There were a few buildings left after the tornado of 1913, but the “Old Jacinta,” as the people of Drexel, Nebraska called it, wasn’t one of them. In fact, it was built just after the tornado had leveled nearly all of the city center in the unlucky year of 1913 itself, and was the first building to be put up after that catastrophe. Some even say a portion of the bricks stuck in it came from the rubble - that you could tell them by the ones that are a little more orange and worn.

It was a place to start, at least. No one could tell why the wrath of God would rip apart the church belfry and bring it crashing down on the pile that used to be the post office, and then spare the saloon. It didn’t make sense, and it didn’t have to. All the people of Drexel knew back then was that there are some fates that aren’t deserved, but they arrive nonetheless. In time, the railroad tracks were repaired, a new library was collected, the dead were clutched, buried, grieved.

And so Francisco Navarro, coming back on those tracks to this strange land where his family had lost their lives, took his life savings to build the Jacinta in his mother’s name: a brick building to withstand the tragedies of the Great Plains, a home for the greengrocer market that had been lost with her, and a new home for himself.

And one hundred and ten years later, the Old Jancita was still standing (and still standing across from the old saloon). But there was no more greengrocer, just as there was no more Francisco. And April Sokol, who had ignored her alarm for long enough today, had finally risen, washed her face, wrapped her hair, and was making her way down the apartment stairwell that led straight outside to the nearly-Spring cold, and the very early hour of 5:15am. It was time to walk around the building to the basement entry on the side. It was time to start another morning making chocolates and pastries with her dad at Sweet Minou.

It was like the heart pumping in the sleeping town. Every wee early morning of the week but Sunday this door hidden down the side of the Old Jacinta was pulsating with the life it held in beneath the outer bulkhead doors. It wasn’t just the smell of butter, flour, and sugar browning in the oven, although that was what caused the real warming joy of any odd passerby. It was the clamor of light and sound at a time when most were still riding dragons or unceremoniously quitting their jobs (in their underwear) in their dreams.

April knew this sensory assault by heart. By this time, Leo, her dad, would be proofing the chocolate chunk sourdough loaves, perfecting the brioche, and readying the pains au chocolat for the oven, and his assistant, Tony, would be busy shaping, stirring, whipping, wiping. April also knew their 4am mornings, their awakening in a solid night. They turned on the lights in the dim hum of an idle kitchen, they checked the temperatures in the refrigerators, they tallied the inventory, they started the oven and, most essentially, they brewed the coffee. And for all this, April was most appreciative of her “late shift.” Starting up at 6am was hard enough, and through these next transitional hours, Leo and Tony would eventually pass April the torch as the pastries cooled and she would have all the time and space to work with her chocolate.

Her chocolate. Butter was nice and all, but it didn’t quite stir her soul and make her yearn. Chocolate did. Dark chocolate, single-origin especially. This was what she made and was what made her happy. There was nothing else she would wake up so early for and then dedicate her life to it, for better or worse. And this was her family’s company, built by her pastry chef father’s passion (and stubbornness) and her mother’s accounting acumen, and then April came along and took the chocolate to another wild level.

As April finally made it down the stairwell, pulled open the heavy metal door, was hit with the bleatings of AC/DC on the speaker, and breathed in all the life of Sweet Minou Chocolate this March morning, her heart fluttered for the chocolate that was spinning in the big melangeur in the back room with the rest of her chocolate equipment. She knew it was there, knew where she had left off, and could not wait to taste its progress to see if any adjustments needed to be made.

“Good morning sugar puff,” called tall and lanky Leo from the upright oven door he let swing closed, and set the timer on the side.

“Morning pops,” April chimed back. Her eyelids were still low, but she knew her way to the coffee more by intuition than sight by now. “Hey Tony.” April scooted around a stout twenty-five-year-old young man with soft hands that were folding her chocolate batons into the pains au chocolat butter-layered dough. Tony was exceptionally nimble in his work, and while Leo in his sixty-five years of age and experience was the motor of this pastry mission, Tony was the artist. If it looked exquisite, it was likely that Tony had touched it.

“Good morning April,” said Tony as his hands made the exact smooth movements he’d been making before she’d stepped in, and then wrapped up his work and moved on to checking the sourdough. “I started the tart crusts for you first thing, they should be cooling now.”

April had filled her mug and was carefully sipping the steaming coffee as her eyes started to slowly raise like the loaves. She glanced over to the granite tabletop where they let the pastries cool and saw six deep cocoa crusts she could fill with fresh ganache for the day. “Thanks Tony, they look perfect,” she smiled at the baker and could see him bloom a little with his pride. She would know, she knew the feeling - when the work of your two bare hands, your know-how, and your heart is acknowledged by someone else. 

April looked up at the wall clock and saw 6am approaching and felt the caffeine starting her engines. This was when the math started. The calculations, the ingredients to pull and ready, the timing to synchronize. There were chocolate centers she’d readied the night before that had to be checked, ganache to mix, hot chocolate to prepare, the tempering machine set, chocolates on racks that were ready to display in the shop, chocolate grinding in the melangeur to appraise… her internal clock suddenly aligned with the the AC/DC filling the room and she rocked into motion.

As April jotted thoughts and numbers down in her notebook in her chocolate workspace in the connecting room, Leo maneuvered over and gave April a shoulder squeeze, “ready for another day in paradise?” Her dad liked to poke at the madness that went into working so hard every day, but she knew deep down this really was his paradise. 

April broke her business trance, caught her dad’s eye, grinned back at him, and nodded that she was as ready as she’d ever be. They knew that every day, although basically the same thing, was like a fresh launch into new territory. Every day the product was new, and it could fail, although they tried their hardest to avoid that - it could be loved or hated or tepidly reviewed. Even the greatest triumph didn’t last. Really they were performers and this was their show. The clock commanded them and the audience awaited.

“Hey I had a pretty nice breakfast this morning, could you tell me what morsel I popped into my mouth from the top rack over there,” Leo pointed a knotty finger at the speed rack in the corner where the finished chocolates were ready to be set in little papers and hoisted upstairs or packed for ready-made boxes.

April glanced over at the little mahogany lumps lined up very politely on the tray. “Ah, Colombian Sierra Nevada single-origin dark chocolate truffle with vanilla bean and just a hint of sea salt,” April rattled off, she had just finished rolling them last night.

“Mmm, mmm! Magnificent, don’t mind if I wrap up a box for your mom do you?” April’s dad knew how much work she put into her hand-rolled truffles, so always asked before hoarding anything. 

“Go ahead, dad,” April knew well enough to roll at least ten truffles extra for her mom, Madaleine Sokol. She was a small woman, but she lived on chocolate, so it was lucky that in her early twenties she ran into a rather goofy but charming budding pastry-chef/chocolatier at a bar on the Fourth of July. And it was lucky that she had accepted a dance with him in his cowboy boots. And it was lucky that she had given him her number. And it was lucky that she had become his wife. Life had not been easy, not even in a small way. But Leo was Madaleine’s lifeline when they had to make some serious decisions, and Madaleine was Leo’s life.

“Thanks, sweetheart, and brownie points for me…” Leo smiled as he gently picked several chocolates off the rack and into a small pink paper box with a white tissue inside. Through the door Leo heard the timer buzz off for the oven, and that commanded him back to the kitchen. “Oh one more thing…you didn’t happen to use the zester last night did you? Tony wanted to use it to zest some lemon peel for the brioche this morning, but we just couldn’t find it.”

April thought for a moment, “No, not at all, it should be where it usually is, in the drawer under the knife rack.”

“Funny, we looked everywhere, and just couldn’t find it. Let me know if you find it somewhere, or we might have to pick another one up today.” Leo strolled out purposefully.

April thought again. That was funny. There had been some other things misplaced lately. Old things in unusual places. Almost as though someone else had been working in here, someone who didn’t belong.

The day went along as usual, with Leo and Tony wrapping up the major baking before the shop opened at 7am, and the morning baristas and shop tenders Samia and Geoff helping set up the display for the day and prepare the drip coffee and espresso machine for the morning rush.

April busied herself with all manner of chocolate work - she always thought of it as some kind of three-ring circus. In one ring were all the phases of chocolate making which took about a week of time to have a finished batch. In another was all of the confectionery that they made out of the chocolate - the chocolate-covered cherries, the gianduja, the truffles, the chili mango, the caramels, the rochers, the candied fruit and mendiants. And finally, the ring of packaging, of making sure the chocolate was safe from heat, water and light and would make it to wherever it was destined to brighten someone’s day.

