by Kelly Harms
“We still have a stollen,” the woman supplies.
“You do?” I’m not entirely sure what “stollen” means when it’s a noun.
“Sure, come on in.”
I follow her into the bakery, which smells overpoweringly of blooming yeast and vanilla, and look around at the empty racks and tidy back counters. Usually when I pass by someone is back there, kneading up a cloud of flour on the long metal table behind the cash register. Now the table is pristine.
“When do you make tomorrow’s bread?” I hear myself asking, as she wraps up a yellow braided loaf that is so shiny on top it seems to be made of plastic.
“Depends on the bread,” she says. “Most of it gets going tomorrow morning around four-thirty.”
“A.m.?” I ask, incredulous.
She grins, clearly used to this response. “Believe it.”
“If you hired me, I could do some of that early work for you,” I say, and then wonder if my eyes are going to turn around in my head and give myself a dirty look for saying such a thing. I mean, four thirty in the freaking morning? I have lost my mind.
But before I can backpedal, the baker tilts her head. “Do you know how to make bread? Good bread?”
“Yeah,” I say, too proud to shut up. “I do. Not as many kinds as you guys have. But I’m a fast learner. And I make, like, four loaves a day, so I get plenty of practice.”
She looks around the kitchen for a moment, like there’s someone she can consult about this. But the woman who was boxing the cake is gone, and so too, I realize, is the cake itself. Is Meredith one of her friends, I wonder, or is she just delivering it to the real buyer? Either way, there would have been no asking for work had I come in here claiming that cake as my own. And now that I’ve asked for a job, I realize how badly I want to work here.
“I’ll tell you what,” the baker is saying. “Why don’t you bring in your best loaf for me on Friday. We’ll have a taste, and if it’s a hit, then you’ve got yourself a job. I can’t pay you more than nine an hour,” she says with an apologetic shrug. “But it comes with all the bread you want.”
“Seriously? Four loaves a day, if I wanted?” If she says yes, I could work the job without affecting the shelter supplies at all. I gotta think that’s some kind of good sign in favor of working for a living.
She pauses. “If your bread’s that good, sure. Consider it your bonus.” Then, she adds, “But not the chocolate cherry loaf. That shit’s expensive.”
“It’s a deal!” I say. I drop a five on the counter and snatch up the paper bag of bread she’s readied for me, fighting the urge to stick my nose in and see if that light saffron smell is coming from the bread. “See you Friday.”
“Friday. Hey, I’m Kim, in case I’m in the back when you show up. But everyone calls me Honey. What’s your name?”
Without thinking, I blurt out, “Nean Brown.”
Just like that, I tell her the truth, without even trying.
JANEY
“An offer of a pudding is as good as a declaration of love.”
—DORIE GREENSPAN, Baking: From My Home to Yours
My date with Noah is tonight. I have prepared the following:
Cold melon soup with prosciutto croutons
Ceviche scallops on watercress
Maytag-stuffed pork chops with cherries and balsamic caramelized onions
Mashed potatoes with black truffles (thanks, Nean)
Wine-braised artichokes
Baked grape tomatoes
And then, in case he doesn’t eat pork, I whip up tuna crusted in herbs with smoked paprika grits from my Charlie Palmer book.
And fine, I will admit it, I also have a lobster risotto standing at the ready for emergencies.
For dessert I have toiled over the clafoutis, that beautiful gingham pudding of cherry and custard, and it does taste better warm, at least to me, under a scoop of homemade vanilla bean–flecked ice cream, which is hardening in the outside freezer right now. In my wildest imagination, though, we linger over dinner, lost in light conversation and bright red wine. Then, perhaps as we sip on the second bottle, we are overcome by passion and rush upstairs before dessert is even served, and wind up eating the clafoutis hours later and cold anyway, and neither of us cares a whit. The thought of it—and I don’t mean the dessert—makes my mouth water.
In the extremely low chance that things go even better than my fantasy, I’ve stocked the refrigerator with the makings of breakfast: smoked salmon and cream cheese and eggs and chives and fresh oranges for juicing. It is my nod to the power of positive thinking. Nean calls it my Fridge of Dreams.
