Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “Well…I guess I’ll drive off that bridge when I come to it.”

  He grinned and shook his head.

  What I didn’t say because it seemed kind of silly—although, being a car guy, he’d probably understand—is that this car seems like the one constant in my life. The smell of it, the feel of the driver’s seat’s worn leather, the shiny black shift knob under my hand…those are the things that comfort me. Yeah. It’s down to that.

  My mother and Richard have a condo in Sherman Oaks, but they spend most of their time in Grass Valley. CM jets back and forth to New York, stockpiling frequent flier credits for a planned trip to Tahiti this fall. I still talk to them all and see them occasionally, but day to day, it’s pretty much the bakery, me and Charles.

  Strangely and unexpectedly, Cheryl has become a godsend. The emotional connection that I had with Tyler isn’t there, but in a way, that’s a good thing and I have no complaints about how she runs the bakery. Sometimes people surprise you, the way they grow into a situation. And without being intrusive or nosy, she’s helped me through some rough patches.

  So far, Tyler hasn’t said anything about coming back. In fact, Tyler hasn’t said much about anything for a while. During the first term she called every couple of weeks, but that tapered off, partly I assume because she’s busy, and partly because I didn’t feel comfortable talking to her about Mac. Since that was pretty much all-consuming for me, we didn’t have a lot to talk about beyond what was going on at work. Even her interest in the bakery seemed to wane after a while as she got more involved in her classes and her externship at an elegant restaurant in Monterey.

  It’s almost lunchtime when I turn off Highway 101 and head east into Napa. At Mustard’s Grill I order a half-pound hamburger, which is worth every penny of the fifteen dollars it costs, and I eat the entire thing, including every crispy French fry without feeling a shred of guilt. Hopefully we’ll have a late dinner.

  It’s been years since I’ve been in the wine country. I think last time I was with Husband Number One. I drive slowly—too slowly for a lot of people driving behind me—but I refuse to power through this lovely place, so I pull off from time to time to let them fly past. Yes, it’s touristy and crowded, but I still love cruising the two-lane highway through the lush valleys. I love the fields with the wild mustard growing between the grid of vines, the swags of mist festooning the surrounding hills, the wineries with their stone entrances and manicured lawns.

  When I check into my B&B, I congratulate myself on my choice of lodgings. I chose Livingston House based on a brochure one of our customers showed me when she heard I was coming up here. I booked it mainly for two reasons—one being the location, just a couple of blocks from downtown St. Helena and a five minute drive to Greystone. The other reason was the gorgeously understated interior of the place and its eclectic collections of art and books. Too many B & B’s in the valley are over-decorated Victorians with their print wallpapers and canopy beds and ornately carved armoires—cute, cluttered and—to me—claustrophobic. When I saw the photo of the sunny downstairs room with a tile soaking tub and steam shower, I was hooked.

  I call Tyler’s cell phone and leave a voicemail that I’ve arrived and then I climb into a hot bubble bath, already regretting that I’ll only be here two nights.

  Eventually the water cools and the bubbles dissipate. I push myself up and out of the tub, shivering, wrap up in the French terry robe, and lie down on the bed, intending to check tomorrow’s forecast on the weather channel. Two hours later my buzzing phone wakes me.

  “Wyn! I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour. Where are you?”

  It takes me a minute to figure out the answer. “Um…the hotel. B&B. Inn. Whatever. Sorry, I fell asleep and my phone was set on stun. What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty. We have a 7 pm dinner reservation. Can you be ready in ten minutes?”

  I sit up, yawning. “Sure, if you don’t care what I look like.”

  “I don’t. See you in a few.”

  A quick look outside reveals a steady drizzle, so I put on my good jeans, a pair of leather boots and a cotton sweater, pull my travel raincoat out of its stuff sack, and proceed to the parlor to wait for her. Makeup be damned.

  At first I don’t see the person standing behind Tyler. Then while we’re hugging I find myself looking into a pair of soulful dark eyes, and I suddenly know I’m looking at the reason why I haven’t heard from her lately.

