by Matayo, Amy
“What are you doing here, Chad?”
I suppose I wasn’t that quiet after all.
She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand, but she doesn’t open her eyes. One tear slides down her chin and holds there. It takes more effort than it should to keep myself from trying to catch it. There’s something wrong about the sight of Riley crying, like a sudden cloud burst on a sunny day or sipping tea accidentally sprinkled with salt. It saddens me in ways I can’t explain and would rather not decipher.
“I came to check on you. I didn’t realize you’d be feeding the five thousand with what looks like two eggs and five bags of flour.”
Her eyes remain closed, but this elicits a laugh. I smile.
“Is that a crack about my appearance?”
“No, but I could probably whip up a batch of cookies using only the ingredients stuck in your hair. Seriously, did you dunk your head inside a bag and swish it around? You have the hair of an eighty-five-year-old woman. I can barely see the pink.”
She cracks open one eye to peer at me. “Should be a relief then, considering you don’t like the color.”
I don’t tell her it’s grown on me.
“I’m not sure white is your color either.” She doesn’t move from her spot, so I lower myself to sit across from her. The red tile floor is covered in water droplets, more flour, something very sticky I choose to ignore, and what looks like a mound of black pepper. Either that, or ants have made their way inside and have congregated on top of some foreign food object known only to them. Remembering Riley’s story about stinging ants from a few days ago, I scoot away a fraction of an inch. No sense in taking chances.
“It’s just pepper. I dropped a jar of it earlier and didn’t have time to pick it up. I think it rolled under the refrigerator…” Her voice trails off. Her eyes fall closed again.
“You look tired.”
“Thank you. The compliments are stacking up.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Just that—what have you been doing? Did you really make food for all those people today?”
“Yep. By myself.”
“Why?”
Her eyes finally open, and she stares at me as though she can’t comprehend the question.
“Because…? What else could I do? They just started coming in, and I couldn’t turn them away.”
“But that’s too much for one person to manage.”
“Tell that to the boy with the two fish and fives loaves of bread. He fed a lot more than I did, and he had leftovers.”
“But he wasn’t alone. He had helpers. Like, wise men or something.”
I might have gotten that wrong. Riley shoots me a disappointed look.
“I think they were disciples. Pretty sure the wise men came earlier, like when Jesus was in diapers. Besides, I managed.” She looks around at the mess, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips. “Mostly, I managed. This place is a bigger disaster than it was this morning. Hopefully, tomorrow will go better. Maybe God will send me one of those wise men you speak of.”
“You’re doing this again tomorrow?”
She nods. “Yes. They have nowhere to go except here.” She draws a circle in the pile of pepper, going around and around with her finger. “Did you know that every single one of the folks in the other room lost their homes? Every one of them. Other than a homeless shelter, this is the only roof over their heads right now, so I won’t send them out. Not when I can give them some sense of community. Something normal.” She wipes her finger on her apron.
“I’ll help.” I toss the words into the space between us and immediately regret them. What about insurance claims? What about rescuing people? What about the thousands of other things I could think of to do that don’t involve baking or sweeping or other things I hate? But then I wonder. Rescuing people isn’t always about pulling them from the depths. Sometimes it’s about being there, being present, letting someone know you care without words or platitudes or even heroic acts of courage. Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is just listen without walking away.
“Seriously, let me help.”
“Well look at you, an angel in the flesh.” She raises an eyebrow that implies God did not, in fact, send me. “You want to help? Here?”
Maybe it’s a bad idea. I’m second-guessing myself like a kid with ten dollars to spend at a video game store. What do I know about baking? Exactly nothing, that’s what.
Playing it casual is my best bet. “Unless you would rather do it alone. I don’t want to overstep. It was probably a dumb idea anyway. What would I even do? I might just be in the way, and—”
She blinks. “You think offering to help someone choking to death on flour and her own bleeding heart is overstepping?” An amused glint sparks in her eye for a brief second. “I’m not sure who made you believe that, but it isn’t overstepping. I would love the help if you have time.”
“You would?”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind already.”
I haven’t. In fact, I just thought of a way to justify staying around here longer. It came to me like a miracle, if miracles involve attractive girls you can’t stop thinking about.
“Have you had your place assessed for damages yet?”
She blinks at my change in subject. Admittedly, it was abrupt, but it does make sense in a very roundabout way. I just need a second to convince her.
“No…” she says, and I’ve never heard that single word stretched out so long. “Why?”
“Because I can help with that if you want. And I can help clean up, organize, get this place into presentable working order. If you want.” Not sure why I’m repeating myself so much, but here we are.
“Um…okay.” She bites her lip, a deep crease forming between her eyebrows. It’s a familiar move I’ve already seen by dozens.
“Just so we’re clear, I get paid by my company. Not by you. When I say ‘help,’ I mean help.” The crease disappears as though I smoothed it with my own hand—something I had considered.
