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For the hundredth time that week, Eugene tried to come up with a solid rotating menu for the autumn season. It was getting colder and darker everyday, the deadline for supply orders was drawing near and Winters had graciously handled the summer lineup. It was up to Eugene and he couldn’t agree on a single damned thing.
It was fall, Sledge reminded himself in a fit of frustration. That could mean cinnamon tarts, pumpkin spice bread, apple turnovers warm out of the oven with buttery, flaky crust shattering at the first gentle touch and releasing fragrant steam into the air and gooey syrup onto the pa-
He tensed for a moment, bracing himself on the wide bakery kitchen counter, knuckles white against the stainless steel. Behind a flour covered apron and a t-shirt of dubious cleanliness, his heart thudded jarringly, sending an irrational wave of ice cold panic into Eugene’s stomach. It was a sensation that he never seemed to be able to get used to, despite life-long practice.
The clock revealed numbers too small for his liking, ruling out any more medicine for now. Now that episodes were becoming more and more frequent, Eugene had to be more and more careful with how much he took and when. His mother would protest that it was the stress of living alone, his father would attribute it to the hardships of running a business. Eugene had a private theory that stemmed from both, a combination of lonely nights when Babe and Winters were out and being cooped up in the bakery a little too much sometimes that caused irrational heart pounding and occausionally a few short stabs of pain. Honestly nothing to worry about. Truely.
When he was able to unclench his fingers a few minutes later, his first stop was to poke at the coffee machine behind the counter in the front of the store. The poor old thing was older than Winters and in its old age decided that seven-thirty at night was no time for another pot of decaf. If Babe and Winters had been around instead of off cavorting with their dates, they probably would have agreed.
Left with another half-hour until closing time, Sledge once again returned to visions of dark brown spices, chunky pumpkin and smooth salted caramel.
Perhaps pumpkin pie, apples smothered in tar-like caramel and crushed nuts, toffee cookies with crispy, nutty edges and browned bits of sugar sticking up like clumps of sweet snowfla-
“What’s that?” A sudden drawl broke through Sledge’s thoughts.
He jerked out of his daydream and landed behind the counter of the bakery, surrounded by lit up display cases and Snafu, one of the owners of the florist shop from across the street. His particular favorite, Eugene noted with delighted surprise and slight embarrassment that he had slipped his attention for so long. The particular favorite who currently had one grubby and dirt covered finger pointing at a sparse selection of baked goods arranged in a separate case, labeled with a single picture of a heart.
“Those are heart healthy options,” Eugene swallowed nervously, throat suddenly feeling very dry. “For those who need something a little more...nutritious.” He refrained from mentioning that he was the reason why they wasted money and oven time on the baked goods, so he could enjoy a treat too without feeling the consequences. He had protested something awful but Babe and Winters always insisted on making them, every morning without fail. Seemingly in response, his own heart gave a shudder, causing Eugene to involuntarily reach for his sternum, fingers curling over the edge of his apron. Just in time, he blinked his vision back into focus to see the object of his puppy-like affections contemplating the case with cool disinterest, about to make his choice.
“I’ll have that cookie right there,” Snafu said casually, slow and sticky as melted cherry pie filling, pale eyes feeling to Sledge like they were piercing right through his skinny chest. He was oddly intimidating for a man with rose petals in his hair and a smear of potting soil under one eye. It was for Sledge that he seemed to pause, showing his teeth in a half smile and uttering an unapologetic “please.”
Eugene gave a friendly grin right back, as his genteel Southern mother had taught him to do and drooped the snickerdoodle into a paper bag, warming the whole thing up and ringing his (secret) favorite customer up while it rotated in the microwave, falling into “employee” mode in order to make the encounter seem less awkward. His customer had exact change but still quietly dropped a few quarters into the tip jar.
Snafu paused on his way out the door, headed home to his own turf now, where humidity and leaves reigned.
“Take care o’ yuhself,” was all he said before smiling, a real grin this time, and ducking out into the crisp fall air.
Maybe fall was flushed cheeks and bright eyes, the scent of geraniums lingering in the blue velvet sky along with the mustiness of flour.
Eugene’s heart thudded for a very different reason this time as he breathed a single word.
“Snickerdoodles.”