“Restored it myself,” I told her, stepping up onto the porch. “Took six months and every spare screw I could find in Tidewater.”
Her eyes softened. She looked past me to Jason, who was standing by the passenger door looking at an old cast-iron tractor displayed near the flower bed. “You boys look like you’ve traveled a piece. Come on in before the oven cools down.”
The inside of the bakery smelled like heaven wrapped in butter. We sat at a corner booth with scarred wooden benches. Jason ordered a black coffee and two apple turnovers; I settled for a plain buttermilk biscuit and a mug of chicory brew.
As the owner set our plates down, she paused, looking closely at my face. “You look familiar, mister. You from around here?”
“Norfolk,” I replied. “Navy vet.”
“Ah. My late husband was a Machinist’s Mate third class out of Norfolk Naval Shipyard. Passed away five years ago.” She shook her head gently. “You’ve got that look about you. Men who spent thirty years waiting for the horizon to change.”
Jason stared down at his plate, his fingers tracing the rim of his ceramic mug. I could see the wheels turning in his head—the weight of his own recent shipwreck coming back to haunt him in a quiet bakery in the middle of Tennessee.
