Free Stones for Bread by Christa Parrish

Cecelia earlier today, not quite four yet, his one arm sunburned because he hangs it out the window as he drives. It’s summer now, so he wears work boots with his socks pulled up nearly to his knees, shorts, a gray t-shirt with a logo on the chest so faded I wonder if it’s actually there. I won’t stare to find out. It’s the first day I’ve seen Seamus’s limbs uncovered, his forearms surprisingly narrow, his calves bulgy, pumped full of Popeye’s spinach.
    “Business good today?” He asks this almost every afternoon.
    “A little slow.”
    “Just wait ’til that show rolls out.” Something akin to disappointment discolors his words.
    “We’ll see.”
    We stand watching his daughter, the bottoms of her pigtails matted with saliva from chewing them, spray water onto a chair and wipe it. “Every little spot,” Gretchen tells her, and Cecelia scrubs quicker and harder to finish before her, and they race to the next table and start again.
    Seamus rakes his top teeth through the hair on his chin. “Her last day of school is tomorrow.”
    “She told me.” I take a deep breath. “I can’t have her here all day. I’m sorry.”
    “Oh no. ’Course not,” he says. “I found her a place, at the Y. Gave us a scholarship, or whatever they call it so you don’t feel like a charity case. It’s just . . . look at her. You don’t know her outside of here, except when we were on the farm. The shy girl you saw there, that’s more what she’s like everywhere else, with everyone else. The Cecelia she is when she’s here . . . it’s the most like the one she was before Judy left. This is her magic place.”
    I know what he means. I am more me here than anywhere. So much so that when I’m outside the bakehouse I sometimes need to remind myself I’m something other than ether, that I can bump into passersby and be heard when I make comments aloud. Maybe I am only me here.
    I poured out my soul when decorating Wild Rise. The aqua-green wainscoting, treated to look worn and topped with peg molding head-high. Then the plaster walls, Van Gogh gold rising high to the metal pipes and ducts, original tin ceiling, all a deep eggplant color. Wooden floors, absolutely. Mismatched chairs, painted the same purple as the ceiling. My father came to the grand opening and couldn’t suppress his astonishment at my choice in colors. “It’s so bright,” he said. “Not you at all.” I muttered something about vibrancy being good for the stomach and tried not to be too hurt because, really, what else would he think. We had always been that quiet family. We didn’t shout—usually. No one gesticulated while talking or hung our emotions on the clothesline for all the neighbors to see. We never seemed overly excitable or sought out rugged adventures, or even had much fanfare at the holidays beyond a wreath on the door and a few paper hats. We wore dull clothes in dull colors, moths not butterflies. Those looking in on the McNamara family must have thought us as wan as over-watered chicken broth, without meat or noodle.
    So where did these colors come from? So deep I didn’t know I had them inside me until I left my beiges and yellows and twenty-seven shades of white sample chips in a pile at the Home Depot paint counter, carrying out my cans of color instead. But on my surface I still wear only brown and gray and denim and fatigue green.
    I don’t want to be noticed.
    Seamus gathers Cecelia, and they stand together at the counter to pick their loaf, a liturgy for them when he’s here before we pack away the extra. Most days they choose sandwich bread or a loaf of Italian if they plan on spaghetti for dinner. But today Wild Rise offers Cecelia’s favorite—chocolate sourdough. She won’t leave without it. Seamusknows this very well, but rituals must be played out, despite knowing the endings. “I’m not sure, Ceese. It all looks good. Too many choices.” She giggles, and he points to the Sweet Chèvre. “How about