Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “Is everyone okay? No one’s hurt?”

  She sighed. “Didn’t you listen to my message? We’re fine. It was right after six and Cheryl and I were the only ones in the bakery. We got under the big table and just rode it out. Have you talked to your mom?”

  “They had a couple of pictures come down, but nothing else.”

  “The front window’s broken, but it’s in place. Some things came off the shelves…Power’s back on now. The EMA guys came and yellow tagged the building, which means there’s damage but it’s safe—”

  “Tyler, I grew up in L.A. I know what a yellow tag means.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry, Ty. I’m just upset.”

  “Well, you should be. The earthquake never would’ve happened if you’d been here.”

  In the space of time that I’m in the Village Market buying a latte, the wind picks up and the rain goes from steady to deluge. I get soaked on my run back to the car and when I grab the door handle I inadvertently squeeze the cup, squirting a geyser of coffee all over my coat sleeve.

  At the instant I jump in, pulling door behind me, I realize that Alex is sitting in the passenger seat. I stare at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  He gives me back a steady look. “Saying goodbye, looks like.”

  I set the coffee cup on the dashboard and push the wet hair off my face, blot my sleeve with a rain-soggy napkin. “I was going to call you from Seattle. I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

  “I saw it on the news last night when I got home. So I figured this is where I’d find you.”

  I lean my head back against the seat. “Tyler says the damage isn’t bad. A broken window. Stuff fell off shelves.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How was the party?” I take a sip of coffee and offer him the cup.

  He shakes his head. “Incredible. It was so…I wished you were there. I’m going to call Sarah today.”

  “Give her my love.”

  “There were a lot of things I wanted to talk about,” he says. “Any chance you’ll be back?”

  My eyes begin to sting. “Probably not any time soon. Getting the place put back together before the holiday is going to be a push…and Ty’s leaving in January.”

  “Maybe in the spring,” he says.

  “Maybe. It all depends…”

  The ferry has docked and trucks are rolling up the ramp. We watch them in silence and then the guy is waving his flashlight at me.

  “Alex—” It’s all I have time to say. He leans over to kiss me and gets out of the car.

  “Be safe,” he says before he shuts the door.

  I know I should be thrilled that the tag on the door is yellow and not red, but the sight of the boarded up front window is distressing, like seeing someone you love in a full body cast. Before I can get my key out, Tyler opens the door.

  She stands stiff-legged while I hug her, looking over her shoulder at the pile of debris in the middle of the floor.

  She says, “There was supposedly an aftershock about noon, but we didn’t even feel it. Did we?”

  “Nope.” Cheryl has come out front, wiping her hands on a towel and smiling determinedly. “We’re getting things put back together.”

  “I know you are and you’re both doing a great job and I really appreciate it.” I set my purse down on a table and pull out my camera. “Let’s have a look.”

  I walk around taking pictures of the damage, and they follow, not talking. The only sound is our steps crunching on plaster crumbs and broken glass. The Bread Maven may be considered habitable from a building safety standpoint, but all that really means is we can get in and do the clean-up. It’s probably going to be several days before we can open for business.

  The coffee station has fallen over, contents flying off the open shelves—napkins and flatware, sweeteners and empty carafes, boxes of tea and condiments, and what looks like about half of our china cups. In the work area, one of the huge mixers has wandered to a different location, ripping its plug out of the wall socket and taking the GFI plate with it. Pans and utensils are stacked on the tables waiting a turn in the dishwasher.

  One of the break room cupboards came open, disgorged its contents, mainly plastic glasses and packages of paper towels. All the others stayed shut.

  Everything that was on my desk is now on the floor, except, thank God, for the computer. My bookcase lies on its side, the books piled haphazardly around it.

  I’m kind of surprised by the extent of the damage because the only casualty at the house was a picture off the wall that gouged a chunk out of the hall floor. And of course some of the pool water got sloshed around the yard, so there will be chlorine damage. But it beats having the china cabinet fall over.

  Tyler and Cheryl are watching me, trying to gauge my reaction. Finally I say,

  “Well…it could be worse. Cheryl, why don’t you call Benny and Hola and Ottmar and see if they can come in and work tomorrow. We’re going to need some muscle.”

  For four days we sift through the debris, salvaging what’s usable, junking what’s not. We mop and scrub everything with bleach solution, set up the cabinets, attach the coffee station to the wall with L brackets, call the electrician and the plumber and the glass company. We use the opportunity to re-paint the wood trim a soft sage green. We throw out the spoiled bread dough, send everything still edible to Santa Monica Red Cross for the volunteers, repair equipment and restock supplies and on day five we re-open.

  I spend the morning in my office filling out forms and arguing on the phone with our insurance agent who wanted us to wait until everything was approved by the claims department to do anything. I point out to him that waiting another week would have increased the amount of our losses. He tells me that it’s going to be “really difficult” to get approval now that no one can look at the actual damage. I offer to bring him the photos I took. After a lot of back and forth we say goodbye politely. Having worked five twelve-hour days in a row, I’m too tired to care.

