Dough or Die

by Winnie Archer

  “Santa Sofia was a lot smaller back then. Not many places to get away from life.” He grinned, remembering. “My friends and I, we used to climb up here, stare at the ocean, and philosophize as only teenagers can. We were going to save the world, you know?”

  I did know. Miguel and I had both been young idealistic teenagers once upon a time. Instead of wanting to save the world, though, we’d been ready to conquer it . . . together. That is, at least, until things fell apart for us.

  Ben’s voice turned a little melancholy as he philosophized. “There aren’t many places you can truly be alone, you know? If you find the right moment, you might get a little piece of the beach to yourself, but not usually. If you live alone—but that’s where you live, not necessarily where you can just think. Not enough people just think.”

  “That’s why people meditate,” I said. “You can get apps that take you through guided meditation, so you can think . . . or turn off your thinking, as the case may be.”

  Ben rolled his eyes, but not dismissively. It was more a that’s not for me motion. “I’m not into meditation, but . . . Christ. If only I’d remembered this place—if I’d had time and a place to think—a lot of things might have turned out differently.” He hiked up one leg, testing his weight on the bottom rung of the ladder. He hauled himself up onto the next rung, taking it slow.

  “Do you think it’s safe?” I asked, stretching my hand out as if I could catch him if the rungs gave way and he tumbled backward.

  He hung on to the vertical rails, moving his body to shake the ladder. It squeaked and rattled, but it stayed put. I thought he was going to keep climbing, but instead he dropped down, dug his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, knocked one free, and lit it. He looked longingly toward the roof.

  “Ben!” Sandra Mays’s shrill voice sounded loudly from behind us. I turned sharply, thinking she’d been lurking, but she wasn’t there.

  Ben frowned, his nostalgic moment interrupted.

  “Ben, where are you?” Sandra hollered again.

  He sighed and took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Over here,” he called.

  Her voice came at us loudly again. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

  This time the roll he gave with his eyes clearly conveyed frustration. He didn’t look like he appreciated being summoned by Sandra. “The diva beckons,” he muttered, his mouth twisted into a grimace. To her he didn’t respond.

  “Ben!” she said shrilly. More insistent. “Goddammit, come here.”

  He sighed, took another mighty drag off his cigarette, and stepped out of the flowerbed. “On my way,” he snapped, then followed with an annoyed, “Jesus.”

  He walked toward the corner. Slowly. And taking in as much of the nicotine as he possibly could before he dropped his cigarette, grinding it out like he had the first one. After a backward wave to Miguel and me, and a somewhat longing glance in the direction of the ladder he’d rediscovered, he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  Chapter 4

  O laya scheduled a special Bread for Life class the next day so the television crew could come back and finish their filming. She had gotten to Yeast of Eden at four thirty in the morning, as usual, then had spent the entire day baking and working in the front of the shop. By the time I showed up at three thirty in the afternoon, a half hour before everyone else was due to arrive, she looked dead tired. Or maybe it was more than that. Black circles ringed her eyes and her olive skin was unusually pale.

  The bread shop closed at four and, as usual, a line queued along the bakery cases. Maggie had been working for Olaya long enough to know how to work the counter. She was one of those students who had graduation credits piled up, which gave her three off-periods. She was the perfect employee and made the afternoon shifts run like clockwork. She worked through the customers one by one, quickly and efficiently.

  Olaya made her way to one of the bistro tables. She sat, folded her arms, and rested her forehead on them.

  I sat down opposite her. “Are you okay?”

  She lifted her head just enough to peer up at me with her glassy eyes. “I never get sick . . .”

  “But you are now,” I finished for her.

  She nodded, lowering her head again. Even her normally vibrant silver curls looked lackluster, as if whatever virus she had had seeped into the hair follicles.

  “I can run the class,” I said. “You should go home and rest.”

  “They are filming this afternoon. I have to be here.”

  “Not if you’re sick.” I didn’t want her to miss it, but she didn’t look like she’d be able to stand, let alone help with the class.

