She pauses for a moment, collecting herself. “The amount of the increase is so high, Wyn and I have concluded that we can’t afford to keep the bakery open with our current operating budget…”
There’s an audible, collective intake of breath. Everyone looks at everyone else.
“The only way to continue on here would be to raise our prices to what we both consider to be unconscionable levels, and we’d still probably have to cut staff. We believe that the result would be a decrease in our selection and quality at a price too high for a lot of people who’ve been coming here for years to afford. Besides, if you’ve worked here longer than about a week, you know that, as proud as we are of our baked goods, the Queen Street Bakery is not just about food. We have always been about the people who work here, and the people who buy from us, our customers. We’re about the city of Seattle and we’re about Queen Anne Hill. Our neighbor—hood.”
Her voice breaks and she pushes a tear across her face with the back of her hand. “That neighborhood is now changing—for better or for worse, it’s not my place to say. All I can tell you is that as of May First, the Queen Street Bakery will no longer be a part of it.”
I keep expecting everyone to talk, to ask questions, but they don’t. They just sit there, silent, staring at Ellen. Finally Jen wiggles her fingers tentatively.
“Have you thought about maybe…selling it to someone else?”
“We have. We listed with a small-business broker over a month ago. As of this moment, there haven’t been any prospective buyers.” She rubs her hands on her skirt in that nervous way she has. “I guess it’s still a possibility, but it’s not something I’m counting on.
“I want to say how lucky I feel to have worked with all of you. This place, all of you…have brought me great joy. There are so many things I know that I want to say to you—together and individually—and I will, before we—” She makes a funny little hiccupping sound, gives me a helpless look, and heads back to the bathroom.
For some reason I feel utterly calm. Maybe it’s just the certainty that this is rock bottom. No matter what else happens, it has to be better than this.
I swallow the last of my espresso. “I’ve only been here about two and a half years—not nearly as long as some of you. But being part of the Queen Street Bakery is an experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Between now and May first, there’s a lot to do. I’ve just discovered that it takes almost as much planning to get a place ready to close as it does to open. But right now we have two more months here as the Queen Street Bakery, and I would never want anyone on the hill to remember us as less than we’ve always been, which is simply the best. So”—I look at my watch—“I think it’s time to get to work.”
Everybody gets up and heads for the back, except Rose, who only came in for the meeting. She zips up her jacket, and pulls up the window shades. When she unlocks the front door and steps outside, there are already three customers waiting on the sidewalk.
Tyler and I walk across the street and head for home. By noon word will be out. By tomorrow people will be coming in wanting the details. Once again, I’m thankful I don’t work days. If I had to repeat the story fifty times a day for the next eight weeks, I’d lie down in front of the monorail.
“So what now?” Tyler’s voice startles me, and I look over at her, trudging beside me, head down.
“I guess we could go on the dole.”
Her nose wrinkles. “The what?”
“The dole. Welfare. Unemployment.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Or, I could marry Josh. We could adopt you and consolidate the households. You could sleep with Turbo.”
“Wyn…”
I smile feebly. “I’m joking.”
“It’s not funny.” She gives me a disapproving frown.
“I was just sort of laughing to keep from crying.”
No lights on at Josh’s house. I haven’t seen much of him since Christmas. I think he’s embarrassed, which is silly. Who among us has not been made a fool by love? Maybe because he’s a guy he thinks he shouldn’t show it.
“What are we gonna do?” she asks again. This time we’re sitting half asleep over bowls of oatmeal.
“I don’t know. What would you like to do? What would you do if you could do anything you wanted?”
“Make bread.”
I smile. “That’s the right answer. All we have to do is decide where.”
“You’re not gonna, like, go back to L.A. or anything. Are you?”
The question makes me realize that I have thought about it, if only in passing. I don’t know what I’d do there, but then, I don’t know what I’d do here, either. I guess I could move to Ballard or Fremont or Wallingford. There are other neighborhoods with their own quirky personalities. There are other bakeries. Good ones. Artisan bakers I could learn from.
But to me, Seattle is Queen Anne Hill; Seattle is the Queen Street Bakery.
I rest my elbows on the table. “I suppose it’s one possibility. We should consider everything.”
“‘We’?” She throws me a cautious glance. “You mean, me, too?”
“Of course I mean you. Unless you don’t want to live together anymore. It’s your choice, too, you know.”
Her face colors—a new phenomenon—but she doesn’t say anything, just twirls the spoon in her cereal.
CM’s been in Honolulu since the end of January, doing a guest-instructor gig for the winter quarter at the University of Hawaii. I picture her getting a tan and sipping piña coladas on the beach while I’m slogging through puddles and trying to decide what to do with my life. She has the bad taste to send me postcards of Diamond Head and a package containing swizzle sticks from the Tiki Lounge, a pink plastic lei, a Don Ho tape, and a poster of Jack Lord, from Hawaii Five-O, which Tyler appropriates to put up in her room.
