The Seaside Bakery – Part 2: First Light

The bakery reopened on the first morning of summer, to a queue that stretched round the corner.

Manon had been up since two. The ovens roared. The shop smelled of butter and Calvados and warm sugar. Théo, who was supposed to be delivering, had never actually left, and now he stood at the counter in a borrowed apron, wrapping loaves in paper, charming every customer.

"Bonjour, Madame Duval! Yes, the croissants are the same. No, better. Don't tell Manon I said that."

By ten, they had sold out of everything.

"Even the baguettes," said Manon, dazed. "Even the burned ones."

"They were rustic."

She laughed, and kissed her fingers and pressed them to the old wooden counter. "Thank you, Mamie."

They carried the last croissant, saved in a paper bag, down to the harbour wall. The sea was pale gold. Fishing boats bobbed. Gulls wheeled over the quay. Théo tore the pastry in half and handed her a piece.

They ate in silence, watching the tide come in.

"Can I ask you something?" said Théo.

"Yes."

"I've been delivering flour here for ten years."

"I know."

"Not because of the flour."

Manon turned. His face was serious, open, flushed. She smiled. "Théo."

"I meant the old lady," he said, hastily. "And the croissants. But now... mostly it's the baker."

"May I kiss you?" said Manon.

"Yes," said Théo. "And if you say stop, you must teach me the Calvados."

"I'd teach you anyway."

She kissed him, soft and warm, flour on both their cheeks. He cupped her face with tender, floury hands. It tasted of butter and apple and morning. The tide slapped the harbour wall, and the gulls shrieked their approval.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Manon. "Very green."

On the shop's door now hangs a sign in two handwritings: Boulangerie Mamie. Manon & Théo, successors.

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