She had already tested the chocolate in the melangeur, the 70% cacao Guatemalan Cahabón dark chocolate that she so loved and had been recognized with two awards from the Academy of Chocolate. This cacao came from the Association of Integrated Development “OX EEK” Santa Maria Cahabón (ADIOESMAC), which was situated in the mountainous Cahabón region of Guatemala. The association of indigenous Mayan families worked on reforestation of the region with cacao and exported their unusually large and flavorful cacao through Cacao Verapaz S. A., a social impact-driven specialty cacao exporter in Guatemala.

That was really important for April when she started making chocolate. She didn’t start making chocolate because she loved bonbons and desserts (which, of course, she did love anyway). She started making chocolate because she knew there was something deeper in it that she had to learn. She had grown up with her dad’s wonderful creations and his first bakery, Sokol’s. And she learned her respect for temperamental chocolate from him.

But as she aged and went off on her own and focused on becoming a chocolatier, she found herself wondering where this magical substance came from - the people, the places, the history. She learned chocolate could really taste different, depending on origin and territory. Cocoa beans from different regions with different genetics could have a full range of brown color, from the mahogany of the Colombian Sierra Nevada to the dark almost purple brown of the Guatemalan Cahabón. And that wasn’t even taking into account the different harvests each year - there was normally a large harvest and a small harvest, and the climate and rainfall would affect the flavor.

April would source her beans through a company that was transparency-focused to show that they were working to make the cacao trade more equitable for the farmers at origin who worked so hard to produce a premium product. It wasn’t going to solve all the ills of the world, but she could become closer to the real work that was this mystical pleasure: chocolate. She had met some of the people whose hands had grown, tended, harvested, then purchased, fermented, dried, then packaged, shipped and stored those cocoa beans that passed into her own hands to roast, winnow, grind and temper into the treats at Sweet Minou. It was a chain full of life.

So April made the chocolate for Sweet Minou, and she and the team transformed it into a cacao celebration. There was daily hot chocolate made that was delicious with the little brioche rolls the pastry chefs made. Others loved to take home a loaf of dark chocolate chunk sourdough bread. There were deep dark chocolate ganache tarts, both traditional with whipped cream and a vegan and gluten-free version made with raspberries. Cookies and brownies were on hand to pair with the espresso drinks, and you couldn’t forget the pains au chocolat. The baristas would also help customers fill their special pink boxes with chocolates of their choice from the display case, a full range of shapes and sizes of things that April and Tony worked on together that changed with the seasons.

There was a lot of fruit work in the summer along with ice cream making, but for now, in early March with their eyes on the next holiday, St. Patrick’s Day, they were busy finishing up dipping Jameson whiskey ganache and dark cherry cordials.

They all knew how lucky they were to have Tony on the team. He was efficient, graceful, and kind. He didn’t make a big splash, but his presence was always felt. He could wrap up any project and step in at just the necessary time. Leo always said Tony was the glue of Sweet Minou. He had applied for the job five years ago when he was just twenty and coming off of an opioid addiction. He was forthcoming about it and made it clear to Leo that his life had turned around in the past year and that he knew he wanted to make a career, and a life, out of baking. Leo took him under his wing and taught him everything he knew, and ceded that Tony had even more talent than him.

But as April and Tony worked side-by-side this morning, she could tell something was hanging heavy on him. He still had his sweet smile and encouraging acknowledgements, but April thought she could sense a sadness in his warm brown eyes. She thought she would try to cheer him up by recounting her most recent online dating disaster (“and that’s when I learned he was lying when he said he was divorced…”), which did elicit a little chuckle but not much conversation. She wracked her brain for some other distraction.

“So I heard you couldn’t find the zester this morning. I looked around back here but still couldn’t find it. It seems like some other things have gone missing as well - did you guys find the good measuring spoons?”

Tony finally lifted his head up from his work and looked like he had just snapped out of a trance. “No, those are still missing. Which is too bad since we’ve had to use all the rag-tag spoons to get by.”

“That’s so weird,” April acknowledged, “and weren’t we missing the recipe book a few weeks back? And the scale went missing, too. Do we have a small object thief, is someone else working here secretly, or are we all just losing our minds?”

April said that like a joke, but it didn’t seem to have a jolly effect on Tony, who frowned.

“Something odd is happening here for sure,” said Tony. And that was all he said.

April and Tony made their last delivery upstairs and Geoff made room on the table behind the display case for the trays of chocolate bars he and Samia would wrap in their down time. Samia, spindly thin and 6-foot-tall with a bleached blonde bob, languidly buffed the display window to prepare to drape golden garland to compliment the set of shamrocks she’d painted along the bottom. She looked up as they dropped off the chocolate, and smiled as slow and sweet as molasses. April could tell that Geoff was rearing to set up the St. Patrick’s Day chocolate display once Samia had finished. Maybe it was because he rode the espresso machine all morning, but Geoff had boundless energy. In fact, it seemed to April that he was mainly muscles and smiles and that the sun shone down on his golden cherub locks even when it was cloudy out.

“Thanks guys, these look really amazing,” Geoff piped, and then tucked into the bars to start wrapping. He always had to be doing something.

Just then a dark figure passed by the big window. It was clockwork. Every day that Sweet Minou Chocolate was open, at 11:45am, the little lady with a big presence would enter the building. For a petite woman, Madaleine Sokol really projected a long shadow. She strode in and lifted her round black sunglasses off her eyes and onto her head. She was wrapped in all black and wore a tight black skirt over black nylons with knee-high black heeled boots. Her hair, full and dark, was ruffled by the March breeze. She stood there a moment and took a big breath. Every day, an entrance.

“Ah, smells like heaven,” she said with her rather vague accent, and then walked over to give her only daughter a kiss on the cheek. April stood a good six inches over her mother, and where Madaleine was all serious lines, April was all curves. Her mother was just a little bit more striking in every way. Her hair was much darker than April’s mousey brown, her eyes were deeply lidded and piercing blue to April’s almond-shaped hazel eyes, and her skin was pure cream to April’s reddish tones. Madaleine had never been more than a size two all her life, and April’s body had always been generous on her sturdy frame. They were a great complement to each other in their differences, and were more deeply alike in ways beneath the surface than anyone else could understand.

“Hi mom,” April cooed back, and the rest of the crew welcomed Mrs. Sokol, who would be working the chocolate sales after having lunch with Mr. Sokol, like she did every day. She carried a brown bag in her hand and a savory aroma was emanating.

“I’ll be back around one,” said Madaleine, as she sneaked around the counter and plucked a truffle from the case.

April and Tony left soon after, and she bid him goodbye as they reached the basement again and he turned to grab his things from the staff area and go home for the day while she went over to the melangeur to give the chocolate another test. Leo and Madaleine were sitting at the table with a spread of Vietnamese delicacies. Then April heard the great metal door swing shut again, and Tony was gone.

Almost there, April thought, the chocolate needed maybe half a day more of spinning, maybe a little more. It just wasn’t smooth enough on the tongue yet, and the flavor was nearly developed to where she liked it. She would test it again tonight, which was easy to do since she lived in the apartment above the chocolate shop.

She could hear her parents talking in the background over their ritual lunchtime. Leo would go home after this while Madaleine stayed, so it was their special moment in the day. This time, however, their tone seemed a little strained. Normally April could hear little jingles of laughter and light discussion. Something was just different and it made her pause.

“You know I love Tony like a son, but I also know what it’s like to get off-kilter, and feel the need,” she heard Madaleine reason.

“Maddy, these are inconsequential things, no-value things. I don’t even want to think about this,” pleaded Leo.

“I’m sorry darling, I’m just bringing it up. I’m not accusing. Really I’m more worried about him than our things. It’s just there’s no other explanation. Let’s just wait and see what happens, and see if he needs help.” Madaleine closed the conversation and bit down on a mouthful of beef and crunchy clay-pot rice.

April glided in with what she hoped was an air of innocent ignorance, and pretended not to notice the crumpled look on her dad’s face. He was raking his noodles and looked like he’d lost his appetite.

“April! Those truffles!” Madaleine gushed. “And your father gave me my own box. I guess I’ve been a good girl!” She then raised her bottle of beet juice to Leo and blew him a kiss, and he warmed up again.

After sampling her parents’ lunches and catching up with them, April went to finish up some dishes, and her mom got ready to go back upstairs and tend the chocolate shop.