I don’t know what’s up with Tyler these days. It’s three weeks since the staff meeting and she hasn’t mentioned the subject of our next job again. She seems content to make bread at night, watch daytime television with Turbo, listen to her Walkman in front of the fire, and read. Sometimes she reads the Tassajara Bread Book that I gave her for her birthday, but lately she’s gotten into mystery novels, working her way through the alphabet with Sue Grafton’s detective Kinsey Milhone. Maybe this means she’s thinking about southern California. She makes occasional phone calls, but I can’t tell who she’s talking to or what it’s about. At odd intervals she’ll announce that she’s going out, and she does. There’s no pattern to what day or time or how long she’s gone.
I don’t ask questions.
One afternoon when she’s gone, I decide to start cleaning out my desk, in preparation for the inevitable move. There are a couple of cookbooks that I’ve been lugging around with me since my days as the happy hostess of Hancock Park—stuff I can’t believe I once cooked, like nasturtiums stuffed with goat cheese and chutney, consommé with tiny floating custards, duck à l’orange, and white-chocolate mousse in almond tuille shells with bittersweet chocolate sauce and raspberry coulis. I’m not saying I wouldn’t eat it, of course. I just don’t see myself ever again spending three days in the kitchen for a dinner party.
There’s a huge stack of American Baker magazines, ticket stubs from movies, programs from a play or two. I don’t know why I keep these things to begin with. I should learn to empty my pockets and my purse as soon as I walk in the door. There are birthday cards and Christmas cards. Funny cards and postcards—mostly from CM, but one or two from my mother.
My second desk drawer holds letters. Mac’s letters. The sight of his scrunched-up writing makes my heart skip. I stare at the stack of envelopes, and suddenly I know why I haven’t come up with any concrete plans, any but the vaguest ideas of what to do, where to go after the bakery closes. I’m waiting for him. Waiting for him to either come back or tell me he’s not coming back.
I told him not to expect me to sit around waiting for him to show up, but t
hat’s exactly what I’ve been doing. It makes me angry.
When the phone rings I grab it and snap, “Yes?”
Silence. Then, “Wyn?”
“CM! How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m good. I’m still in Honolulu. I thought I had the wrong number. Are you okay?”
“No, but that’s a whole long story.”
“Well, I’ve got a big, fat, iced chai, and I’m sitting on my comfy little balcony watching the waves roll in. So spill it, girlfriend.”
I take a deep breath. “Well, for starters, the bakery’s closing—”
“What? Why?”
“The lite version is the building’s been sold, and the new owner’s jacking the rent up by twenty percent—”
“Why?”
I laugh. “Because he’s an asshole.”
“Well, there’s always one more of those around, isn’t there? When is this happening?”
“May first. That’s the expiration of our lease.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Right now Ellen and I are just putting one foot in front of the other, getting ready to move out, arranging to sell the equipment, tying up loose financial ends. It’s so weird.”
“I’m really sorry. What does Ellen say? Does she want to open up somewhere else?”
“We can’t afford it. It’s going to take us both a while to pay off our current debt. And then, I think she’s just worn out. She’s been depressed, and she says she just wants to move over to Whidbey and bake Mazurka bars wholesale and read and sleep.”
“I guess you can’t fight that. She’s been there a long time, hasn’t she?”
“Ten years.”
There’s a silence. “Well, you blew my puny little newsflash right out of the water.”
“No, tell me.”
“I’ve got a new gig.”
“That’s great! I mean, is it great? Are you excited? What is it?”
“Associate director of the Los Angeles Dramatic Dance Theater.”
“CM, that’s fabulous. I’m so proud of you—Los Angeles? I guess that means you have to live there, huh?”
“That’s what it means.” The excitement in her voice ratchets up a few notches. “It’s a fantastic opportunity. I applied months ago, but I couldn’t even let myself think about it. I didn’t think I had a chance. But I’m going to miss you so much. And the poppet, too. She sort of grows on you, doesn’t she?”
“You just never know, we might end up being your neighbors.”
“Really? I didn’t think you’d ever go back. I thought you loved Seattle.”
“I do. But I’m not sure I can stay here now. I was actually sort of toying with the idea of moving somewhere else, but I hadn’t thought about where.”
Static crackles along the phone line. “What about Mac?”
“What about him? I can’t sit around waiting for him to make up his mind what he’s going to do. He writes me all these letters, but he never says a damn word about when he’s coming back. Or if he’s coming back.” She doesn’t say anything to that. “So anyway, when do you have to be in L.A.?”
“As soon as I finish up here. End of the month.”
“That quick?”
“They wanted me to come now, but I told them I couldn’t just bail on my commitment here.”
“Where are you going to live?”
“I haven’t even thought about it. The theater’s in West L.A., but I don’t know if I want to live there. I’ll probably stay with my mom till I scope things out.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, baby. I’m a little nervous—”
“About what?”