In addition to the somewhat excessive cooking, I have spent hours upon hours in the wine store, trying to sort out what will make all these courses taste best without making it seem like I tried too hard. Which I did. Will he think it odd if I pour a different wine for each course? Or should I try to find one perfect wine that tastes great with artichokes and cherries both? The men at the wine store squint at me when I ask them what to serve with pork, lobster, scallops, and tuna at the same time. After a bit of private discussion, they suggest “something white.” The exercise is exhausting.
Add to all this that I’m extraordinarily nervous. Tonight will either make or break this thing going on between Noah and me—this is my one shot at making it happen. If he doesn’t like the food and we don’t have fun, there’s no hope for me. I will never, no not ever, be able to screw my courage up again and start over. And even if I did, which I wouldn’t, I would not find another Noah. Noah is unusual in one thousand ways, not least of all being that he talks to me.
Everything is at stake tonight. Jittery, I repeatedly shoo away Nean, who is walking around in a haze anyway, and Aunt Midge, who is determined to make me nuts by draping various accessories around my neck, walking back a few steps, staring at me, then shaking her head and taking back the necklace or scarf or shawl or, in one instance, cloche hat and starting over. I set the table six times, until I feel it’s appropriately nonchalant. I change clothes again. Now I am wearing a lapis-colored trapeze dress with big thick straps and a loose waist that makes me feel sort of naked underneath. When I come downstairs I get catcalls from the peanut gallery, so I stick with it.
Seconds before Noah is expected, the phone starts ringing. I go into full panic. What if he’s canceling? What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s been hurt, or gotten sick? I fall on the phone like it’s a bomb I have to diffuse, and yell “HELLO?” into the receiver.
There’s a long pause. Maybe he’s been in a car accident and he’s managed to call me just before passing out. Or bleeding out? “NOAH?”
“Who? No, this is Meghan Mukoywski. Executive producer at the Home Sweet Home Network. Could I speak with Janine Brown, please?”
Oh my Lord I have lost my mind. I sit down at the kitchen island with a gasp of relief. “This is Janine,” I say on an exhale.
There’s a pause. “Is this a good time?”
I look over at the counters. They are groaning with food. I’ve never tried to make so much food for an actual person before, and I am glad for the challenge. It gives me something to concentrate on. Something I can control.
“Sure it is,” I say distractedly. Should I plate the scallops now, or keep them cold until the last moment?
“You sound different,” she says, confusing me for a moment, until I realize, I’m not stuttering into the phone. Not even a little. This is amazing! I can’t wait to tell Noah. “I’m just calling to check in, see how things are going. You’ve been in the house for almost three months. I’m thinking by now you must be mostly settled in.”
“What? Oh, yes. Yes, we’re all unpacked.” I look at the clock. He’s supposed to be here any minute now. I should probably get her off the phone.
“You are? Terrific. In that case, this is probably a great time for us to send some cameramen over to film.”
I wrinkle my forehead. What? Why would she do that? “I’m sorry?”
“For the montage? Remember, we talked about it on the night of the sweepstakes. Nothing fancy. We’re just going to get some shots of you walking through the house. Showing it off.”
I tip my head back and remember that evening. Can it really have only been three months since my life changed so drastically? “I’m sorry, Ms. Mukoywski, I completely forgot about all that. Can we, uh, schedule it for September?”
She ignores me. “Let’s say Friday. Morning or afternoon?”
Somewhere in the dull recesses of my brain a voice protests. “That’s … tomorrow…”
The producer laughs, uncomfortably. “I know, I know, I wish I could give you more notice. The thing is, we’ve got a freelance guy we use in Maine, and he’s only free on Friday. Something about football season … CBS Sports? Ugh. I hate freelancers. But you don’t mind, do you?”
I am about to say that I do mind, adamantly, when the doorbell rings. My panic rises. This is a date. This is not a drill. I look around. Aunt Midge is waving at me and pointing up the stairs, and Nean is scooting out the door for her date with J.J. Right this minute Noah is standing at the door waiting for me and only me.
