Friendship Bread

by Darien Gee

  “Avalon doesn’t seem like much of a tourist town,” Hannah notes.

  Julia nods. “We’re not really, but people like to drive up and down along the river. Avalon’s an easy stop along the way.”

  That makes sense, seeing that’s exactly how Philippe and Hannah found it. She remembers the quaint wooden sign that welcomed them to Avalon when they first drove in, unsure of what to expect but curious just the same.

  Julia points to something on the menu. “Look at this—‘A Trio of Finger Sandwiches.’ Salmon and cream cheese, turkey with a cranberry relish, fresh goat cheese with watercress. That’s what I’m getting.” She seems pleased by her selection. “What about you?”

  Hannah glances at the menu, at the soups, salads, quiches, and sandwiches, and has no idea what to order. It’s not an extensive menu but the choices seem overwhelming. Hannah is not a picky eater—she never has been. She usually goes along with whatever Philippe wants, not because she’s a pushover but because it’s just easier. Hannah has never had to give it much thought before.

  Everyone around her is eating something that looks good. Julia already knows what she wants. What does Hannah want? It’s just lunch, after all—not the rest of her life. She finally gives up. “I’ll ask Madeline to recommend something.” She puts down her menu, disgusted that she can’t even make this one simple decision.

  Madeline comes by with a carafe of iced tea and two tall glasses. She places it all on the table. “An iced ginger green tea,” she announces. “My own special blend. There’s some simple syrup on the table if you’d like to make it sweeter. And today’s special is a lovely Croque Madame with a Mornay sauce. A neighbor brought over a flat of organic eggs from his farm and I couldn’t resist. Comes with a side of fresh greens. Nine ninety-five.”

  “That’s the one for me,” Hannah says immediately. She reaches for the iced tea pitcher and pours herself and Julia a glass. “Madame de Brisay will have the Croque Madame, s’il vous plaît.” She feigns a French accent but it comes off funny.

  “I’ll have the finger sandwiches,” Julia says. She looks at Hannah. “Who’s Madame de Brisay?”

  “Me.” Hannah stirs some syrup into her iced tea. “My husband is French.” She doesn’t look up.

  Madeline’s eyes widen in sudden recognition. “I know who you are!” she exclaims. She puts her hands on her hips and looks at Hannah as if she’s been holding out on her. “Hannah de Brisay, née Wang. I’ve read about you in the New York Times. You’re a concert cellist!”

  “Was,” Hannah corrects.

  “I think I heard an interview on NPR. Didn’t you start playing the cello when you were three?”

  “Three?” Julia gapes at her and Hannah is embarrassed.

  Madeline continues, unabashed. “I remember Joel Rose saying that you could hear a piece and play it back in its entirety by age seven.”

  It was age six, actually, but Hannah doesn’t correct her. She’s a little flattered someone knows something about her in this town. It feels good, like her identity hasn’t been completely wiped out.

  Madeline is excited, and it must be contagious because Julia is grinning, too. “You used to play with the New York Philharmonic. I can’t believe it—there’s a celebrity in our midst!” Madeline’s voice reaches an exclamation and a few heads turn to look at them, curious.

  “No, no,” Hannah says hastily. “I’m retired from playing professionally. Besides, that was a long time ago.”

  “It couldn’t be that long ago. You’re still too young and beautiful.” Madeline gives her a look that’s both kind and stern, and Hannah wonders if Madeline knows more than she’s letting on. Madeline glances around the tea salon, which is still full of customers. “And wouldn’t you know it, I have to get back to work just when it’s getting interesting. I’ll swing by when things settle down. Dessert is on the house—your pick.” She hurries off before the women can protest.

  Julia looks at Hannah, intrigued. “Is your husband a musician, too?”

  Hannah manages a nod as she takes a sip of her iced tea. It warms her throat—the ginger is a little spicy. “Philippe plays the violin. He’s assistant principal for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.” And he left me, she wants to add, but decides against it. It’s not the kind of thing people want to know about.

  “Why aren’t you playing anymore?” Julia asks.