  I open Outlook to find—along with a half dozen offers of earthquake insurance and information on low-cost SBA loans, the only catch being we have to be declared a disaster area—an email from Alex.

  Hey—hope things are back to normal. Talked to Sarah…finally. She sounds like a train wreck. Her farm will go up for sale after the holidays. When I told her about the party she cried for ten minutes. Grand total take was $4730 and some change. I guess it’s not much in the overall scheme of things, but I think everyone was happy. Let me know when you have time for a phone call. I miss you. A

  I create a new file named Orcas and drop the message in.

  After lunch Tyler takes me around, pointing out new products, introducing me to a few new staff. It’s as if she’s the proud owner and I’m a tourist. Bread Maven employees are a bit tentative at first. Understandable. The witch who owns the place has returned, and it will be awhile before they know if they’re getting the benevolent Glinda or the green skinned Elphaba.

  Tyler has tactfully removed her things from my office and later when we’re sitting there with the door closed, she says,

  “I know you think we didn’t need you…”

  I shake my head. “No, I feel like you did need me. And I wasn’t here.”

  “You’re crazy. You know that, right?”

  “Are you excited about Greystone?” I ask.

  “Scared brainless.”

  “You’re going to do great.”

  She’s looking a little sad. “Cheryl’s doing really good, but there’s bound to be a few hiccups.”

  “We’ve still got almost two months. That’s a good transition period. I’m glad I came back.”

  She nods. Then, “What about Mac?”

  “I don’t know. Just have to figure it out.”

  “He was in here a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Having coffee with some guy.”

  I laugh. “Well, as long as he pays the bill, th
ere’s no need to terrorize him.”

  “You better change the damn locks on your house.”

  “The place is still half his.”

  “Hmph.” She frowns and I reach over to take her hand.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll work out, one way or the other. You just keep your eyes on the prize.”

  Saturday the Maven is crazy busy. On Sunday morning CM calls me.

  “I hate to ask you, but I need some help. I’ve been in Chicago all week and my apartment looks like Tornado Alley. Can you come?”

  We spend the day cleaning up, throwing out broken dishes, putting bookshelves back together and art back on the walls. When we finish shampooing the living room carpet, it’s after 8 PM, and she insists on taking me out to dinner. At Farm Girl in Sherman Oaks we chow down on their rare roast beef salad with sweet yellow peppers and crunchy snow peas. To wash it down we split a bottle of Zinfandel. By the time we finish a shared piece of Shaker lemon tart, I know I’m not driving back to Luna Blanca.

  I fall asleep on her couch without so much as washing my face, and sleep straight through till 8:30 Monday morning. She’s already gone when I wake up.

  After a long, hot shower and a leisurely breakfast I hit Gelson’s to stock up on food. It’s past noon when I get home and I realize I forgot the garage door opener, so I park in front and schlep two bags of groceries into the kitchen, then go out for the other two. When I come back in and kick the door closed behind me, I notice a stack of books on the living room couch.

  While my brain is still processing this information, the squeak of the stair makes me gasp. And there he is.

  Standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, tube socks, and carrying his running shoes. It’s incredibly weird. Like seeing someone on the street who you know is dead.

  “Hi,” he says.

  Finally I manage, “What are you doing here?”

  “Well…I…moved back in,” he says.

  I feel sick. If thinks he’s moving the bimbo into my house, I swear I’ll shoot both of them and go to the gas chamber with a smile on my face.

  I lower the grocery bags to the floor.

  “What’s going on?”

  He sits down on the bottom step and pulls on the shoes, tying the laces double. I start mentally ticking things off. Like…his hair is neatly trimmed and he’s clean shaven. And I don’t smell cigarettes.

  “I guess you didn’t get my message.”

  “I guess not.”

  “When I got back from New Zealand I left a message at the Orcas house. The land line—”

  “You went to New Zealand?”

  “When was the last time you checked messages?”

  “I…don’t remember.”

  “When I got back, I had to go to New York and I called to ask if it would be okay to move my stuff back over here. When I didn’t hear from you, I just…”

  My brain is racing like a gerbil on an exercise wheel. “But…when…?”

  “I got back last night,” he says. “Late. I was just going out to run, but I can put those away first.” He looks at the groceries.

  “No, that’s okay. Go ahead.”

  “I won’t be long.” And he’s out the door.

  I’m totally lost. Alice down the rabbit hole. The Mad Hatter has moved into my house.

  In the kitchen I boil water for raspberry iced tea. I put the food in the refrigerator and the pantry and the cabinets. Small things, mindless tasks. Just let me stay busy and stop my brain from racing ahead, anticipating what he’s going to say, what I need to say. I scrub the sink even though it’s not dirty. The hole in the screen has been mended.

  Awhile later I hear the front door. He comes into the kitchen shirtless, mopping his face with the T-shirt. I avoid looking at him, the familiar long curve of his back, the shape of his shoulders. I suddenly recall the feel of his skin, the scent of him. He fills a glass with ice and pours warm tea over it, then looks at me.

  “Did you want some?”

  I hold out my glass and he fills it.

