Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  He wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans.

  “There was something devastating. What was it? How old were you? What did you lose?”

  “My…brother.” His voice cracks and heat races up into his face.

  “That’s a terrible loss. Tell me what happened.”

  “It was an accident. A car accident. Kevin died. And Amanda. His girlfriend.”

  “And you were there? In the car?”

  He swallows. “I was driving.”

  sixteen

  I miss the last ferry out of Anacortes.

  Because of the summer tourist hordes the only place I can find a room is an old motor court. In a different mood, I might find it quaint and amusing, but the walls are almost as thin as the curtains, so the noise and lights keep me awake most of the night. That and the sudden urgency I feel about getting back to the island.

  I finally sleep and then I oversleep and miss the early ferry, so it’s almost noon when I finally arrive on Orcas.

  The house appears slowly out of the fog. I’m up the steps before I see the metal bucket full of zinnias and sunflowers sitting next to the door. A gift from our renter, no doubt. Most people who stay here fall in love with it. A lot of them leave us things—flowers, a nice bottle of wine, or just a little note saying how much they enjoyed it. Several years ago a couple from San Francisco offered to buy it, furnished.

  I’m ambivalent about renting it, although the money comes in handy. There’s so much of Mac and me in this place and it bothers me to think of strangers sleeping in my bed, using my dishes, reading my books. Even though the cleaning service is pretty thorough, there’s always a lingering trace of the unfamiliar. Once it took almost a week to get rid of the penetrating lime scent of a man’s cologne.

  Unpacking takes all of ten minutes, then I pull out my kitchen file to find the recipe I wrote years ago on a piece of yellow legal pad. It may be the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had…we use it at the bakery. It’s the one people invariably ask for when they want a birthday cake. It’s called Ellie’s Deep South Chocolate Cake after the young woman from Alabama who worked for me four years ago and gave me the recipe, but our customers never ask for it by name; they always just say, “I want that chocolate cake.”

  There are a few tricks to it…one is a small amount of mayonnaise, which keeps it moist; another is using brown sugar; the last is substituting black cocoa for part of the natural cocoa. That’s really what gives it the deep, dark and incredibly chocolate edge.

  I start pulling ingredients out of the pantry.

  By two-thirty the fog is lifting, but behind it are banks of gray clouds and the temperature hovers in the low sixties. Out on the deck, the air is still, the only sound a steady dripping of water off the trees.

  The cake layers are cooling on racks, the ganâche is ready to spread and I’m suddenly exhausted. The bedroom seems cold and remote, so I pull a sleeping bag out of the cedar closet, unroll it in front of the woodstove. Getting kindling from the basket, I think of my father showing me how to build a fire in the fireplace at Lake Tahoe when I was fourteen. I practiced all that summer. We didn’t go back the next summer, and that fall, he died.

  I never had occasion to build fires again till I moved to Seattle more than fifteen years later. Then it was Mac who taught me the art of heating by woodstove, how to damp the blaze down so it would last, radiating a slow, delicious warmth all through the night.

  I arrange the kindling in the shape of a teepee, scrape the wooden match along the rough hearth, releasing a burst of sulfur, and touch it to the shavings at the bottom. It catches instantly. As the flames grow, I add larger pieces of kindling, and finally a small log and close the glass doors. In minutes the blaze begins to take the edge off the damp chill. I pull down a pillow from the couch, take off my shoes and my jeans, and crawl into the sleeping bag.

  I’m swimming upwards through a thick black ocean. Somewhere over my head a telephone is ringing. I should answer it, but I can’t make myself move. It’s dark and cold. The stove has gone out. By the time I extricate myself from the sleeping bag, the call has gone to voicemail. I stretch for the lamp switch, shivering and squinting into its glare as I pick up the message. Dead air. Whoever it was hung up without saying anything.

  I roll up the sleeping bag and put it away. The ganâche has hardened, so I beat it for a few minutes with my hand held mixer and forgo the crumb coat, slathering the cake with every bit of frosting I can scrape out of the bowl. I set it in the fridge to firm up.

