The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship

by Shirley Jump

  The thought of him swinging by caused a little flutter in her chest. A flutter Colleen hadn’t felt in decades. She dropped her attention back to the pie.

  “Did you grow up around here?”

  Roger’s question caught her by surprise. “Why…why do you ask?”

  “This is the conversation part of the evening.” He grinned. “We talked business; now we can talk personal.”

  “Oh. Oh…well, I’m not sure we should. I mean, it’s really just about the bakery.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know who is stopping by your shop on a regular basis? You may find out I’m a terrible person, maybe some kind of misogynistic paranoid schizophrenic.”

  “Are you a misogynistic paranoid schizophrenic?”

  “You’ll just have to converse with me to find out.” Then he grinned and popped a bit of pie in his mouth.

  What would it hurt to talk to him a bit more? It was chilly outside and the coffee was warm and the lights were bright, and she wasn’t quite ready to go home to her empty house yet. “Yes, I grew up in Dorchester. I started working at the bakery when I was twelve and started running it when I was twenty, because my mom was battling her first round with cancer. I met my late husband on that very street”—she waved toward the street in front of Our Lady Church—”when he was handing out flyers for a music festival downtown. I took a flyer, he asked to go with me, and before I knew it, we were living on Park Street with four little girls.” That was the most she had ever talked about her life, her family. Her husband, for that matter. “What about you?”

  “I grew up everywhere.” He wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “Army brat. I’ve lived all over the country and in a few other countries as well. I met my wife—”

  “You’re married?” The interjection took Colleen by surprise. Why did she care? And why was she interrupting him?

  “Divorced. Ten years now. We met in Japan, when I was living over there with my parents. Got married too young, tried to start a life in a country she didn’t know, and it went south pretty quick after our daughter was born. She had some relatives in the Boston area so we moved here, and after the divorce, I stayed. Vowed to do something with myself after I spent way too many years in a management job that seemed pointless. So, thus was born Sophie’s Home.”

  The word divorced sent a strange hum through Colleen. She shouldn’t care if this man—a stranger, really—was involved with anyone or not. She certainly wasn’t looking for a date or a spouse. “I think it’s good you decided to do something to make a difference.”

  “I’m trying,” he said, and then his gaze went to somewhere far in the distance. “It’s never enough though, it seems.”

  “Never busy enough,” Colleen added softly.

  Roger’s eyes met hers. He had this direct way of looking at her that made her cheeks heat and her hands tremble. “We sound like two kindred spirits.”

  Colleen cleared her throat and took a long sip of coffee, to fill the tension between them. And to get herself back on track. “You said you had two favors to ask.”

  “Ah, yes. The first was business. The second is personal.” He waited until her gaze met his again. This time, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’d like to ask you out.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because you are stubborn and smart and successful, and quite beautiful when you smile.”

  Her lips curved, and then she drew herself back and swallowed the smile. She had the strangest urge to giggle, to flirt—did she even remember how?—and to say yes to him. Then her mind threw on the brakes and dragged her back to reality. She’d lost her one love, and she didn’t need nor want another. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Mr. O’Sullivan. We are talking business—”

  “We’re talking about you donating some bread to my shelter. That’s hardly plotting a corporate takeover. Besides, we’re not getting any younger. Why not say yes?”

  Colleen gathered her purse to her side and slid out of the booth. “I will give your offer—and I’m speaking strictly of the offer to provide interns at my shop—consideration, Mr. O’Sullivan. Have a good evening.” Emphatic period at the end.

  Then she left, her mostly uneaten pie still on the table.

  EIGHTEEN

  The letter opener glared back at Bridget, the overhead kitchen light dancing off the blade. The world was quiet, everyone with any sense asleep in their beds. Even though she had to be at the bakery in a few hours, Bridget had rolled out of bed, paced the floors for a while, and then finally gone down to the kitchen. She sat there, drank an entire glass of chardonnay, poured a second, took a deep breath, and started slitting the flaps. It was time. Actually, it was past time.