“Oh honey,” she called to April before she left. “Have you noticed anything else peculiar around here lately?”

April thought for a moment. Just those few things, nothing serious. But she just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Her mom nodded. “Will see you later, sweetie.” And Madaleine reached into her pocket and took out a pill bottle, took a few out, swallowed them, and washed it down with her bottle of beet juice. And then she was gone.

There was just something about the Old Jacinta. It’s not that it was a particularly ornate or striking building. In fact, except for the big black cat winking at customers in the broad window of Sweet Minou, it could be easily overlooked. Just another brick building, in a line of brick buildings, down a street lined with shops. Maybe it was because it had its quirks. There were the bulkhead doors on the side that lead to the basement that could spring open and shock an unsuspecting passerby. Or the large wooden patios around the back that caught the Western sun for the two apartments on top. Or perhaps the straight-shot staircase from those apartments that opened up directly to the sidewalk. It was all of those things, and it wasn’t exactly any of those things. The Old Jacinta just had - character. But you would have to spend time in it to know it. To know how solid and secure it felt. April felt like you could just never feel lonely in that building, even though she lived in her apartment alone. Well, except for her black cat - Sweet Minou himself.

After work April would usually climb back up to her place, peel off her chocolatey work clothes, make sure Minou had some munchies to make him happy, and then collapse on the bed for a few hours with Minou curled up contentedly beside her. Sometimes if she was really exhausted she would forget the peeling off of the work clothes part, and land face-down on the bed. In any case, a nap was necessary.

And so this Friday after work, April made her way home with a heavy heart from what she had heard her parents talking about. There was no way she could suspect Tony of such an odd act. She was sure he had even nicer baking accoutrements in his possession at home. What was he going to do, pawn the zester and measuring spoons? Sell their recipes on the dark web? And if he had fallen back into his opioid habit again - well there was no proof, and that was long ago, and he had gotten help and treatment since then. It’s not like there had been anything valuable missing anyway.

These thoughts were cycling through April’s mind as she unlocked the door to her little oasis, and her mini jaguar was waiting for her. She picked him up and shut the door. She got him his munchies, and April collapsed, face-down, on the bed. It was one of those days.

Normally it would have just been a few hours’ nap, but when April was roused by the kneadings of a very hungry-again Minou, she realized it was dark out. She shuddered at how strange it was to wake up in a dark apartment with all the window blinds and curtains still open. She checked the clock on the bedside table. It was 9:30pm. She didn’t blame Minou, she was very hungry, too.

April went to the refrigerator to see if there was anything edible. Normally Minou would follow her, and she expected him to be underfoot when she closed the door and turned around. But there was no Minou there. Instead she noticed him in the cat tree in the window that overlooked Randolph Street. He usually liked to spend leisurely nights scanning the street views from his perch, but April noticed a tense look to his normally lax body and whiskery face. He was zeroing in on something with immense cat intensity.

Just as she was gingerly making her way over to see what had entranced Minou, April heard a great thud from somewhere below in the building. Minou unlocked his gaze and sprang off the cat tree, April’s heart started racing, and she peered out the window to see if she could catch anything, but she only saw a couple canoodling outside the Saloon, the oldest bar in Drexel, across the street.

But something had happened down there. April’s stomach sank thinking it was her chocolate melangeur. What if it had malfunctioned, fallen over, exploded, what if the building was going to catch fire…

April grabbed her keys and ran out the door, down the steps, around the building and down to the basement once more for the day. She was not even thinking about what Minou could have been watching out the window.

April braced herself as she opened the basement door to the chocolate factory. She was frantic, she was ready to see a crime scene of a literal chocolate machine meltdown. But when she flipped on the lights and looked around, all was serene.

The melangeur was whirling rhythmically, the tempering machine was buzzing mildly as it cycled the chocolate they would use tomorrow. There was - simply nothing amiss.

So April took a few breaths, tested her chocolate, decided she would pour it out in the morning, and got ready to leave everything as she had found it.

And as she was reaching for the lights, she couldn’t help but notice something out of the corner of her eye. On the floor near the doorway, she saw a piece of paper. It could just be a grocery list, but it looked too thick for something like that. She bent down to pick it up.

When she turned it over she saw something arresting. A blue photograph, an old portrait of a young woman with searching eyes.

April didn’t know what this meant, but she felt queasy suddenly. There was something - some odor in the air, and it wasn’t chocolate. Something familiar. She couldn’t put her finger on it. But she desperately wanted to get away. And she wanted, she wanted, to stay…

The next day, April got up, fed Minou, and made her way down to the basement, just as usual. Maybe she had imagined the thud, maybe she had still been half asleep, dreaming. There were logical explanations.

When April opened the door this time, something was different. It was - quiet in the bakery. But there was Leo, at the oven again. And things seemed a little more disarrayed, bowls here and there, flour splatters around, ingredients wherever there was space.

Then April realized it. “Hey dad…where is Tony?”

Leo grimaced. “I, I don’t know,” he said meekly, and pulled the bread out of the oven. “He hasn’t shown up today, and I haven’t heard from him.”

April took his cue, and started tidying things up, she could help pick up the slack until Tony got there, if he got there…

Then April turned to the knife rack to pick one up to start cutting pieces of Leo’s famous chocolate mazurek - a flat almost cookie-like Polish cake he would make from his mother’s recipe when he needed cheering up. Actually, Leo might have made it for Tony to cheer him up.

But when April got to the knife rack, there was nothing there. She looked around. “Dad, um, where are your knives?”

He looked over. “Well I’ll be damned. They’re gone, all the Miyabis”

Leo’s expensive knives he’d collected throughout his career were missing, just like Tony.

It was a hard, short-handed morning in the bakery basement of Sweet Minou. Flour dusted and creams splattered as the father-daughter pair raced to wrap up the usual morning chores that Tony was so deft at completing. It wasn’t just disappointment in a potential blow-off from their best worker, it was true concern for his well-being. Madaleine was posted on contact surveillance - no call or text had been answered yet, and Tony’s mother Cristina was frantically reaching out to the family to see if there were any clues. Maddy didn’t want to worry another mother, but this was peculiar enough behavior from Tony that it was unfortunately warranted.

“Still not a peep,” Madaleine reported around noon. She had been the main pastry conduit between the basement and the storefront all morning, and you knew things were serious when she wasn’t wearing even a low heel. For as hard-working as Madaleine was, she was really more at home at her desk or chatting with customers than doing the manual work.  She did have an eye for direction though, and knew when to jump in to steer a job to completion. She grabbed an apron and headed towards the dish pile in the sink. “And your sister’s here, she said you have an order for her?”

“Ah, Debra,” Leo said, with his first smile of the day. “Hey April, can you box up those hamantashen on that tray in the rack?” Hamantashen were a Jewish triangular cookie with jammy fillings that were eaten to celebrate Purim. Leo’s sister Debra had been raised Catholic like the rest of their brood of five siblings (Leo and four sisters), but Debra announced in her eighteenth year that she was called to the Jewish faith. She found a Reform synagogue that fit her just so, spent her serious time in conversion, and she never looked back.

That was the beauty of Debra -  she would take her time, make her firm and reasoned decision, and stick to it. While all of the Sokol siblings were tall, Debra especially had stature. She was athletic, and was smitten with any kind of sport. She wore t-shirts and flip-flops every day of the year she could. She bronzed easily, loved the sun, loved her community, and loved her son, Tommy Jr.

Tommy Jr. came along into Debra’s life like many things - mysteriously and resolutely. At age forty-two, twenty years ago, at Thanksgiving dinner, Debra announced to the very extended family table that she would be giving birth to a son. Eyes blinked and there was an uproar of celebration for Debra, which continued for quite awhile and then dwindled as the pressure built in the room for the first person to break the question: Who was the father?

Patty, Sokol sister number two, was married to a man who was comfortable enough to pop the bubble. No one had been aware that Debra was dating anyone. There had been glimpses through the years of an occasional suitor here and there, someone she had spent more time on the handball court with, a close friend from Temple she would invite to family gatherings. Could it be Joe? Ralph? David?

So as people began to chew again, Pete spoke up with the magic words: “So who’s the father?”

Debra kept chewing, unphased. She had apparently decided not to answer. And the family accepted, and moved on.

It wasn’t surprising then that after the momentous occasion when Tommy Jr. made his debut to the world, and Debra announced his name, Tommy Jr., that Pete was the first to ask: “So who is Tommy Sr.?”

Debra cuddled her son, and the family moved on.

