Let Them Eat Cake

by Sandra Byrd

  “Thanks for your time,” I said. As disappointed as I was, I knew I needed the job first. Not the house, not the guy. Maybe I should apply at the Starbucks up the road.

  When I got home, I saw a note propped on my dresser. I opened it.

  “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t a woman. Would you like to take over cooking dinner on Monday nights? Sometimes even moms say dumb things. Love you.”

  I sat on my bed. I didn’t really want to take over on Monday nights. I wanted to cook in a cool new Belltown condo with a secure building, a Bosch stove, and a peek view of the Sound.

  I walked into the kitchen. I hugged my mom, relishing her comfortable arms, her thinning hair, and her thickening waist.

  “I’ll come to church with you tomorrow,” I said.

  Mom went to the early service, but it was just as well. No one I knew was likely to be there at eight in the morning. The Impacts met later, and my high school friends who already had babies wouldn’t be up that early. A lot of them had moved on. I was sure to get the inevitable, “And where are you working now? Have you moved back home for good?”

  My mom went all by herself, week after week, since Dad didn’t do church, and I know she was glad for my company. She had lots of friends who rallied around her, but most of them had someone to hold their hands in church. Mom didn’t.

  I closed my eyes and tried to listen to the sermon, but all I could focus on was the occasional squawk of a child who had not been placed in the nursery. “Weeeek!” Then five minutes later, from another corner of the room, “Waaaak!” They sounded like pterodactyls.

  I folded my bulletin so many times that my mom leaned over and whispered, “Origami?”

  I smiled at her, put the paper down, and held her hand for a minute. I wasn’t my dad, but I had to believe it helped.

  On the way out of church, we stopped for a coffee at the self-serve bar.

  “Is it hard for you to do that alone every week?” I asked.

  Mom looked at me affectionately. “It can be lonely, but I’m not alone. And I’m not there for myself. I’m there to worship.”

  I drained my latte and said nothing in response.

  As we got out of the car at home, I watched as my mom set her Bible down on the counter and prepared to make lunch for my dad, without a word of reproach to him for sitting at home. He patted her hand and kissed her cheek. Maybe she is the woman around here.

  I spent the afternoon highlighting want ads and searching Craigslist.org for jobs and condos, town homes, or apartments for rent.

  “Professional piercer, clean tattoo shop. Bring portfolio.” I could practice on a potato first and say I had experience. Nope.

  “Work with the French.” Now here was a possibility! “Be an usher with Cirque du Soleil when they’re in town.” Temporary work. Nope.

  “Learn how to make a six-figure income.” I clicked on it. “Sales/Marketing/PR.” Nope.

  I printed out a few possibilities. Executive assistant. Personal assistant able to work her way up in a busy salon.

  I’d told my parents once, as a girl, that I wanted to be either a teacher or a hairdresser. After a few moments of dead silence, my dad firmly explained that if I were a teacher, I could have a fun time doing hair with my friends. My mother had looked on, smiling too brightly.

  Even at that age, I got the hint.

  I lined up three or four places to call in the morning, then began doodling a possible Monday menu. Dad liked meat, potatoes, and Italian food. If something was green, it had better be a salad or beans. It didn’t leave me a lot to work with.

  I logged into Allrecipes.com and scouted for ideas. I wanted something American enough for my family, yet clean and fresh and new enough for me. Continental and American.

  I heard my phone ring, and I ran into my room to answer it. Another strange number!

  “Hello?”

  “Bonjour, may I speak to Alexandra?” A man’s voice. A French accent!

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Hello, Alexandra, I am so sorry to call on a Sunday night, but it has been a busy week. My name is Luc, with L’Esperance. I have your application. Would you be available for an interview tomorrow at the bakery?”

  An interview!

  “Ten dollars an hour,” the schoolmaster on the left shoulder whispered. “Say no.”

  “In a bakery! With French people!” the cheerleader on my right shoulder shouted. “Say yes!”