  Upstairs the shower’s steam fills the bathroom. When I’m clean and dry, reality is somewhat closer, but not quite within my grasp. I watch myself in the mirror, wanting to ask that woman what she’s doing, where she thinks she’s going. I twist my hair and tuck it up under my baseball cap, slip into my jacket, grab a flashlight, the cake.

  And my toothbrush.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in the kitchen at Rafferty’s, surrounded by four hungry guys in the process of de-constructing my chocolate cake.

  “Sour cream,” Ferris says. “It’s got the moistness and that little tang.”

  I shake my head.

  “Buttermilk, then.”

  “Espresso,” says Will. “That’s the edge.”

  I love restaurant kitchens—the smells, the whoosh of flame from the burners when something spills over the pans, the clink of plates, the talk, the laughter.

  “There better be some left for me,” Alex says from the stove.

  “Then you better hurry up,” Will says, jamming a huge bite into his mouth.

  “I don’t hurry,” Alex says straight-faced. “I like to take my time.”

  This sets off a round of hoots. I cut a large piece of the cake and put it on a plate. Fredo hands me a fork.

  “No, this is for Alex. I’m going to put it away so it doesn’t disappear in the feeding frenzy.”

  I cover the plate with plastic wrap and take it into his tiny office off the storeroom, setting it on the desk, tucking the plastic around the edges. When I turn around, Alex is shutting the door behind him. We look at each other for a minute.

  “Did you call earlier?”

  He nods. “How was L.A.?”

  “Hot. Smoggy.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. I just really don’t want to talk about it. I came back, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “And thank you, God, for that.”

  It’s only a couple of steps and we move in unison, as if it’s been choreographed—where to step, which way to lean, how we would fit together, and he kisses me deliberately. With intent. Producing a sensation I vaguely recall but haven’t felt in a while. I love the scent of him—olive oil and grill smoke and toasted bread. When I move my arms up around his shoulders he bends his head to kiss my neck and his fingers brush the side of my breast almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to buckle my knees.

  “I want you to stay with me tonight,” he says.

  I smile against his shoulder. “You thought I came down here to bring you chocolate cake?”

  He’s in the process of kissing me again when Fredo hollers, “Alex.”

  “What?”

  “We’re out of orzo for the chicken special.”

  “Use rice.”

  “I don’t think there’s enough.”

  “Then use potatoes. I don’t give a flying fuck.” We try again, but there’s a knock at the door.

  “Hey, Alex, where’s those artichokes?” Will’s voice.

  “Check the prep sink.” He looks at the ceiling. “I’ll kill them all. It’ll only take a minute.”

  This is so not me.

  I’ve always been the sensible one, the dependable one, the one who does the right thing. I pay the bills and balance the budget; I do the employee evaluations—the good as well as the shitty; I insist on confronting my husband’s mother even though he wants nothing to do with her; I invite his daughter by another woman to come for Christmas.
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br />   This time around, I’m doing what I want. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I know things will get messy; people will get hurt, undoubtedly including myself. I don’t care if he likes me in the morning. I don’t even care if I like myself in the morning. In fact, I’m pretty sure I won’t. But I’ve decide not to care. Not right now. I can always care later.

  I’ve been to parties at Alex’s house a couple of times, but Mac was driving and I wasn’t paying any attention; I’d forgotten how middle-of-nowhere it is, down several dark, narrow, twisty roads. It’s good that I can follow him there because I never would have found it on my own.

  It’s raining now. I can hear it tapping on the windows as he walks around with me, turning on all the lights. When he starts laying a fire, I intervene.

  “Alex, I can build a fire. Probably better than you. Go back to work.”

  “I’ll be back by eleven-thirty.” He picks up a strand of my hair, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers. “Please don’t go anywhere.”

  “I can’t. I’d never find my way back to the road.”