April followed her dad’s instructions and carefully collected three dozen hamantaschen into a paper pastry box, and made her way up the stairs for their special delivery.

It was a bit of a wind-down time in the bakery after noon, when most people had gotten their breakfast and bread items and were digging into lunch elsewhere, although they would stop in after for coffee. April opened the door and saw Debra with her palms on the counter by the register, talking with Geoff about the upcoming baseball prospects for the year. April sidled up and slid the box in front of Debra.

“Oh sweetie, is that what I think it is?” She took the box and opened it to verify. “Mm, mm! Just perfect! Bringing these to our Temple potluck.” Debra did not like to cook. She closed the box and gave April a shoulder squeeze. “So I hear you’re short a wheel today?”

April frowned and acknowledged that Tony was missing.

“Well, you know, sometimes kids overdo it on the weekends…” April knew that Debra didn’t mean to excuse it, she mostly wanted April to not worry too much.

“Yeah, I feel bad for dad, too,” April said. “You can see how much Tony means to him, how much we rely on him.” April didn’t mention the peculiarities of the missing objects and Tony’s former drug habit. Had Tony gotten messed up in that again, was he in danger somewhere? She let those clouds pass in her mind and then smiled back at Debra, “I’m sure you’re right, though.”

Debra beamed back, her smile could really make things all better. “Well, a girl can’t live on cookies alone,” Debra patted her white box with the Sweet Minou stamp, “tell me what chocolates I need to indulge in while I’m here.” She walked toward the chocolate display and peered into the case at all the different shapes and textures. April had a rather natural philosophy to chocolate. She deeply admired other chocolatier’s talents with colorful cocoa butters and designs, but her main chocolate passion was in the variations of flavor in the cacao. To that end, her chocolates mostly ended up with a milky-to-dark brown palette, with variations of fruits and nuts she worked into the chocolate. There was nothing more beautiful to her than this subtle celebration of cacao.

April pointed out some of her favorites, in particular a dark mint chocolate with a melty center and a crisp dark chocolate shell she thought Debra would like, and Samia filled a box.

“We’ll see if any of these make it to Tommy Jr.,” Debra said with a wink, paid her bill, and was out the door again. Tommy Jr. still lived with his mom, and it wouldn’t have shocked the family if he always did.

As April stood at her chocolate case and contemplated the day, she remembered with a jolt - she was supposed to empty the melangeur of the Guatemalan chocolate that morning. The pastry rush had taken chocolate off the table that morning. She thanked Samia and Geoff for all their hard work and hustled out the door.

Both Leo and Madaleine were elbows-deep into the dishes when April returned, and to her surprise after a long day they were laughing - giggling, really. Actually, stress can turn deliriousness into hilarity, a fact that April knew first-hand in this long-day, small-business world. In any case, it was good to hear. She washed up and passed them by into the chocolate room, and directly stopped the machine so she could have a taste.

She plucked a clean spoon from the nearby holder, and dipped it into the warm, melted chocolate. She observed it, how much it dripped, how it smelled. This Guatemalan Cahabón chocolate tended to have a high cocoa butter content from the huge cocoa beans she used to make it, it flowed more easily than some of her other chocolates. There was a buzz of acidity to its scent, and a deep “purple” flavor - purple like grapes, dark cherries, red wine. April tasted and her tongue zinged with so much flavor. “Yes, this is done,” she said to herself. She did not want to run it too long and have it lose that zing. It was a fine line between refining it enough to make it enjoyable, and leaving it still a little wild and exciting. That was always April’s goal.

April turned off the top heater, delicately removed the temperature probes, and took it off. She prepared the pans to catch the chocolate and a sieve to strain any unrefined nib radicles (these would leave a tooth-cracking hard crunch in the chocolate). And then was the magical moment - the first pour. She tilted the melangeur and the chocolate inside started to flow slowly, slowly, then over the lip, flying downward into the sieve on the pan on the floor. 

This. Just something about this moment. She was really one with the chocolate now. It was a sensation that was hard to explain.

In this very real flow, April’s mind roved again over the events of the past day. Missing Tony, missing knives, mystery photograph she found the night before of the haunting young woman. She tried to rake her brain. She knew there was a word for that kind of photography. Something about the blue…she would ask her friend Theo later. He owned the comic book store down the street, Dark Night Comics, and he was a film aficionado.

April wrapped up the chocolate draining operation, and turned to the next exciting part of her work: creating new chocolates with it. There would be bars, of course, pure dark chocolate bars of the single-origin 70% cacao dark chocolate. This week she was particularly excited to work with a new shipment of hazelnuts from a small family farm in Oregon.

These hazelnuts were plump and fragrant, and April had already ground a small batch of gianduja with the Guatemalan cacao and the hazelnuts in their miniature melangeur they used to grind various gianduja (April’s favorite). Sometimes she used local pecans, sometimes peanuts, even sometimes coconut. If it was fatty April likely had tried to grind it into a form of “gianduja” - which was an Italian delicacy of toasted hazelnuts ground with chocolate into a soft, melty mouthful of heaven.

April turned the oven up again so she could roast more hazelnuts to make praliné for rochers. She had to admit that she did actually enjoy the kind of rochers most people buy at drug stores, but hers were a whole different kind of indulgence. With the dark chocolate, and this fruity Guatemalan dark chocolate, her chocolates had a hefty, surprising flavor. While she prepared the hazelnuts, she also prepared the chocolate in the tempering machine, so once the hazelnuts were roasted, and then stirred into the sugar she would cook on the stovetop into a glassy caramel, the chocolate would be tempered and ready to mix into the blitzed and cooled praliné paste.

April worked, stirred, melted, monitored, rubbed off the hazelnut skins, and prepared the paste. All of these little steps made something closer to magic. The chocolate churned in the tempering machine behind her, working its way to a point of snap and shine. She checked her watch. She could step away now and be back in time for tempered chocolate. She would have to be fairly quick about it, though.

April passed her parents again, who were now sitting at their table. They were whispering seriously now.

Drexel was a rather medium-sized town, or as April’s dad would say, a big small town. There were a variety of people, places, and creatures, but there was also space, rolling greenery, and air. Being on the Great Plains meant it was mostly flat, though, and summers could be stiflingly humid-hot, and winters fierce. Off in the distance outside the town there was an endless sunset horizon, but also lots of run-off from fertilized fields. This was a land of bounty and austerity - things would grow, but they were often farmed in monoculture. Even to the familiar eye the preserved prairie did not look varied, but inside it was thriving with symbiotic difference, dependence. That was where the beauty of this land was - in absorbing its subtleties amidst the obvious. In getting to know its tone.

April had lived abroad in France where she trained as a chocolatier, and she had to admit she did not miss home too much while she was gone. Not the dog-breath heat in summer, not the uneven storms and tornado warnings, not the simple squared buildings and sprawl. It was not the kind of place a person usually fantasized about, but once she returned, and settled back in, and let it unfurl naturally around her, she came to love it - or at least, respect it for nurturing her. She could live simply here, with her family and friends, and she was thankful for that. And here, away from it all, she could learn to forget about what she’d lost in France.

April removed her chocolate-work headscarf and chef’s coat, slipped her tattered jean jacket on, and headed up the stairs again - but this time, instead of rounding into the shop, she headed up to her apartment for the mystery picture, and then cut a straight line down the sidewalk, down a few blocks of brick buildings of varied height and window trims, and made her way to one particular little square of bricks - Dark Night Comics - in the cool, bright March daylight.

Theo Mackintosh had not owned the store very long, just a few years. In fact, he had started like his own sole employee, Julius (who was now in his twenties) had - as a kid with a side job in high school. Theo’s parents had had other plans for him which included dental or law school, and for a time he dabbled to please them, but he could only really focus his immense concentration on a few niche things. One happened to be comics. Another film stock. And another, tiny aquatic animals whose home he was tinkering with when April walked in the door that day.

The oddly heavy door creaked and slammed itself. “You really need to get a new door,” April mentioned casually to Theo who had not looked up from his miniature shrimp tank, even though the door’s bang included a clash of bells meant to alert them to a customer’s entrance. As years passed they really didn’t hear it anymore, and only occasionally, fleetingly, considered doing something about the door.

“If I did we might miss your stunning entrance,” Theo deadpanned as he carefully siphoned water out of the tank, still not looking up. It was a tricky operation with the tiny cherry shrimp babies zipping around, and Theo took it very seriously. Julius was nimbly filing through a box of books at the register and smiled at April as her eyes adjusted to the artificial light and dizzying array of splashy reading material covering every inch of the store.