“I’ve got to go,” I say into the phone.
“You’ll be home tomorrow then?” I hear Meghan ask as I hang the phone up. I don’t answer. I can call her first thing tomorrow and cancel, I tell myself as I rush to the door. The house will be a mess anyway. Or maybe he can just do exterior shots? It will work itself out.
By the time I throw open the door I’ve forgotten the conversation entirely.
“Hi!” I shout a little frighteningly. Noah is standing there, and he’s clearly dressed up for this, and he looks good. His jeans are cleaner than usual, and he’s wearing a buttoned-up checked shirt instead of his usual plain blue one open over a tee. Of course, the shirt is rolled up to his elbows, so he still looks ready at any time to mulch out a raised bed, but still. I am flattered. And excited.
“Hi,” he says, and steps inside. “I think this is my first time inside your house.”
I lean in for a hello kiss but he is already walking through the entryway into the big living room. When I catch up with him he’s running a hand along the rock of the massive fireplace in the center of the room. “Wow,” he says. “This is pretty posh.”
“Yes,” I say, already feeling like the evening is out of my control. “Would you like a tour?”
He looks at me, almost as if he is noticing me for the first time. I know that this house, with all its fancy detail and grand décor, might have that effect on guests, but I feel hurt all the same. “Sure,” he says.
I wave my arms around me. “This is the big living area,” I say unnecessarily. “It’s called the great room on the contest website. And over there is the door to the pool where Aunt Midge swims.” He walks to the sliding glass door and peers out at the endless pool, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that she’s not out there swimming in the buff right now. “And this long room on the back of the house is the three-seasons room. It has a really nice view.” I guide him out there and gesture at the round glass table set for two. “I thought we might eat dinner out here, since it’s such an exquisite evening.” Such an exquisite evening? Who says that?
“Looks nice,” says Noah, noncommittally. Doesn’t he like it? I wonder. Should I have set the dining room table instead?
“And this door goes into the dining room, and then the kitchen.” I hold my breath as we walk through to my glorious, heavenly, palace of a kitchen. Will he see how perfect it is? Will he even care?
“Wow,” he says again. “This is really something.” It doesn’t sound like a compliment. He beelines right for the fridge and points accusingly at the television screen set into the door. “What is this for?”
I feel instantly foolish. “Um, well.” I love that fridge. It is my third best friend after Nean and Aunt Midge. But I sell it out in a heartbeat. “It just came with the house. Crazy, right? A TV in the refrigerator?”
Noah shakes his head. “Some people will buy anything.” My heart breaks a little.
“But you can watch cooking shows on it, which is kind of nice,” I say, just in case the fridge can hear me. “It’s just a fun little perk, that’s all.”
“Hm,” he says, and my spirits sink a bit lower. “Whoa.” Now he has turned toward the island, where all the platters of food sit waiting for finishing touches or heat. He turns and sees all six burners in service, the lights of both ovens on. “Who else is coming over?” he asks.
I purse my lips. “Just us.” My stomach churns. “I wasn’t sure what you would be hungry for.” I feel like an enormous idiot. I should have never let him into my kitchen. Desperate, I grab the two glasses of wine I’ve been letting breathe on the buffet and foist one at him. “Cheers!” I say, hearing the mania in my own voice.
He sets it down like it is a dead rat. “Janey, I don’t drink. I thought you knew that.”
“You don’t?” How would I have known that? We’ve only ever been together during lunches.
“No.” He crosses his arms, defensively. For the first time I notice that he is in a horrible mood. Did I do something wrong?
“But I picked this out especially for you. It’s a Hudson River Valley wine, from near where you used to have your farm!”
He shakes his head. “Thanks, I guess.” He looks downright offended. Have I scared him off with all my cooking and planning? But I thought he liked my cooking. Have I totally misread the signs?
My face falls. “It’s no big deal,” I lie, wishing I could shut myself up. I take a big swig of my own glass. “I just thought you would recognize the terroir,” I add, my voice trailing off when I hear how stupid this sounds.
