“She’d say, ‘Rosalie, the ovens don’t care whose name is on the awning.
They just want to be lit by someone who means it.'”
So I light them.
Every morning.
In a building my mother bought one loaf at a time, with the loaves still in the walls, and a lease clause she wrote about a man she’d met once and understood completely.
And last week, a girl came in.
Nineteen.
An apron from a chain place, a job application, and a look I knew.
“I heard you need a baker.”
“I need someone who’ll be here at four-thirty.”
“I can do four-thirty.”
“Whose name’s going on the awning?”
She looked confused.
“I — yours?”
“No,” I said.
“Mine’s already up there.
I’m asking what you want on yours.
Someday.
Because I’m going to write you a lease, and you’re going to read it, and you’re going to know from day one whose room you’re standing in.”
She thought about it.
“I don’t have a name for it yet.”
“Good,” I said.
“That means you’ll pick it yourself.