“Hey April, haven’t seen you in awhile,” Julius paused and gave April a concerned look, “are you doing OK?” Maybe it was her untamed hair, maybe the bags under her eyes, or maybe she was giving off worry like a pheromone. Theo finally looked up from the tank. “Yeah you do look pretty bad,” he said, never one to pussyfoot, but both Julius’ and Theo’s concern were genuine.

Theo and Julius were good foils for each other. Theo was on the slim and slight side, with stark white skin and a great flop of dark hair. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a lot of nervous energy which he funneled into his passions and blew off with his smoking habit, and he only wore black, white, and gray clothing. He, like April, was in his thirties, and they had known each other peripherally through their youths by living and working in proximity. They had really become friends once April returned from France and moved into the apartment above the shop. She started frequenting the comic shop more and more, partly to learn more about comics to fill her free time, but mostly to chat with Theo who always had a tale or theory to tell and had a heart that really cared.

Julius, who was black, was younger and edgier with a gold nose stud and a tattoo of the Green Lantern John Stewart on his left biceps, and he wore a variety of muscle tees, some comic-themed, some simply colorful.  He rode his skateboard into work everyday like he had been doing for years. Julius was also an artist, and when he wasn’t sorting through inventory or helping customers or setting up for game nights, he would sketch at his front register perch.

“Gee, thanks, you sure know how to make a girl feel special,” she deflected, although she really did want to talk about it, but where to start? She reached into her purse and took out the old picture she had covered in one of the glassine candy bags they keep at the shop. “Theo, what do you think of this?” She held the picture up and he turned his focus onto it, took it from her and carefully turned it around in his hands.

“Cyanotype, late 1800s, early 1900s… ‘cyan’ for the blue, a similar process to making blueprints.” Theo stared at it awhile, his mind roving over some distant thoughts, and then snapped back, “where did you find this? Old relative?”

April took the photo back, and then passed it to Julius, who also keenly observed it.

“No, oddly I found it in the shop last night. I heard a terrible sound so I was worried it was my chocolate equipment. When I went down there, everything seemed normal, but I noticed this by the door.”

Julius handed it back to her, “interesting color, it gives it a ghostly feel, don’t you think?”

“Ghostly for sure,” said April, as she gazed at the girl’s eyes that stared back with a nearly-living force.

“You know, cyanotypes were a pretty cheap method for producing prints back in the day, and you can still make them,” Theo took another look at the photograph. “Even new ones have an old look to them, but I’m basically certain this is an antique.”

“Well that solves that mystery,” April took the photograph and slid it back into its makeshift sleeve, “next mystery is: how did it get into the workshop?” They all pondered a bit, and April knew it wasn’t a question with an answer, or at least, not one they could find right then. “Something else happened, though. Tony didn’t show up to work today, and my parents are super worried. It’s definitely not like him to do something like that without warning, but also, things have been…strange, lately…random things have been missing, and this morning it was all of my dad’s knife collection. Tony also seemed a little distant yesterday before this. I don’t know, I just have a bad feeling.”

There, the real reason for her visit. The photograph had led her there, but she needed to talk to someone about Tony, maybe they could help.

Julius shifted. “You know, I did see Tony last night, he was at the Saloon.”

April perked up. “Really? What happened? Did you talk to him? How did he seem?” Her mind started racing, grasping.

“Well, he wasn’t there alone. I saw him across the room, he was sitting at a booth with a guy, not Jason.” Jason was Tony’s recent ex. They had been in a relationship for the past two years, but recently they had cooled, and then split. Tony never said why, he tended to not like to talk too much about his personal life.

“He was with a guy? Who was he? How did he seem?” More terrible thoughts flashed in April’s mind - had Tony been harmed by this guy?

Julius leaned on the counter and squeezed his eyes closed to try to remember. “He was, they seemed… really serious. They weren’t smiling, it seemed more like a business meeting than a date. I saw them get up and leave together. I tried to wave but Tony didn’t notice, or wouldn’t notice.”

“What time?” April pressed.

“Oh, I’d say around 9pm, I hadn’t been there that long,” April watched as Julius ran through his memories of the evening.

The phone rang. Theo hustled over to pick it up, “Dark Night Comics, Theo speaking,” he answered. Nearly instantly his expression dampened. “No. No. No… I know… OK. Yes, I’m sorry. OK. I’ll do it tonight. No, I didn't forget. OK. Love you?”

April didn’t have to ask who it was. Theo’s girlfriend Sheila seemed to have magical powers of dejection over him. She didn’t know why they were still together - they both seemed to make each other miserable. Theo hung up, and they all tried to ignore another discouraging conversation. April was pretty sure she hadn’t heard an answer to Theo’s “Love you.”

April looked at the time. She’d have to get back to the shop to work on the rochers. “Well, thanks, guys, could you let me know if you hear anything from or about Tony? Oh and, looks like you could use some more chocolate bars,” said April, nodding toward the candy display at the register where they sold Sweet Minou chocolate bars next to Kit-Kat bars and Neccos. April stepped back out into the reality of the bright street, the door clanging shut in all its cacophonous glory. Dark Night really was its own world, and it felt so strange to leave it.

Part Five

April climbed the stairs to her cozy apartment and found Minou sleeping in a sun mote on the worn green velvet couch. The winter was still chilly, and the original steam radiator was hissing gently. Minou in this heaven of warmth didn’t make a move until he heard the refrigerator door creak: mealtime.

Once the prince had been fed, patted, and cooed at, April made her way over to the phone to see if she had any messages. It was Saturday after all, and sure enough the little red light was blinking. That would be Grandma Annette calling to make sure April hadn’t forgotten about picking her up for church in the morning, like April did every Sunday. It was their moment, and the Saturday reminder always turned into a nice chat. She pressed the button and waited for her grandma’s comforting, storied voice.

And then she kept waiting. There was only silence on the recording. She checked to see what the caller ID read: “wireless caller.” Probably a wrong number. Before she could delete the message, the phone rang - this time, the expected caller.

“Hi Grandma, it’s good to hear from you,” April said as she slipped off her shoes.

“Hello sweetheart. I’m just calling to make sure you can still pick me up tomorrow.” Grandma Annette was the sweetest little old Polish lady. Even though they did this each week since April’s grandfather had passed, Grandma Annette posed it as a request that could be denied at any moment. Of course it never would be.

“I am all set, I’ll be there at 6:30 on the dot” - Grandma Annette liked to attend the first service of the day. Luckily April was used to early mornings.

“Oh, wonderful, I’ll be looking forward to it. Will your father be joining us?”

April sat and stretched her legs out on the couch next to a newly curled-up Minou. “I’m not sure, Grandma. He had a rough day today. One of the workers didn’t show up to work. You might want to give him a call.” Leo sometimes joined and sometimes had to have a motorcycle morning on the one day the shop was closed. April was guessing this would be one of those mornings.

“Oh, that’s too bad. I hope things turned out fine anyway.”

“They did, it was a bit hectic. We’re really more worried for this guy. We haven’t heard from him yet.” Suddenly April wondered if there was any connection between the mystery caller and Tony. She would have to check his phone number in the saved contact on her cell phone.

“Well I’ll pray it all works itself out. What is this worker’s name?”

“Tony - he’s dad’s best pastry chef. And really a sweet guy.”

“Ah, Tony, yes I remember him. He’s always been so kind to an old woman like myself. And I never tasted babka as good as my mother’s until I had his!” Grandma Annette used to make it into the shop a lot more, now she had to spend most of her time resting in her assisted living apartment. The family spent their free time with her there, and on Sundays Grandma would join them at one of her five children’s houses for a long-afternoon home-cooked meal.

April and Grandma Annette chatted awhile before April said she had to get back to work and they hung up. Minou fed and happy: check. Pick-up with Grandma confirmed: check. April remembered that she wanted to see what Tony’s number was, so she dug her phone out of her purse and also caught a glimpse of the cyanotype photograph there. She gave it another look, and thought she’d have to give the girl a name. Henrietta. That sounded right. She swiped through her phone with one hand and held the photograph with the other - nope. Not Tony’s number. She went to her bedroom dresser and opened the top drawer where she kept her special things, and placed the photograph there.

“Goodbye, Henrietta,” April said as though she was tucking the photograph in for a rest. And then she paused before closing the drawer. There was another photograph she took out and looked at. One more recent. One taken in France. One of two people - one herself, and the other who no longer existed. She sighed.