  One after another, the bills piled up—gas, electric, trash, mortgage, credit cards.…

  At the bottom of the pile, the bank statement. She took a long gulp of the wine and opened the envelope. She’d been hoping for a mistake, one of those Monopoly Chance cards that said Bank error in your favor: collect two thousand dollars.

  But there was no bright orange card, no accounting error. Her heart fell and her lungs tightened. She could feel that rip tide closing over her again, heavier, thicker. How was she ever going to get out of this mess?

  Her phone buzzed, and the screen lit with a text message from Magpie: Heading back into town in a couple days. Heard you are still surviving at Charmed, you glutton for punishment. Want to make your favorite sister some black and white cookies?

  Bridget chuckled. Those had always been Magpie’s favorite. She had loved them when she was little, even though she could barely hold the oversized two-tone frosted sugar cookies. Ma would always bake a few extras for holidays and Magpie’s birthday and as a reward for good grades. Definitely! And hey, I took your advice. Did something unexpected.

  The phone rang, and Bridget jumped. “Hello?”

  “You can’t just text something like that and not expect me to call you.” In the background, Bridget could hear a band and voices. “What’d you do?”

  “Went to see Abby.”

  “You did? That’s great!” Magpie mumbled something about being right back. A moment later, the background noise dropped away. “Sorry, I was in a club. But I’m outside now. Tell me all about it. How is she? Did you meet Jessie?”

  “Wait, you know about Jessie?”

  “Yup. I saw pictures of her about a year ago, I think, when I just showed up on Abby’s doorstep. I mean, Abby didn’t tell me about them being involved but I could tell from the pictures. They looked so happy, you know?”

  “And you never said anything?”

  “About what? About the fact that she’s involved with a woman? Hell, I don’t care. All I care about is that you all are happy. She could marry a schnauzer and I’ll stand beside her and hold her bouquet.”

  Bridget laughed. “Magpie, you are one of a kind.”

  “That’s what they keep telling me. Probably a good thing too.”

  They talked a little while longer, and then Magpie said she had to go. “Our taxi’s here. But I’ll be home Wednesday. See you then?”

  “For sure.”

  “Good. You sound better, Bridge. Much better.” Magpie shouted she’d be right there and then came back to the phone. “And if you want one more piece of advice, let me share what the shaman I interviewed today told me.”

  Bridget waited, sure this was going to be something deep and profound and involving chakras or something.

  “Don’t worry about the shit you encounter. Life will flush it away.”

  Bridget laughed. “That’s advice?”

  “Best advice I heard today. Love you, Bridge. See you soon!” Then she hung up, leaving Bridget alone in her kitchen again. With the shit she’d encountered, courtesy of her letter opener.

  None of it was going to get any better if she kept procrastinating or processing, depending on what kind of spin she wanted to put on it, so, fortified with that second glass of chardonnay, she crossed to the rolltop desk i
n the corner of the dining room, pulled open the file drawer where Jim kept a meticulous set of records, and found the last six months of bank statements.

  In a second, it was clear why she was so far behind. For months, they’d been skating along the edge of not having enough money. There’d been the Audi Jim had bought and insisted they could afford. The new lawn mower he’d bought on sale. The set of skis that had never seen snow. The carbon golf clubs she’d bought him for Christmas. Expenses that had eaten up the rest of what disposable income they’d had. As she scanned the bank statement, she saw that the deposit she’d put down for the funeral home had been the tipping point.

  But she also saw one other thing—a number of sizeable cash withdrawals, all of them coming at the same time every month. Where had that money gone? She didn’t remember Jim carrying around hundreds of dollars in cash. What had he spent it on?

  In a way, it didn’t matter. Because now she was broke. She owed McLaughlin & Sons another fifteen thousand dollars and, it seemed, a whole lot of money to pretty much every single company in Boston. Even if she worked full-time at the bakery and kept her column with the paper, she wouldn’t make enough to cover it all.

