Vanessa was leaning against the counter with a glass of iced tea, looking down at him.
She smiled when she saw me. It wasn’t a friendly smile.
“Look at those forearms,” she said, nodding at my husband. “Claire is the luckiest woman on the street. Though I bet she’s too busy with her flour to notice.”
I set the casserole down on her counter very carefully.
For six years, I’d run a small bakery out of our converted garage. I had built it one loaf at a time. One birthday cake, one wedding order, one tray of cookies for a school fundraiser at a time. There had been months when I barely broke even and mornings when I was up at four with flour in my hair and my wrists aching. But it was mine, and I was proud of it.
Vanessa knew exactly how much of my life went into that garage. I’d told her myself, over coffee, in my own kitchen.
