Bread Alone: A Novel

by Judith R. Hendricks

  Her sudden laughter bounces off the cement walls of the storeroom.

  Twenty

  CM and I are having a celebration dinner. Halibut with a white-wine reduction sauce with capers. Puréed acorn squash. Salad of baby lettuces. Champagne. And for dessert, Tyler’s Jackson Pollock cake—hazelnut pound cake glazed with white-chocolate ganache and decorated like one of Pollock’s paintings in spatterings of chocolate, caramel, and espresso icing.

  CM raises her glass. “To my best friend and Amazon sister—now an official bread maven.”

  “Yesterday I couldn’t spell entrepreneur; today I are one. You know, I don’t think one bottle of this is going to be enough. Can we put another one in the fridge?”

  She crosses her eyes. “We could, except we’re out.” “How could we be out of champagne?” “I don’t know, but we are. This is the last bottle.” “I’m going to have to go get some more. Put the top on this one and give me your keys while I can still drive.”

  She throws me her purse. “I’ll make a fire and wash the lettuce. Get some goat cheese, too.”

  I should never go near Thriftway when I’m hungry. I come back with three bottles of champagne, five kinds of olives, two kinds of goat cheese and a small wedge of lemon Stilton, and a quarter pound of raw cashews, which CM loves.

  She peers into the bag. “Are we feeding a gypsy camp?”

  A fire’s burning cheerfully in her little fireplace, and I’m unloading my purchases when I recognize the music coming from her tape deck. It’s the tail end of “Cleaning Windows” by Van Morrison. I get the open bottle of champagne out of the fridge.

  The last notes fade out and then a breathy tenor spills into the void.

  I Only Have Eyes for You by The Flamingos

  “What tape is that?”

  She shrugs. “I found it in your box. It’s got some great stuff on it.” She hands me the card. Twelve songs. Title, artist, record label, running time.

  “It’s the tape Mac gave me when he left.” On the back he scrawled, “Remember to listen.”

  “Let me see it.” She pulls it out of my hand and studies it while I fill our glasses.

  “I’m starving. Let’s get dinner started.” I turn on the fire under the sauté pan and pat the excess water off the fish, but CM reaches around me and turns off the burner.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You need to listen to this. The person who made this tape has something to say.” She takes my hand and pulls me over to the futon. “Don’t you see what this is? It’s about you.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Look at these songs.” She waves the card under my nose, but when I reach for it, she pulls it back and reads, “ ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’ That’s you—”

  “Right. After all, I am the only woman in the world with brown eyes.”

  She ignores me. “ ‘Sally Go ‘Round the Roses’—that’s about finding your significant other with someone else. ‘Changing Horses’—about breaking up. ‘Tangled Up in Blue’…” She pushes her hair behind her ears and flops down next to me.

  “It’s just a coincidence. He likes Dylan.”

  “Even you don’t believe that. Look at this one.” She laughs. “ ‘Cold-water Canyon’—obviously Gary. ‘Cleaning Windows’—that’s Mac.”

  “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “‘I Only Have Eyes for You.’ That’s so romantic—”

  “It’s not romantic, it’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  I stare at the lights of the city framed in her window. “It’s what was on the radio the night he drove me to the hospital in the snow.” “Wyn, call him.”

  “He doesn’t have a phone. Besides, even if you’re right, which I don’t think you are, he made that months ago—”

  “No excuses. Can’t you get him a message? No, you need to go up there. Take the Camry.”

  “And leave you with no car?”

  “Taking the bus won’t kill me. Go tomorrow.”

  “I can’t go tomorrow.”

  “Why not? It’s Saturday. You don’t have to work.”

  “I don’t know how to get there.”

  “Piece of cake. I’ve got maps. Basically, you just drive up to Anacortes—it’s about an hour and a half—and get on the ferry.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  She smiles. “But you know how to find out. Don’t you?”

  The last song is playing now. “The Dimming of the Day” by Richard Thompson. He has one of those pure Celtic male voices that’s like a knife in your heart.

