Bread Alone: A Novel

by Judith R. Hendricks

I swirl the wine in my glass. “I’ll say. All we cared about was getting the steps down so we could look cool. It didn’t matter that no one would dance with us because we were too tall.”

  “We weren’t too tall. They were too short.”

  “Whatever. You know, Mac played that song at Bailey’s one night, and I almost didn’t recognize it without all those little hiccups.”

  She pulls her knees up, looping her arms over them. “Justine Wynter, where are you going with this?”

  “I don’t know. I was just thinking how you get used to things. Even if they’re totally wrong. At some point, you start believing that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

  She gives me a look of perfect understanding, as only a longtime best friend can. “Gotcha.”

  “David was absolutely right, you know. He said, ‘Don’t you even know when you’re unhappy?’ Obviously, I didn’t. If he hadn’t kicked me out, I never would have had the nerve to walk away.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go writing him any thank-you notes just yet. Not till the money’s divvied up, anyway. What about the handsome stepbrother?”

  “He went back to his ex.”

  “Really? That’s strange.”

  “Actually, it makes perfect sense. He was more enamored of the nuclear-family lifestyle than of me specifically. And I was starting to have déjà vu. You know—a second term as executive wife in Marin instead of Hancock Park.”

  “He was a good Transition Man.”

  I treat her to a Linda-style snort. “The shortest transition in history.”

  “How’s Mac?”

  “Fine, I guess. He’s up in the San Juan Islands writing the great American novel.”

  Her X-ray vision burns into my brain. “Too bad. I liked him. For you, I mean.”

  “I sort of liked him, too. But we never got beyond the platonic.”

  “Maybe he’ll come back to Seattle.”

  I start chipping orange flakes of Caribbean Sunset polish off my big toenail.

  “And what about all this?” She nods at my pile of boxes.

  “The owners ready to start working on the house again. I knew it would happen eventually, but it’s not good timing. Daisy says the market’s pretty stagnant.”

  “Wyn, just move into my place. As soon as I can get Butt-head out.”

  “Don’t you think you need some peace and quiet? Some time to yourself?”

  “What I need is to have my Amazon blood sister around.” She grins. “Just like old times.”

  CM goes home and I skip off to work in a rosy glow, which lasts until about 5:55 in the morning. At that point, Ellen comes in looking like Death’s blue-plate special.

  “Diane had to go to Baltimore again,” she says in reply to my questioning look. “Her mother hasn’t been doing well, and they think she may have suffered another small stroke.”

  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” Linda mutters. She heads for the door, leaving me to wheel out the cooling rack and arrange the bread on the shelves.

  Ellen’s floundering this morning. After filling the register, she sinks into a chair and lays her head on her arms. At a loss for anything inspirational to say, I crank up the espresso machine. Now that I’ve mastered the espresso machine, I confess that being barista every once in a while makes me feel undeniably cool. Like some gorgeous, skinny, but well-endowed signorina with black hair and pale, flawless skin. Who works at a coffee bar in Milano or Firenze and is secretly—or openly—coveted by every artist in the district. They flock to the coffee bar each morning to watch her hips sway with maddening grace as she pulls their espresso. They kiss their fingertips at her and leave thousands of lire on the bar.

  “Are you going to make us a mocha or stand there and watch the steam blow?” Ellen says.

  “Sorry.” I close the frother nozzle and tamp the finely ground coffee into the brew basket. “Did Diane say when she’d be back?”

  Ellen stares at me. “As I just said five seconds ago, she’s hoping to come back Friday, but she wasn’t sure.”

  “Sorry, I was thinking about some stuff.”

  “I guess I have to draft Tyler again.” She rambles on, talking more to herself than to me. “And call all the cake orders for this week and tell them Diane’s gone again.” She turns abruptly. “Word’s going to get around, you know. We’re going to get a reputation for not being able to deliver.”

  I hand her a steaming mug. “It’s not that we can’t deliver. It’s just that we can’t deliver what they’ve ordered.”

  She frowns. “Duh.”