  She grabs his hand and pulls him towards us. “Wyn…” She actually blushes, a first for my Tyler. “This is my…friend…János Herczeg.”

  He takes my cold hand in his two big, warm ones and kisses me on both cheeks.

  “I am so glad to finally meet you,” he says with just a whisper of a mysterious accent. “You are all this girl talks about.”

  The way he looks at her when he says “this girl,” melts my heart.

  “I’m very happy to meet you, too.” I smile. “And I’m so glad Ty has a friend whose name I can pronounce.”

  He has a big, friendly laugh, and Tyler rolls her eyes at me. “You’ll get used to her weird sense of humor,” she says. Then she actually hugs me again, without any prompting, and we go off to dinner.

  The next morning Ty picks me up after breakfast and takes me on a tour of Greystone. When I walk through the huge arched stone entrance I have a sudden flash of déjà vu.

  “What?” she says.

  “I just realized this is the old Christian Brothers winery. I was here years ago with David.”

  “Well, it’s changed a lot,” she says. “Come on, I want to show you everything and we don’t have much time.”

  We visit the tasting bar and the chocolate kitchen, the store and the demo kitchen. On the second floor the old barrel room, now the winemakers’ hall of fame, is being set up for the graduation ceremony. The teaching kitchen, with its gleaming banks of Viking stoves and stainless steel counters, moves to a complicated rhythm all its own as teachers and students and guest chefs bustle around getting food ready for the celebration dinner. At one point I glimpse a guy in a white chef’s jacket who—at least from the back—looks like Alex. My reaction is instantaneous and visceral.

  In her car on the way back to town, I lean my head against the window and sigh. “This is beautiful. I’m so glad you got to come here.”

  “Me too.” She laughs. “And if I hadn’t, I never would have met János.”

  “I really like him, Ty. He just seems so…real.” I give her a sly smile. “Nice buns, too.”

  She pulls into a parking place on Main Street. “Let’s have a quick coffee before I take you back.”

  We get double mochas and sit at a marble counter facing the street.

  “I like this place,” she says. “Doesn’t it remind you of Queen Street? Just the feel of it.”

  “It does.” I look over at her. “You look different, girlfriend. Like you’ve got the world by the tail.”

  She looks right back at me. “Happy. Wyn, I’m so happy. I had no idea love was like this. Oh, God, don’t cry.”

  “Oh, shut up. I’ll cry if I want to. As Lesley Gore said.” I dab at my eyes with a napkin.

  “Who?”

  “Nevermind.”

  We sip our coffee silently for a minute; then she says, “I…um…wanted to talk to you about my plans.”

  My stomach dips. Last night I learned that János’s parents live in San Francisco and I’m envisioning him taking a job there. Marriage. Babies. Only seeing Ty on Thanksgiving or when they bring the kids to Disneyland.

  “Big or small?” I ask.

  “Big or small what?”

  “Wedding.”

  She laughs so hard she nearly falls off her stool. “We’re not getting married,” she says. “Not right now, anyway. My god, we’ve both got loans to pay off. János wants to take his wine degree before he even looks for a full time job. And when he does get a job, it will just be to get enough experience to open his own place. Then, who kno
ws?”

  “You mean…I thought you’d want to be together.”

  “Oh, we do,” she says matter-of-factly. “And we will. We’ll have to commute at first, of course. But we’ll work it out.”

  Suddenly I feel very old and out of it. “So…what plans are you talking about?”

  “Work,” she says. “The bakery. You said I could come back. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” A small frown appears, then vanishes into a smile.

  “Oh, God, Wyn. Don’t cry.”

  It’s mid-afternoon and the Grill on the Alley is pretty quiet. It’s late for lunch, too early for happy hour. I’ve just come from a post-surgical appointment with the orthopedic surgeon and I’m in a lot of pain, but I can’t take oxycodone on an empty stomach and I don’t want to drive all the way back to Luna Blanca with no relief.

