Chapter 11 - The Return to Maple Street
When Marlo and Poppy stepped out of the taxi onto Maple Street two weeks later, the Boston air felt crisp and welcoming.
The bakery windows were clean, the brass sign gleamed in the afternoon sun, and through the glass, they could see Ruthie Pike waving frantically from behind the counter like a lighthouse keeper signaling a lost ship.
They pushed open the door, greeted by the familiar, comforting aroma of baking bread and sweet vanilla.
“Welcome home!” Ruthie cheered, rushing out from behind the counter to wrap both of them in a massive, flour-dusted hug. “Look at you! Poppy, you look like you’ve grown three inches!”
“I ran all the way from the taxi without stopping once!” Poppy announced proudly, spinning around to show off her new winter coat.
“That you did,” a deep, familiar voice echoed from the doorway.
Marlo turned.
Elias Marchetti stood just inside the threshold, holding a single, wrapped package tied with a silver ribbon. He wore his usual dark wool coat, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Marlo, softening with a warmth that belonged only to her.
“Welcome back, Marlo,” he said softly.
Marlo walked across the bakery floor, the distance closing between them until she stood right in front of him. She didn't hesitate this time. She reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him into a fierce, grateful embrace.
Elias froze for a fraction of a second before his strong arms came around her, lifting her slightly off the floor as he buried his face in her hair.
“You missed your Tuesday,” Marlo whispered against his shoulder.
“I saved it for Thursday,” Elias replied against her ear.
He set her down gently, holding her hands in his, and handed her the small package. Marlo tore open the silver ribbon to reveal a heavy, beautifully framed watercolor painting of an orange tree against a brilliant purple alpine sky, signed in shaky, childish handwriting—and beneath it, in bold, clean strokes: E. Marchetti & Poppy Hart.
Marlo looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Elias... when did you—?”
“While you were in Zurich,” he said, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his stern face. “Your daughter gave me a painting lesson. Turns out, orange trees really are better than green ones.”
Ruthie Pike cleared her throat loudly from behind the counter, turning her back to adjust a display of muffins with an exaggerated display of discretion.
Marlo laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the bakery from corner to corner.
May you like
She took Elias’s hand—the tattooed knuckles, the warm, strong palm—and laced her fingers through his.
“Come inside,” Marlo said, stepping back through the door of her home. “I think we have a lot of apricot tarts to celebrate.”
