“Definitely not a Victoria Sandwich.”

Dev jolted, causing the precarious stack of boxes between his arms to wobble. Thankfully, he kept from toppling over—that’d’ve been a nice sight for his new neighbors. It was just like him to draw the locals’ attention on his first day in the village.

He shifted, straightened the stack, then turned to meet the eyes of the speaker—a man not much younger than the Titanic, by the looks of him. In fact, he looked exactly how Dev might’ve pictured an Appledore local. White-haired and tweed-capped, a bit bent with age, but dressed in his Sunday best: slacks, jumper, jacket. He even had a maroon scarf wrapped around his neck. Home-knitted.

The only thing Dev found a bit out of sorts was the bike. And the basket on the back of it. The old codger had hiked the rusty thing against Dev’s garden wall just so he could gawk over the stone at him.

“Startled you, did I?” the old man asked. He grinned with all of his teeth. “Didn’t mean to. Just figured you’re not a Victoria Sandwich, so thought I’d say so. You like jams all right, but no, no, the Queen is too simple for your tongue, kiddie, that I’m sure of.”  

“Uh,” Dev squinted at him through his glasses, “Sorry, but I’ve no clue what you’re on about.” He nodded toward his cottage door. “And I’m—”

“You a Londoner?” the old man asked.

Dev shifted again, trying to get a better grip.

“Yes,” he said. “Listen, I’m a bit busy at the mo—”

“Not a Madeira either,” the old man said, nosing at the air. As if he was trying to sniff something of Dev out. “Well, I’ll suss it out, don’t you fret. Got to have a good bake when you’re new to the village, it’s only right. I’ll pass along word about them boxes, too. See you in the morn, then.”

He tipped his hat, grinned again, then wrestled his bike from the creeping ivy on Dev’s garden wall before bustling down the road without another word.

~*~

 

The old man was true to his word.

Rapping. Loudly. On his door. At seven in the morning.

On a Monday.

“Oi, d’you know what t—”

Dev only managed to open his front door halfway when the man’s face swam in front of his bleary eyes.

Where’d he put his glasses? This new house had him all sideways.

“You’ve a right to your disappointment, Dev, is it? Ol’ Maggie told me your name, town gossips are dead useful, I don’t care what anyone says, and Maggie is as sweet as they come. I must confess, I’ve not got your bake yet, I’m still weighing the choices—given me a whack of trouble, to be right truthful, only other time I’ve had to think on a bake this much was with little Ruby Mahlangu, good girl, that one, did she pop by yesterday? I told her you might need help unpacking, but never mind, never mind, I’m blithering away now.”

Dev blinked. The man was still standing there. Talking.

“Couldn’t offer me a cuppa now could you?” The old man poked his nose into the half-open doorway. “Coffee sounds splendid.”

Dev didn’t reply. The word coffee caught in his ears, lighting up the animal part of his brain. He managed a grunt, then gestured for the old man to follow him before he shuffled back to the kitchen.

The man kept jabbering on while Dev worked. Finally, after thrusting a hot mug in front of him, he relented, taking a long, hearty sip. Dev followed suit, feeling the warmth fill him from head to toes. He wriggled his against the stone underfoot.

“Wife used to make a mean coffee,” the old man murmured. He smiled around the mug, looking fondly out at nothing over the rim. Dev’s eyes drifted toward his maroon scarf.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The old man waved the apology away. “No need for that, no need for that. I’m the one barging in on your morning in a new village, eh?” Something like shrewdness sparkled in his eye. “Sit, sit. Finish the cuppa and I’ll be on my way.”

Dev didn’t have it in him to disobey, so he obliged, taking the opposite chair.

“Neglected to mention, name’s George,” the old man said, setting down his mug. “George Potts, but folk call me Georgie, if you like.”

He stuck out his hand, and Dev took it.

“Dev.”

“Ol’ Maggie always knows,” George said, giving him a wrinkled little wink. “Young Londoner moved to Appledore makes village news. You’re not the first, but you’re one of few outside travelers on holiday.” He took another generous sip. “Maggie don’t know the right bake, though. That’s my job.”

Thankfully, half a coffee granted Dev enough coherency to get clarification. And a word in.

“I think I’ve missed something,” he said. “What do you mean, bake?”

George blinked back at him. As if the question was a strange one.

