HE NEXT WEEK, I ONCE AGAIN GET DRESSED UP to meet Matt DeSalvo to sign the papers. It’ll be good, I assure myself as I brush my hair. It’ll save the bakery. I’ll have a career as well as something for the alumni magazine. All good.

At last, the beautiful October weather has given way to November’s bleak promise. Daylight saving time makes November the harbinger of darkness, of cold winds whipping off the water, October’s golden light replaced by something harder and meaner. The sky is a thin, pale blue, the branches skeletal against the sky. Add to that the fact that my dad died in November, and the month just can’t win. Halloween came and went—I went to Nicky’s school for the Halloween parade—Ethan wasn’t there—and had coffee with my nephew and Parker afterward. On Saturday, Ash came over and we watched the Bourne trilogy and ate Ben & Jerry’s. I haven’t wanted to bake anything for a while now.

As I come into Bunny’s, Captain Bob is stealing looks at Mom, and Enid Crosby is pointing to hard rolls. “That one, Rose. No, not that one. Move over one. Yes, that one.” You’d think she was choosing a child from an orphanage. “I hear you’re selling the bakery,” she says to me.

“No, we’re not,” I correct gently. “Our bread will be sold statewide, that’s all. Bunny’s will stay Bunny’s.” Alas. I suppress a sigh, looking at the paltry array of goodies in the case. God knows how many times they’ve been in and out of the freezer. Some of them are probably older than I am. Mrs. Crosby hands me a five, and I make change.

“Hello, ladies,” Matt says, coming in the front door. “What a great day this is for NatureMade.” He smiles broadly, a dimple showing in his cheek.

“Come in back,” my mother says grandly. “We have champagne.”

“It’s eleven o’clock, Mom,” I say.

“So?” She winks.

“Out you go, people,” Iris booms. “Come back later. We have business to do here. Out with you.” She herds our two entire customers out the door, then flips the sign to Closed, and we all head to the kitchen. Jorge is there, too, and starts to head out the back door.

“Jorge, please stay, buddy,” I call. “This affects you, too.”

Matt lays out the contract on the wooden counter. I’ve read the dang thing a hundred times…there’s no downside. There just isn’t.

“I need all four of you to sign, since you’re all part owners,” Matt says, “right here—” he points “—and here…initials there, and finally, here.” He fishes a Cross pen from the pocket of his suit. “Iris, would you like to go first?” Nice, being that Iris is oldest and all that.

My aunts and mother sign, Rose giggling as she can’t seem to find all the spots to sign without Matt standing very close to her and pointing. I think she’s got a crush. Matt seems to read my mind and tosses me a wink.

Low Risk of Early Death. Matt seems healthy. He does have to travel, but it’s all fairly local. Also, he has a Volvo, and we all know that Volvos are basically tanks with slightly better gas mileage. Strong Fatherhood Potential. He likes kids. He said so, anyway. Good heart. Seems to. Not too good-looking. Well, Matt is pretty attractive. Not quite as gorgeous as Jimmy, and lacking Ethan’s naughty appeal (my brain jumps away from the thought of that), but attractive nonetheless. Steady, recession-proof job. I guess so. He’s been with the company for nine years. Nice to my family. Check. Not-too-good sense of humor. Seems like another check mark.

“Lucy? Your turn,” Mom says, jolting me out of my daze. I look up at their expectant faces, glance back at Jorge, who raises an eyebrow.

“Right.” I take the pen, look at the contract. Bunny’s three majority owners have all signed their full names and the titles they gave themselves years ago. Iris Black Sandor, Chief Executive Officer. Rose Black Thompson, President. Daisy Black Lang, Manager-at-Large. All that’s left is me.

Lucy Lang Mirabelli. Bread baker.

The image of a patisserie flashes across my mind like heat lightning…the tarts I’d like to bake, the cakes and pastries and pies. All the desserts I’ve taught in class or made for Ethan over the years—zabaglione, raisin bread pudding, crème brûlée. And in their place, bread. Loaves and loaves and years and years of bread.

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting the pen down. “I…I don’t want to do this.” Matt’s usually genial expression turns to a frown. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be a pastry chef.” I look at the Black Widows. “I want to do more,” I say, my voice shaking. “I want to own a café with the best pastries and cookies and cakes around. I don’t want to be run out of business by Starbucks, and I don’t want to bake bread for the rest of my life. I’ll give you all my recipes, but I…I quit.”