  “I’m just saying maybe there are people out there who are looking for Tyler’s style of cakes, too.”

  Ellen’s expression relaxes. “You think?”

  “I don’t know. Punkers and artists and students get married, too. They probably don’t all want a white wedding cake with alstroemeria and violets. Lots of bakeries are copying Diane’s cakes now, although I’ve never seen any as beautiful as hers. I’m just saying maybe we should try something different. A little edgier. We might tap into a whole other market.”

  She mulls it over, shifting the mocha from one cheek to the other, before she swallows. “You may be on to something,” she says. “I’ll have to talk to Tyler about it.” She looks at her watch and sighs. “If she ever decides to grace us with her presence.”

  At twenty to seven, Tyler strolls up to the front door, holding hands with—I hate to be judgmental, but this guy resembles the Incredible Hulk. He’s got a shaved head and he’s dressed all in black, just like Tyler. The two of them look like some noir version of the Bobbsey Twins. He’s wearing one of those dog-collar things with spikes on it, and we watch, fascinated, as they engage in a few minutes of passionate farewell kissing. Finally, he disappears and Tyler makes an entrance.

  “Hi, guys.” Her purple lipstick is smeared on her left cheek.

  I’m dying to know how you can kiss somebody who’s wearing one of those things without getting your throat slashed, but this may not be the time to ask.

  “You’re late,” Ellen says.

  “Oh. Sorry. Teddy wanted to walk me to work, and we sort of got—” “You’ve been late every day this week.” Ellen chews the words as if they were rubber. “Next time it happens, I’m docking you. And furthermore, I don’t appreciate your standing out there swapping spit with Rin Tin Tin in front of the door at the beginning of our busiest time. If you have to indulge, go in the alley.” She gets up abruptly and heads for the bathroom.

  Tyler stares after her. “Geez. Who put the Ben-Gay in her Preparation H?”

  I try to suppress a laugh. “Cut her some slack. She’s totally stressed.”

  By Saturday, CM’s apartment has been cleansed of all traces of Neal Brightman. I move in on Sunday. Most of my furniture ends up in storage, but Neal had set up a tiny office in one corner of the living room and CM assigns it to me for all my books, papers, and tapes. Since her idea of fixing dinner is to nuke a Lean Cuisine, there’s plenty of room in the kitchen for all my tools.

  “I’ve always wanted a live-in baker.” She stows my whisks and rolling pin and bread pans in a cupboard next to the sink.

  We exchange her couch for my futon, but because I’m getting ready for bed about the time she’s getting ready to leave for work, we sleep in shifts in her queen-size bed. It all seems designed to work as smoothly as a set of well-lubed gears, but I’m too used to the luxury of solitude. For the moment, living with CM is like playtime, but eventually I’ll want my own space. I call Daisy and tell her I now have the leisure to be particular, but not to stop looking.

  Only the angle of the sun says it’s late August. In L.A., all but the most well-watered yards would be a bit shopworn by now. But here, hollyhocks still nod in the warm breezes and zinnias still shout out their colors up and down the streets. The sky is still an endless blue in the afternoons and Dianes still in Baltimore. Her rationale is that it’s better to stay there while things are so precarious than to keep flying back and fort
h.

  Ellen says yes, she agrees, but everyone at the bakery can see the effects of the stress. Her normally cheerful demeanor is submerged in fatigue and worry. She’s lost weight and lugs a perpetual set of bags under her eyes. Tyler’s unhappy, feeling overworked and underpaid, jerked back and forth from barista to cake designer, as the occasion demands. This necessitates pulling Jen or Misha out front to cover for her, and they aren’t crazy about the setup either. Only Linda carries on unperturbed.

  One morning as I’m putting the bread out, I notice a well-dressed woman pacing back and forth in front of the door. Obviously someone who needs her morning coffee. She keeps looking at her watch and switching her Louis Vuitton briefcase from hand to hand. At 5:45, Ellen appears, shakes the woman’s hand, and then a guy in a navy suit comes up and they all shake hands. My stomach gives me a couple of well-placed nudges. When Ellen unlocks the door, they follow her in.