  He leaves me alone in his house.

  I finish making the fire in the massive rock fireplace and settle myself on the couch. The couch, I remember very well. Milk chocolate colored leather, soft as cream. I remember wondering how it would be to take all my clothes off and roll around on it. I could give it a go now, but I’m not feeling quite that brazen. Instead, I check out the reading matter on the coffee table. Restaurant trade journals and sailing magazines. Paperbacks by Tom Clancy, Scott Turow, Len Deighton. Not my thing.

  A dim light draws me down the hall. It’s coming from a desk lamp in his office. I flip on the overhead switch. The man is into leather. Loveseat, desk chair, ottoman. There’s an antique roll-top desk, two oak file cabinets. Gorgeous Persian rug. Pretty tidy for a guy. Must have a cleaning service.

  One wall is covered with photographs, mostly of sailboats. There are some pictures of him with different women, usually blonde and skinny with big boobs. A portrait of the boys, they look about two and seven, all dressed up, jackets and ties.

  One older picture is a family grouping—a sturdy, square-jawed father with an unruly shock of fair hair, his wife is small and dark-eyed, holding a baby. Two boys, the older one would be politely called chunky, dark like the mother. The other is fair and slight. I stare at them. Is that fat little kid Alex?

  In a stack of books on his desk, I spot a copy of Treasure Island. The inscription on the title page says, To Alex. Happy Thirteenth Birthday. Your friend, Robert Louis Stevenson. I carry it back out to the living room and curl up on the couch to read. At eleven-fifteen I hear the Porsche, quick steps outside, and he bursts into the room, arms full of take-out containers and brown paper bags.

  I look at my watch. “You’re early.”

  “I would’ve been even earlier, but we had eight covers show up at nine-fifteen.”

  I laugh. “And they wanted to eat? How inconsiderate.”

  “Really. What are you drinking?”

  “Nothing yet.” I wander into the kitchen.

  “Sorry, I meant to show you—”

  “I could have found something if I really wanted it. I’ve just been reading. I…um…found a copy of Treasure Island in your office. Signed by the author.”

  He smiles shaking his head. “My old man was a joker. You want red or white?”

  “Red. I’m having a hard time picturing you at thirteen.”

  He pulls a bottle out of his under-counter wine cooler and opens it quickly and perfectly, like he was born with a corkscrew in one hand. Chateau Margaux.

  “Alex, for God’s sake, that stuff’s expensive.”

  He grins. “You’re worth it.”

  We take the wine and two glasses to the couch and he throws another log on the dwindling fire. He pours the wine and touches his glass to mine.

  “What do you think?” he says.

  “It’s wonderful. But I think it’ll be even better when it warms up and breathes a little.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the wine,” he says.

  “Neither was I.”

  We laugh and it diffuses some of the tension.

  “I’m sorry, but I just have to ask about the picture in—”

  “Yeah. The fat kid is me.” He sets his glass on the coffee table and leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “The neighborhood where I grew up was considered rough—although by current standards, it seems like Disneyland. There was this one particular bunch of kids that used to follow me home at least once a week and pound on me…I was a perfect target. A fat kid who liked to cook. I couldn’t even run away fast enough.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I got pissed off. When I was fourteen and I was working at this diner, there was a gym across the street. I started hanging out there, lifting weights. There was this black guy named George Canady.” He laughs. “I used to think he was so old. He was probably about thirty-five, a retired heavy-weight fighter, strictly small time. A good guy. He taught me how to hold up my hands.”

  “How to what?”

  “Fight. He thought I had the makings of a boxer. I really wasn’t that interested in it, but I did learn how to take care of myself.”

  “Nice picture of the boys.”

  “I keep thinking I should get a new one, but I don’t know if I could get them both cleaned up at the same time.” He clasps his hands behind his head. “Dustin asked about you by the way. Not by name, of course. He said ‘How’s the pasta lady?’”

  “I’ll answer to that. When are they coming back?”

