Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “Were you sleeping with her or not?”

  Instead of answering, he rocks the chair forward. “Were you sleeping with Alex?”

  It’s like riding a bicycle off a cliff. Pedals spinning, suspended in air for a few seconds. My breath catches, making a little gasping noise.

  “He’s always had a thing for you. Didn’t you ever notice?”

  I find my voice again. “No. Actually I didn’t notice. I was too busy trying to be with you.”

  His hand on my arm feels like some inanimate object. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I don’t blame you. Or him. I just want to talk about everything. About us.”

  “I’m not sure there’s still an us.”

  “We won’t know till we talk about it.”

  Suddenly I’m exhausted. The energy of fury has drained out of me and I feel like an empty balloon.

  “I can’t right now. I’ve been running on adrenaline for the past week and I’m totally strung out. I can’t even think about it.”

  He hesitates. “Do you want me to move out?

  I can’t help laughing. “Oh, that’s good. All those months I wanted you to come home and you wouldn’t—”

  “Couldn’t.”

  “Whatever. Now you’re back and I don’t know if I want you here.”

  “Just tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  The problem is, I don’t know what I want.

  Am I angry at him for something he says he couldn’t help? Am I angry at myself for still caring? Or am I simply angry because I thought I had everything figured out and now he’s thrown me another curve ball? Is it just, as Alex said, about not being in control of things 24/7?

  “I suppose…if we’re going to get things sorted out…you should stay. In the guest room.”

  “Of course.”

  “And don’t expect anything from me for a while.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “And don’t try to be funny.”

  “Okay.”

  I get up from the table and pick up my keys.

  “Wyn…”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re…welcome.”

  Everyone should be gone by now but Cheryl’s car is still in the lot. She’s carrying a sheet pan with three cake layers from the kitchen to the baking room and when the alley door slams shut behind me she drops the whole thing in an eruption of batter and clanging of pans. Both hands clutch at the neck of her T-shirt.

  “Oh my God, Wyn! You scared me. I’m—What are you—?” She looks around. “Oh shit, what a mess. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the ingredients—”

  “That probably works out to about a buck seventy-eight.” I look at my watch. “Why are you still here?”

  Her face is red and splotchy. “I was…um…sort of experimenting. With a recipe. I’m sorry, I know that’s not my job, but I just wanted to try this technique I read about…I’m really sorry.”

  I pull an apron off the shelf and loop it over my head. “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re applying to pastry school.”

  “Not me.” She takes a bench scraper and starts scooping batter back into the pans while I fill a bucket with hot soapy water and grab some towels.

  In fifteen minutes there’s no trace of mishap except a damp spot on the floor.

  “What have we got in the day-olds?”

  “Peanut butter cookies. Brownies. Some blueberry muffins and a few cream scones,” she says.

  I’m impressed that she actually knows. I open the reach-in and immediately spot what’s left of a Guadeloupe Tart.

  “This is more like what I had in mind. You want a piece?”

  “Oh…well…I think that’s the last one.”

  “Then it’s our duty to eat it so Rafe can make fresh ones for the customers.”

  She watches me cut the remaining tart in half, slide the pieces onto two plates and hand her one. We take them to the break room table.

  “You know, I think this stuff is even better cold.” I suck on my fork.

  “I still can’t believe Tyler’s leaving.” Her voice sounds like she might start crying. “Not just because she does so many things, but also because she knows so much stuff that she doesn’t even know what all she knows.”

  “Come again?” I give her a sideways look and nibble at a piece of coconut.

  “She has so much…knowledge is what I mean. She takes it for granted, and she probably hasn’t even thought to tell anyone else. We won’t realize everything she has in her head till she’s gone.”

  “It’s going to be hard for a while.”

  “Wyn, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “How personal?”

  “I was just wondering if you’re planning to go back to Orcas. I mean…not immediately, but…”

  I get up and fill two glasses with ice and cold coffee. I pour an unconscionable amount of half and half in mine and take a drink.

  “No. I’m not.” With my little finger, I press the last flake of Raphael’s perfect crust and deposit it on my tongue. “I’m sure everyone will be thrilled to know that I’ll be here breathing down your necks till I keel over at age 98, clutching a loaf of walnut levain.”

  Her laugh is a nervous little whinny. “You know we all think you’re the best boss—”

  “Come on, Cheryl. If you’re going to be my manager, you’re going to have to stop being polite. The job of the manager—whoever it is—is to tell me the truth, not to make me feel good.”

  When the silence has gone on for several seconds, I say, “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No…it’s just…I don’t see how anyone can do as good a job as Tyler.”

  I resist the temptation to agree with her. “She’ll be a tough act to follow, that’s true. But if I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t have offered you the job.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “If it’s not good enough I’ll just fire you.”

  She looks stricken.

  “Cheryl…I’m kidding.”

  On Sunday before Christmas, I meet CM for lunch at Le Dome on Sunset. We have a glass of champagne in the bar under the soft ochre rotunda. Her first toast is our oldest one.