  “Hi, Wyn,” she says. She sounds almost like her old self, but she avoids looking at me. She doesn’t make any move to introduce me to the yuppies, so I just go about my business. The three of them wander back to the work area and I hear Linda complaining loudly about being crowded. Ellen’s response is inaudible, but she brings them back up front and they settle at a table.

  I know what this is, but it’s not until Ellen goes to her desk and comes back with her old green ledger book that I give up trying to formulate other explanations. I stand around staring at them for long enough that she gets embarrassed.

  “Wyn, come here a second. I want you to meet Terry Sullivan. With Great Northwest Bread Company. And this is Donna Baird.” We shake hands and I manage to get quite a bit of flour on his navy blue suit. “This is Wyn Morrison, one of our bread bakers. Wyn studied at a boulangerie in Toulouse.”

  “That’s marvelous,” Donna Baird gushes. “Being trained in the basics is so important. Of course, Great Northwest requires that all bakers go through the Great Northwest program in addition to whatever other training they may have had. Just to ensure uniform quality, of course.”

  Franchise? Uniform quality? Ellen’s having a nervous breakdown, there’s no other explanation. Why else would she want to turn the Queen Street Bakery into a bread machine?

  They’re through with me, resuming some previous conversation, and I hear Terry Sullivan say, “This is a great space. Of course, it would pretty much have to be gutted to make room for the machinery. Those ovens are … amazing. I can’t believe they’re still working. They should be in a museum.”

  I head for the back door, ripping my apron off over my head.

  “Hey, where d’ya think you’re goin’, missy?”

  “Your turn to clean up.” I throw the apron in the basket and make myself scarce, leaving Linda to stare after me.

  I can’t go back to the apartment. My mind is spinning like one of those gyroscope toys. Sleep is out of the question, so I just start walking.

  By summer’s end, I didn’t want to go home from Toulouse. I suppose it was partly just the dread of real life that you always feel when you come back from a trip someplace wonderful. But there was something else—an awareness. I’d discovered the existence of a world that was at once foreign and familiar. I wanted to stay in it. I wanted to walk every morning to the boulangerie in the heavy, sweet air that lingered under the plane trees. To enter through the back door, an initiate. To feel the blasting heat of the ovens, smell the toasty-caramel smell of a hundred perfectly cooked loaves, to hear the steam sing as it escaped the crackling crust. I wanted to watch the hypnotic motion of the giant kneader blades, feel the cool, rounded dough under my hands.

  I could quit UCLA and go to cooking school. I could work as a baker if that’s what I wanted. There was no reason not to. Except that I knew I wouldn’t. I would go home and run headlong into all the forces of my old, comfortable life pushing against me. I wasn’t strong enough to make it happen. The knowledge was utterly depressing.

  A horn blares, startling me.

  “Hey, excuse me. Could you get out of the driveway?”

  I’m standing in front of the Victorian house on Fourth Street. Workers are already crawling all over the thing and the air is full of their voices, the whine of power tools, the sharp reports of hammers.

  “Sorry.” I wave at the driver of a flatbed truck loaded with a dozen different styles of doors. Pretty soon this place won’t even be recognizable.

  Turning abruptly, I start back the way I came, my speed gradually increasing to keep pace with the racing thoughts in my head. When I go past the bakery, practically at a trot, Terry Sullivan is measuring the front windows and barking numbers at Donna Baird, who’s writing them down on a clipboard. They look up as I go by and she calls out cheerfully, “See you soon.”

  I smile. Don’t bet the ranch on it, lady.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been jogging, and CM’s is uphill from Queen Street. By the time I burst through the door, I’m gasping for air and I’ve got a major stitch in my side. I drink a glass of water while I ransack the little desk for my address book, and, finally, I sit down with it and Dorian Duck.