  “Three years ago I had a back injury after touring hard one season. I couldn’t sit upright for a long time—the muscles in my back were constantly in distress. I’d had chronic back problems before—a lot of cellists experience this, unfortunately—but this was much, much worse. I took a leave but it was clear I wouldn’t be able to perform like before.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Hannah says, even though it’s really not. She misses it more than anything, especially now, and it makes her wonder what all her hard work has been for. “Philippe and I were also tired of having a long-distance marriage, so it made sense to give up my apartment in New York and move to Chicago. Then this year we started looking in the suburbs for a place to live. We couldn’t find anything we liked so we kept driving until we found Avalon.” She doesn’t say that she resisted the idea of moving to a small town that seemed a bit too far away from the city, too far away from civilization as they knew it, but Philippe had insisted, convincing Hannah that he was thinking about their future. Now she knows he was just thinking about a future without her. “It was Philippe’s choice to move here.”

  “Is he enjoying it?”

  “He said he was, but he was never here.” Hannah realizes she’s speaking in the past tense but Julia doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Did you say you have children?”

  “No.” Hannah can’t imagine what she would do if they had children. She adds, “We’ve talked about starting a family but I don’t think that’s going to happen.” She doesn’t say any more and Julia doesn’t ask.

  Julia turns to gaze out the window. “I’m trying to remember if I saw something about your arrival in the Avalon Gazette, but I don’t really look at the paper much. They make such a big deal about anything that happens in this town, I’m sure they were thrilled to hear that you and your husband are residents of Avalon now.”

  Hannah gives Julia a bemused smile. Avalon is such a far cry from New York or even Chicago that she doesn’t know where to begin. She remembers a time when she and Philippe were constantly in the press, music fans and photographers in love with the young couple who seemed destined for stardom.

  “With the exception of Madeline, I don’t think a lot of people keep up with the classical music world anymore,” Hannah says.

  Julia looks sheepish. “I’m sorry to say I don’t know as much as I’d like.” In other words, she has no idea who Hannah is.

  Which just makes Hannah beam. There was always that uncertainty if someone was enthralled by Hannah or just by her music. She has friends and acquaintances by extension, other musicians who travel in the same crowd, all with similar stories to Hannah’s—they started playing young, went to music camp during the summer, attended Juilliard, and so on—but she’s never known many people outside of their music circle. Constantly moving, plus four to seven hours of daily practice, made it impossible to get to know anyone.

  When their food arrives, Hannah dives in, starving. Her grilled sandwich has an egg on top, sunny side up, and a creamy cheese sauce on the side. She and Julia trade small bites, cutting off corners of their sandwiches and commenting on how good everything is, how Madeline clearly has a gift. Both of their choices are delicious, and Hannah decides next time she’s going to pick something off the menu, something new that she hasn’t tried before, and will keep going until she’s sampled everything.

  Hannah quizzes Julia about Avalon. What to do, where to go, what to see. It’s embarrassing how little she knows of the town she’s living in, but Hannah thought she’d be discovering it with Philippe.

  She pushes Philippe from he
r thoughts and turns her attention to Julia, finds herself intrigued by Julia’s love for a town that is clearly home for her.

  Home. The concept of setting down roots or even having roots is foreign to Hannah. Seven moves over her lifetime, either for music or for when her mother was sick and they camped out near Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles. Hannah feels like her life has been in perpetual storage—some things here, some things there, nothing ever all in one place, not even now. Her possessions are divvied up between Avalon and their apartment in Chicago, and her brother Albert recently told her that he still had three of her boxes from their parents’ old house up in his attic in Maryland.

  “I haven’t lived anywhere for more than four years at a time,” Hannah tells Julia. “I used to tell myself that it was wanderlust, that traveling was in my blood. But it was just my way of justifying why I was never anywhere for too long. I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t have a place to call home.”

  “Where would home be, if you had a choice?” Julia asks.