  “CM, don’t do this to me. I was just getting used to his being gone.”

  She puts the tape case down on the coffee table, folds her arms, and gives me her green-eyed stare. “If I’m wrong, you’ll have plenty of time to get used to his being gone. If I’m right …”

  Later, when all that’s left of our celebration dinner is a few pleasant aromas and a chunk of cake covered in plastic wrap, and we’ve had enough champagne that we sing “The Night They Invented Champagne,” and CM remembers how to make the cork-popping noise by flipping her little finger out of her mouth, and after we have one more hug, and she’s gone to bed … then I curl up on my side on the futon to watch the last embers of the fire die in the dark.

  Maybe I’ll be like CM—devote my life to my art. The idea has a certain appeal. But even before I finish the thought, I know it’s not the same. CM has something—a steel cable that runs through the center of her life. Around it, all the other threads of her existence are gathered.

  Bread is my job, my craft. A boulangere is what I am. But I’m not CM. Instead of a steel cable, I have a hollow core. I need someone. But is it Mac? He’s truly a man outside my realm of experience. Even if what I feel is … what I think it is, I mean, could it possibly be the L-word? Even if I feel that way, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just on the rebound and he needs a Transitional Woman. Or maybe he just wanted someone to fill a space in time till he got ready to move on, and he’s no longer interested. And even if he’s interested, and I’m interested, there’s no guarantee that it would work. I mean, we’re so different.

  I sit up, punch the pillow, flop back down, roll over on my back.

  From the darkness of her bedroom, CM’s voice floats out to me. “The car has a full tank of gas …”

  The M. V. Anacortes glides through a dreamscape of islands that emerge from the fog and then disappear back into it. I’ve been hearing about the San Juans ever since I moved to Seattle, but this isn’t what I imagined—no sandy beaches, no palm trees. Just rocky, conifer-covered mountains thrusting up from the cold, blue Pacific. Air so clean it sears your throat with a sweet ocean smell. CM said that September wasn’t too late to spot killer whales, but everything that looks like a black dorsal fin turns out to be a floating log or a duck or a curious sea lion.

  The boat’s metal ramp clangs down on the Orcas landing, and the Camry bounces cautiously onto the road. I ask the guy who’s directing traffic how I get to Eastsound.

  He smiles at me as though he doesn’t get asked that question five hundred times a day, and says, “This here’s Horseshoe Highway. Just stay on it.”

  The road drops down into a tunnel of trees that opens out on to rolling green hills. Mist pools in the low spots, but the fog is quickly burning away under the persistent gaze of the sun.

  I’m scared. Like riding my two-wheeler for the first time after my father removed the training wheels. He’d tried to talk me into it for weeks. He said they hadn’t touched pavement in the last dozen outings. But I wanted their presence. I needed to know that if I failed to maintain perfect balance, if that theory about forward momentum was all a lie, that I wouldn’t go somersaulting to my doom. In the end, he just took them off. If I wanted to ride, he said, I’d have to just get on and pedal like crazy.

  I have no plan, no idea what to say to Mac when I see him. I’m just pedaling. God, why did I let CM bulldoze me into this fool’s errand? It�
��s been almost five months since he gave me that tape. What if he doesn’t feel that way anymore? What if he never did? I bang my palm on the steering wheel. Goddamn him. This whole mess could have been avoided if he’d had the cofines to just say something to me.

  Of course, I could have said something to him, I suppose. Like that night on the ferry. But what would I have said? Don’t go? What if he’d just looked at me and said, “Why not?” I would have jumped overboard.

  The highway bends ninety degrees right and I cruise into the village of Eastsound. There are only three or four streets, so I turn on North/Beach Road, the first one, and park at the curb. The wooden sidewalk is lined with cafés, a bookstore, two art galleries, a sporting goods store, a small insurance office. I follow my nose to a tiny bakery tucked away in a courtyard, hoping a pumpkin muffin will fix the hollow feeling in my interior. The muffin is moist, dense with nuts and dried fruits, but I put it back in the bag after one bite.