  The doors between the front of the bread shop and the kitchen swung open and Sandra Mays and Mack Hebron strolled in followed by Ben Nader and his camera. Ben wore the same cap he’d worn the day before, loose jeans, and a button-down. He dressed like a much younger man than he was. I kind of liked that about him. He lifted his chin in a subtle greeting as he passed us by, heading through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. The other tech guys were nowhere to be seen. Sandra was dressed down in a navy blouse and jeans, but her hair was styled exactly as it was every time she was on television. It was, I surmised, part of her brand. She would have fit in well in Texas, with the back-combing that gave her hair height on the crown and the curl that lightly flipped her hair up at her shoulders. Mack, on the other hand, looked completely natural, as if he didn’t give a single thought to what he wore or how his hair looked. I knew that wasn’t the case and his effortless look, especially the careless spikes of his hair, were all by design. He probably spent a fair amount of time in front of the mirror with his hair gel, but he pulled off the carefree look very well.

  He stood back, arms folded over his chest as Sandra waved jazz hands in the air, clearly ready to hold court. “Hello, hello, my darlings!”

  The people in line turned. A collective gasp rose up, before the eyes of a twenty-something woman buying a dozen croissants and two baguettes opened wide and she exclaimed, “You’re Sandra Mays!”

  Sandra smiled indulgently. “Guilty as charged.”

  The young woman dropped her bread on the counter, whipped her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, and hurried over to the reality TV star. “Can I get a selfie with you?”

  Sandra’s smile widened. It was clear that she lived for moments like this. “Abso-lute-ly.”

  They stood side by side. Sandra’s groupie held her phone in her outstretched hand. I held in a laugh. They were both well practiced at the art of the selfie. They each held their eyes open—no blinking! Sandra curved her lips into a sleek, practiced smile, while her biggest fan positioned her lips in what I was sure she thought was an alluring pucker. She pressed her thumb against the button on her screen, snapping several pictures before letting her face morph back into its normal expression. “Thanks,” she said, but she was looking at her phone rather than Sandra. Already posting her story on Instagram, no doubt.

  Which seemed fine with Sandra. She glided to the people who’d stayed in line but who were taking pictures with their phones or holding out pens and Yeast of Eden bread lists for her to sign autographs. She was in full star mode, even if her star still mostly shone over Santa Sofia and the surrounding areas. Mack was the real star, but nobody had noticed him yet. I snuck a look at him, half expecting him to be irritated at not being recognized, but his amused expression seemed to communicate the opposite. The guy didn’t look bothered at all by Sandra hogging the spotlight, which was interesting given their dynamic the last time they’d been together. Maybe they’d buried the hatchet, so to speak.

  The clock struck four—without any fanfare—and I flipped the sign hanging in the door from OPEN to CLOSED. Maggie finished up with the last of the customers, ushering them out, and then turned the lock on the door. It was unusual to have any bread left at the end of the day, but when there was, Olaya donated it to a food closet in town. Today, there were two baguettes, an olive loaf, and a handf
ul of plain croissants, all of which I’d pack up and drop off after filming.

  With the fans gone, Sandra turned to Olaya and me. “Ready to start taping?”

  “We are,” Olaya said as she stifled a cough.

  Sandra spun around, her mouth agape. She took a step backward. “Are you . . . sick?”

  The bags around Olaya’s eyes looked darker than they had a minute ago. She started to shake her head, but I stopped her by saying, “Yes. You are.” To Sandra, I said, “She is. Sick. Very.”

  Olaya listed to one side, unsteady on her feet. Sandra put more distance between them. Her eyes were wide with horror. Actual horror. “Do. Not. Come. Near. Me. I do not want sick germs. Do you hear me? I. Can. Not. Get. Sick.”

  Mack shook his head and shot Sandra a disgusted look. He hurried right up to Olaya and held her by the elbow. “Whoa there. Let’s get you to a chair.” He looked at me, his raised eyebrows asking where he should take her.