  “Yes, I can make it,” I said. “What time?”

  “Six o’clock,” he said.

  “In the morning?”

  “Is that a problem? This is a bakery, you know, so we keep early hours. It’s not for everyone.”

  “Oh no,” I quickly recovered. “It’s fine. I was just clarifying.” Usually I was in deep REM at six in the morning.

  “Good, I’ll see you then. Good evening!”

  “Bonsoir,” I answered in French.

  Silence on the line. He hadn’t hung up. “Vous parlez français?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered in French. “I do speak French.” I can’t believe I forgot to put that on my application!

  “Bon. I will see you tomorrow then.”

  I hung up and dialed Tanya. She had a long weekend with Martin Luther King Jr. Day and had gone with her mom to their cabin in the mountains. I left a message.

  “I have an interview at L’Esperance tomorrow. Call me after school is out, and we’ll plan to meet this week. And I want to hear all the details about the volleyball guy! Bye!”

  What should I wear in the morning? I dug through my closet. Khakis were okay, I knew, standard restaurant wear. I had a button-down white shirt I could wear. Mom would iron it.

  No, I would iron it. With starch.

  I held the box with the Danskos in it. If I wore them and I didn’t get the job, I’d be tossing out all that money, because I’d need to return them for clothes money for the job I did take.

  I wanted to look both pretty and ready for work, though. I set the box on my bed and went to set up the ironing board.

  Late that night I paged through a couple of Paris Match magazines to brush up on my language skills. I opened my Bible and took out the much-creased bulletin from the morning and looked it over, avoiding reading the real book. I slipped it back into my Bible and set the Bible on the side of my bed.

  Let me know what you think, God, okay?

  Silence.

  I woke up well before my alarm, which was set for five. I hoped to be out of the house before anyone asked exactly where I was going at that time of day.

  At least that early I wouldn’t have any trouble finding a parking space. I parked right in front of the café and walked up to the bakery section of L’Esperance. Through the large windows that faced the street I could see Luc, sleeves rolled up, feeding dough into the massive industrial kneader.

  I knocked on the window. He flashed that wide, boyish smile and invited me right in. When he opened the bakery door, warmth flooded into the cool morning air.

  “Bonjour. You must be Alexandra.” It rolled off his tongue. I love that even “Which way is the restroom, please?” has an earthy oomph in French. Veuillez m’indiquer les toilettes, s’il vous plaît?

  For some reason, I didn’t ask him to call me Lexi. Alexandra just seemed to fit better, and it sounded sophisticated coming from him.

  “Yes, I am. Bonjour,” I answered.

  He wiped the flour off his hand and offered it to me. I took it, and he shook my hand gently, holding on a bit longer than was necessary. If we knew each other better, a Frenchman may have kissed me once or twice on each cheek in greeting. Maybe that was a custom we could adopt in the good old U.S.A. Let the change begin with me!

  “Coffee?” he asked as he led me into the café, still silent and dim at this early hour.

  “Yes, please. Café crème.”

  “Ah, oui, the café crème girl,” he said. “I remember you now.” He grew warmer, and so did I.

/>   Before beginning the interview, Luc gave me a quick tour of L’Esperance, which was divided into several sections. It was much bigger than I thought and very, very French. Large floor-to-ceiling windows allowed passersby to watch the bakers prepare what Luc said were the nearly fifteen hundred croissants and several hundred loaves of various kinds of bread made each day.

  Oh, how I wanted to sink my hands into that dough. Three men with their hair pulled back in nets cut the dough into squares with what looked like pizza cutters.

  “Bonjour.” One of the three men nodded, his handlebar mustache dipping up and down.

  “Bonjour!” I answered to their wide grins. I could see myself working here.

  Six-foot racks of glistening baking trays were already lined with flaking almond croissants and pains au chocolat, little nubs of dark chocolate winking from between folds of buttery dough. My mouth watered in spite of my self-discipline. Maybe one or two wouldn’t bloat me into l’homme Michelin; you know, the fat tire guy.

