Should’ve lived my whole life that way.” He took an indulgent bite of his pastry and chewed slowly, his face turning soft with quiet ecstasy. He opened his eyes and saw her watching him. “Well,” he said, “there’s good news and there’s bad news. The bad news is, I’m not going to heaven. The good news is, I’m already there.”
“According to the GPS, the resort is only ten miles from here, so I’ll make sure you get a steady supply of those pastries,” said Claire.
“Honestly, it’s that good. Are you certain you can’t be tempted with one?”
“I’m certain. And it’s nice to know there are kolaches on the menu every day in heaven. Do me a favor and take a bite for me.” Sipping her tea, she checked out the other patrons. Another paranoid habit of hers was checking to see if she was attracting attention, and scoping out escape options—the swinging door behind the counter, and the main entrance to the street. Seeing no telltale signs of trouble, she studied the framed art poster on the wall. “That’s a beautiful shot of Willow Lake.”
“It is,” George agreed.
The image captured the placid mood and quality of light that pervaded the
George seemed like a different person here: gentle and pensive, shedding the impatience he’d shown occasionally on the drive from the city. A small line of patrons were clustered at the main counter. George waited his turn, then ordered indulgently—a cappuccino, a kolache and an iced maple bar. He also ordered a box of bialys and a strawberry pie to go.
She ordered a glass of iced tea sweetened with Stevia.
They took a seat at a side table decorated with a large travel poster depicting a scene at the lake. A guy in a flour-dusted apron and a name tag identifying him as Zach brought their order. He was an unusual-looking young man, his hair so blond it appeared white—naturally, not bleached. Claire had changed her own hair color enough times to know the difference.
“Enjoy,” he said, serving them.
“You didn’t order anything.” George aimed a pointedlook at her glass of tea. “How can you come to a place like this and not want to sample at least one thing?”
“Believe me, I want to sample everything, ” she admitted. “I can’t, though. I, um, used to have a pretty bad weight problem. I really have to watch every single thing I put in my mouth.”
“You’re showing remarkable self-denial.”
So much of her life boiled down to that, to self-denial. What she couldn’t tell him was that her diet was not a matter of vanity alone. It was a matter of survival. As a teenager, she had used food as a comfort and a crutch, turning herself into the dateless fat girl. She was the nightmare everyone remembered from high school—overweight, reviled and given over to foster care.
When everything fell apart, her survival had depended on altering the way she looked as much as possible. In addition to changing the cut and color of her hair, the way she dressed, acted and talked, losing weight had been a key element of disguising her former self. Thanks to her young age at the time, and the stress of being on the run, the pounds had come off swiftly. Keeping the weight off was a daily battle. It was dangerously easy to pack on the pounds. It started with a simple, innocent-looking pastry like the one George was holding out to her.
But she had the ultimate motivation—staying alive. “Thanks, you go ahead and enjoy that.”
“And what the devil are you going to enjoy?”
“Watching you eat a kolache, ” she said.
He shrugged. “My funeral. Whoops, I’m not supposed to be saying things like that, am I?”
“You can say anything you want, George. You can do anything you want. That’s what this summer is going to be about.”
“I like the way you think. Should’ve lived my whole life that way.” He took an indulgent bite of his pastry and chewed slowly, his face turning soft with quiet ecstasy. He opened his eyes and saw her watching him. “Well,” he said, “there’s good news and there’s bad news. The bad news is, I’m not going to heaven. The good news is, I’m already there.”
“According to the GPS, the resort is only ten miles from here, so I’ll make sure you get a steady supply of those pastries,” said Claire.
“Honestly, it’s that good. Are you certain you can’t be tempted with one?”
“I’m certain. And it’s nice to know there are kolaches on the menu every day in heaven. Do me a favor and take a bite for me.” Sipping her tea, she checked out the other patrons. Another paranoid habit of hers was checking to see if she was attracting attention, and scoping out escape options—the swinging door behind the counter, and the main entrance to the street. Seeing no telltale signs of trouble, she studied the framed art poster on the wall. “That’s a beautiful shot of Willow Lake.”
“It is,” George agreed.
The image captured the placid mood and quality of light that pervaded the
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