“It’s a big job.”
“Hey, no job’s too big for an Amazon.”
When Tyler comes home, I’m putting Mac’s letters into an old three-ring binder. I’m not sure why. Maybe arranging them in chronological order, snapping the rings closed (so they can’t escape), gives me at least the illusion of control.
She sits there watching me for a few minutes.
“Where have you been?” I hope it sounds conversational rather than inquisitional.
“Hanging out with a friend.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yep. What are you doing?”
“Just trying to get organized. For when we move.”
She gets up. “You want a glass of wine?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“You mind if I have some?”
“Help yourself.”
She pours two glasses of cabernet and sets them on the table. She sits down, tilting her head slightly and looking into my face. “So…where are we moving?”
“Well…how do you feel about going to L.A.?”
“Why there?”
“I just thought it might be fun for a while. CM just got a new job there.”
She waits. Watches me for a few more minutes. “What about Mac?”
“He’s doing whatever it is he needs to be doing right now. I can’t waste a lot of time worrying about it.”
“’Zat why you’re saving all his letters in that binder?”
I give her a dirty look. “Do you not want to leave Seattle?”
“I don’t care.”
I put my palms flat on the table. “Do you want to stay with me?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t overwhelm me with your devotion.”
She grins slyly. “If I stay with you, will I end up talking like that?”
Monday morning, April 1. Dawn is a rosy haze. Ellen and I have an espresso and go over the bills after Tyler leaves. I give her my grocery list. I remind her to reorder T-shirts, especially the bread ones.
“Why?” she says.
I smile. “I think people are going to want them as souvenirs. I predict that we sell out by the end of the month.”
“Yeah, I guess. The end of an era or something. And…” She half laughs. “If we don’t sell them, we can donate them to a girls’ soccer team.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind…”
She pats my hand. “Yes, it is. It is for me. I’m resigned to it. And I promised Lloyd that we’d move to Whidbey by the end of the summer.” She smiles forlornly. “It wouldn’t be the same anyway. The Queen Street Bakery doesn’t belong in Ballard.”
I happen to disagree. I think the Queen Street Bakery belongs wherever we decide to put it, but there’s no point in going down that road. We don’t have the funds, anyway.
Ellen says she’d like the small Hobart. The auction house will take the floor mixer, the refrigerators, the stove, espresso machine, all the fixtures. She and I will divide up the Cuisinarts, pans and bowls, utensils, and any dishes and display items we want.
“What about the ovens?”
She looks around forlornly. “Scrap. They’re too old. Nobody would want them. You can have all the recipes,” she offers.
I raise my eyebrows.
“Except for the Mazurka Bars, of course.”
I laugh. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
“I’d like to keep the rights to the Queen Street name. I thought, for the Mazurkas—”
“Of course, that’s fine.” I put my arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, don’t do that or I’ll start bawling.”
twenty-four
It’s after eight o’clock when I step out the front door, bell jangling merrily, and my eyes go instantly across the street, as if there’s a big neon arrow pointing to the mud-encrusted white El Camino parked in front of the yoga studio. My knees almost fold.
Mac leans against the door of the truck, arms crossed, his breath making small white puffs in the cool morning air. His hair is long, pulled straight back, and his tentative smile stops my heart.
There’s a huge disconnect that happens when you see somebody where you don’t expect to see them. In my mind he’s still in the Yukon, in that funky little town with the odd cast of characters. In reality he’s proba
bly been on the road for at least a week, but the sight of him here, alive and real, on Queen Street, feels like an illusion. A magician’s trick.
He walks across the street to where my feet have sent down roots into the sidewalk.
“Wyn…” There’s the smallest crack in his voice, and I slip into his arms, like a hand into a well-worn glove. He rests his chin on the top of my head for a long, silent minute. Then he says, “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch.”
We hold on to each other, laughing, and the release is like knots falling out of a rope.
“When did you get back?”
“This morning. Just now.”
I’m not sure if he’s letting go of me or if I’m pulling away. We walk across the street, and I notice the mud caked in the truck’s rims, the pitted paint under the grime.
“Elky looks like you just finished the Baja 500.”
“I only wished I was somewhere that warm. I had to stop twice and wait out the weather,” he says. “I’ve been on the road almost three weeks.”
We get in and sit there, both of us looking straight ahead. Besides the unreality, an uneasiness has crept into the cab between us, insinuating itself among the smells of a long road trip—stale crackers, orange peel, coffee.
He slides his hands around the steering wheel. “I went by the apartment and your name was gone from the directory. What’s going on?”
“It’s kind of a long story. The short version is, I’m living with Tyler now. Over on Cedar Street.”
“I was wondering…” He hesitates, but I know what he’s going to ask.
“I can’t, Mac. Our place is too small and…anyway, I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I can probably stay with Kenny for a couple of days.”
“They have a child now. It’s a whole different thing. You can’t just walk in and expect to be sleeping on their couch.”
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