  “Forever Amazons,” she solemnly pronounces. “And Happy Birthday, Baby.”

  “How can I be forty-four? In my head I’m still twenty-four. No, make that thirty-four. It was a better year.”

  We follow the maitre d’ to a table, lugging our shopping bags full of presents for each other and our families.

  “So when does Tyler leave?” she asks after we sit down.

  “January third.”

  “It’s hard to imagine the Maven without her.”

  “No one could ever replace Tyler, but Cheryl’s coming along. I think she’s going to be okay.”

  She sips her champagne. “What about Mac?”

  I survey the menu, but I can’t seem to focus. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”

  “And what’s the sixty-four thousand dollar answer?”

  “I don’t know. When I first got back I wanted to kill him and divorce him. In that order. Right now…we’re roommates. Civil. Sometimes even…friendly. But…you know, I always thought that when—or if—we got back together, it would be pretty much like it was before. Like he would go back to being his true self. But it’s different. He’s different.”

  “People change,” she says gently. “Especially after something like what he’s been through. Don’t you think it would be weird if he hadn’t?”

  I turn over my knife a couple of times and arrange the napkin on my lap. “It’s just…he’s just so not Mac. I keep looking at him and wondering…if I were meeting him now, would I love him? Would I even like him?”

  “Ah. There’s your sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  “You ladies ready to make some choices?”

  “Give a us a few minutes.” CM favors the waiter with a smile, then turns back to me.
“For one thing, it’s all so unexpected. You come home thinking it’s game over and suddenly he’s acting like he wants to be with you. I’m sure it was disorienting. But there’s no rush to make a decision, is there? Even if it’s over, nothing’s going to happen till after the holidays. Right? So why don’t you just sit with it. See how things shake out.”

  “I hate ambiguity.” I smile involuntarily. “But you knew that.”

  I’m weighing the merits of lemon roasted chicken with garlic mashed potatoes vs spinach salad, when she says,

  “And before you let him back in your bed, you need to take a look at your Christmas present.”

  I peer down into the shopping bag by her chair.

  “Not that one. I left your big present in the car. They wouldn’t let me bring him in.”

  “You know, the Chippendales are so last century.”

  She smiles mysteriously and asks me what I’m ordering for lunch.

  I rip a piece off my roll and dip it in olive oil. “Spinach salad. And dessert.”

  She beckons the waiter and he hurries over to take our order. Without consulting me, she orders two more glasses of champagne.

  I study her. “What’s up?”

  She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Remember that dress I bought for you to wear when I was supposed to marry Nathan?”

  “One doesn’t easily forget an orange dress with a purple sash.”

  “Can you still get into it?”

  “I suppose with the right underwear anything’s possible. Why?”

  “I’m having a party New Year’s Day.”

  “Really? A costume party?”

  “A wedding.”

  “What?!” I shriek, causing everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. She smiles slyly. I lower my voice. “Do not mess with me, woman. Tell me immediately.”

  “Well…” She leans back in her chair, folding her arms, like she always does. “Remember when you called me in New York and I said I was going to a play?”

  “Nathan! You saw his play—What’s the name of it?”

  “The Hunters. I read a review of it about two weeks ago, and I wanted to see it, but it was sold out, so I called him. I told him I was in town for a few days and I really wanted to see his play and I asked him if he could get me a ticket.”

  “Was it him you saw in London?”

  “No.” She smiles. “That was the first thing I asked him. But he seemed really glad to hear from me and he asked me if I would go with him to the play and then have supper.”

  “This is starting to sound like something on the Lifetime Channel.”

  “So he came to pick me up at the hotel, and he looks wonderful—getting a little gray, but still so...I don’t know…whatever it was that he had, he’s still got it.” She flutters her fingers over her heart. “I felt like I was twenty six again.”

  “Only smarter.”

  “Anyway, the play was great and we went to supper at one of those New York places that you never heard of but it’s wonderful. He ordered champagne and sent everyone away who came over to schmooze and we just sat there talking. It was like no time had passed at all. Finally they threw us out at three a.m.”

  “And then…?”

  “And then we went to his place on Central Park West…”

  “Central Park West?”

  “Well…it’s very small. But we made love and slept and made love and O M G.. I was in love. I am in love. And while we were having breakfast he said, ‘Let’s do it right this time.’”

  I jump up and throw my arms around her. “You’re the only woman I know who can go in looking for a theatre ticket and come out with a husband. Has he been pining for you all these years?”

  “Hardly. He’s been married twice, but he’s been divorced for the last five years.”

  I have a sudden, sobering thought. “You did tell him that moving to New York is a deal breaker.”

  She smiles. “We’ll be bi-coastal—it’s very hip.”

  The valet brings my car up first.

  “Thanks for lunch. Let’s get together the day after Christmas and talk wedding.”

  “Wait a minute, wait. I wasn’t kidding about your present. You stay right here till they bring my car.”

  Even as she says it, her yellow Miata comes roaring up to the valet stand and I can see my present, his little fox face peering out the window at me. I stare at CM.

  “Charles?”