“A bake, Dev, a bake! Cake, pudding, pie, the like. That’s my gift—never missed a mark. I can tell exactly your favorite treat just by looking at you. Usually it’s a bit quicker, but like I said, I’m still stuck on you.” He frowned for a moment, but then his face lit back up. “Don’t fret, I’ll figure it.”

“Are you… do you own a bake shop, or something?” Dev asked. “Why bake something for a stranger?”

George chuckled. “Londoner, all right. Exchange of names, then drink,” he tapped his mug with two fingers, “next is bread to break together, eh? I bake something sweet to welcome all new villagers.” His smile flickered, just for a moment, but then it was back full force. “Gifts must be shared.”

He stood, leaving his mug standing alone on Dev’s mum’s old table.

“Be on my way, then, eh? Appreciate the cuppa and the conversation. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll have solved your mystery bake. Mysterious bake for a mysterious Londoner.” He tipped his hat again. “See you in the morn.”

~*~

 

Dev left London to get away from people. To breathe fresh, to see the sea. To mourn and move on.

But Appledore had gifted him a different kind of ghost in George Potts.

George popped by daily. The first two days stretched into a week, then two. Usually in the morning—it seemed George had a route he stuck to, for the most part, riding by on his old bicycle, bakes in his basket. Lovely bakes, by the looks of them: cakes and tarts and breads and buns, but even though George always came with a full basket and a hello, he also arrived with an apology, because he hadn’t figured Dev’s bake just yet.

Dev didn’t expect him to.

He did have stories of the other bakes, and Dev indulged him in them, because it was easier than returning to work—or worse, thinking of other things—and easier still to let the old man speak.

He’d carry two cups of coffee out to the garden wall, and George would explain the intricacies of Mrs. T’s Swiss Roll; the right way of proving Mr. Pennyworth’s fruitcake; the travesty of American-style biscuit, no matter how much the Fernsby child begged his mother to order them. Dev learned a lot and very little; for a man who’d called him mysterious, he still didn’t know much about George apart from his self-proclaimed love—and gift—for baking.

One morning, Dev managed to slip in a question while George drained the rest of his coffee.

“Why do you love baking so much?” he asked. “It’s not just the… I dunno, the chemistry, or whatever you’d call it, of it. You bake more than you can eat, but it’s so much, George. Do you ever get tired?”

George tapped his mug with two fingers, then handed it back to Dev over the garden wall.

“I like it because it’s mysterious, like you,” he said, “A bake is a puzzle, just like people. People are puzzles, Dev. Some are easier to figure than others, but they’re all worth knowing. And they all have a taste for something sweet.”

Dev didn’t know what to say to that. So he simply nodded, accepting the mug—but then George grasped his hand, gripping gently, but quite firm for his age.

“You’ve come here to see the sea, same as I did,” he murmured. “The same as I did for her, you’ve done for her, too.”

He let go as Dev’s heart seized up, scaling his chest to squeeze his throat with the sharp claws of grief, but surprisingly, no anger.

“See you, Dev, m’boy,” George said. “I think I’ve almost got it. Just one last piece to fit.”

~*~

 

The next morning, George didn’t come.

By half-past eight, Dev was worried. Today was the first time in nearly three weeks George hadn’t dropped by ungodly early, always with bicycle and bakes in tow, hinting for a cuppa.

By quarter to nine, he stopped himself from peeking through the front window for the umpteenth time. He distracted himself by putting the coffee on. No sense in waiting; George was probably busy with his deliveries—

Or running a bit late.

Or ill.

Or…

The thought trailed off, slipping away like sand through fingers — until the whirring sound of the coffee maker starting seemed to smack Dev right between the eyes, forcing him from his stupor.

Shaking his head, he grabbed a mug from the cupboard. Debated grabbing a second—

He put the lonely mug back, then made his way back to the front window.

One last peek.

Relief mingled with confusion when he peered out to find George’s bike, propped against his garden wall like always, but no George. And—

There was something else, sitting on top of the wall. A square-ish something.

Frowning, Dev made for the door, not bothering to slip shoes on over his woolen socks. The weather had been warm enough the past few weeks; with the sun peeking up over the horizon, it seemed Appledore was in for a lovely spring day.

Not quite yet, though. A bit of chill seeped into his skin once outside, but he paid it no mind, crossing his arms as he made his way to the garden wall in a few long strides.

Once he did, he stopped cold.

The square-ish something was a basket. Full of Chelsea buns.

His mum’s favorite.

Dev’s brain stuttered. He shivered, shook his head, rubbed his arms.