  “Who knows. When they were little they used to love coming up here. We’d go sailing, fishing, hiking. Now Jesse wants to spend every daylight hour skateboarding and Dustin sits in his bedroom reading about some kind of particles.”

  “That’s pretty typical. They’re growing up, finding their own lives.”

  He shakes his head. “I feel like it’s my fault for not trying harder, not being around when they needed me.”

  I think of Mac giving Skye a check and sending her on her way.

  “Kids always need you. Not being around is something you can still change.”

  He looks at the fire for a minute, then turns his face to me. “No more boring shit,” he says. “I just want to hold you.”

  It’s a hazard of monogamy—the way sleeping with one man for ten years leaves a kind of imprint on you—a physical memory. The shape of his body against yours, the way his arm rests in the crook of your waist, how your head fits perfectly under his chin. When you try it with someone else, it’s like trying to dance in the wrong size shoes.

  All I can think of is Mac—how Alex is not him. His hands are wider, shorter, strong like Mac’s, but not as graceful. His mouth is fuller. His body is compact, muscular, covered with wiry black hair, where Mac is long and lean and smooth as river rock. Mac smells like mountains and pine trees. Alex smells warm, earthy, spicy. Like food.

  Finally I roll away, sit up, button my shirt, pull on my jeans.

  “I’m sorry. I just…” I get up and stir the fire, sit cross legged in front of it. I hear him behind me pulling on his clothes and then he sits down next to me on the floor.

  He pushes a long strand of my hair back and tucks it behind my ear. “I’ve always had sort of a crush on you.”

  “I think I need to go home.” I move to stand up, but he takes my arm.

  “Wait a second. Wait.”

  “It’s not going to happen, Alex. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop worrying about what is or isn’t going to happen. Just relax. Are you hungry?”

  I suddenly realize I’m starving. “Um…sort of.”

  “Good. I brought us some stuff. It’ll just take a few minutes.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Nah.”

  I smile at the situation, new to me, of not being the one in charge of feeding us. He pours more wine in our glasses and takes his into the kitchen. I drink mi
ne greedily. It’s wide open now and the perfume of it fills my head.

  I’m only vaguely aware of his movements, the sound of the refrigerator door. He has the hood fan on, so I don’t have to worry about making conversation. Something smells fabulous.

  Plates appear on the coffee table, carelessly artful. Sliced cold roast chicken with a mustard sauce. Bread and cheese. Spicy glazed carrots, barely warm. Field greens dressed in a lemony vinaigrette. And in a basket, cradled by a white linen napkin, a tumble of beautiful, gold-brown curls. Still hot from the oil. The aroma is devastating.

  “Oh, Alex…”

  “I’ve been waiting all summer to hear you say my name like that. If I’d known all it took was potato chips, I would’ve made them a lot sooner.”

  I take a chip from the basket and bite into it carefully. No grease. Just warm crunch and the perfect amount of salt.

  He brings a bottle of white wine and two glasses.

  “I’ll stay with the red,” I say, but he takes my glass from me.

  “Just try this. Vouvray goes really good with the chicken and tarragon.”

  I eat everything with my fingers, including the salad. He’s right about the wine, of course. It’s so good that I have another glass and stare at the fire some more.

  By now it must be after 2 A.M. When he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, there’s no resistance left in me. I’m sleepy, sated with good food and wine, charmed by my host. In his bedroom we undress and move together under the covers.

  “I don’t know if I can do this—”

  “Hush,” he says. “All I want to do is make you feel good. All you have to do is let me.”

  It’s like being in a play. It feels like reality sometimes—a lot of the time, in fact. But no matter how well I know my character, how closely I identify with her, I know at some point I’ll cease being this woman. I’ll scrub my face, take off the costume and go back to real life.

  Meanwhile, Alex wants me to come to the café for dinner, or to be at his place, waiting for him to come home so he can cook dinner for us. He likes to listen to music and talk, make love and then sleep until ten or eleven in the morning.