  The tour complete, Luc showed me to a table in the café section, made two coffees behind the counter, and brought them to our table.

  “Mademoiselle, à vous,” he pronounced with that Gallic grin. I took the coffee with both hands, in the French manner.

  “I see on your résumé that you have a college degree and have already worked at a few jobs, corporate jobs,” he started. “Can you tell me about that?”

  I read between the lines and felt infused with confidence. “Yes, I can,” I said. “I have a degree in French studies and tried to find a job that would match my interests and experience after college. I was unable to do so right away. After giving it some thought, I realized that I don’t want to be in an office all day. I enjoy cooking and baking and an environment where that’s happening.”

  Luc looked at me with a bit more appreciation. “You understand this is a counter job. You’d be serving customers, boxing their purchases, helping to box or deliver special orders. Clearing the dishes in the café and bringing them to the kitchen. That kind of thing. No baking. No cooking.”

  “Yes, I understand.” I did, and that was sad. But it was a place where people spoke French, where they appreciated food, where bakers were baking and people were eating and enjoying life. I could hear laughter in the background. There were photos of the Arc de Triomphe on the wall. There were no cubicles. And who knew what the future held here?

  Also, I was desperate.

  “The pay is ten dollars an hour,” Luc continued. “Reviewed after three months, but even then, there won’t be a big raise. I’m asking for a six-month commitment. We’re growing, as is our sister store, La Couronne, and I’d like there to be some stability in the shop.”

  “I understand.”

  A phone rang in the small office off the café. “Je m’excuse,” he said, excusing himself to answer it.

  I leaned forward. Well, who wouldn’t eavesdrop if she could? I mean, just a little. And he seemed to have forgotten I spoke French, or else he didn’t care if I overheard.

  “Yes,” he said to the person on the other end of the phone. “I am getting the staffing set here. Everything needs to be running well when Margot and the others come over. Patricia, of course, will return to France. I’ll return for the summer too, or at least part of it. We’ll figure it out. We’ll have to find someone to manage L’Esperance while I’m gone. It’s time to hire an assistant manager, anyway. I can perhaps promote someone from within. That will free me to bake and supervise the growth of the shops.”

  I sat back in my chair. Mais oui!

  Maybe I wasn’t really overqualified. I could be an assistant manager! The potential was there, at least. I’d learn all I could as fast as I could. The accounting class in college wouldn’t be wasted. I’d take human resource seminars online. I knew I could do it! Given a little time, I’d prove to Luc that I was up to the task.

  He hung up the phone and returned to the table. I drained my café crème to cover my excitement.

  Before we could resume our conversation, though, the woman with all the earrings who had accepted my application came through the bakery door and into the café.

  “Bonjour, Sophie,” Luc said.

  “Good morning, Luc,” Sophie answered.

  “Sophie works the front of the shop,” Luc told me, “but we need two people.”

  I smiled and held out my hand to Sophie. “Hello, I’m Lexi,” I said.

  She managed a slight smile but didn’t offer her hand in return. Instead, she gathered our empty cups from the table.

  Deciding not to be put off by her behavior, I turned to Luc and asked, “Do you sell all your baked goods here or deliver them to other places?”

  Luc laughed and covered my hand with his own. I felt a zing race through my hand, which was totally stupid because I’d only had three boyfriends in my life and I didn’t even know the guy. But he was cute. And French.

  He looked a few years older than me, maybe Nate’s age. And the hand he used to cover mine was his left hand, and he wore no ring.

  “That’s a good question, Alexandra. I like that.” He stood. “Follow me.”

  He led me back to the pastry room. To some people it might have been nothing but a room lined with stainless steel—racks, carts, a huge walk-in cooler. Long, smooth, chilled countertops to keep pastry dough cool while it was worked. But to me: nirvana.

  I could definitely see myself working here!