“Mad,” Dev muttered to himself. “Absolutely mad.”

He started to laugh; couldn’t help it.

The old codger finally solved it.

Dev’s face felt wet. His glasses were foggy, but he ignored it; for the first time in ages, he felt well and properly hungry. The buns were fresh; he could smell them, this close—fragrant, well-spiced, plenty of currants and orange zest. Perfect.

He reached for the basket—

“What d’you think you’re doin’?”

Dev jolted, jumping back nearly a foot. The question came from a woman rounding the corner—probably coming from the house up the road, or Mrs. T’s place, according to George.

“What?” he asked.

The woman frowned at him, and he couldn’t help noticing how pretty she was—petite, with golden brown skin, bright eyes, and a mane of curls. Even frowning, she had a sweet face. 

“Are you Dev?” she asked. A touch of her frown fell away as she looked him over.

“Uh, yes,” he said. He pointed at the basket with a knuckle. “Sorry, Miss? I think these are mine.”

She raised a brow. “You think?”

“Yeah,” Dev said, “Don’t ask me how he knew, but–”

“Georgie?” she interrupted him.

“Yes,” Dev said. “He’s been popping by. Daily. Said he’d—”

“Figure your perfect bake, yes, yes,” she interrupted him again, “I know about his gift.” She bit her lip. He tried not to focus too hard on that.

“Well, I’m quite sorry, Dev,” she said, “but I’m afraid these are mine.”

It was Dev’s turn to frown. He might’ve been more disappointed, but he couldn’t seem to muster it. It just… didn’t fit.

“Oh?” he asked. “Strange, that.”

“Strange? How so?” she asked. Her frown had gone completely now. Instead, a hint of a smile teased her lips.

Dev shrugged. “Strange that the perfect bake I was promised shows up on my garden wall, but somehow isn’t mine. And belongs to a beautiful girl instead.”

At that, she rolled her eyes, but she laughed, too. And he was quite certain he caught a little bloom cross her cheeks.

“You’re right,” she said, “it is rather strange, but I’ll be honest with you, Dev, I don’t know that it’s an accident.”

Dev raised a brow right back at her. “I’m all ears, Miss…?”

“Oh, it’s Ruby,” she said, “Ruby Mahlangu.” 

Dev nodded, smiling. “He mentioned you.”

Her own smile broke through, and it was as lovely as Dev expected it’d be. “Georgie is a sweetheart.”

“He called you little,” Dev said.

“You don’t think I fit the description?” she asked, chuckling.

Dev took a step closer toward the garden wall. He cleared it easily, but then, he was rather tall. Ruby, on the other hand… Well, the stone nearly came up to her chin.

“You definitely do,” Dev said, “just the way he described you, I assumed you were, you know—not an adult.”

“Yes, well, when we met, I wasn’t,” she said, still smiling, “And for Georgie, well, I’m still not. In some ways, at least.” She sighed, sounding wistful, but her smile stayed put.  “I work with Georgie, you see.”

“You do, do you?” Dev asked.

“Yes. At the bake shop. I’m an apprentice there, for Carol, the owner. Georgie started at the shop after his wife passed,” her smile faltered a little, “He retired up here and started helping at the shop. He loves it. Anyway, normally, he does our deliveries—he likes to get outside as much as he can, you know—but today, he insisted I do the deliveries and sent me off with these,” she said. She eyed the buns. “They’re my favorite. My gran used to make them. They were the first sweet she learned to make after immigrating to Britain.”

“Last piece of the puzzle, indeed,” Dev muttered.

“What?” Ruby asked.

Dev shook his head. “Nothing, nothing.” His smile softened—like warm butter before a bake. “Same for my mum, actually.”

“Oh,” Ruby said. She bit her lip again. “I see.”

“I think you’re right about it not being an accident,” Dev said. Ruby shrugged, but didn’t move to take the basket back. Encouraged, Dev took another step closer.

“Well, anyway,” he sighed dramatically, scratching at the back of his head. “Nice buns, those.” The words slipped out faster than his face could boil, but boil a bit it did.

Ruby grinned. “I suppose… I wouldn’t mind sharing them. After all, gifts should be shared.”

Dev grinned back. “Just made coffee.” He nodded to the front door. “Would you like to come in for a cuppa?”

Ruby nodded, grabbed the basket for them both, and followed him inside—for a coffee, conversation, and a perfect Chelsea bun.

In the village bakery, George smiled all morning.