  “Susan’s moving to Hawaii and she can’t take him. He’d have to be in quarantine for six months or some awful thing. Since I can’t have him, I decided the next best thing is for you to be his new mom. Then I can see him whenever I want.”

  She opens the passenger door of her car and I open my door and Charles jumps into my arms, sniffs me and hops into the Volvo. He settles himself on the passenger seat and waits patiently for me to get my other packages in the back, tip the valet, hug CM once more and take off down Sunset Boulevard.

  twenty-one

  After the endurance run to Encino in the rain and gridlock, I pull into my mother’s driveway to find a For Sale sign stuck in the front lawn. I’m stunned.

  She answers the bell and draws me inside to hug me, ignoring my wet coat. Then she spots Charles, sitting politely on the door mat, waiting for the all clear.

  “Oh, you adorable thing! Where did you come from?” She sits down in the foyer and pulls him into her lap. When he goes off to explore the house I help her up.

  “My Christmas present from CM,” I explain. “What’s up? Where are you guys going?”

  She laughs and brushes at the dog hair on her sweater. “We’ve bought a place up in Grass Valley. I can’t wait for you to see it. It’s an old Victorian, almost completely restored.”

  I smile. “Almost?”

  “Richard wouldn’t be happy if there weren’t a few projects to work on.”

  We go into the den where the man in question is pouring mulled wine. “Hey, Gorgeous. It’s good to have you home.” He takes my wet shopping bag and arranges the packages under their huge Christmas tree where Charles is investigating the ornaments.

  “Just in time for you two to take off,” I say.

  “Oh, it’ll be awhile.” He grins. “We have to sell this place first. And there are one or two small things I need to do to get it ready…”

  My mother laughs again and goes to hang my coat on the hall rack. The room looks like a window at Macy’s, decorated with silver and gold ornaments and candles, flocked greenery. Perry Como is singing “O Holy Night” and suddenly I’m ten years old, looking for the optimal place to hang my stocking. The ghost of Christmas Past is my father, leaning against the mantle in his Fair Isle ski sweater. And he’s smiling.

  When I announce CM’s impending nuptials, my mother presses her hands together as if in prayer. “I knew he’d materialize one of these days. Took him long enough, didn’t it? Are you going to be the matron of honor?”

  “I don’t respond well to anything involving the word ‘matron.’ I’m going to be the Best Babe.”

  Richard sets a pile of birthday presents in front of me on the coffee table.

  “Happy Birthday, Best Babe.”

  “Go ahead and open them,” my mother says. “The roast still needs a few minutes.”

  I’ve never been able to rip into beautiful packages. I have to deconstruct everything carefully, folding the paper and rewinding the ribbons. Richard watches me, trying not to laugh. “She is her mother’s daughter.”

  There are books—a couple of novels and a baking book—a beautiful pale orange sweater and some Blue Grass bath powder, my perennial favorite.

  “So what’s happening with you and Mac? I nearly fainted when he answered the phone.”

  I knew this was coming, but it still somehow trips me up. Saved by the kitchen timer.

  I stand up. “Let me help you get things on the table.”

  She looks like she’s about to protest, but Richard says, “I’ll get a fire going in the dining room.”r />
  I follow my mother out to the kitchen.

  “What smells so wonderful?”

  She pulls on oven mitts and retrieves a beef tenderloin from the oven, sets it on the stove and drapes foil over it. Then she turns. “We’ve got fifteen minutes. Can you tell me what’s going on and mash potatoes at the same time?”

  “I could if I knew what was going on.” I pull my oma’s big wooden potato masher out of the utensil crock. “He seems to have moved back in.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so glad.”

  “Don’t get too excited. We’re only sharing the house. He’s in the guestroom.”

  She lifts the lid off the stock pot and I start smashing the steaming hot chunks of potato. She throws in half a stick of butter and pours in some scalded cream.

  She says, “I tried making mashed potatoes with chicken broth, but it just wasn’t the same. So have you two talked about…your situation?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I take it he wants to get back together.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And what about you? How do you feel about it?”

  I keep working the potatoes, watching the cakey white lumps crumble, absorb the cream and butter, and transform into a voluptuous, golden mass.

  “I don’t know.” I turn and look at her. “For the first time in my life that I can recall, I don’t know how I feel.”

  The drive back to Luna Blanca is a rerun of the drive there. Southern Californians don’t know jack about driving in the rain. On one hand you’ve got the macho assholes in their fifty thousand dollar SUV’s who need to prove that a little rain isn’t going to slow them down, and on the other hand you’ve got the wimps who creep along at forty-five.

  By the time I pull up to the house, my eyes hurt from squinting into the night and my hands are molded into the steering wheel’s contours. So when I first see it, I think that in my stupor, I’ve turned into the wrong driveway.

  A Christmas tree occupies the bay window of the living room, ablaze with tiny white lights. When I open the front door, the unmistakable scent of balsam greets me. Mac hovers in the foyer, arms full of light strings. Charles trots in and starts sniffing his shoes.

  “Hey. Who’s this?”