by Sarina Bowen
“Yeah, we’ve got this,” he says. “It’s good that you’re doing this before calving and planting.”
“That’s the idea,” my mother says. “It’s going to be a rough time for a little while. But I knew you’d both pitch in. It’s the Shipley way.”
“Right,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I can give you weekend afternoons and Mondays. I don’t go to the office on Mondays.”
“What if you found a job closer to home instead?” my father asks.
Wait, what? “You think that’s so easy to do?”
“It has to be easier than driving clear across Vermont to work that desk job. And you’re pouring coffee in the mornings. Seems like you could save yourself a lot of trouble and take a job at the hardware store in town.”
“So you’d have me quit the Busy Bean and bail on Audrey and Zara? Is that the Shipley way?” The Bean is owned by Audrey Shipley, my cousin’s wife. If my mom was gonna pull the family card, it seemed worth mentioning.
My father shrugs, as if I’m being ridiculous. “Audrey can find someone else to sell muffins, no?”
“How about you let me figure out the best way to get paid?” I ask, and each word is a little chip of ice. The undertone is perfectly clear, too—if he’s not paying me, then he can shut the hell up. “I just offered you every spare hour of my week. Is that not good enough?”
“It’s great,” Kyle says quickly. “We’ll figure this thing out, right?”
“Right. But you’ll have to be thoughtful about your schedule. Baling those oats is a two-man job, so you’re going to have to make yourself available when I’m off work.”
“No problem,” he says.
“That means baling and handling the fences even when there’s football on TV.”
“I know. Jesus.” Kyle gives me a grumpy look, too.
But I already know how this is going to play out—a long, cold season doing farm work after putting in a full day at my other two jobs.
“If we all pull together, it will be okay,” my mother says.
“That’s right,” Kyle echoes. “And cold drinks when the work is done. That’s the Shipley way.”
He makes it sound so simple. Meanwhile, I’m sitting across the table, trying not to scream.
In this house, that’s the Shipley way.
Roderick
I pass a difficult night in the passenger seat of my car.
In the first place, it’s harder to find a safe place to park than you’d think. Being invisible isn’t easy. I’m afraid to lurk where the cops might notice me. I suppose I could google homeless shelters in Vermont and find one.
But I don’t want to. When I was eighteen, I spent some time in homeless shelters. I’d rather not repeat that experience. I am never going to be that terrified teenager again. I don’t want to go back to that defeated mental state. I don’t want to even say the word homeless. I’m just between houses at present. At least this time I have a car. I’m locked in and safe.
That’s what I’m trying to tell myself, anyway. But sleep is fitful. Every little sound wakes me up. I’m parked behind a dumpster in back of a karate dojo. I keep expecting to see a police cruiser pull up with its lights flashing.
Also, my legs are numb, and whenever I try to roll over, I smack my knee against the door.
I doze fitfully. At some point during the darkest part of the night, my thoughts turn to my ex, Brian. He’s asleep in our bed right now, sprawled out and comfortable. His bed. It was never really ours. I spent three years loving him on his terms. Hiding our relationship in public. Feeding on the scraps of attention he was willing to give.
On some level I always knew he wasn’t capable of loving me back, even though he would sometimes tell me he did. But just as often he’d push me away. He’d “forget” about our plans, or change his mind at the last minute. He did these things just to keep me on edge—to prove that I wasn’t really necessary in his life.
Eventually I got clingy and threw down an ultimatum, which he pretended to consider. But then? He cheated just to make sure I knew he was in charge.
That’s the Cliffs Notes. And now I’m sleeping in my car, because he froze me out of our bank account the minute I left town. At a gas station in Massachusetts I realized he’d canceled my credit cards, too.
Forget my numb ass—it’s hard to sleep when you’re questioning all your life choices.
Dawn comes eventually. I blink my bleary eyes and make a plan. First I’ll hit the Colebury Diner for a cheap plate of eggs. Then I’ll brush my teeth and wash my face in the men’s room.
It’s a thirty minute drive to Norwich, where I did a one-month internship at King Arthur Flour after culinary school. I’ll get there by eight a.m., when they take their first break. My old boss is still listed on the website. I’ll dazzle him with my recent experience, and he’ll offer me a job on the spot.
And if that doesn’t work, I’ll cruise by every bakery in Vermont. Something will work.
Two hours later, I leave the fancy new King Arthur facility feeling discouraged. Gone is the cozy, undersized kitchen where I learned to bake sourdough. The new gleaming commercial space was as unfamiliar as the faces in it. My former boss has moved into management and works in a different building now.
“I’ll give you a great recommendation, Rod,” he’d said when I called the number they’d given me at the new bake shop. “Go ahead and fill out an application. But I know the baker gets several applications each week.”
“Great, I’ll do that,” I’d said, my heart sinking.
“Come back next month if you’re still looking. They always need seasonal help in the retail store.”
“Will do. Thanks.” I’d filled that application out, which took five minutes.
But now I climb back into my car again and crank the engine. I have never felt so untethered from the world as I do right now. I have no address. No job. And no real friends, either, because they’re all coworkers at the job I left behind in Tennessee, or—worse—pals of Brian’s.