  I’d like to eat at the bar, but having one arm immobilized in a sling makes climbing up on a stool somewhat of an undertaking, so I let the host show me to the booth back in the corner on the right, my second favorite place to sit. He helps me get my good arm out of the ugly warm-up jacket I was instructed to buy for post-op wear.

  “What did you do to yourself?” the waiter asks.

  “Threw a no-hitter. Too bad it was just spring training. Looks like I’m out for the season.”

  He nods. “Shoulder, huh? Rotator cuff, I bet. I had that a couple of years ago. What can I get you?”

  I order the Caesar with chicken because I know it’ll be quick. I’d kill for a margarita, but they don’t go well with oxycodone, so I ask for iced tea. As soon as the waiter brings the bread basket, I slather a piece of sourdough with butter, wolf down a couple of bites and pop my pill. Then I lean my head against the back of the booth and wait for the pain to fade.

  Since the surgery I’ve had to sleep sitting up with one of those contraptions everyone had in college for studying in bed—a wedge-shaped pillow with arms. Looks like a chair with no seat. Interestingly, they were called husbands. They work fine for reading in bed, but for sleeping, not so much. Every time I doze off, my head drops forward, sending a sharp pain down my upper arm. So now, as soon as I lean my head back, I start drifting away.

  “Wyn.”

  When my eyes flutter open I nearly choke. My ex-husband (the actual male, not the pillow) is standing beside the table. The shock of seeing him for the first time in over a year combines with the drugs to make me feel faint.

  He frowns. “Are you alright?”

  I nod. “Just stoned.”

  The waiter appears with my salad and greets Mac like a cousin. “You want a table or you sitting at the bar?” he asks.

  There’s a brief awkward silence and then I hear myself saying, “You can sit here…if you want. If you’re not…”

  “Thanks,” he says and quickly scoots into the booth opposite me. I have a sudden flashback to our first dinner together, at a wonderful old-time Italian place in Seattle called Lofurno’s. I had a Caesar then, too. But asking for grilled chicken on it probably would have caused the chef to fall on his meat fork. That night we sat across from each other in a wooden booth, eating and talking and listening to music into the early morning hours.

  The waiter brings a Martini and sets it in front of Mac.

  He’s a little thinner than I like to see him and his hair is cut very short, which makes him look boyish, except that the gray is more noticeable. He’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt that probably cost more than any one item in my closet, and a luxe gray sport coat.

  I wish I had a glass of wine right now. It always makes me sociable. Whereas drugs simply make me drugged.

  He looks at my arm. “Finally had to get it fixed.”

  “The biceps tendon was almost severed when they got in there. So now I’m in therapy for probably a year and it hurts like hell. The only upside is good drugs.”

  He laughs. “What did they give you?”

  “Oxycodone. That’s why I had to get something to eat.”

  “You didn’t drive over here?”

  “Of course I did. How else would I get here?”

  “You shouldn’t be driving around while you’re on that stuff. And how can you drive stick?”

  “I swapped cars with Cheryl today. I probably won’t have any transmission left when I get the Volvo back.”

  “So are you still in the apartment?”

  “No, I just moved into a townhouse a little north of Luna. Well, I’m in, but this…” I look at my shoulder… “is making the unpacking phase a rare pain in the butt. My mom came down for a few days, and put away all the basic necessities, but I’ve still got cartons all over the place and I don’t know where half my stuff is.”

  The waiter reappears with my salad and a steak buried in shoestring fries. “Anything else for you two?”

  I look at Mac. “Did you order that?”

  “I’m a really boring guy. I don’t have to order.”

  He smiles at me and for a moment I flounder. “Look,” he says, cutting the meat precisely, “I’m leaving tomorrow for Orcas for a week, but when I get back, I’ll come over and help you get things put away.”

  I feel suddenly awkward. Did he think I was hinting? “Oh, don’t worry about it. CM said she’d help me when she comes back from New York.”

  “I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll call you when I’m back.”

  Flustered, I change the topic. “Are you going up there to write?”

  “No, I’m going to crew for Alex in some race. Up to the Gulf Islands. We’ll spend a couple nights on Salt Spring and then work our way back.”