For a while, I stand there silent, feeling moronic. Did I really just use the word “terroir” in a sentence? I play the word over and over again in my head, all the while thinking of the four bottles of wine that are breathing on the buffet a few feet away from us. He’s going to think I have a drinking problem. But who doesn’t have wine with dinner? Only alcoholics, right? Is he an alcoholic?
He clears his throat, bringing me back to this awkward moment. “Let’s eat,” I say, because where my witty conversation fails me, my food might come to the rescue. “Have a seat out there and I’ll get the soup ready to roll. You like cantaloupe, right?”
“Sure,” he says, and smiles at me for the first time since he’s walked into the house. The smile, that perfectly familiar crooked grin, gives me refuge enough to touch him on the back gently, pushing him toward the back room and the romantic table for two that’s waiting out there.
“I’ll meet you out there in two shakes.” I open the fridge, stroking the television panel apologetically as I do, and pull out the chilled soup and the crème fraîche I infused with mint to dab on top. This, at least, I’ve done right. This he will like.
When I’ve plated the two bowls I carry them out to him and find him standing in the middle of the room, looking at the ocean view with a frown.
“What is it?” I ask, as I set down the soup bowls in their matching white chargers.
“Nothing,” he says, his face twisting a little as he sits down at the table. “It must be nice to live here, is all.”
“It is.” I nod emphatically. “Where is your place again?” I try to sound casual about this, but really I am desperate to know these details.
“Up in Little Pond,” he says, using the exact same tone he used when he told me he didn’t drink. It is the voice of a teenaged boy saying, “Duh.”
I try to draw him out, get him on familiar footing. “Close to the shelter?”
“Not far.” A silence falls. I watch him intently as he spoons up a mouthful of soup, tastes it. “Mmm,” he says, but none of his usual enthusiasm is there.
I smile wanly. “Tell me about your place,” I say, wondering if I added too much mint. “Does it have a view?”
“Not really.”
“So it’s inland.”
His ey
es cut back out to the ocean. I realize I’ve never seen him in a mood like this. “Right,” he finally says. “No place as nice as this,” he adds.
I think of Nean, of her great impatience with people who have money. Is that what Noah is feeling right now? Is that why he seems so grouchy?
“Winning a house like this is about as good as it gets,” I say, trying to remind him that I didn’t buy this place, that it fell into my lap. “I feel very lucky.”
“I can’t imagine what the property taxes are like.”
I recoil, not sure what to make of that. It seems like a crass thing to say. But then, I have heard that New Englanders are more open about affairs of money than we Iowans are. It would be hard not to be. Attempting to do as the Romans do, I answer him honestly.
“I’m planning to pay them with an inheritance I came into many years ago,” I say.
He snorts. “Some people have all the luck.”
I drop my spoon. I’ve had enough. “Excuse me? Luck? I would much prefer having the living man to the inheritance, thank you very much.” I’m so offended by his statement that I forget that I’ve never told him about Ned. When I realize that it’s the first time I’ve mentioned him to Noah, I feel nauseous.
He has the decency to look good and ashamed now. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m being a jerk.”
“Yes, you are,” I agree wholeheartedly. “You didn’t even say if you like the soup.”
He pulls the napkin out of his lap and stands. “I need to go.”
“What?” I think of the pork chops, stuffed and seared, finishing in a low slow oven right this moment. “Now?”
“I don’t think this was a good idea.” His voice is low and expressionless, but I can tell he’s not talking about the cantaloupe soup. He starts to back away from the table.
“Wait,” I stand up so fast my soup bowl clatters off the charger. “You can’t go. I made pork chops. I made mashed potatoes and braised artichokes. I baked a clafoutis.” I hear how desperate, how pathetic I sound, but I can’t seem to stop.
“There’s homemade ice cream in the freezer,” I shout after him, as he starts walking into the living room. “Noah!” He’s just walking away from me now, and I feel the tears start to build up in my eyes at the sight of him retreating. Tears of anger. “Do you know how long it takes to clean an artichoke?” I cry.