  “I don’t think it’s the place so much as the feeling. Does that make any sense? I have this sort of Norman Rockwell ideal of what home would feel like, of everyone being together, of kids riding their bikes, of lemonade stands and lazy summers.” Hannah gives a wry smile—she has never had a lazy summer, and there was no way her father would have let her set up a lemonade stand on their street. Neither she nor Albert has ever owned a bicycle, not even now. “We celebrated American holidays—sort of—but there was usually some kind of Chinese spin on it.”

  Julia looks confused so Hannah explains how her parents made a turkey one Thanksgiving, and after agreeing that there wasn’t enough flavor, reverted back to roast duck with its crispy skin and moist, sweet meat. Hannah remembers sitting alongside the banister next to Albert, both of them up past their bedtime, watching the men smoke and talk in Chinese while the women played mah-jongg, their hands moving fast over the colorful resin tiles, mixing them up as they laughed and chided one another.

  Julia smiles. “I think that sounds lovely, Hannah.”

  “I guess,” Hannah says. “But I always thought it would be nice to have an old-fashioned holiday, you know? I wasn’t born in Taiwan, I was born here. I just want to experience things like everyone else.”

  “Being a concert cellist is hardly like everyone else.”

  Hannah smiles. “Tell me about it. And then, of course, I had to marry someone who was French, so there were always French celebrations we participated in like Bastille Day and La Chandeleur. It’s not that I mind any of that, it’s just that I want …”

  “A Norman Rockwell Christmas,” Julia finishes for her.

  “And Thanksgiving and Easter.” Hannah gives a sigh.

  Julia smiles. “You know, Hannah, you can have all of that here. In Avalon.”

  Hannah thinks about this. Even though Avalon was Philippe’s choice, it does have that classic Americana feel to it. “Maybe you’re right.”

  The lunch rush has passed and there are only a few lingering customers other than Hannah and Julia. When they finish eating, Madeline brings over a pot of tea and three cups and pulls up a chair.

  “Finally!” she exclaims, her face flushed in happy exhaustion. “I’ve been anxious to try this tea. It’s peppermint with a touch of cocoa beans. Helps the digestion.”

  Julia smiles. “You’re spoiling us.”

  “Oh, pshaw.” Madeline feigns indifference but the women can tell she’s pleased. Madeline drops her hands into her lap and nods toward the buffet of desserts. “Go on and help yourself—plates are on the left.” She checks the tea for readiness, but it’s still steeping.

  Julia is the first to fill her plate: dark sticky gingerbread, vanilla sponge cake with a passion fruit filling, a wild blueberry scone. Hannah chooses to satisfy her chocolate craving with a single, albeit decadent, fudge brownie.

  “We’re going to eat all of your profits,” Julia warns Madeline, who dismisses the comment with a wave of her hand. Julia glances at Hannah’s modest choice. “Or maybe just I am.”

  Madeline checks the tea and, satisfied, pours each of the women a cup. “I am just thrilled to have people eating my food,” she tells them.

  “It looks like everyone’s eating your food now,” Julia says. “You were packed today.”

  “I know, isn’t it glorious? It’s been like this since …” Madeline thinks, then brightens. “Since you girls came in a couple of weeks ago. Here I was thinking that maybe it was spring coaxing everyone out, but maybe it was the two of you. My own lucky charms.”

  “Or,” Hannah adds, “your food is just amazing and one taste is all it takes. That’s how it was with me.”

  “And me,” Julia says. “Sometimes it takes our town awhile to try something new, but once they do, if it’s good, they’re hooked. And word travels fast in Avalon.”

  “Whatever the reason may be, I am grateful,” Madeline says. She takes a sip of her tea, considers it. “Oh, that’s nice.” She pours some more for all of them then settles back in her chair. “Those first few months were concerning, let me tell you. The downstairs freezer is filled with baked goods I didn’t want to spoil. The local food bank only wants nonperishable food and I like to bake fresh. I guess I’ll be saving it all for a rainy day.”

  That reminds Hannah, and she reaches for her bag. She hands Julia four Ziplocs of starter.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep one?” Julia asks her.