  I moved quickly behind the counter and held open the swinging door, stepping aside for him to pass through. Sandra stayed far, far behind, but Mack was right there, guiding Olaya, following me to her office. He deposited her in her chair. “I’ll get her some water,” he said. I waited until he was out of earshot before I spoke. “You are sick, Olaya. You need to go home.”

  “But the taping. The show.” Her voice was low and she closed her eyes as she spoke.

  “I can handle it tonight, but this place doesn’t run without you. You need rest.”

  Olaya managed to stand up. She opened her mouth to speak. To disagree with me, I thought, but she stopped. Her eyes fluttered, she wobbled on her feet, and she grabbed for me. “Okay. Por favor. Take me home.”

  Chapter 5

  Not wanting Olaya to be alone, I called her sisters, first Consuelo, then Martina. Unfortunately, they were not women who had their phones glued to their hands at the ready for any call that came in. Neither answered.

  I thought about asking Maggie to go home with Olaya, but she’d worked a full shift. I didn’t have the heart to pull her away from whatever she had planned that night. My father? He’d help me out in a heartbeat, even if he didn’t know Olaya very well. I started to dial him, but changed my mind at the last second, instead dialing Penelope Branford, my intrepid octogenarian neighbor from across the street. The woman was as spunky as someone half her age and I was pretty sure she would do just about anything for me. The feeling was mutual. Mrs. Branford and Olaya Solis were not women who’d been born into my family, but they were people I chose to be part of my family.

  “I’ll get a Lyft,” she said when I told her what I needed.

  I laughed. The woman was elderly, but she was far from old. She was as in-tune with the world as they came. I wanted to be just like her when I hit my eighties. I gave her Olaya’s address, knowing she was typing it into the ride-share app as I spoke. She’d be across town in ten minutes flat.

  I’d been right on the money. I’d barely gotten Olaya out of my car when a hunter-green sedan rolled up behind me. I expected the back-seat door to open so I did a double take when the front passenger door creaked open instead. Penelope Branford appeared. She swung her legs out, propped her cane in between them, and used it to propel herself out and up.

  The Lyft driver, meanwhile, had scurried around to help her, taking her gently by the elbow and guiding her onto the sidewalk. “Mrs. Branford, it was a real pleasure,” the man said. He clasped his fingers to the bill of his hat, tipping it so gallantly that I could imagine it being a top hat instead of an Oakland A’s cap.

  “Spencer, my boy, the pleasure was all mine. You take care of yourself, and if you want to talk more about your plans, you just let me know. You have my number now. Don’t be shy about calling.”

  “I won’t, Mrs. Branford,” the guy said. “I definitely won’t.”

  “You know that guy?” I asked her as she came up to Olaya and me.

  “You have to ask?”

  Touché. The decades Mrs. Branford spent in the classroom teaching English at Santa Sofia High School meant she, quite literally, knew everyone. Spencer the Lyft driver sped off. By my side, Olaya was fading fast. I helped her inside her little house, surreptitiously looking around as she directed me to her bedroom. The house was her in every way. Colorful teal, white, and orange pillows dotted the pale yellow couch and off-white chairs. A woven Mexican cloth lay across the coffee table. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It wasn’t fancy, but even from my vantage point, I could see that it had every tool Olaya could possibly need to bake the bread she was famous for. Open shelves were lined with glass jars filled with what looked like dried herbs.

  Mrs. Branford followed us down the hallway, her cane lightly striking the floor as she walked. It was more of an afterthought than a necessity. At least that was true most of the time. Once or twice, I’d felt like she had really needed it, but usually, it was more of a prop. She put it to good use when she felt it would benefit her—not in a diabolical or wicked manner, though. Mrs. Branford was simply pragmatic.

  “I will be fine,” Olaya said. She started to turn her head to look over her shoulder, but wobbled on her feet again.

  “Well, of course you will,” Mrs. Branford replied. “But no one should be alone when they feel miserable.”