“Goodbye, Nassim.”

It’s not that there wasn’t much to do in Drexel. It was a medium-sized town, and had its own variety and sprawl. But it wasn’t like a big city with a full card-deck of choices for a thirty-something woman to choose from on any odd Saturday. So what might she choose in Drexel?

There was the old Saloon, of course, the most magnetic gathering place of all sorts of Drexel folk over the age of twenty-one. Otherwise you might go for the bowling alley if you were feeling a little competitive and goofy, or the cavernous country bar, Dosey-Does, if you were in the peculiar mood for a line dance and a mechanical bull ride. There was the keno bar where you might slip anonymously into a dark corner with your $8.99 prime rib and potato dinner and rum and Coke, or Club Sensación, if you felt the itch for a sultry cumbia.

That particular Saturday night April had made plans to hit the town with her best friend, Cara Bechard. Cara owned Drexel’s classiest (and only) lingerie shop - The Velvet Rope - nestled right next to Sweet Minou. Maybe it was from her time in France, but April always thought chocolates and lingerie were meant to be together, however sagely Cara might disagree based on her concern for her fine fabrics. But they both agreed that the two of them, April and Cara, were meant to be as well. April could become much too focused on her work, consumed in her own chocolate bubble, while Cara knew how to live life outside of the little brick shops. She was tattooed with experience and fearlessness, and she knew how to bring these things, which April wore on the inside, out into the world. April, on the other hand, was naturally more reserved, and knew when was finally the time to pull back - usually.

April finished up her rochers and tidied away her chocolate work that afternoon, and then went back home to meet Cara and get ready for the night. She was single, and it had been that way since she’d returned from France. It’s not that she hadn’t tried. There was Dan, the post-doctoral researcher who specialized in microbial water activity in rural areas - just passing through and onto his next project (and lady). There was Terrence the earnest poet, Bryce the twenty-five-year-old law student, and Boyd, the horny cook. There were all manner of connections out there, even in the little Drexel microcosm. The only problem was getting them to stick.

“…and that’s when I found out he was married,” April deadpanned for the second time that week, this time to Cara who was leafing through records to play as they primped and applied eyeliner. She picked one and set it to spin - Blondie’s Parallel Lines.

“Pfft, aren’t they all” Cara cynicized, “in one way or another…..” in perfect timing for the song. She picked Minou up and danced him around the living room.  “But,” she swayed, “I’m still a romantic at heart. If only I could find a gentleman like Minou.” She gave Minou a nuzzle and set him back down, and he scampered off, pleased with himself and also relieved to be free. Cara had had her share of tough loves. She looked at herself in the antique full-sized mirror on the closet door, smoothed her slim black dress, gave a toss to her tight black curls, and pulled on her leather jacket. She was ready to go and April still couldn’t decide on what to wear.

Cara plunged herself into the couch as she waited for April to pull herself together. “So, how’s your mom doing? Have her meds been figured out?”

“Oh, she’s doing better,” April shouted back to her from the cave of her clothing closet. “Still feeling a little weak, but the doctor said with her new prescription her anemia should get better little by little.”

“Good, I’ve got to admit I was seriously scared for her after her last fainting spell.”

“Oh, me too,” April agreed as she finally found it - the pink and blue floral dress she’d wear with her gray suede boots and jean jacket. “And you know how stubborn she is - she never lets anyone help.”

“Hm, sounds like someone else I know….” Cara nudged April who’d emerged from the closet dressed and good to go.

“Hey, I let others help…just not when it comes to my chocolate,” April smiled. Finally, one last mirror check, one more meal for Minou, and the two friends were back down the stairs onto the streets of Drexel.

It was a chilly March day in Drexel, and a chillier night awaited April and Cara as they clipped down Randolph street and turned onto Maywood. It was just after 7PM and they were headed towards the Drexelians’ preferred Saturday night gathering spot - following their noses to the source, the savory fried aroma of Hector’s puffy shell tacos.

Hector’s was Drexel’s longest-running restaurant, founded in 1966 by Hector and Concepción Ruiz, who had moved up from Texas five years before opening their restaurant. Hector’s Mexican Restaurant, with its original wooden paneling and wrought iron-lined amber windows, had stayed in the family, and the Ruiz’s granddaughter, Carmen, now owned and ran it, having overseen a major build-out to allow more of Drexel to elbow their way in on the weekends for margaritas and those craved tacos. 

There would be a wait, so the friends, fists jammed deep in their jacket pockets and shoulders hunched, huddled together as they inched their way in line closer to the doors. The sun had already set, and while it had been a clear and sunny day, a southern wind was creeping in, stringing dark, low clouds along with it.

“Hey hey,” Cara brought her voice down and raised her eyebrows, “don’t turn now, but I think I see your sexy DJ joining the line.”

April froze and then burned with the desire to turn around, “Fast Pat?”

“Fast Pat,” Cara mouthed back and waggled her eyebrows, and the two tore into giggles.

Fast Pat, better known to his mother as Patrick Borkenhagen, worked at Drexel Automotive by day, and made the ladies of Drexel swoon by night with his mellifluous voice on the local radio station, KMQT. Particularly April. She often found herself daydreaming of engaging in lengthy, prodding conversations with the sensitive mechanic who had a penchant for playing rockabilly.

They had often wondered at the name, Fast Pat. Pat didn’t speak or move particularly quickly. In fact, as far as April could see, each of his movements was imbued with sensual languor - every hair tousle, every cigarette lighter swipe. And the broody heartthrob rode a classic 1938 Speed Twin motorcycle like it was a stallion. Or was he the stallion? No matter, it all worked for Fast Pat.

“Maybe he and your dad could ride together,” Cara teased.

April blushed. “Did we find out if he’s single again?” Pat had an ever-on-again-off-again relationship with Lexie, the tiny dynamite hair stylist who worked at Shock Waves Salon.

“I don’t think so. Maybe he is out looking for the right lady to fill his sidecar tonight…”

They finally reached the entrance and made the warp from Nebraska late winter frost to sultry, spicy kitchen aroma.

Since Hector’s had been expanded five years ago, there were two distinct “eras” of the restaurant that split up after you made it through the original waiting area. “Historical” Hector’s was closer, dimmer, and more hidden with its tall booths and polished wooden fixtures. New Hector’s sprawled with bright light and the clatter of full tables packed in the mini-warehouse-sized room, which had a bar spanning one wall.  April and Cara preferred historical Hector’s, but on such a busy night it was unlikely they would be placed there.

It was their turn to be seated, and the server looked up from the computer, already spilling out his usual “Welcome to Hector’s…” when he registered who his audience was.

“Cara, April, I was wondering where you had been,” he checked his watch, “getting a late start tonight?” They usually tried to make it in early on Saturdays so they could get a good seat.

“Hi Emilio, we had some technical clothing difficulties,” Cara smiled at April.

“I can’t help it if my closet eats my clothes,” April rebuffed, “and is it just me, or does it seem even busier than usual?”

Emilio smiled back, professionally aware of how busy it was, “Yes, there’s some event going on at Dosey-Does - a dance-off or something.” April scanned the crowd and saw a greater-than-usual amount of cowboy hats, boots, and bolos.  “Are you ladies attending as well?”

April and Cara gave each other a look that went from saying “no way,” to “why not,” to “hell yes.”

“Thanks, Emilio, I think you just made our plans for us,” April said as he scanned his availability.

“Wonderful, wonderful… one of these days you must squeeze me into one of these plans,” he winked. Emilio was a vibrant twenty-year-old who had planned to move away to California after school and did, but wound up back home last year after a break-up and an empty bank account. He planned to make it back one day, but for now found stability at his parents’ business. He had business plans for himself, however. While his parents’ classic Mexican-American offerings had really resonated with the population of Drexel, in his time in California he had taken on vegan eating habits, and was presently pressing his mother to let him add new dishes to the menu. He also had a fancy for older women.

“Yeah…maybe in five years,” Cara poked back as Emilio led them to a cozy lamp-lit booth against a terra cotta colored wall in historical Hector’s.

“Patience,” Emilio vowed with a clenched hand over his heart, “is my deepest virtue. You ladies have a lovely evening - don’t break too many cowboy hearts tonight.” April and Cara bunched themselves into the booth, shedding jackets and placing purses, and assured Emilio they would be delicate, if it were merited.

Just as they were settling, April recognized and followed the smooth movements of Fast Pat as a server led him through their area. “Well, looks like Pat’s sidecar is filled tonight,” she reported to Cara as she watched Pat join his apparently former ex, Lexie, with a sizzling kiss.