There’s a dimple that appears on her chin when she smiles. It’s the first time I’ve noticed; it won’t be the last.
“Okay,” she says, and I realize I’m still staring. I force my eyes upward and onto hers. There’s a light in them that wasn’t there before. “I haven’t had time to call anyone, but I would really appreciate the help.
It’s dazzling, that gleam. I don’t think Riley even knows it’s there, or how much it brightens this whole, disheveled room.
“Then consider me your helper.”
She smirks. “My wise man?”
At this, I laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far. You might be sorely disappointed.”
She shrugs. “Then I’ll just settle for a good one.”
This tugs at a part of me that’s been long dormant. A part that longs to be recognized, not for accomplishment or success, but just for…being. That’s all a man wants, isn’t it? To be seen and valued for the person he is. Not for what he can do. Not for what he can become if he tries hard enough. Not for what he might be someday, especially when someday is always just out of reach.
Riley just hit me in a sore spot, but instead of hurting, I feel a little bit healed.
“Then I’ll try to be one.” I stand up and hold out my hands. She takes them, and I pull her up. When her breasts brush against my chest, I risk a downward glance. Everything tightens, and I swallow. I might be a good man, but Riley is a beautiful woman, and I’d be daft not to notice. My neck instinctively tilts toward her, my lips brushing against hers before I swallow and pull back. She doesn’t look affronted, so I close my eyes and lean in again. Riley’s lips are soft and warm, inviting in the way they press against mine and open slightly, slowly, before she seems to think better of it and breaks contact. Cold air slides across my mouth, and I take a reluctant step back.
Stupid, stupid.
“Sorry about that,” she says, her face coloring.
I want to tell her not to apologize ever. I do
n’t dare. Instead, I say something stupid like, “I liked it,” followed by “So where do you want me?” I’ve never been the best at casual conversation, so why start now?
When her blush deepens, it brings me no minor amount of joy to know she has a dirty mind.
“In the kitchen, of course.” Images of backing her against the warm oven and kissing her senseless take over every inch of my mind. Until she purposefully throws cold water on my fire. “The pantry door is broken, and the light switch isn’t working. You can start there.” With a wink over her shoulder, she leaves me to it.
I smile to myself and get to work.
An hour later, Riley has closed the bakery, and I have a list of a hundred things that need repair. This place is worse than it looks. Wires are sliced in half—it’s a wonder any electricity works at all. The foundation has shifted a bit in the back of the pantry. It’s only in one small corner, but an unsteady foundation isn’t anyone’s friend. Shelving is off-kilter or completely gone, hence the pile of supplies covering half the floor. Every appliance has moved a few inches to the right, obvious when you study the permanent imprint marks now visible everywhere. And the wall is cracked above the refrigerator. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice it earlier. And that’s only scratching the surface. I glance at my clipboard and breathe a quick prayer, feeling a little nervous and not so wise.
Maybe she’ll come out of this okay, but for now, I decide not to say anything. I’ll file the report and see what happens. She has enough on her plate to add unverified worry. Besides, with any luck my hunch is wrong, and she’ll have a claim check in her hands within the next week.
I exit the pantry in time to see her blowing on her arm. The burn has turned an ugly shade of red, angry and biting. “How did you burn your wrist? It looks bad.”
She looks up at me and makes a face. “You need a lesson in giving compliments. I slammed it on a burner when I tried moving a pan of rolls and a hot pie at the same time. They won, I lost.”
I walk over to examine it, noticing a couple other scars dotting her arm, one a two-inch strip that must have been incredibly painful at one time. Baking isn’t the fun and joyful job Disney cartoons make it out to be. I run my thumb across the raised scar, feeling the way she shivers and doing my best not to react. I don’t let go.
“Where’s your first aid kit? We need to clean this up.”
She slides her arm from my hand and clears her throat. “In my office.” She indicates with her eyes. “Top desk drawer.”
I pause for a minute, then reluctantly go in search of bandages. My hand feels cold without the warmth of her wrist. Riley may not be my type.
But clearly, my type has developed a mind of its own.
It takes a moment to find the light switch to her office and turn it on. That’s when I notice the old sofa on the back wall. Corduroy brown with a rip in one corner, its best day was a couple decades ago. On it is that Pink Lady jacket, balled-up in one corner next to a threadbare blue blanket. There’s no pillow, no sheets.
Clothes hang on two hooks or are draped on various available surfaces, mostly dry but a few newly washed and damp. Even from here, I can smell fabric softener. A cheap full-length mirror is propped in a corner, and toiletries containing shampoo and soap and a package of disposable razors sit in a plastic basket against the far wall. I cut my eyes to the left and see the bathroom, only big enough for a toilet and a pedestal sink. It’s clean, but it’s tiny.
She told me her grandmother had lost her home and all her possessions. From the looks of it, so did Riley Mae.
She lives here.