  Now Olaya did manage to turn around. “You are staying here with me?”

  Penelope Branford and Olaya Solis had a history, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. They’d figured out how to overcome it, but I wouldn’t say they were exactly friends. More like frenemies. Kind of like the dowager countess and Isobel Crawley on Downton Abbey. They enjoyed each other’s company in a complicated and passively adversarial way, but deep down, they really adored one another.

  We got Olaya settled in bed, I quickly filled Mrs. Branford in on what was happening at the bread shop, and I left her to her crossword puzzles and her e-reader. “Don’t worry about us,” she called to me as I opened the front door. “I’ll make sure the stubborn woman gets her rest.”

  I waved back at her. I had no doubt. Mrs. Branford might even use her cane, if necessary.

  Chapter 6

  I walked back into the bread shop, half expecting the taping to have started. It hadn’t. Instead, the crew had spent the time holding more one-on-one interviews with the Bread for Life women. Additional crew members for the show leaned back against the baking stations or perched on stools thumbing through Instagram posts or sending texts. I raised my eyebrows, asking a silent What’s going on? No one noticed, so no one responded.

  “At long last,” Sandra said when she spotted me. “Can we finally begin now?”

  Now that I was back at the bread shop, Sandra walked around the kitchen, dusting her fingertips on the stainless counters of the stations she passed. “Who’s leading the class today?” she asked, her back to us.

  Amelie raised her arm. “I am.”

  “Very good.”

  From behind her, Mack gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. I could hear him saying in his head that he was the showrunner, not Sandra, but he didn’t stop her this time.

  Sandra, for her part, completely ignored Mack. She looked around, her gaze landing on Ben. “Are we ready?”

  The cameraman looked up from under the brim of his ball cap and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Are you taping the entire class?” I asked him.

  “Yep.” That was all he said. Yep. He was a man of few words.

  Sandra filled in the details. “We’ll edit it later. The more tape we get now, the better. We’ll cut in pieces of everyone’s story.”

  “We will,” Mack said, the words dripping with sarcasm. The message was clear. Sandra wouldn’t be doing any editing, but Mack would.

  “What about Olaya?”

  “She can’t be here if she’s sick,” Sandra said. She was all heart.

  Mack jumped in, supplying the empathy. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s resting,” I said.

  Sandra flutter
ed one hand in the air. “We’ve got lots of tape on her. We’ll cut it together. It’ll be great. Don’t worry.”

  The words she said sounded right, but I did worry. What if Olaya didn’t come across strongly enough as the person behind Yeast of Eden? It would be like featuring La Brea Bakery without Nancy Silverton. Without Olaya, there was no bread shop. She was the beating heart of the place and that needed to be represented in the final cut of the show.

  Mack excused himself, saying that he’d be right back. Sandra’s head swiveled as she watched him disappear into the front of the bread shop. She tapped the mic clipped to her blouse. “Testing.”

  “All good,” one of the crew said.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something a little shifty about Sandra Mays. Maybe Mack Hebron’s disdain for her had unwittingly rubbed off on me, but I didn’t think I could trust her. I had the feeling she would say whatever she had to say to get the story she wanted—to hell with the consequences. I’d heard rumors that she’d tried to transition into bigger markets over the years, but she was still in our sleepy little coastal town. Until now. What had she done to get this gig?

  She took a moment to primp, then turned to face the camera Ben had aimed at her. He held his hand up as he counted down from five, verbally at first, then silently on the last two numbers. He pointed at Sandra and she began.

  “We are here today at a Santa Sofia gem—Yeast of Eden. The bread shop’s owner, Olaya Solis, has been in business for—well, for as long as I can remember. This town, as some of you may know, is where I got my start.” She chuckled. “Olaya Solis is an institution here in Santa Sofia, as much as I am.” Another self-deprecating chuckle.

  I looked around for Mack, but he hadn’t come back yet. Where had he gone and why was Sandra filming without him?