“Jerome is meeting the baker at noon,” Adele said. “He said he would pick up the final deposit slip so we don’t have to worry about it on Saturday.”
“Jerome is a good man,” I said.
My phone chimed on the counter behind me. It was a sharp, unfamiliar tone, not the usual double-tap of a local call. I stood up and reached for the device, the screen already bright in the dim light of the kitchen.
The text was from an unknown number with a Chicago area code.
I’ll be at our daughter’s wedding, Robert.
I stared at the words, the green light on the screen reflecting off the polished laminate of the counter.
“Who is it?” Adele asked, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave.
“Just the bakery confirming the pickup time,” I said.
I turned the phone face down, my thumb pressing against the cool glass of the screen.
“They usually call,” she said.
“They sent a text this time,” I said.
I sat back down and picked up my coffee mug, but my hand was cold against the ceramic.
“We still have to pay the thirty-four dollars for the extra groceries Piper requested,” Adele said, her eyes returning to the list. “She said we need more butter and flour for the pre-wedding dinner.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, looking at the dark screen of my phone.
“We only have three weeks left, Dad,” she said. “Everything has to be settled.”
“It will be,” I said, though my chest felt tight as I stared at the wood grain of the table.
By eight in the morning, the house was quiet again. Adele had gone to the church basement to help organize the folding chairs, leaving me alone with the silence of the kitchen. I needed to find the old tax forms from three years ago to verify our deductible expenses for the Oakwood Inn rental.
