The oven timer ringed, and I slid out a tray of ginger cookies. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wrapped Knead Bakery in a cozy winter blanket, until Vincent walked in. His gaze is hungry, with thin chapped lips curling into his usual slick smile. His tailored suit glints under the Christmas lights, cufflinks winking with each flick of his wrists.
“Hello Vincent,” I say, clenching my jaw and patting my smudged apron, shoving my elbow in Mack’s ribs, my cashier.
“Still keeping my ovens warm for you Piper, Mack? Shame if these lights went dark just before Christmas,” Vincent says, leaning against the counter.
Be polite. I smile my fakest smile. “I’m drowning under the orders so I’m sure I’ll be able to pay the rent with an advance on the down payment too.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Vincent says while tapping his fingers on the counter.
“Look, it's true,” Macks says, pointing his finger at the clipboard with a list of names.
Vincent rolled his eyes.
I bit my tongue. He’s the town’s orthodontist, dripping in wealth. Without his funds, the bakery’s furnaces would’ve cooled long ago. My father warned me about Vincent’s shady affairs, but when he drank away our savings, it was Vincent’s money that kept the bakery open.
“Another chocolate croissant, Piper? Careful, though. A little mistake in your baking, and all those repayments might just... collapse like a bad souffle.” His voice is smooth like golden syrup.
My lips force a smile, while Mack stares blankly at him.
“Still trembling, boy?” Vincent says, noticing Mack fidgeting behind me. “Thought I trained you better in my house.”
Mack freezes, his jaw locking the way it always does when Vincent’s around. I don’t need him to say it, years under Vincent’s roof left scars deeper than words.
There's a sharp, smoky scent clinging to Mack’s muscular neck. The familiar smell drifts from loose threads on his reindeer jersey, the same scent that always reminds me of my father. I push back the worry that Mack might be drunk again and yank my ponytail tighter, bracing for what’s coming.
Mack’s gray eyes catch my stare, a shared feeling washing over, leaving us bare. He understands Vincent’s sleazy intentions as well as I do.
Mack’s shaky hands slide a croissant toward Vincent.
I wipe flour from my hands and stroll to the kitchen.
“Hmm,” Vincent says. He ambles to a nearby table and sinks into a chair. His eyes fixed on my ass. “What fine buns you have.”
“Too bad your manners don’t rise like Piper’s dough,” Mack snaps back.
I ignore Vincent. and assemble the base for souffles, whisking egg yolks, and stirring constantly to prevent lumps. The steady rhythm soothes my nerves, but a familiar tension brews in the air. I sprinkle vanilla and sugar, watching it dissolve into a golden swirl.
The doorbell rings and Clara shuffles through the door, her southern accent slicing the icy atmosphere. “Vincent, you spend far too much time in this bakery. Folks will think it’s more than croissants keeping you here,” she says, flicking her silky straight locks.
I raise my head, sneaking a peek through the service window. She perches in the entrance, keeping the door open while a freezing blizzard blows in.
“Clara, it’s a croissant,” Vincent replies. “Lighten up, will you? Don’t make a fool of yourself in front of the help. Go powder your nose and wait in the car.”
Mack catches my eye, his thick brows raised.
“You know you ain’t s’posed to be in no bakery,” Clara says.
Vincent crosses his arms. “Piper assured me there are no traces of peanuts in her bakery.” He glances toward me, winking. “I trust her.”
My hands tremble as I beat egg whites until stiff peaks form, trying to distract myself to keep from snapping at Vincent’s grating voice.
“I’m serious, Vincent! I need you home right this minute,” Clara insists. She shifts her weight. It isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed this scene unfold.
Vincent waves her away.
Clara fusses with her purse, snapping it shut as she leans closer to Vincent. She turns and scurries out of the bakery, slamming the door behind her.
Vincent continues devouring his chocolate-filled pastry.
I can’t shake the feeling that beneath Clara’s plea lay a hollow emptiness, a world of loneliness.
Mack turns his back to Vincent and slouches his head through the service window. He sighs. “Poor Clara,” he whispers to me, running a hand through his veranda fringe. “She really cares, you know.”
Does she? Or is she just trying to keep up appearances?
“I overheard her last week,” Mack continues, playing with the golden tinsel draped around the window. “She said something about feeling trapped, like a bird in a cage.”
Trapped? Clara seems so distant. I’m sure she feels suffocated by her marriage, just like my mom did with my father’s drinking.
I fold the beaten egg whites into a chocolate mixture, the warm aroma of cocoa enveloping me.
“Just watch, Piper,” Mack whispers. “I’ve heard Clara mention that she’s planning to take a vacation soon—alone.”
Mack twists to the register and screams.
I rush to the front. Vincent lies slumped over the table, lifeless, his skin mottled and swollen. I press my fingers to his wrist, nothing. His chest is still. “No, no, no,” I whisper. “Mack!” I yell, panic fizzing. “What happened?”
He stands frozen, hands gripping his hair. “Is he breathing?”
My fingers brush Vincent's other wrist. Again nothing. A memory flashes, my mom kneeling by the couch, tears slipping down her cheeks. She pressed her fingers to my dad’s wrist, checking his pulse while he lay passed out.