  Despite Magpie’s voice of reason, Bridget was pretty sure there was no magic toilet coming to flush this all away.

  Anger flared in her chest. How could Jim have done this to her? Kept her in the dark about their financial situation? And where had the money gone? Gambling? A mistress?

  But more, how could she have kept her head buried in the sand for so many years, leaving her unprepared and on the edge of financial ruin?

  “You’re up late.”

  Bridget turned. “Hey, Aunt Mary. Did I wake you? I’m sorry if I did.”

  “No, no, dear. I hardly sleep as it is.” Aunt Mary got a glass of water, sat down beside her niece, and glanced at the mounds of bills covering the countertop. The Chihuahua looked up at his mistress, let out a yawn, and curled up on the floor. Pedro didn’t seem to do much more than nap and eat. “Looks like a shitstorm hit you,” Aunt Mary said.

  “Pretty much.” Bridget leafed through the mail, but it was all more of the same. Overdue, past due, red letters and numbers and demands for money she didn’t have.

  Aunt Mary sat at the bar in a deep purple robe tied loosely over a pale pink cotton nightgown. Her face was bare, which made her look younger, and paler.

  Like Magpie, Aunt Mary had only worked in the bakery a little before going off on her own life. Five years ago, she’d come to Ma’s house—Bridget had been there that night for dinner—and after the meal, Aunt Mary and Ma had done the dishes together in the kitchen. They’d gone in laughing, talking like sisters do, but at some point between adding the Dawn and getting out the dishtowel, they’d had a fight. Aunt Mary had left with barely a word for her nieces, and Ma had refused to talk about it. As far as Bridget knew, the sisters hadn’t talked in all that time. She wondered if that was part of the business Aunt Mary wanted to settle during her stay. Either way, she looked worried and drawn, and Bridget vowed to do as much for her aunt as she could.

  “Have you looked at the retirement?” Aunt Mary said. “If Jim had money there and you’re his beneficiary, you could cash in part or all of it.”

  “I never thought of that. Let me look. I think I saw the statement…” She riffled through the piles around her but came up empty. In the desk, she found an annual statement from a few years ago. But at least it had the account number and customer service information. Two years ago, there was a hundred thousand dollars in the account. Surely there was more by now. “I’ll call them in the morning. Thanks, Aunt Mary.”

  “You’re welcome.” Pedro was at her feet, his tail wagging, his nose turned up to her. “Pedro needs to go out. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” Bridget called the dog to her and stepped out onto the back porch. The yard was silent and dark, the primroses too small to be seen. The dog darted off, did what he needed to do, and came rushing back in. Bridget left the door open behind her and leaned against the jamb. “Can I ask you something, Aunt Mary?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you and Ma stop talking?” The question just popped out, fueled by all the wine, the dark night, the worries somersaulting around in her mind. Ever since the day she went to Abby’s, Bridget realized she had fallen into the same patterns her mother had followed—putting up a wall and cutting off the people in her life. For so long, she’d believed that it was the best decision, but with Jim gone, it had created a yawning cavern in Bridget’s life. One she never wanted to create again.

  “Ah, that’s a story too long for the telling.” Aunt Mary got to her feet and called the dog to her. “I should probably get back to bed.” She started to shuffle out of the kitchen.

  “Abby says there are secrets in this family. Do you know anything about them?”

  Aunt Mary froze and reached to brace herself on the corner of the wall. She didn’t turn around, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, pained. “Good night, Bridget. Get some sleep. Everything looks better in the morning.”

  * * *

  A cloud of flour poofed up from the belly of the eighty-quart mixer. Bridget closed the safety cage over the stainless steel bowl, which dropped the massive paddle into place, and then flipped the switch to low. The cake batter began to come together, going from a jumbled mix to a butter yellow ribbon.

  She detached the bowl, wheeled it over to the counter, and then scooped the batter into the cake pans and slid them into the oven. While they baked, she started a batch of macarons, whipping the egg whites until they became stiff clouds. She folded in sifted sugar, almond flour, and confectioners’ sugar, easing her touch with each step. Macarons required a delicate hand. A little too much mixing and they morphed from fluffy teats into hard lumps.