  Hannah wants to say yes but isn’t confident she’ll be as enthusiastic to bake again next week. “It’ll take me forever to get through the two loaves I made. Plus I’m more of a chocolate person.” She takes a bite of the brownie and is surprised by how moist it is, practically melting in her mouth. “This is heavenly. I should probably try to tackle brownies someday.”

  Madeline gives Hannah a sly smile. “Funny you should say that. I made those brownies using one of my bags of Amish Friendship Bread starter.”

  “Really?” Hannah takes another bite. It’s delectable. So long as the recipe isn’t complicated, she wants to try it. “If it’s not too hard to make, I’d love the recipe.”

  “Me, too,” Julia says.

  “Of course,” Madeline says. “And rest assured it’s surprisingly easy. If you made friendship bread, you can make this.”

  Hannah gives Julia a sheepish look. “Do you mind if I ask for one bag back? Will your daughter mind?”

  “Of course not.” Julia hands a bag back to her. “Gracie will just be thrilled to have any extra bags to take to school.”

  “I would love to meet her sometime,” Madeline says. “Promise me you’ll bring her in, Julia. I’m toying with the idea of afternoon tea parties for little girls, or maybe offering my place as a birthday party venue on weekends. She could be my test market.”

  “Gracie will be in heaven,” Julia says, beaming. “In fact, she might never leave.”

  “Do you have any other children?” Hannah asks, curious. Julia looks like the sort of woman who would have a handful of children. Hannah can picture Julia managing her familial chaos like a traffic cop, a smile on her face as she wrangles her children into a minivan.

  But a shadow crosses Julia’s face as she looks down at her teacup. There’s an obvious shift in her mood, and Hannah wishes she could take it back, wishes she hadn’t said anything, not wanting to have disrupted this otherwise perfect moment. Hannah sees Julia’s shoulders tense and for a second Hannah wonders if Julia is going to leave. But she doesn’t.

  Instead she looks up at Hannah and says, “Yes, I do. I have a son.”

  CHAPTER 8

  If you don’t see anyone, you never have to talk about it. It’s been a long time since she’s had to say anything about it, because everyone in Avalon already knows some version of that day.

  Julia feels it hanging in the air, lingering. Waiting. Her voice is uneven, shaky, as she begins in a low voice, uncertain of how much she will say, of how much she can say. Then suddenly the words sw
oop down and she’s telling them everything.

  The three women are quiet. Julia can’t quite believe that she’s actually recounted the events surrounding Josh’s death aloud. She’s never discussed it, not even with Mark, and if anyone were to ask her what happened, she simply got up and walked away.

  Madeline is the first to speak. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Julia.” She takes Julia’s hands in hers, her wrinkled skin soft. A balm.

  Hannah looks stunned, her eyes filling with tears. Julia is familiar with this, the shock of hearing about Josh for the first time. That Hannah is completely speechless and not rushing to fill the silence with words is a relief.

  Madeline’s eyes are wet but her gaze is steady on Julia, who pulls her hands back and uses her fingers to rub her eyes. She suddenly feels tired. She wants to sleep.

  “I am so sorry,” Hannah finally manages. Madeline hands her a tissue and Hannah blows her nose. “I just … I don’t know what to say …”

  Julia opens her eyes to look at the young woman weeping in front of her, trying to stop but unable to. “It’s okay, Hannah.” In the past, it angered Julia when people would break down in front of her, mourning the loss as if it had been their own, as if expecting her to comfort them. Now, however, she feels differently.

  Madeline excuses herself to tend to the few remaining customers, promising to be right back. She gives Julia a hug and kisses the top of her head.

  The tiredness passes. Julia is suddenly aware she’s sitting at the table with a pretty blue chintz tablecloth, her hand wrapped around a cooling teacup. She notices the vintage salt and pepper shakers, the purple crocus buds tucked into a small glass vase. In the past, the tired feeling would have camped out in her body for days so that the only viable solution was to crawl back into bed. But today, the tired feeling has come and gone. Her chest still feels hollow and as fragile as an eggshell, but she is sitting at this table, drinking her tea, and talking about Josh.