The scary truth is that if I disappeared from this earth today, nobody would notice, or come looking for me.
Also, I need coffee. Nobody should be expected to solve his not-quite-midlife crisis while under-caffeinated, right?
So I point my car back toward Colebury. Chin up, I coach myself. I can’t expect my problems to be solved within the first hour of job hunting. I’m the kind of guy who always has to hustle for everything he gets. King Arthur is the biggest bakery in the area, but it’s not the only one that could hire me.
I hope.
It’s still midmorning when I reach the Busy Bean. When I step out of my car, I smell good coffee brewing. The scent of a strong brew on the piney Vermont air is like a siren’s song to me. I approach the door, already filling up with hope. Come on, Vermont. Give me something to believe in.
The first thing I notice is the acoustic guitar music humming off the wide-plank floorboards. The scent of coffee is stronger, too. And the place is adorable. It’s full of mismatched furniture upholstered in dark colors and animal prints. There are snarky sayings chalked onto the ceiling’s wide support beams. One verse in particular catches my eye:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I love my coffee
And if you talk to me before I drink it I will cut you
I let out a happy snort. Is it possible that I’ve found my people?
Cautiously, I approach the bakery case. I hope it’s not full of underbaked institutional cookies and rubbery bagels.
But, nope! It’s full of homemade pastries. They’re simple—mostly muffins and scones—but they look too good to have been dropped off by a food distributor’s truck. My stomach rumbles as I take in the offerings.
“Can I help you?” This question comes from a tall woman with dark, wavy hair. “I recommend the lemon muffins, because my partner just made them, and if you don’t have a couple, I’m probably going eat some more of them.”
“I would love a couple of muffins,” I say. Not only am I legitimately starving, but it makes opening up the conversation that much easier. “And a small coffee, black.” I pull out my wallet. Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I can survive this day without more caffeine.
“Dark roast or breakfast blend?”
“Dark roast. Breakfast blend is for sissies.”
The dark-haired beauty laughs. “That will be four fifty.”
That’s pretty cheap, honestly. I push a five-dollar bill toward her. After she makes my change, I drop the bomb. “Listen, if there’s any chance you are hiring, can I leave my name? I’m a baker by training. But I make a mean espresso, too.”
The woman’s hands freeze on the cash drawer. “You’re a baker,” she says slowly. “Are you looking for part time or full time?”
“Well, full time. But right this second I’m not picky. If I don’t find what I’m looking for, I’ll have to piece together a couple of jobs.”
“Did he say full time?” asks another voice. A sunny-haired woman appears suddenly in the doorway behind the counter.
“He did.”
The blonde emerges from the kitchen, dusting flour off her hands. “So I guess we’re talking about this now?” She steps out where I can see her. She’s a little thing and appears to be pregnant.
“So…” I’m not even sure what to say. “You might be looking to hire some help?”
“We really need to,” the dark-haired one says. “But we’ve been putting it off. I’m Zara Rossi by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Zara. I’m Roderick.”
“And I’m Audrey Shipley,” says the cute blonde.
“Oh, the Shipleys.” That familiar name perks me up. “I remember your family. They were always winning awards at school and running things at church.” Everybody loved the Shipleys. And there were a lot of them.
“Well, I wasn’t enough of an overachiever to be born a Shipley,” Audrey says. “I had to marry one.”
“Whatever works,” I say, and she laughs.
“Do you both run this place?” I ask, trying to get a feel for whom to impress.
“Yep!” Audrey says, buzzing around behind the counter, straightening the empty cups. She reminds me of a jolly bumble bee. “We’re partners.”
“Oh,” I say slowly, not quite sure what she means by that.
Zara laughs, and it’s a rich, full sound. “Not life partners. We just own the business together.”
“Okay.” I let out a nervous chuckle. “Sorry for jumping to conclusions. Tell me what you are looking for.”
“We need somebody full time. Somebody reliable, with good references,” Zara says immediately.
“I can be all of those things,” I promise. “I once did a summer internship with the guys down at King Arthur Flour. That was a few years ago, but they’ll still vouch for me. Lately, I’ve been working in a big Nashville bakery. I have references there, too.”
Zara nods. “So you’re from Vermont originally?”
“Sort of? I was an Air Force brat. I was born here, but then we moved away. We came back my last two years of high school.”
“You went to high school in Colebury, right?” Zara asks. “I thought you looked a little familiar.”
“And you just moved back home?” Audrey adds.
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to look uncertain. “I want to stay in Vermont, but only if I find a job.” The truth is I don’t know how much time I can give myself to look for work. The safest thing would be to get right back in the car and try to get my old job back in Nashville.
“Why did you leave Tennessee?” Zara asks.
Tell the truth, or lie? It’s not an easy decision. “I got out of a bad relationship. Seemed like driving out of state was the only way to fix it.” That’s understating things somewhat, but they don’t need all the gory details.
“Don’t grill him,” Audrey yelps.
Zara laughs. “I managed a bar for five years. Grilling people is how you weed out all the nutters.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry. But it is.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say, hoping to sound agreeable.
“Well, fine,” Audrey says. “Zara is the businessperson. She keeps me from fucking up.”
