Chapter 8 - The Sourdough Syndicate
The transformation of Oakhaven's morning routine began in early February.
The residents who frequented The Sourdough Crow at five in the morning were used to seeing Eleanor’s severe face and my flour-covered apron. They were not used to the tall, broad-shouldered man with the sharp jawline and the dark gray eyes who stood behind the iron mixing tubs, lifting sixty-pound sacks of unbleached flour as if they were bags of feathers.
Adrien had bought a small, historic saltbox house three doors down from my cottage. He had sold his stake in the Manhattan real estate trusts to Dominic Vale, retaining only the clean, non-voting maritime shipping lines that managed international humanitarian food relief channels. The Romano name was still spoken in whispers on Fifth Avenue, but in Oakhaven, he was simply "Adrien"—the quiet fellow who worked the early shift and drove a silver SUV that always had a bag of fresh brioche in the back seat.
"He’s got no rhythm with the rye," Eleanor grumbled one morning, leaning against the wooden counter while Adrien stood by the large ovens, using a long wooden paddle to clear the golden loaves from the heat. "Too stiff in the wrists. He looks like he’s handling a shipment of gold bars instead of breakfast."
"He’s improving," I said, smiling as I wiped down the pastry display.
Adrien looked back over his shoulder, a smear of white flour across his high cheekbone, his mouth softening into a rare, genuine smile when he caught me watching him. The cold gray eyes that had once frozen senior council members were warm now, settled by the simple, unhurried cadence of the coastal seasons.
On Valentine's Day, the bakery closed at noon. The town was caught in a bright, crisp winter thaw, the sun reflecting off the melting ice packs on the shoreline like thousands of diamonds.
Adrien walked me back to my cottage, his hand locked securely inside mine within the deep pocket of his coat. The silver signet ring was gone from his finger, replaced by a simple, unadorned platinum band we had bought from a local craftsman near the pier.
"Dominic called this morning," Adrien said as we reached my gravel driveway. "The Moretti family has formally signed the non-aggression pact with the city commission. The North End docks are being converted into a public park project next month."
"Are you sorry you aren't there to sign the papers?" I asked, stopping by the door and looking up into his face.
Adrien reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. He looked at the small cottage, the gray waves of the Atlantic behind us, and then down at the simple platinum ring on his hand.
May you like
"I signed the only contract that mattered three years ago, Clare," he said softly, his voice a rich, steady baritone that carried no more secrets. "I just didn't understand the terms of the lease until I saw you standing outside that door. I thought life went on because the world kept moving. Now I know it only goes on if there’s a light waiting for you when the dark comes down."
He leaned down, his lips pressing against mine with a slow, deep certainty that tasted of salt air and a new winter thaw.