  At the end of the block, on the left-hand side, is Jaimie Johnson Real Estate. The door’s locked although its nearly ten thirty. Rick said there’d be someone here at nine. Maybe I’ve blundered into some obscure island holiday custom of closing offices on the third Saturday of the ninth month. I’m about to walk away when I hear a cheery, “Hi. Can I help you?”

  A tall, dark-haired woman is walking toward me, clutching a pink mug. “Dorrie Alesworth.” She holds out her hand. “Sorry, I had to have some caffeine and there’s no one else here this morning.”

  “I’m Wyn Morrison. Rick Bensinger talked to someone about my getting a map to his cabin.”

  “Oh, yes. You know it’s occupied right now?”

  My gaze slips across the street to the small parking lot, unconsciously scanning for white El Caminos. “It’s—I actually need to see the person who’s staying there, not the cottage.”

  “Come on in. I’ll mark it on the map for you. It’s real easy.”

  How nice that something is.

  I lay the photocopied map on the passenger seat, turning it to orient myself to the yellow highlighter tracings. Back on Horseshoe Highway. The road skirts Crescent Beach and a sign warns potential oyster rustlers to keep off the oyster beds. Left onto Terrill’s Beach Road, nowhere near a beach as far as I can tell, then right on Buckhorn Road. In a few minutes, I start to see tantalizing glimpses of water on the left. Exactly half a mile later by the odometer, a sign announces “Madrone Cottage.”

  I slam on the brakes even though I’m not going that fast, and sit there sliding my sweaty palms around the steering wheel. When I look in the rearview mirror, there’s a silver Honda Civic waiting patiently behind me. If this were L.A., or even Seattle, the driver would be laying on the horn by now. I wave an apology and turn in, bumping up the rutted drive.

  A white clapboard bungalow appears suddenly, poised on the edge of a meadow as if preparing to dive in. The Elky sits on a patch of gravel to the left of the covered porch. He finally got the fender painted.

  I park near a clump of trees about twenty yards from the house and get out, closing the door gently. I can smell the sea, but the only visible ocean is the swaying green and gold meadow grass. A squirrel’s piercing chatter makes me jump like a guilty trespasser.

  Bob Dylan’s nasal twang blasts out the open window. “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” I’m almost to the porch when the music stops abruptly.

  “I’m going for a run. You coming?”

  Obviously, he’s not alone. My heart thuds in my ears, less a noise than a vibration, as if it’s underwater. If I circle around into the trees, I can wait and see who he’s with. If it’s a guy, fine. If it’s a woman, I need to decide whether to humiliate myself or just slink back to the ferry landing.

  Two steps into the tall grass, my left foot hydroplanes and sinks up to the ankle in thick black mud. Shit! My brand-new cross-trainers. I nearly fall down trying to pull my foot out. Wouldn’t that be a great scene. He walks out with—God knows who, it could be Laura in there—and here I am floundering around like a rhinoceros on a wet clay bank.

  Before I can decide whether or not to bolt, the door opens partway and a face looks out. A face with button eyes and a black nose. A scruffy yellow dog of uncertain parentage wanders out. As soon as he catches my scent, he bristles and starts making that low growling noise in the back of his throat.

  “You protecting me from a vicious squirrel?” A stranger steps out, dressed in running shorts and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to reveal tan, muscled arms. His sun-streaked hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and he has a full beard. But his eyes are Mac’s.

  He stares at me. “Wyn.” His gaze ends up on my feet. It looks like I’m wearing one black shoe and one white. “You’re all muddy.”

  “As I previously pointed out, you have a gift for stating the obvious.”

  Yellow Dog decides I’m okay. He bounds down the steps and starts licking my leg with his warm, sandpapery tongue. “I don’t know quite what to say,” Mac says. At least he looks pleased.

  “Must be a first for you.” I bend down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Who’s this?”

  “Minnie.”

  “You named your dog after a mouse?”

  “Not likely. ‘Minnie the Moocher.’ Cab Calloway. She’s not really mine. She just keeps me company sometimes. How did you get here?”