I pretend nothing has changed and proceed to doctor her wrist. It hangs limply in my hands; she seems almost grateful to give up control for the moment. The burn is especially bad, but seeing a couple of older scars on her wrist makes me think this is just the way of bakers. Burns must come with the territory in the way papercuts and forgotten pens often plague me in my profession. Something else continues to plague me as well.
“So why were you crying earlier?” I’m pretty sure I already know the answer—grandmother in the hospital, bakery a shell of what it used to be, the whole feeding of the five thousand or however many people she handled by herself tonight—but I’m not good at small talk, preferring instead to get straight to the point. Besides, it’s possible there’s more to her tears than I think. It’s also possible she’ll tell me to mind my own business.
“No reason. Everything is clearly rosy around here.” She sniffs, using the pad of her thumb to swipe under her eye.
“All right, stupid question.”
She sighs, a hand landing on my arm. “No, it wasn’t. I’m just in a mood. I was crying because I have exactly one thousand thirty-two things to do, and I have no idea where to start. When I think about straightening up the cabinets, that seems absurd considering my insurance claims still haven’t been filed. When I think about filing claims, that seems ridiculous considering my grandmother is lying in a hospital. When I think about visiting her, that seems like a waste of time when there’s so much to clean up around here, and she’s not going home anytime soon anyway.” She blinks, seeming to realize her misuse of words. “Or at all, seeing as she has no home to go to. I haven’t even told her that yet. So, see my dilemma? Most of the time I just sit and stare, because I don’t know what to do about any of it. Today I just started cooking, because at least I can control that part of my life.”
“Your customers seem to enjoy that part most of all.”
This elicits a smile. “They do. And right now, there’s not much to smile about around here. At least I can give them that.”
“No. But maybe you can manage to do both? Especially since the claim part is now officially out of your hands. That and I’ll help with whatever else you need.”
She drops her hand and looks at me. “Are you sure? Don’t you have other buildings to adjust or…something? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Tell you what. I will never again try to describe your job if you promise not to try to describe mine. I don’t adjust buildings. I’m not that strong.”
She smiles, having the decency to look a little sheepish. “Deal. So, where would you like to start?”
“Well, this place is a mess. It seems like I should probably start here. It would take one thing off your plate at least. So to speak.”
“If you’re offering to take something off my plate I will take you up on it as long as you don’t want me to put something on your plate in return. I don’t have the energy right now.”
This time it’s my turn to laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, reaching for a roll of paper towels. “Not when I’m perfectly capable of filling it myself.”
Riley stands in the middle of the floor, a little flour falling from her hair like snowflakes off a shaken tree. She looks first one way, and then another. It’s like trying to find a single blue tie at a storewide clearance sale. Too much to see, too overwhelming to begin. She gives a little shake of her head as though waking from a daydream.
“If you’ll wipe down the counters, I’ll sweep the floor.” She picks up a broom.
“Why don’t you clean up instead, and I’ll look after the kitchen.”
She hesitates. It isn’t hard to see what she’s thinking.
“You’ve got to learn to trust me if we’re going to work together. I said I would help. While you’re in the bathroom, you can lock the door if it will make you feel better.”
She worries her bottom lip. “When you went in the office to get the bandages, what did you—”
“Go clean up, Riley. It’s the only thing you need to think about. I’ve got the rest.”
You hear the expression, “the weight lifted off her shoulders,” but I’ve never actually seen weight lift off a person in real-life before.
I’m certain that’s what I’m seeing now.
CHAPTER 11
Riley Mae
Chad has to know I’m living here right now. Has to. I wander b
ack and forth from the shop to the office more often than a normal person would—to brush my teeth, use the restroom, wring out a shirt or two left soaking in the sink. He’s used this restroom himself from time to time—he must notice my crap strung all over the place. Dirty clothes in the corner, toiletries stacked everywhere, full-size bottles of laundry soap and fabric softener that don’t exactly indicate a person halfheartedly using the place. If he wonders where I shower, he’s said nothing, even though I occasionally catch him staring at me with a question in his eyes.
The YMCA isn’t far from here. It’s a ten-minute walk when the streets aren’t crawling with people. Lucky for me, by eight o’clock each night, the sidewalks are empty.
His silence on the subject is polite, but it’s also bothering me. I’m the girl who goes through a painful breakup and afterward needs to know point by point details of everything she did wrong, like that red-headed chick in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Coincidence? Highly unlikely. The impulse to go ahead and ask, “Look, I know you know I’m homeless, so let’s get it all out in the open and discuss it in point by point detail” occasionally consumes me. But I say nothing because Chad doesn’t. I’m not sure how much longer I can take this arrangement.
It’s been four days since he offered to help, and things have improved. If not for the town, which is still in a state of complete disarray, at least for my shop. I’ve just woken up, the sun has almost cleared the edge of the only strip of horizon I can see considering we’re downtown, and I’m walking out of the office in blue flannel pants and a college tee shirt when I stop short. What time is it? And what is he doing?
