He came on Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
And the Friday after that — unannounced, no text, just the bell above the door at four in the afternoon and Marcus Calloway walking in like the bakery had always been part of his route and he had simply stopped pretending otherwise.
I was behind the counter frosting a cake when he walked in on Friday. I looked up. He looked at me. Neither of us said anything for a full three seconds.
Then: "You didn't text ahead," I said.
"I was in the neighborhood."
"Tribeca is not in this neighborhood."
"I took a long way." He came to the counter, leaned against it, looked at the cake. "What is that?"
"Salted caramel layer cake. Corporate order for tomorrow."
"It looks incredible."
"It is incredible." I kept frosting. "Sit down. I'll be ten minutes."
He didn'
