My first stop was Pastor Emory’s office. I wanted to thank him for his generosity, but his secretary reported he and his family were still down with the flu. I wrote him a note and included my cell phone number with a request for him to call when he felt better. I also scheduled my first counseling session for the following Monday. I’d dread the session every day until it happened.

My secrets lay buried, and there they’d stay.

I chained the bicycle to a bike stand outside Amy-Jo’s Café. A step under the green awning transported me back to the early twentieth century. I walked inside to the sound of a bell tinkling over the door. Tongue-and-groove hardwood floors and tin-and-wood ceilings reflected the original construction, a wall held antique kitchen utensils, and another wall exhibited framed depictions of what appeared to be historic Valleysburg. I asked if the owner was available.

A middle-aged woman with mango-colored hair, purple eye shadow, large-framed pink glasses, and ruby-red lipstick greeted me. I introduced myself.

“Honey, I’m Amy-Jo. Glad you stopped by so we could get acquainted. Can you come in at five thirty in the morning instead of six? One of the girls is down with the flu.”

“Must be going around. Pastor Emory and his family are fighting it.”

“Nasty stuff. Nothing bothers me.” She placed her hands on her ample hips. “Germs take one look at me and run screaming.”

“Thank you for this job opportunity.”

She smiled. “Nervous?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be. The past is behind you. You paid your debt and now you have another chance at life.”

I blinked back the wetness filling my eyes. “Just what I needed to hear. Do you have time to tell me what I’ll be doing?”

“You’ll handle the bakery counter. I’ll be here in the morning to guide you through your duties.”

“I grew up with my elbows in flour.”

“Tell you what, when I retired from my old job, I weighed 108 pounds. Every time I missed the fun, I’d either go to the shootin’ range or bake and eat. You’re too trim and pretty to make that mistake.” Amy-Jo walked to the glass bakery case and gestured at the pastry display. “This is a perfect fit for you.”

I bent to take in the pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, donuts, various pastries, and a gluten-free section. Oh, the hours I’d spent with my parents in their bakery. “If you need any help with the baking, I’m your gal.”

She laughed. “Best news I’ve heard since you agreed to come in early. I’m always looking for an extra hand and new recipes.”

“Most of mine are in my head, but I can write down my favorite ones I remember.” Dad had often talked about creating a cookbook, and I hoped he’d published one. “What else can you tell me?”

“The mornings are hectic with folks lined up for coffee and pastries before work and school. Around nine it slows down a bit. If I’m low on waitstaff, I may ask for your help. I provide two shirts, one to wear and an extra. You’re responsible to keep them clean.”