  She loved this kind of recipe. Her mind would sink into the steps, and everything else would drop away. One of her friends had talked about meditation and how concentrating on breathing calmed all the noises in her head. Bridget didn’t sit cross-legged and ohhmmm—she baked.

  When she was done, she piped thick circles onto silicon mats. The repetitive action—pipe, lift, pipe, lift—kept her mind from focusing on the wall clock as the time ticked past the wee hours of the morning and closer to normal working hours. She’d gone back to bed after looking at the bills, slept for a couple fitful hours, and then headed down to the bakery to get to work. Her head pounded from the wine, but she popped a couple Tylenol and immersed herself in batter. The cakes finished baking, the cookies took their place in the oven, and Bridget moved on to whipping up vanilla buttercream, tinting some pink, some blue, some pale yellow.

  A little after eight-thirty, her mother came in and peered at the trio of piping bags. “The blue ones don’t sell as well. Make more yellow instead.”

  Cut past any kind of pleasantries and get right to the criticism. “Good morning, Ma. How are you?”

  “I’ll be fine when we quit wasting money here. We can’t afford to make cookies people aren’t going to buy.”

  Bridget sighed. It was early in the day, and the last thing she wanted was an argument over piping colors. “Ma, I’ve worked twenty-one spring seasons here. All three colors sell equally well. If we have extra blue ones, I promise I’ll eat them myself.”

  Her mother pursed her lips. “We will see what is left over at the end of the day.”

  “So…” Bridget finished with the blue frosting and switched to the pink. “Aunt Mary is in town.”

  Her mother froze, her apron half tied. “How do you know that?”

  “She was sitting on my doorstep when I got home yesterday.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s…good.” Ma finished tying her apron and ducked into the walk-in freezer, returning with several trays of unfrosted cupcakes. She readied a piping bag of vanilla buttercream and started topping the cupcakes with thick swirls of frosting. “Nora will be in late today. She had to take the kids to school.”

  “Aren’t you
curious about how she is?”

  “I think Nora’s been working too many hours lately. She needs some time off. She looks a little ragged. Don’t you agree?”

  “I was asking about Aunt Mary. Aren’t you at least a little curious?”

  “And Magpie will be home in two days. I was thinking of having a family dinner on Wednesday night. Or Friday night. We could have fish—”

  “Ma. I’m talking about Aunt Mary, and you are talking about everything else.”

  Her mother frosted the cupcakes in fast and furious movements, back and forth, up and down the line. By the second row, the little frosting peaks that normally decorated every cupcake at Charmed by Dessert were falling to the right, spilling onto the tray.

  “Ma, you’re—” Bridget saw a tear slide down her mother’s cheek and land on the counter. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” But her voice was choked and thick.

  “Here, let me have that.” Bridget laid a gentle hand on her mother’s and pried the piping bag out of her hands. She slid the tray of ruined cupcakes to the side. She leaned against the counter, arms over her chest, in the pose her mother usually took. “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not.”

  Bridget sighed. “Good Lord, Ma, for someone who goes to church every other day, you sure do lie a lot.”

  Her mother’s gaze sharpened. “I do not lie.”

  “Uh-huh. And you’re not crying?”

  “I…I have something in my eye.”

  “This isn’t about Aunt Mary? Are you upset because she didn’t call you? Or see you first?”

  “This is about getting the work done today. We are far too busy to stand around, making idle conversation.” She pulled the next tray of cupcakes over and went back to work, this time taking more time to make sure every frosting cloud was perfect. She kept moving, as if nothing had happened, as if those tears had been a mirage. “We have a rush order for one of those sponge cakes with the strawberry layers. If you could get started on that soon…”

  Her mother went on, listing every order they had on tap for the day, talking about everything but the real issues. Her tears dried up; her movements became more efficient—