Vincent eyes open, hissing through his teeth: “Epi...”
I jumped backwards, startled like a crayfish crying in boiling water.
Mack's eyes darken. “He’s having an anaphylactic shock…”
A wave of realization crashes over me. Peanut allergy. “What?” I step back, my heart thundering. “I don’t use peanuts in the shop. You know that!”
“PEN…” Vincent gasps, crimson-faced, pointing to his pocket.
Mack rushes towards my sides and pats Vincent and finds nothing. “Call 911!”
I call for help while Mack eases Vincent onto the floor next to the oversized Christmas tree, cradling his head on his lap. Vincent’s eyes glaze over, unresponsive.
“Are you sure there’s no peanuts in the chocolate sauce?” Mack demands. “Did you do this?”
His words sting. My heart races, and I scramble to make sense of it all. Mack adjusts his position, and a glass bottle clinks to the floor from his pocket, rolling towards my shoe. The label comes into focus: peanut oil. My stomach drops.
Mack freezes, eyes darting to mine.
Was it him? Did he—? ‘What’s this?’ I demand.
Mack’s lips part, trembling. “Open it,” he blurts. “Please.”
I bite my lip. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look at Vincent. This isn’t just a coincidence.”
Mack shakes his head. “No! You don’t know what it was like in that house. I hated how he belittled me. But that doesn’t mean I’d hurt him!” Mack shouts.
My mind spirals with questions. I point at the bottle, my heart pounding in my chest. “Then how do you explain this?”
“Open it!”
I uncork the bottle and sniff.
The all-too-familiar smell slams into my nose, overwhelming my baking olfactory senses. All I see are Mack’s frantic eyes, torn between guilt and fear.
“See? Whiskey.” Mack says.
The bell above the bakery door jingles again. Clara sweeps in, her eyes wide, shock painted across her face. “Vincent!” she wails, collapsing onto the floor, her body shaking with sobs. But as she leans over his body, and turns back to me with a fresh wave of tears. “It’s you! You poisoned him!” Clara spits. “You killed my husband with those pastries! You always wanted him gone!”
“No!” I fire back. “I wouldn’t hurt him! It’s not my fault! You—”
“Me?” Clara’s laughter cracks, her demeanor shifting. “You think you’re innocent? With your fake smiles and perfect pastries?” Her gaze burns into me. “I know he messed around with your momma, with the whole town, for cryin’ out loud.”
Mentioning my mother strikes an arrow straight into my heart. I remember Dad drunkenly ranting about it, hurling empty bottles at the tree in our back garden. The sound of shattering glass woke me in the dead of night. Mom left town that day, too ashamed to face me. I can’t blame her. I stayed behind, stuck with Dad until his liver finally gave in.
“It’s not Piper, Clara. I swear!” Mack says, fists clenched around Vincent’s face. “Do you have his EpiPen?”
“You stupid man,” she mutters under her breath, brushing a tear from her cheek. “He deserves it. A cheater…” She fumbles in her purse and lip oil rolls out while she’s drawing out the pen.
I lean closer, spotting the label on the squeeze tube—100% peanut oil. I glance at Mack, and then back at Clara, her eyes sparkling with a rage I had never seen before.
“Clara!” I gasp. “You kissed him? You—”
“Enough!” she snarls, jamming the EpiPen into Vincent’s leg. Her grief evaporates. “He had it comin’. He ruined lives, Piper!”
I keep quiet as nothing happens. Vincent's lips are still blue. Time drags with each tick, tick, tick of the clock resting high on the kitchen wall.
“Why isn’t it working?” Mack asks.
“It should’ve worked!” Clara gasps. “He ruined me. I wanted him to hurt, just once!”
I grab the pen from Clara’s hand and check the expiration date. “It…” I swallow hard, “it expired two years ago.”
Red and blue lights flash through the frosted bakery windows as paramedics burst in. They drop beside Vincent, masks and syringes flying. One presses a stethoscope to his chest. “We’ve got a pulse.” A weak gasp rattles out of him, proof of life. Relief. He’s not gone, not yet.
Vincent's face slowly regains color. He gasps for air as his chest rises.
The oven’s bell chimes. I spot my freckles standing out on my flushed cheeks in the mirror above the counter. I can’t help but think—if only Clara’s plan had baked to perfection. Vincent’s constant smirks and the way he tore my family apart burns hot under my skin. My eyes are drawn to the hiding place of the peanut oil behind the flour, waiting to be splashed. Tomorrow, I planned to serve a rich, chocolate soufflé with a secret drizzle to Vincent that he would’ve unknowingly savored. Well, there goes that original idea. Tomorrow’s soufflé could have been his last. Maybe it still will be.
Bio:
ML Strijdom is a South African medical professional, emerging writer and newbie photographer, crafting stories in her second language. She draws inspiration from untamed landscapes and African sunsets, often found on safari. Her work was recently recognized with an Honourable Mention in the Tenth Writers Playground Competition. Published in Livina Press, Scifi-Shorts, Instant Noodles, Westword, Starspun Lit, Flash Phantoms and Zoetic Press’s 4LPH4NUM3R1C Podcast. Forthcoming in Tiger Moth Review and Ratbag Lit.