  We sit, silent for a few minutes, like two strangers forced to share a table in a crowded café. We shake the ice in our glasses, make finger marks in the condensation. He pulls the shirt on over his head and looks at me.

  “This is so hard,” he says. “I feel like I’ve been living in a foreign country. Wyn, I’m sorry. For the way things have been. The way I acted. I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

  He talks slowly, choosing his words carefully, watching my face. “I know being sorry doesn’t change what happened, but…I was sick. I am sick, I guess. It took me a long time to accept that. To get some help.”

  So this is what I’ve been waiting for all this time, for him to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. Here’s what happened…

  Now it’s been said. Why doesn’t it make any difference? What do I say? Glad you’re feeling better, but while you were in your foreign country I did some traveling of my own.

  I want my anger back. I hate the sadness that’s mushrooming in my chest.

  “I can’t do this right now.” I stand up. “The bakery. We’ve been putting things back together. CM. Her apartment was trashed…”

  He looks disappointed. “Okay. I know you’re tired. We can talk later.”

  I leave the kitchen and start up the stairs.

  “I’ll put my stuff in the guest room,” he calls after me.

  twenty

  It’s after 6:30 when I come into the kitchen Tuesday evening. His car isn’t in the garage and the house is silent. My clogs are covered with flour so I leave them on the mat. There’s an open bottle of Malbec in the pantry. I pour some in a wineglass and sit down at the table, but I’m too tired to lift the glass. Instead I lean forward, pillowing my head on my arms.

  The rumble of the garage door makes me sit up. For a second I think about taking my wine upstairs, but I can’t muster the energy for a quick escape.

  And then he’s standing in front of me, holding a brown, grease spotted sack that can only have come from one place. When he sets it on the table, the smell confirms it. McMurdo’s fried chicken is the poultry equivalent of heroin. We look at each other and, as if by unspoken agreement, we fall immediately into a familiar routine.

  “Rough day?”

  “Not really bad. It’s just…losing Tyler is such a body blow. She’s been more than my right hand for so long.”

  “She’s leaving?”

  I’d forgotten he didn’t know. “CIA Napa. She’s been accepted into the pastry arts curriculum.”

  “That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it? You think she’ll come back?”

  I shrug. “She says she wants to, but it’s almost two years. A lot can happen. I feel like maybe I pushed her too hard.”

  He takes a wineglass out of the cupboard and fills it.

  “I think she liked it that you depended on her. It gave her a way to repay what she felt she owed you.”

  I take a sip of wine and rub the back of my neck.

  He asks, “How’s the Maven? Did you have much damage?”

  “Enough. But it could have been a lot worse. What did you do today?”

  “I worked this morning, then went for a run along the Palisades. Ran into Gabe. We went to the Daily Grind. He said to say hi.”

  “Gabe…Cleveland?” I look up quickly. “Six months ago he was an obnoxious twit, now you’re having coffee with him?”

  He says, “We’re starting a male bonding encounter group. Sensitivity training.”

  The laugh I’m trying to stifle makes me choke.

  He smiles, obviously pleased with himself. I look at him leaning against the counter in his faded green NYU sweatshirt and jeans, his hair a little messed up in front, flopping down on his forehead. Those beautiful gray-green eyes that crinkle around the edges when he smiles. Telling me about his day, asking me what I did. It all looks so normal. As if the last six months were simply a bad acid tri
p.

  I get plates and silverware and napkins. He parcels out the chicken, tops off our glasses, and we begin to eat. Silently. After two bites, I stop and watch him. He cuts up his chicken, carefully herding the crisp crumbs into a neat little pile on the plate. I remember now. He has incredible dexterity with knife and fork. I generally eat with my fingers, except in restaurants.

  “What are you thinking about?” His voice cuts through my brain fog.

  “I was thinking…how strange it feels to be sitting here with you having dinner and a quasi normal conversation after six months of—”

  “It feels strange to me too. But it feels so good.” He looks down at his hands, then back up into my eyes. “I wish I could make everything like it never happened. But I can’t. We just have to deal with it.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “I think we have to start by talking about it.”

  Anger runs straight up my spine like a steel rod. “You know…I come home expecting that the next time I see you will be in divorce court, and surprise! My husband’s back. And he’s moved into the house. And he suddenly wants to talk. Sorry, but I’m confused.”

  He tilts the chair back on two legs.

  “I was hoping that ten good years would at least be worth a—”

  “Not ten, eight. See, I finally figured it out. You were leaving for the last two years and I didn’t know it. I didn’t want to know it. I kept trying to understand, I kept asking what was wrong and you totally shut me out. It was like talking to a brick wall. I thought it was me. And you let me think that.”

  I drink some wine. I pick up a drumstick and set it down. I’m so twitchy I can hardly sit still.

  “But now I’m trying to explain myself. To tell you how I feel. All those things you always said you wanted from me—and you won’t listen.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I might get tired of trying?”

  He sighs. “Goddamn it, I’m sorry. Can we just talk about it?”

  “So what happened? Things didn’t work out with Liv?”

  “Please believe me, this whole thing with Liv was a symptom, not the problem. It didn’t even—”