AFTER HALF AN HOUR OF FROWNING, rereading the contract and finally deciding that he has to run this by corporate, Matt DeSalvo leaves, disappointed and even a bit reproachful.

“Well, there goes the future!” Iris barks as the door closes behind him.

“I’ll give you the recipes,” I repeat for the fifth time.

“Oh, hush, you! You can’t quit! That’s ridiculous!” she returns.

Rose is sobbing into a hankie, and my mother just stares at me like I’m a hair in her salad. “I’m taking a walk,” I announce.

“Fine! Shoo! Out with you!” Iris says, waving her hands. “What a mess. I don’t believe this!”

I grab my coat and head out the back, then feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.

“Hey, Jorge,” I say. “Sorry.” The idea of not working with Jorge brings a lump to my throat.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me. Really looks. Wrinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes, and the light gleams off his bald head. His eyes are dark, almost black. I feel my own eyes sting. Then Jorge nods once, slowly and gravely, and gives my shoulders a hard squeeze.

I put my arms around him and hug him hard. “Thank you,” I whisper, then go out into the brisk air.

Twenty minutes later I find myself at the playground. I sit on a swing, the kind with the rubber seat that squashes you in tight. I’ve really screwed the pooch, as the saying goes. I don’t have a job. I won’t have any structure to my days. I have no game plan. I won’t be surrounded by the Black Widows, and however they may have driven me nuts over the years, I love them with all my heart.

I’ve done the right thing nonetheless. I can’t bake bread anymore. I just can’t.

When my hands are practically frozen to the metal chains of the swing, I pry them open, stand up and head back, all the way around the cemetery, to face the music.

The music is not what I think. “Get in here, you,” Iris says, dragging me over to the table. “Such a drama queen, flouncing out the door like that!”

“I didn’t flounce,” I reply.

“Your hands are so cold!” Rose exclaims, patting me. “Last week, seventy degrees. This week, winter.”

“Lucy, we completely respect your decision not to bake bread anymore,” Mom says formally.

“Even if you’re the best bread maker around,” Iris mutters.

“But here’s the thing. You can’t leave Bunny’s,” Mom continues.

“Of course you can’t,” Rose seconds.

“Well, actually, I—” I attempt.

“Hush, you! We’re talking!” Iris says.

“Lucy, we’d like to compromise,” Mom says.

I open my mouth, shut it, then open it again. “I didn’t think we did that in this family,” I say.

“Oh, you. So fresh.” My mother rolls her eyes. “We’ll make a deal. Stay and train the bread person—we just asked Jorge if he wanted to do it, and he said no.”

“Jorge speaks now?” I ask, looking around. He waves to me and grins, in the background as ever.

“No, smart-ass,” my mother continues. “He made himself clear anyway. So hire a bread baker, and we’ll expand. You know we own Zippy’s—” the failing sports memorabilia store adjacent to Bunny’s “—and we can just kick him out in December when the lease is up. He’ll be grateful. Then you can have your café over there.”

My body breaks into goose bumps. “Are you serious?” I breathe.

“With your fancy-shmancy pastries,” Iris grumbles.

“You could sell hot chocolate,” Rose suggests hopefully. “We could steal Starbucks’s recipe.”

“No, we can’t,” I say. “Really? Are you serious? You’ll do this for me?”

“You’re a part owner of this place,” Mom says, looking pointedly at her sisters. “It’s time for a change.”

BACK AT MY APARTMENT A FEW HOURS later, when the Black Widows and I have nailed down a tentative plan, I call Matt DeSalvo and apologize again. “I’m so sorry about this,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to drive you crazy, I promise.”

“Oh, I know,” he says. He pauses a minute or two. “All right, I think we can work it out. I’m glad. Sounds like you’re really happy with the decision, Lucy.”

“Thanks, Matt. I am,” I say. Fat Mikey begins clawing the back of my couch, signaling his displeasure with my lack of worshipfulness. I rub his nose with my index finger, and he forgives me, emitting his rusty, diesel engine purr. “I hope I didn’t completely screw up your day,” I tell Matt.

“Not at all. You’re a challenge, that’s all.” He seems to realize that sounds less than flattering. “I meant, getting your bread is a challenge. Well worth it, though.”

My eyes find the wedding picture on the wall: Jimmy and me, laughing. So happy. So long ago.

“Matt,” I say slowly. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”