“I give them a week,” Cara retorted without batting an eye, and they both resisted the urge to wager a bet on it.

As they perused the menu to fill time, a single chip flew through the air and crashed on their table. “What the…” April traced the chip’s trajectory to those memorable black spectacles that were trained directly on her. Theo Mackintosh, seated at a table just diagonal from them. He looked amused, but his dinner partner did not.

“Theo, stop being such a child, I can’t take you anywhere…sorry, ladies,” Sheila, Theo’s poorly matched girlfriend, managed to apologize for and berate him in the same sentence. Sheila worked as a financial advisor at the local Edward Jones, and from what April could tell, she didn’t stop advising when she went home.

April assured her there was no harm done. Cara, never one to leave a good dead-pan opportunity on the table, picked up the chip and ate it, “I was wondering when the chips would arrive. But, you can hold off on the salsa.”

Theo laughed, Sheila rolled her eyes, all was right with the world. Soon their server arrived and they placed their orders for tacos and margaritas, and then they waited. April noticed that Theo and Sheila were gathering their things up to go, and prepared to wave them a friendly good-bye. Theo, instead of heading for the doors like his partner, walked over to their table.

“Hey April, something that came to mind after we spoke this afternoon - that cyanotype. You know, they were used to make prints of negatives. They weren’t particularly expensive or fancy, and could be created easily enough. In fact, they were often used for proofs.” He watched April to gauge if any of this seemed important to her. She seemed engaged, so he continued. “Cyanotypes were the original ‘blueprint.’ So I was thinking, perhaps the print maker was A. an amateur photographer, B. a professional, and this was just a proof they made of their work, or C. an architect …”

“Ah, very interesting, thanks, Theo!” April appreciated the new food for thought, and Theo grinned back at her, lingering maybe a moment too long.

“No problem, let me know if you have any other questions, I could show you some other prints if you’re interested sometime.”

“Of course, I’ll see if I can do some more research about the mystery picture.”

“Theo!” Sheila bellowed near the entryway, and Theo, obeying, retreated.

“Interesting, very interesting,” Cara conjectured as she crunched another freshly-fried chip.

“Yeah, I’m kind of rooting for the architect option,” April mused, digging in as well.

“I wasn’t talking about the picture,” Cara nudged, as if she knew something April didn't. “I wonder what kind of prints Theo wants to show you…”

April finally got it, shook her head, and glanced over to witness Fast Pat and Lexie having an intimately tonguey “conversation.” She went for another chip.

Dosey-Does was a few blocks north and a few blocks east from Hector’s by way of Main Street, but the ladies took the winding route around the side of the hill that the downtown of Drexel sloped. This way they passed by now-empty industrial buildings that left deep silhouettes against a lighter night sky. Without any good streetlights to mark the way, it might have seemed menacing to anyone not acquainted with Drexel - and maybe it should have been - but the pair of friends had split this path so often that it seemed to lose its mystery. It was peaceful away from the little sidewalk scuffles, friendly and otherwise, that would be stirring up outside of the restaurants and bars right about that time, and they could feel something in the air - that transition from the lull of winter to the first bursts of spring. Still, they knew not to walk this way any later in the night. Drexel had its witching hour.

Cara kicked a rock and it scuttled down the deserted street. “Todd texted me today.”

April paused for a moment. Todd was Cara’s ex-boyfriend, and April would say her abusive ex-boyfriend. Not that he had ever lifted a finger against her that April knew of - but he knew just how to crush her strong, beautiful friend with three words, and he would. They had split about a few months ago under less-than-friendly circumstances after a three-year relationship full of passion and tears. April hoped he wasn’t trying to work his way back into Cara’s heart. “You waited this long to tell me? What does that loser want?” She made sure her perspective was clear.

Cara seemed to be collecting her thoughts, she kicked another rock. “He said he had something to talk to me about.”

“Did he say what?”

“No, just that he thought it would be good to meet up again sometime.”

April exhaled, “Doesn’t sound too good to me. What do you think about it?”

Another rock. “I don’t know. I mean, I know. But, I don’t know.” This time Cara launched another rock into the air and it clanged into a metal dumpster and sent it ringing like a gong.

April put an arm around her friend. “Just know that I’m here for you. I’ll go anywhere and do anything you need me to. Although I  might draw the line at dead bodies - I just had my car cleaned.” They laughed, and April saw Cara wipe a tear from her cheek just as Dosey-Does came into view. Maybe it was all the talk about Todd and the bad memories, but April couldn’t shake the feeling that one of the shadows near an old abandoned grain elevator had moved. She tried to gently raise their pace. Perhaps the witching hour had already begun.

Part Six

April and Cara clattered their heels around stumbling drunk cowboys up to the red barn doors of Dosey-Does. There were few, if any, true cowboys that lived in Drexel anymore, but plenty of citizens liked to play them on the weekend. The country bar was also a favorite watering hole of the small town and farming folk of the surrounding county, and tonight, with the dance contest, the friends could see that the lasso had been cast even wider. So many young men and women in tight tees and denim jackets mixed with mustachioed men in crisp button-downs and thick blue jeans. Despite the chill, women generally were squeezed into cut-off jean shorts and skirts over candy-colored cowboy boots.

“At least you’ve got some denim on,” Cara whispered to April, “they’re gonna sniff me out.” April chuckled and looked Cara up and down - head to toe in slim and sexy black, she looked more likely to blend into a fancy French brasserie than a Country music barn dance.

She took Cara by the slender shoulders and demanded in a military tone, “do we know how to Boot Scoot Boogie, or don’t we?” They stared squarely at each other and thought back to the four-week community college line dance class they took last year, and spun out into giggles.

“We don’t!” Cara spluttered. “Or at least, you don’t. I think Old Man Lewis lost a toe after your big cowboy boot escapade.”

April remembered the offending incident. “I didn’t know how to choose the correct boot size, and anyway, I thought we agreed to never utter a word of that unfortunate event again,” she said in mock seriousness. “Nevertheless,” she held up a hand in solemn oath, “if you must, keep it in mind to remind yourself that there is at least one person with even less line dancing talent than yourself. Unless Old Man Lewis is here. Then there will be two.” She gave Cara a reassuring pat on her arm, “OK, ready, troops?”

Cara nodded, “Ready!” April reached for the worn brass handle and heaved the door open. The dull thump of music from inside was finally unleashed on them, and the air was thick with beer and decades of sweaty bodies swinging around the dance floor. In the darkness a bullfrog-looking man, perched heavy on a stool, motioned for their IDs. 

“Evening ladies,” he croaked, “that’ll be ten dollars each.”

They each paid in turn and held out their wrists for a brilliant green paper bracelet that seemed to glow like the neon signs hung around the walls that were the main light source for the dim building. As they entered they saw couples thumping their heels around the dull wooden dance floor to the right, corralled in by a railing spanning aged wooden beams that had been holding up the building for over one hundred years. In fact, Dosey-Does was originally a granary where surrounding farmers brought their seasonal grains to be milled, and decades later was cleared out, abandoned, and then eventually converted into the dance hall. Rumor had it the old mill was still gathering dust in one of the uninhabited stalls of the long building that ran from the entrance of Dosey-Does to the end of the block.

April and Cara followed the brick floor to the left of the dance floor to the polished acacia bar across the way. All red leather spinning stools were occupied with regulars and newcomers - flirting, staring at the sports screened across the bar, or nearly dozing. The dozing part seemed nearly impossible by the volume of the band playing on the stand at the south end of the dance floor, but it was 9:00PM and they had probably been numbing themselves in place since 5:00PM. 

April squeezed between a redheaded woman in a jean jacket bedazzled in red, white, and blue, and a dozing man in a cowboy hat who was holding his head up with the top of his beer bottle. She tried to get the server’s attention, but caught her own reflection in the mirror on the wall behind the neatly lined-up liquor bottles. Her hair had gotten puffy from the wind outside and the humidity inside. She attempted to smooth it down, when she felt someone’s eyes on her from the right side curve of the bar. She turned to see who it was, and noticed a tall stranger, about her age, with dark hair and olive skin in a blue and white stripe button-down long sleeve shirt. Their eyes locked and April felt a jolt somewhere deep inside her belly. For a moment she thought she knew this man, he looked so much like…

She blushed and turned away, but not before noticing a quick grin on the stranger’s lips.