  I look over my shoulder at CM’s Camry. “Drove to Anacortes and took the ferry over.” I pause awkwardly, then press on. “This place is so … magical. It’s not what I expected.”

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” When he smiles, my stomach turns upside down.

  Minnie tires of waiting for the promised run and takes off into the woods. Mac says, “I’ll get something to clean your shoe.”

  I ease down on the top step and extract my foot from the gooey cross-trainer, peel off the filthy sock. He comes back with a putty knife and a rag. He sits down next to me, but not too close, takes the shoe.

  Scattered high clouds stitch a tapestry of light and shadow on the meadow, sparked by summer’s last pink wild foxgloves and fluffy white seed heads of thistle. Blackbirds float in lazy spirals. The breeze is gentle and still warm, but it carries a warning of shorter days.

  I rummage around for a clean, unwrinkled smile to wear. “What have you been working on?”

  “Painting. Inside and out. Fixed the roof. Cleared some land and built a storage shed.” While he talks, he cleans the muck off my shoe, scraping the putty knife on the edge of the porch. “I think you’re going to have to scrub this one down.”

  His expression I remember from the first time I met him. Open, direct. But no longer anonymous. I know certain telling details now. Like he can’t stand his brother and he gets one haircut a year. He likes Raymond Chandler and John Irving, Wallace Stegner and Joan Didion. That he loves the blues and songs that tell stories. Riding the ferries just to be on the water. His favorite flavor is caramel.

  “Or you could just hang out here till the mud dries. Then it’ll brush right off.”

  I want to run my index finger down the muscle in his arm that contracts when he grips my shoe. “I don’t want to keep you from your run.”

  He stands up. “I can always run. Come here. I want to show you something.”

  He pushes the door open, and I step past him into the pleasantly musty interior.

  Knotty-pine paneling makes a cheerful backdrop for the thoroughly broken-in furniture: a maroon couch, two green chairs, an old trunk with a piece of glass on top for a coffee table. Bookshelves overflow with books and board games. Rag rug. Brick fireplace.

  “It’s cozy. Like a grandma’s house.”

  For a minute, I almost think he might take my hand, but he turns and walks into the next room. “In here.”

  The kitchen floor slants crazily away from the rest of the house. The old linoleum is cool and wrinkly under my one bare foot. There’s a vintage Wedgewood gas stove, a refrigerator, a battered wooden table and three chairs.

  In the cent
er of the table, like art on display, is a corrugated cardboard manuscript box. He’s looking at the box, not at me, so I set down my purse, reach over and lift the lid.

  Accident of Birth

  A novel

  by

  Matthew Spencer McLeod

  He’s trying to look modest and self-effacing, but without success.

  I smile, momentarily forgetting that I’m pissed off at him. “Oh my God, Mac. You must have worked your butt off.”

  He sits on the corner of the table. “I kept thinking about what you said.”

  “About what?”

  “That if I thought of myself as a bartender who wrote stuff, that’s what I’d be. So I decided to try thinking of myself as a writer who needed a day job.” He gives me his little wry grin. “You want some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  I walk over to the chipped porcelain sink, glance out the window into the woods. I can hear Minnie’s squirrel-spotting aria.

  “So.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Are you going to tell me why you came all the way up here? Or am I supposed to guess?”

  “Why not? You made me guess.” My voice breaks embarrassingly, like a kid entering puberty. “In fact, I forgot. I’m really pissed off at you.” I turn and glare at him. “How dare you?”

  He looks puzzled. “How dare I what?”

  “How dare you give me that tape and then skip town like some fugitive?”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “You could have said something.”

  “I could have, but I didn’t. You weren’t listening anyway.” His left hand fidgets with the pocket flap on his running shorts. “You were too busy plotting revenge against your ex, and fooling around with your brother.”

  “He’s my stepbrother. Quit trying to make it sound like incest.”

  “You could have said something, too, you know.”

  “What was I going to say? Stop mooning around about Laura and try—”

  “Laura?” He stares at me.

  “Yes, Laura. You were wrecked after you saw her at that party with somebody else.”