I served coffee, tea and different flavored milk but no espresso drinks because my place was about baked goods, not coffee drinks and I wanted the hum of the place not to include the blast of steam every five seconds nor the look of it marred by a behemoth espresso machine. I also didn’t want my kids spending their time sweating over making lattes; I wanted them to spend their time selling cakes.

As Brock was dealing with a dead person and this, in my mind, required cake to expunge any residual mental unpleasantness, I headed to the stacks of flat-packed boxes (piled alternate blue and lavender, all with my Tessa’s Cakes logo stamped on top). I grabbed a six cupcake one, folded it, selected some treats for Brock then closed it and tied it with bakery string (again, two colors, blue on lavender, which was what I had, then there was lavender string for the blue boxes).

I held the box by the string, called my good-byes and headed outside and, after the warmth of my bakery, the arctic blast was a physical hit.

We were having a harsh winter, lots of cold, bursts of snow. It was after five, full-on dark and the air was crisp. As I disliked driving in snow, I checked the weather every morning with an obsession that was slightly scary (however, I never thought this, I only thought this after Brock told me he thought this but luckily he did it while chuckling) and today they said forty percent chance of snow flurries. Considering my snow-o-meter was finally tuned, I thought the air said more like a one hundred percent chance.

I got in my car, stowed the box and my purse and fired it up then pulled out my cell to call Martha to see if she was home for me to come by and hang for a quick glass of wine before heading to Brock’s but it rang as my finger hovered to slide it on.

It said “Cob Calling”.

My brows drew together.

Cob and I had exchanged phone numbers but he’d never phoned me. I’d, of course, seen him on occasion considering we’d just finished holiday season and, during it, he’d popped over to see his boys and give them presents.

And when I’d seen him I’d noted the obvious and that was that he was not looking good.

His treatments had started in earnest, his weight was dropping at an alarming rate, his eyes were sinking into his head and his skin appeared sallow. He did not complain and acted his usual self but the physical manifestations of the treatments were impossible to miss.

My heart skipped a beat; I took the call and put my phone to my ear.

“Hey Cob,”

“Sweetheart,” he replied and he sounded about five times worse than he looked the last time I saw him so my heart skipped another beat.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I had…” he stopped.

“Cob?” I called. “You there?” I asked when he didn’t say anything more.

“Honey, I had an accident. Jill brought me home and she and Laurie…” he paused.

“They’ve been doin’ so much, I can’t –”

Damn.

I quickly cut him off with, “Where do you live?”

“I wouldn’t ask, it’s just –”

“Cob, where do you live?”

He didn’t say anything until right before I opened my mouth to repeat my question.

“This shits me,” he whispered. “It shits me, Tess. So damned embarra –”

“Cob,” I broke in quietly, “honey, where do you live?”

He hesitated then gave me his address and I knew where it was.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I promised.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Hang tight,” I said, disconnected, tossed my phone on my purse, backed out and headed to Cob’s.

Cob lived in Baker Historical District, not far from where Brock used to live. Baker was a great ‘hood, a mishmash of houses, personality and most folks took care of their homes.

Cob’s was tiny with a chain link fence, an overabundance of tall trees planted close to the house which would, in summer, totally block out any light and a look that said he didn’t spend much time keeping up with the Joneses even when he wasn’t being treated for cancer.

I knocked on the door and entered when I heard him call weakly, “It’s open.”

And when I entered, I was assaulted immediately with the hideous smell of vomit.

Oh God.

Cob was on the couch, the TV on. I noticed at once he’d lost more weight, his eyes were more sunken in his head and his skin seemed to hang on his face. Even though he was reclining I could see his clothes were loose on him and there was a vomit bucket he’d missed on the floor beside him.

His eyes came to mine.

“I can’t… I can’t…” he shook his head. “I don’t have it in me to clean it up, sweetheart,”

he finished on a whisper.

“Of course not,” I whispered back, closed the door and rushed forward, dropping my bag on an armchair that made Brock’s old furniture look like it belonged in an interior design magazine. “I’ll get this sorted, don’t worry,” I said softly as I pulled off my coat and dropped it on the chair.

“It’s also…” he pressed his lips together, “I also couldn’t make it to the bathroom when I was lyin’ in bed.”

Great. More vomit.

I nodded, buried my distaste for my upcoming chore as well as the smell hanging in the house and smiled. “Okay, honey.”

Then I went to work, clearing his immediate space first and scrounging in the kitchen for a big bowl to give him just in case another wave came on. Then I set about dealing with the mess on the bedroom carpet. Then I realized that even with the cleanup, the smell lingered.

I needed to do something about that. The smell was making me sick and I wasn’t having chemotherapy.

I walked back to the living room and said, “Okay, cleanup done but I’m heading to the store to get some stuff to deal with this smell. Do you need anything else?”

He shook his head, “Laurie and Jill keep me pretty well stocked.”

I nodded but replied, “I’ll just go look. And, I know this doesn’t sound great right now but, if you can keep it down, you need dinner so we’ll get you set up when I get back.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

I studied him a second then, gently, I queried, “Cob, don’t they give you something for the nausea?”

His face shut down almost to stubborn but he was too weak to manage even that.