“What can I getcha, sweetie?” Pam, Dosey-Does’ most seasoned bartender, leaned in to take April’s order, wiping down the bar in front of her with a rag in her boney hand. Pam’s perennially black hair covered the fact that she had worked at Dosey-Does since it opened in the 1980s. She wore thick kohl eyeliner and tank tops any season and seemed to wrinkle down a little more each year, but bar-keeping was what she knew.

“Hey Pam, could you get me two Ice Pick light blond ales?”

“Nice local choice there hon, coming right up.”

April was happy she’d been distracted from her memories triggered by The Stranger, but she couldn’t help turning back to see if his eyes still followed her. When she did, however, he was gone.

“That’ll be twelve even,” Pam said as she set April’s order in front of her. “Doing OK sweetie? You look like you just saw a ghost.” 

April shook herself back into the present, “I’m fine, Pam,” she assured her, thanked her for the beer and paid. Perhaps she had seen a ghost… She spun around to see where Cara had landed, and as she was scanning the room felt a gentle hand on her elbow. Feeling especially jumpy, she drew herself back to find it wasn’t The Stranger, but her longtime friend Jimmy Marchant. April wasn’t at all surprised to see him at Dosey-Doe’s, since he worked sound for all the events there and elsewhere, but he did look out of place in his worn white t-shirt and sweatpants. Jimmy was always behind the scenes, making everything work - here, at the local radio station, at the town movie theater. He didn’t need to stand out, and he preferred it that way. 

“Sorry April,” he spoke deeply near her ear, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Jimmy!” April exclaimed, truly happy to see her friend, “you didn’t. I just had something on my mind. Have you seen Cara? Seems I’ve lost her.”

Jimmy shook his head no and in the same move swooped his sandy hair out of his blue eyes. He didn’t seem to pay much attention to his looks, but had a subtle appeal, April had to admit. “Haven’t seen her yet, but I’ll keep an eye out for her if you need. I guess I didn’t expect to see you two here tonight,” he grinned. It looked as though he’d been thinking they were out of place as well.  

“We had a wild hair,” April smiled and shrugged, her eyes drawn to the dance floor with all the synchronized bodies. Out of the crowd one person finally came into focus. Long, full black hair and sleek black dress. It couldn’t be –  was that her best friend swinging around to a Garth Brooks cover song with a man in a blue and white stripe shirt? She blinked to make sure. Yes, that was Cara, and that was The Stranger. 

Jimmy followed April’s eyes. “Looks like you found her,” he nudged, then joined her staring party. So The Stranger hadn’t been a figment of her imagination after all. The song ended and Cara bowed a goodbye to her peculiar dance partner, found April in the crowd and waved, then noticed Jimmy, and her face dropped. 

April hadn’t imagined that either. She looked to see if Jimmy had caught that reaction, and saw him staring at his scuffed white tennis shoes. She couldn’t tell if that was a blush on his face or the glow of one of the neons. 

“I better get back to mission control, the band is wrapping up and the DJ doesn’t know much of what he’s doing. Tell Cara I say Hi,” he excused himself and sneaked off just as Cara approached.

April held out a beer for her friend and didn’t know whether to ask first about The Stranger or whatever was going on with Jimmy. She glanced back at the dance floor and saw The Stranger had a new partner. Good. At least she knew where he was now. Just another Country music enthusiast, she hoped.

“Jimmy says Hi,” she offered, studying her friend for any further reaction. 

Cara took a swig of her beer. “Oh he does,” she said, and left it at that. 

“Yeah, he does,” said April, perplexed as ever but deciding to leave it there for now. “Anyway, what the heck, who is your dance partner? He about gave me a heart attack earlier. I thought he was Nassim.” 

“Nassim, your ex from France? Isn’t he…”

“Yes, he’s dead,” April admitted matter-of-factly.  She was used to feeling crazy about details related to Nassim, in fact she and Cara had never talked much about him. Cara knew they had lived together for a few years in Paris before the accident that sent April back to the States. Maybe April needed to talk about him now. Or maybe the hoedown dance off wasn’t the right place.

“Oakey-doke!,” the silver-haired DJ boomed during a rare pause in the music. “We’re heading into our main event. All registered couples come on down to the floor and take your spots. Give those boots a good tug and rub those belt buckles for good luck because we are just about to warm up way down yonder on the Chattahoochee…” he revved up just as Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” jolted the airwaves. April watched him grab one of the handles of his long mustache and stare at his screen, trying to figure out where he’d done wrong.

Since they weren’t registered dancers, the ladies took their drinks to a side table near the mechanical bull where the music wasn’t as loud. Maybe April could find out more from Cara there. 

“So who is this guy?” April questioned as she steadied herself up on the tall stool. “It was like you were there one minute and then you were gone.”

Cara frowned as she tried to remember the details. “It’s funny, it’s kind of a blur to me right now.”

April studied her. “You mean ten minutes ago is a blur to you? How many margaritas did we have at Hector’s?” She joked, but she noticed Cara seemed truly bothered. 

“I just…I remember standing by you as you went in to get Pam’s attention, then I was looking around the place, and then it felt like I was suddenly on the dance floor. I’m sorry, that sounds nuts.” She rubbed her forehead as though she was getting a headache.

April touched Cara’s other hand. “Cara, you will never sound nuts to me. I sound nuttier. I thought that guy was my deceased ex. Did he tell you his name, anything?” April tried to keep the worry out of her voice, but she felt there was something strange going on.

“No, we really didn’t talk.”

April nodded, “ I was impressed with your moves though. Are you sure you didn’t take Line Dancing II behind my back?”

“Would you have blamed me if I did so I wouldn’t have to be shamed by you again?” And they laughed. 

April took another swig. “Really though, what is going on with you and Jimmy? I saw your face when you saw him, and then he disappeared. I can’t tell if you’re in love or in hate.”

Cara’s face dropped again. Then she took a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…” 

“Well if it isn’t the Slut of the Year.” A rough voice came up from behind April.  She turned to see a tall, chunky man in a too-tight grey t-shirt with slicked dark hair and small, cruel eyes. Even in the dark April could tell his face was red from drinking. His puffy hand clutched a bottle of beer. 

He leaned toward their table, “giving a new meaning to Hoedown,” he quipped, held his head back and laughed, flecking spit in the air. 

Cara stared him down. “Real charming, Miller. Your parole officer must be so impressed with your progress.” Miller’s face went from evil mirth to rage in an instant.

“And you’re not going to do a thing about that, are you, sweetheart?” he leaned forward, menacing, and drank his beer. “Todd’s been asking about you, you know.” Cara didn’t move. “Wondering what you’re up to. Imagine running into you here. I just might have to let him know.” He reached into his back pocket and fumbled for his phone. 

“It’s none of your business, Miller,” Cara insisted, her voice a slightly higher pitch than usual. 

April cut in. “Why don’t you go on back to your table, Miller. We’ll all have a better evening that way.” 

“Excuse me, bitch, was I talking to you?” Miller stumbled back as he finally got a grasp of his phone. “I’m just gonna call my buddy and let him know his cheating, ugly-ass girlfriend is here.”

“Ex.”

“X what?” He squinted at his phone.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Cara jumped off her seat. She was a tiny woman, but Miller was already wobbling. April watched in disbelief as Cara lunged at Miller and pushed him over. Shock at being overpowered for once in his life washed over his face. April watched that rare glimpse of weakness as he tumbled back, and had that same feeling of slow motion she had that fateful day in France. She watched as Miller lost his footing and smacked the back of his head on one of those one-hundred-year-old beams. 

The music stopped and April could hear the crowd stomp and cheer. Someone must have won a round. She looked at Cara and saw her shaking, then saw Jimmy run up behind her, grab her, and let her fall bawling into his arms. April hated that she was going to be the one to help Miller, but he was a human being. She knelt down to check his breathing, screamed for help, and prayed that he would live, knowing, deep down, she hoped especially for her friend’s sake. Just then the Chattahouchee started up.

April and Cara never found out who won the dance competition that night. Thankfully Miller had come-to not long after being knocked out, pushed April off of him and stormed out, threatening all hell to break loose if anyone said a peep about this to his parole officer. 

“You haven’t seen the last of us, Bechard,” Miller had grumbled, rubbing the back of his head, and spit at her feet. He didn’t say who “us” was, but April had a feeling it included Todd. 

Before they left, Cara demanded to get a shot of tequila from the bar, which she did, and then she requested and downed two more. “Take it easy there, honey,” Pam gently urged her.