  The air in the apartment seems oppressively close. Beads of sweat are popping out on my face, running down in little rivulets to drip off my chin. My heart’s pounding so hard that my hands are shaking as I punch in Elizabeth Gooden’s number. I need to start working out again somehow. Even if it’s only—

  “Law office.”

  “Elizabeth Gooden, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” I pant, “I didn’t recognize your voice. Why are you answering the phone?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Wyn Morrison.”

  “Wynter, hi. I’m the first one here. You sound as if you just ran a race.”

  I laugh, breathless. “You’re close. Listen, we need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “About the divorce,” I gasp. “I want it now. I mean, as soon as possible. Forget the foot-dragging.”

  A few seconds of silence. Then, “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain. I’m even willing to make concessions—I mean, as long as it’s not too much—”

  She laughs, a cool, dry sound. “No need to go overboard, Wynter.”

  “Okay, but I’m serious. I want to proceed with all—What do they call it?”

  “All deliberate speed.”

  “Right. ‘All deliberate speed.’” My breath is starting to slow.

  “And you’re absolutely sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, but I have to ask. Why?”

  I look around the apartment at the cozy tangle of my things with CM’s, out the window to the sapphire-blue water, the buildings of Seattle, golden in the morning sun, and the day is suddenly full of promise.

  “I just have better things to do, I guess.”

  “Okay. I’m going to overnight your husband’s financial declaration to you. Go over it with a fine-tooth comb and let me know if anything’s missing. We’ll proceed from there. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Elizabeth.”

  “You’re welcome, Wynter. And congratulations.”

  By three that afternoon I’m back at the bakery, still not having been to bed. Ellen clearly doesn’t want to talk to me, but I corner her in the storeroom.

  “Don’t do this. You know you’ll regret it forever. Think of what this place will be like as a franchise of the Great Northwest Bread Company.”

  She spins around to face me. “You think I want this? I’m too old to be selling Mazurka Bars on the street corner.” Tears pool in her eyes. “I have no choice.”

  “Why?”

  “Wyn, believe me, I’ve tried for months to find an independent baker to buy it, but nobody wants to work this hard anymore. At least the franchise will contract with me for Mazurka Bars.”

  “Months? How long have you known about this?”

  She runs a hand thro
ugh her hair, leaving a floury trail. “Well, I suspected a long time ago that this was where things were heading. Right after Diane went home the first time. I started putting out feelers around the end of June.”

  “But why do you have to sell?”

  “Because I don’t know what else to do.” She pulls out a tissue and blots her eyes. “Diane’s not coming back. She’s decided it’s her obligation to stay in Baltimore and take care of her mother.”

  “But she’s got all kinds of family back there. Why does Diane have to uproot her whole life and—”

  Ellen rolls her eyes. “Guilt is an incredible motivator. It makes otherwise sane women crazy. Anyway”—she lowers her voice—”our partnership agreement states that if one person leaves, the other has to buy her out. Ordinarily that wouldn’t have been a problem, but we used up our reserves when we expanded into the candy store’s old space. We’re maxed out on loans. And I just don’t have the money to buy her out.”

  “Well, I do.”

  Her expression reminds me of those forties detective movies. Some guy’s always getting hit in the head with a blackjack, and he gets this really goofy look on his face just before he drops to the floor.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been making some phone calls. I talked to my lawyer and I talked to my mother. My divorce won’t be settled for a while, but my mother’s loaning me thirty thousand dollars against the settlement.”

  She laughs ruefully. “Oh, bless your heart, Wyn, it’s a lot more than thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Of course. But there’s nothing in the agreement that says you have to pay her the lump sum all at once, is there?”

  “No …”

  “So we negotiate. I think Diane will be amenable, don’t you?”

  She nods slowly, but I can tell she’s afraid to put her full weight down on this solution for fear it might collapse under her. “Why do you want to do this? You do understand that Diane and I never made a lot of money.”

  I smile. “It’s sort of about missed chances.”

  I hold out my hand to shake on it, but she grabs me in a bear hug. “Wyn, thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “That, and I’m looking forward to being Linda’s boss.”