The inspector arrived at ten on Wednesday, while I was putting icing on a cake.
He introduced himself to Mina, showed her his identification and asked for the person responsible for the kitchen. She called me over without changing her expression. I wiped my hands, took off the apron with chocolate on it and put on a clean one.
“Is there a problem?”
“We’ve had a complaint. I’d like to take a look.”
He was polite. He did not tell me who complained or let me pretend the visit was an insult to my character. He looked at food storage, watched Charlie wash his hands and asked me about the labels on prepared food. He opened the walk-in and stood inside for a moment. Then he looked at the seal around the door.
“How long has that been damaged?”
I followed his finger to a split near the bottom corner.
“I knew it wasn’t closing as cleanly as it should. We had someone look at it last month.”
“Has it been replaced?”
“No.”
“It needs to be.”
I nodded. There was no version of being right about Helen that repaired a door seal.
The visit took most of the morning. The café kept serving. Customers watched with frank interest, the way they watched a person reversing a large vehicle into a small space. Mina moved a delivery and asked Len to join us when he came back from the outside yard.
He stood with his hands on his hips while the inspector explained what he’d found. The damaged seal. A storage label somebody had put on without an opening date. A box too close to the sink. Things that needed correcting, none made smaller by the possibility that somebody had complained maliciously.
When the man left, I moved the box, replaced the label and phoned the repair company in front of Len.
They could fit the new seal the following afternoon.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Confirmed. They’ll send the time.”
Len rubbed his face.
“This is the last thing we need in December.”
“I know.”
“Who complains about a cake shop in a garden center?”
“Somebody can complain if something’s wrong,” Mina said.
“You know what I mean.”
She looked at him until he put his hands down.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
He went back outside. Charlie stood beside the cooling rack with a spoon in one hand.
“Did I do the washing properly?”
“Yes.”
“He watched for ages.”
“That’s part of his job.”
“Right.” He looked at the cake. “Are we still selling that?”
“Of course we are.”
“Good. Because it looks amazing.”
The cake sold in twelve pieces before one o’clock. We made another for the next day. I put the correct date on the container and checked it twice, then stopped myself from checking it a third time.
My phone lit up at two-sixteen.
Noah.
How did the inspection go?
I stood looking at it while the kitchen went on around me. A pan steamed. Charlie turned on the dishwasher. Beyond the hatch, somebody asked whether the soup was vegetarian.
I took the phone to Mina.
She read the message and set it down carefully.
“Send it to the detective.”
“He might have heard.”
“Then he can tell him where.”
I sent it. Reed called within fifteen minutes. I described the inspection, the time the message arrived and the lack of a direct threat. He asked whether Noah had been at the center that day. I hadn’t seen him. Mina checked with the front desk and the outdoor staff; nobody remembered him, which was not the same as proving he hadn’t been there.
Reed asked us to preserve the message and any relevant security footage. He told me again not to agree to a private meeting. If Noah arrived and refused to leave or I felt in danger, I was to call emergency services rather than wait for Reed to answer his phone.
“I don’t want to keep bringing this here,” I said when the call ended.
Mina looked past me at the busy counter.
“You didn’t invite him. You didn’t invite the complaint. We had a split seal. We’re fixing it.”
“Len’s worried.”
“Len’s always worried. Usually about the begonias.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“No.” She folded her arms. “It isn’t. So let’s deal with what it is instead of letting him make you feel responsible for the whole building.”
We went through the closing routine. The café finished at five; the garden center stayed open until eight on the late-shopping nights. There was usually a gap while I cashed up and the afternoon staff moved out to help with the Christmas display. Mina would check in before leaving. Charlie would stay until the kitchen was clean. I would call if anyone came looking for me.
It was an ordinary plan for an ordinary workplace that had acquired an unordinary problem. Nobody pretended we could make every moment safe by discussing it.
I called Jess on my break and told her about the message.
“Do you want me to pick you up?” she asked.
“Today I’m finishing at four. Mina’s still here.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The repair people are coming in the afternoon. I said I’d stay until they finish. I don’t know when.”
“I finish at five. I can come over.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m offering.”
I leaned against the office wall. Beside me the little notice about washing hands had begun to curl at one corner.
“Thank you.”
“We could get something to eat.”
“Somewhere else?”
“Definitely somewhere else.”
We settled on a place halfway between our houses. She would drive me home afterward and I’d collect the car in the morning. A plan made between us, small enough to keep.
When I returned to the kitchen, Charlie was printing a sign for the next day’s soup. He’d written COMFORT IN A BOWL, then crossed it out on the screen.
“Too much?” he asked.
“What kind of soup?”
“Tomato.”
“You could say tomato.”
He grinned.
“You should work in advertising.”
At four Mina walked me through the center. The Christmas lights had come on, bright nets over wooden arches. Somewhere a hidden speaker played a song about being home. I was very tired of other people telling me where that was.
Outside, the light was fading. A car idled at the far edge of the lot. I looked at it, then made myself look again instead of deciding every waiting car belonged to Noah.
It was an elderly couple trying to fold a map.
Mina stood beside me until I got my door open.
“Text when you’re in.”
“Yes.”
“And don’t apologize.”
I smiled despite myself. Then I got in and locked the doors.
At home I made the text. I put my bag down, turned on the living-room lamp and hung my coat on its hook. Nothing had been straightened. Nothing had been moved. The house looked exactly as I had left it.
I sat on the sofa and let that be a comfort.
At seven-forty, a message arrived from Laurel.
I’m meeting my lawyer tomorrow. There are things I need to say. I don’t know whether I can.
I read it, set the phone down and picked it up again.
Tell her that first, I wrote. You don’t have to manage what she thinks of you.
Laurel did not reply.