All for a Story by Allison Pittman Page B

maneuvered through the streets and sidewalks after leaving the bank, walking with a kind of nervous energy that propelled her at a sprinter’s pace through clumps of businessmen who never failed to tip their hats and follow through with an admiring glance. Whether or not she’d done anything to warrant such attention he didn’t know, as her face was hidden from his view, surrounded on all sides by the black fur collar she’d pulled up around her ears.
    “This is it.”
    She turned to him with a dazzling smile of breathless triumph more fitting of having led him safely to a mountain summit than to a modest bakery. She reached for the door handle, forcing him to make a heroic leap to open the door for her.
    “Why, thank you, sir,” she said before swooping inside.
    They were instantly engulfed in warmth both from the ovensfilling the air with heat and yeast and sugar, and from the effusive welcome from the soft, stocky woman behind the counter.
    “Monica!” Even the word was warm, the vowel sounds rounder and an extra syllable tacked on, making the greeting more like Moni-ka- la. The woman reached her hands over the counter, simulating an embrace that Monica returned by blowing a kiss —both women seeming to understand that flour-dusted hands on a mink-collared coat would be a disaster.
    “Mrs. Sobek, this is my new boss, Max Moore.”
    Mrs. Sobek made a clucking sound deep in her throat and gave him a sidelong glance. “Much more handsome than the old one, isn’t he, ptáček ?”
    Monica looked at him with a gaze parallel to Mrs. Sobek’s. “Oh, I dunno. I’m sure he thinks so, but I haven’t decided yet.”
    “Well, until you’ve decided,” he said, “I guess the coffee’s on you.”
    Her expression changed immediately into one of mock indignation as she twirled back to the counter.
    “Two coffees and two kolache . And not on account.” She opened her purse and took out a crisp one-dollar bill. “I actually have money today.”
    Mrs. Sobek looked doubtful. Not at the money, but at Max.
    “You’re going to give this big guy one kolache ? That won’t fill up his little toe.”
    “All right,” Monica conceded. “One more, and a fruit Danish for me. And before you say anything, it’s February. I have two more months to wrap up in a coat before I have to worry about my figure.”
    Mrs. Sobek gave an admonishing waggle of a finger before turning to an enormous tank and dispensing coffee into two large mugs. In the meantime, Monica took off her coat, revealing acolumn of soft gray material dissected by a pink ruffle, hugging her frame in such a way that left Max to worry about her figure —or at least about his reaction to it.
    He busied himself pouring cream and spooning sugar into the rich, dark coffee, then walking with it carefully back to a small two-top table where Monica was already sitting and sipping.
    “You don’t take anything?” he asked, pulling out his chair.
    “Delays the time between the pouring and the drinking,” she said, preparing once again to wrap her lips around the cup’s rim.
    Mrs. Sobek arrived with a coffeepot and a white plate covered in waxed paper. She set the plate on the table and replenished the inch of missing coffee in Monica’s cup. Then, after softly touching Monica’s cheek with the back of her knuckle, she slipped away.
    “She seems like a lovely woman,” Max said, reaching for the warm pastry.
    “She’s wonderful,” Monica said. “Like what I think a mother should be. As in, nothing like mine.”
    He remained silent, mesmerized by the interplay of her emotional display. She delivered the word mine with her hand to her heart and a smirk on her face, but she held both the gesture and the expression a bit too long to pass off its exaggerated humor.
    He opted to be deliberately obtuse in order to preserve her dignity. “I take it your mother wasn’t much of a baker?”
    “Ha-ha.” She wrapped her hand around the mug. “My mother cared about two