I bark out a laugh because it seems wrong to see such a sweet-looking human dropping f-bombs.
“But let me tell you a little more about the Busy Bean. We’ve been open for about a year. It’s just been Zara and me and a part-time employee. But he can’t give us any more hours, and we need someone full time. I’m having a baby this winter.” She pats her belly. “And Zara has a lot going on in her life, too. We need full-time help, but we’ve been putting it off because we’re cheap.”
“You do your own baking, right?” I tear apart one of the muffins Zara served me and toss a bite into my mouth. “Wow. Good lemon flavor.”
“Thanks!” Audrey beams. “We do all our own pastries. But we buy our bagels.”
“I can make your bagels,” I say, putting another bite of muffin into my mouth. “Easy peasy.”
“But would you have to start at four in the morning?” Audrey asks. “That’s why we don’t make bread.”
“Nah. Now, baguettes need a four a.m. start time. But bagels and pretzels don’t need that kind of double rise. I’d use a sourdough starter for flavor, but the rise would come from instant yeast. One rise time. Boil ’em up and bake for twenty minutes.”
“Pretzels?” Audrey asks with a dreamy sigh. “That sounds amazing.”
“You could try me out for a probationary couple of days, and I’ll show you,” I promise. “How’s your oven?”
“It’s all right,” Audrey says. “Nothing fancy like they have at King Arthur.”
“You don’t need a fancy oven to make small breads and rolls,” I say quickly. “The giant oven is necessary for crusty boules and baguettes. In a smaller oven you can bake rolls, bagels, freeform pizza, pretzels, popovers…”
“Pizza!” Audrey yelps. “Now I want pizza.”
“You were just telling me that you had to watch the carbs,” Zara says. “That’s why we agreed to have chicken salad salad for lunch.”
“Plus it’s fun to say chicken salad salad,” Audrey points out.
“So that’s chicken salad—”
“On salad!” both women say at once.
I have a feeling this would be a fun workplace. Besides, if the Shipleys run it, the place is bound to do well.
“Can I have those references?” Zara asks. “I’ll call them today, and then if you were serious about working a couple of days as a trial, I think we should do that.”
“Sure! Let me grab my résumé out of my car,” I say. “One sec.”
I run outside, where I grab a folder. By the time I get back inside, Zara and Audrey are having an intense, whispered discussion. “Hours, pay, benefits,” Zara is saying. “We don’t have any of that stuff nailed down.”
“We can do some research,” Audrey says. “It’s time, right? I’ll ask May about the legal stuff.”
“Okay, sure.” Zara turns to give me a smile. “I thought we’d procrastinate a little longer, but then you walked in. Maybe it was meant to be.”
I hope she’s right. Because if there’s someplace in this world that I’m meant to be, I haven’t found it yet.
Kieran
Sometimes fate just slaps you in the face.
I hear these words, and my face prickles with awareness. Because fate is definitely smacking me around today.
After seeing Roderick at the gym yesterday, I wasn’t even surprised when he walked into the Busy Bean this morning. If I came back to Colebury after a long absence, I’d check out the cute new coffee shop, too.
But now he wants to work here? Fuck my life.
I steal a glance around the doorframe just to confirm what I already know—he’s getting in good with Zara and Audrey. They’re all smiling at each other like a bunch of BFFs.
Is there a
ny way this ends well? Maybe he’s a horrible baker. Maybe he’ll burn everything and give the customers food poisoning.
And I’m obviously a terrible person, or I wouldn’t be thinking like this.
The urge to walk out the door right now is powerful. But that’s not what a man does. I take Audrey’s cookies out of the oven and move them to a cooling rack, so they won’t burn.
I can’t believe Audrey actually abandoned a batch of cookies in the oven. She got distracted by all this talk of new employees. If I’m honest, she gets distracted a lot lately. She calls it “pregnancy brain.”
The truth is that Zara and Audrey really do need a full-time employee. I can’t give them any more hours, and when Audrey has that baby, she’s going to need to take some time off. This past summer, Audrey went on a ten-day honeymoon, and it nearly killed Zara.
But Jesus Christ, does it have to be him?
“Let’s give you the nickel tour,” Audrey says. “Our Italian espresso machine isn’t fully automatic. Have you used one of these before?”
“Absolutely. I put myself through cooking school while working at a Starbucks.”
“Not the evil empire!” Audrey yelps.
“Sorry. That’s who was hiring.”
All three of them laugh, as if Roderick’s worked here for years. It’s obvious that Audrey loves him, and Zara is getting there. He’s really working hard out there.
I wish he weren’t so charming. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.
I peer out the kitchen door again, getting another glimpse of Roderick’s dark hair and bright blue eyes. At eighteen, he was attractive, so it’s not exactly a surprise to note that eight years later he’s devastating. The men must fall at his feet. Or women. I guess I really have no idea. Sometimes the company we keep at eighteen doesn’t reflect who we really are.
Ask me how I know.
“And there’s just the one grinder?” he asks, gesturing with a muscular arm.
“Yep,” Zara agrees. “We don’t serve flavored coffees, so we don’t have to clean it out all day long.”