  “Sounds like fun.” My mind rolls over the subtext. Ex-husband and former lover going sailing together? If only I could be a fly on the gunwale. But they’ll probably do the guy thing and talk about sports and the stock market.

  “Yeah. It’s been too long since I’ve been on a boat. I’m really looking forward to it.” He pauses. “I have some other news…December Light is in post-production.”

  “Oh my God, Mac! That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  “I can’t believe it yet. I kept thinking something would blow up and the whole thing would be back in development hell.”

  “When will it be released?”

  He frowns. “We’re trying to time it a little closer to balloting for the Oscars.”

  I look at him and he bursts out laughing.

  “Admit it, you bit.”

  I laugh too. “Only because I’m on drugs.”

  He puts some fries on his bread plate and nudges it towards me, not bothering to ask if I want them. He knows my weakness.

  “How’s everything at the Maven?”

  “Oh…good. I was actually thinking about doing pizza.”

  “Pizza.”

  “Well, you know…like gourmet pizza. Thin crust, wood fired oven…”

  His eyebrows lift. “You really want to make pizza?”

  “No.” I sigh. “I really just wanted an excuse to put in a wood fired oven.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because wood fired bread is so unbelievably wonderful.”

  “Would you take out the Bongard?”

  “No. I couldn’t do the volume of bread I need in one brick oven. It would just be like my midlife crisis red convertible. Anyway, it’s not practical.” I sit for a minute, reminding myself of all the reasons why it can’t happen. “Not enough space, too much money. No place to stash the wood. Re-training all the bakers…”

  “Why don’t you just put one on your patio at home?”

  “Yeah, the homeowners’ association would be all over that like grilled cheese on Wonder Bread.”

  “Oh, I bet you could wear them down.” He laughs. “Tell you what, you get it approved and I’ll build it.”

  “You don’t have time to fool around with brick ovens.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Besides, what’s in it for you?”

  “A percentage of the product. I’m serious.” He looks directly into my eyes. “
Think about it.”

  “Okay, I will. Soon as I get off drugs and I can actually think.”

  We finish our food and sit talking. He tells me he’s going to New Zealand again to see Skye. They’re planning to hike the Routeburn Track. He tells me about his therapy with Willow. He’s actually had two phone conversations with his mother. He says he’s off medication and while he still has black days, he’d rather feel what he’s feeling—good or bad. I guess I can understand that.

  We don’t talk about the rest. About the divorce, the slow, painful disentangling of us. It seems dishonest in a way, but maybe a bit of dishonesty is what’s called for in order to move forward and still be good to each other.

  By the time December Light is distributed, he’s not only helped me unpack my household goods, but he’s fixed my garage door opener—twice—and installed a doggy door from the kitchen to the patio for Charles. I’ve given him my Lakers tickets a couple of times. We’ve had lunch twice for no particular reason.

  Then one day he phones to ask if I would cater desserts for the December Light release party at a small theater off Sunset. After I’ve said I’ll be happy to do it, he drops the bomb. The film’s producer, Kristin French, has moved into the Luna Blanca house with him. Somehow I find it possible to say,

  “Good, Mac. Good for you. I’ll look forward to meeting her.”

  Christmas Eve 2004

  My mother wanted me to spend the night at the condo, and I suppose I should have, since I’ll be going back tomorrow afternoon, but I prefer to sleep in my own little house. Plus she doesn’t like Charles sleeping on the bed. So, after many admonitions to drive carefully, keep my doors locked and don’t make eye contact with other drivers, Charles and I depart with my mother’s CD of Handel’s Messiah blasting out of the sound system (to keep me awake, she says.) As soon as I leave their complex, I turn it off.

  After an evening’s laughter, conversation and music with my mom and Richard, CM and Nathan, Tyler and János plus me and my date Charles, what I crave is silence. The great thing about being paired with a Corgi is he never contradicts my opinions or gets drunk and flirts inappropriately or tells boring stories about his herding days. He doesn’t remind me to signal for a lane change or warn me that the light three blocks away is turning amber. In short, he’s the perfect companion.