Page 158 of Again, In Autumn

Doorbells jingle as customers weave in and out of businesses. I glance up, down, all around for a sign to the new bakery where I’ll hopefully find Effie. I’ve walked this street a million times. If I knew what business it was replacing, I would be able to easily find it. A sweet smell wafts into the air. A girl walking opposite me swings a paper bag.

“Excuse me,” I stop her, reading the stamped logo. “Hi – where is this bakery?”

She points backward. “Next to the candle store. Where Blue Boutique used to be.”

“I loved Blue Boutique,” I say. “I had no idea they closed down!”

She makes a face. “I know, me too.”

I hesitate. “Did you just come from there? Did you happen to see a girl with long brown hair and bangs? Probably getting free pastries?”

The girl motions to her friend that she’s coming. “Actually, I did!” She laughs. “She was with some guy who looked like a cooking show host. He was judging the competition.” She chases after her friend before I get a chance to what contest she means.

I walk in the direction given, toward the cute, tiled entryway of Blue Boutique, now Rose Bakehouse. The bright, white shop is packed with people sampling fudge and mini muffins, picking up bags of cookies and boxes of brownies. The checkout line goes all the way around the display case full of cakes, cannolis and other treats. I watch a girl handle a porcelain coffee cup and take it to the brick-paved outdoor area.

She sits at an iron bistro table, and a man’s voice booms loudly, “Okay contestants, we begin in sixty seconds! If you haven’t already registered, please come up here and see my lovely assistant.”

Contest.

Cooking show man.

Assistant.

I hurry through the open doors to a sunny courtyard and expect to see Effie somewhere in the mix. Instead, I observe long foldout tables in a horseshoe shape, a gaggle of people eating pastries outside, and a man standing at the helm holding a microphone. Wait, I know him. He’s on the Food Network. He travels around to local restaurants. Why is he in Starling?

He laughs with the woman beside him, but I don’t see Effie. People at the tables stand in front of plain cookie shapes. A little boy digs his hands into a bowl of m&ms and marshmallows, for which his mother smacks his hand and sets him off in tears.

I take out my phone and pull up Effie’s location. She’s turned it back on, look at that. And she’s responded to my text message:

Sorry BP, am totally on the way to the market. Got to get Y a pressie first. xo

“Liar,” I say out loud.

She doesn’t need to get a present for Yia-Yia. I look for her location and find that she’s at Target. No, not Target. The nail salon next door.

So, she’s a big fat liar, but I’m not mad about it. Effie only turns off her location when she’s doing something I wouldn’t approve of. God knows what she was doing this morning, but at least she’s in a safe and familiar place now, and I don’t have to worry about her.

I’m not mad that she ditched me at the market, although we would have sold more jewelry with her. The girl could sell badgers as emotional support companions. She’s probably called her frantic grandmother back, which is all I care about, because if I can’t get Yia-Yia off my back, I’m better off having a badger for a pet.

I slip my phone back into my pocket. As I do, some hulking figure catches my eye. A figure in red, Santa stands just inside the bakery, and his eyes smile. He pops a piece of fudge under a caterpillar mustache and walks toward me, holding something in his hands.

“Are you following me?” I ask.

“Not in a creepy way,” he says, swallowing. “I wanted to make sure you found your friend. And give you this.” He holds out the object in his hand.

I take it and unfold a sweatshirt with a Christmas tree at the center. There are photos of cat faces as ornaments and a purple galaxy as the background.

“Meowy Christmas,” I read.

“If you feel like changing,” he says. “I couldn’t leave you with nothing. And, let me give you my number and you can Venmo me the cost of cleaning your sweater.” He holds out his hand.

My palm slaps against his in a confusing, awkward low-five, and he laughs.

“No – give your phone, and I’ll give you my number.”

I blink. “I’m not giving you my phone.”

“Why?”

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