  “My cousin Patricia is our pastry chef,” Luc explained. “Our family in France owns several boulangerie/pâtisserie shops, making both bread and pastries. We’ve opened two here in the U.S. now, L’Esperance and La Couronne, which is over in the U District. La Couronne is smaller and mostly sells pastries and bread that we send over.”

  I absorbed everything.

  “I bake bread in the early morning, and Patricia does pastry a bit later in the day.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get out of her pastry room, or there will be trouble. She’s very territorial. Quels problèmes if she finds us in here!”

  Luc led me back into the bakery and tied his apron on again. His eyes were jade green but warm, and he had just the tiniest bit of a shadow growing on his chin. It made him look roguish.

  Okay. Now I sounded like a Harlequin ad.

  “I’ll call in the next few days,” he said.

  I tried to sound professional. “Thank you for the interview. You have a terrific place.”

  Maybe it was because he knew I spoke French and was comfortable with French culture. Or maybe it was something else. But as I held out my hand, he kissed my cheek in the French manner instead. If only all my wishes were granted so quickly.

  I turned to go, but he called out after me. “Alexandra.”

  I faced him again. “Yes?”

  “I normally don’t make such quick decisions, but I feel you’d be a good match with L’Esperance. You ask good questions, you’re enthusiastic, you speak French, and that will come in handy from time to time. If you really don’t mind working in the café at the counter, and you promise to stay for six months, then the job is yours.”

  Something behind Luc caught my eye. I looked over his shoulder and glimpsed Sophie listening in, scowling, before she popped back into the café.

  I could hardly fault her for eavesdropping since I’d just done the same thing. She didn’t seem to have any warm fuzzies for me, but honestly, I didn’t for her either.

  “Think about it for a day or two and get back with me,” Luc said. “I’ll need to know by Wednesday so I can interview some of the others if you decide it’s not for you.”

  Now this is progress! “I’ll get back to you. Thank you so much.”

  I slipped out of the bakery door, the three men rolling croissants bowing and calling out, “Au revoir,” as I left.

  At ten dollars an hour, what could I afford in rent? Eight hundred, tops? Where was I going to find that downtown?

  Maybe my parents’ house on Whidbey Island would be done late. Wasn
’t construction always late? With a few months of grace, I could save up quite a lot. If I could get promoted to assistant manager, a job which surely made more money, I’d be fine. I had the education for it. And the desire!

  I’d live cheap. Everyone had to start at the bottom, even my venerable father agreed with that. It would work!

  I pulled up to the red light by Nonna’s church, next to the men hoping for day labor. They probably worked for less than ten dollars an hour, and most had families to support. I just had me and didn’t even know how I could make that work.

  One thin man in particular stood shivering in the drizzle. My heart moved.

  Suddenly, I knew what I could do. I reached into the backseat and grabbed Greg’s WWU sweatshirt. I rolled down my window and motioned to him.

  He approached the car hesitantly. “¿Sí?”

  “Here, you look cold,” I said as I handed him the sweatshirt. On impulse, I opened my wallet and took out my emergency twenty-dollar bill. This was an emergency, wasn’t it? The light changed and people started honking, so I had no time to unclip the bill from the photo of Greg on which I’d doodled an earring and a nose ring.

  “¡Gracias!” the man called after me as I drove away, and I burst out laughing at his puzzled expression as he tucked both the bill and Greg into his pocket.

  “Well done,” I heard Someone say quietly. It was a voice I hadn’t heard for a long time. Two words, nothing more, spoken deep within me.

  I smiled. “Hey,” I said aloud. “I remember that voice. It’s been a long time.”

  I didn’t want to go home too early, so I returned some books to the library, wandered around downtown, hoping to stumble across a gorgeous and affordable apartment, and then called Leah to see if she wanted to meet during her lunch break. She agreed we’d meet at her atrium. “For a walk,” she said.

  A few hours later she met me at the table we’d had lunch at a few days ago. We hugged, and she slipped off her leather pumps and put on a pair of walking shoes. I saw her push her iPod back into the bag.