Chapter 7 - The Corner Bakery on Charles Street
Spring arrived early in Boston, sweeping the winter chill from the brick sidewalks and covering the trees of the Public Garden in soft green buds.
At thirty-four weeks pregnant, my mornings had developed a peaceful, predictable rhythm. Every Thursday at nine, I walked down Charles Street to a small French bakery, ordered a warm decaf latte and a fresh almond croissant, and sat at the corner table by the window with my architectural design notebook.
The bell above the bakery door chimed softly.
I didn't look up, busily sketching the roofline for a community library project I was consulting on. The chair across from my small wooden table was pulled back with hesitant, agonizing slowness.
"May I sit down, Evelyn?"
My pencil froze against the paper. The voice was unmistakable—deeper than I remembered, rough around the edges, stripped of all its polished Manhattan authority, but unmistakably Adrien.
My heart gave a violent, sudden thud against my ribs. The baby gave an immediate, responsive kick against my desk, as if recognizing the vibration of the voice that had lived beside us for three years.
I slowly lifted my eyes.
Adrien stood before me. He wasn't wearing his signature three-piece bespoke suits or his diamond cufflinks. He wore a simple navy sweater and dark slacks, his dark hair slightly overgrown, dark shadows carved deeply beneath his hollowed eyes. He looked like a man who had walked through hell and barely survived the journey.
"How did you find me?" I asked, my voice flat, keeping every ounce of tremor out of my tone.
"It doesn't matter," he whispered, not sitting down, keeping his hands awkwardly at his sides as if terrified that any sudden movement would cause me to vanish into thin air. "I won't cause a scene, Evelyn. I swear to God. If you tell me to leave right now, I will walk out that door and never bother you again."
May you like
I stared at him, looking for the arrogance, the defensive coldness he had displayed on our anniversary night. There was nothing left of that man. Only a shattered shell begging for mercy.
"Sit down, Adrien," I said quietly. "You're blocking the aisle."
