by Sandra Byrd
He seemed pleased but also a little distant. Distracted? Mad at me?
He grabbed the deposit bag and his business case. “Look into it. There are some supplier lists in the back with Web addresses. Let me know what you find out.”
He left, the door swinging jauntily behind him. He grew more attractive by the day, his temperamental nature enhancing rather than detracting from his allure. I wasn’t immune to the bad-boy appeal.
I spent the evening browsing through lists of products offered by our distributors, jotting down a short list of contenders. Then I checked Allrecipes.com to see if I had any feedback.
The day of the last open house arrived, which meant I had to clear out of the house for the whole day and evening. With offers coming across the tram as though ours was the last house available in Seattle, I knew it wouldn’t be long before it sold. My time was running out.
I drove to work in the morning not planning to go home until late that night. I had two more studios to look at, but not in Seattle. Out in the suburbs. Far from ideal, but I was short on options.
“Alexandra?” Luc sauntered into the café after the lunch rush. “I am going to Pike’s Market to examine the competition: a line of new bakeries. They’ve opened their first shop. Would you like to come with me? Another set of taste buds…”
Sophie looked down.
“Regrettably, Sophie, since you won’t eat the food, I can’t have you come,” he said.
I had noticed she ate very little at the shop. Weird. I wondered why.
“Oui, I would love to come,” I said, glad he had an excuse to take me and not Sophie. I hoped there was more to it than the reason given.
We got into Luc’s little Renault—I’d never ridden in one before—and zoomed down to the market.
“You’re not in France, Luc,” I joked, pretending to clutch the door handle as he raced the few city streets to the market.
“True,” he answered, “but I can still drive like I am.”
I teased him and wondered aloud if he had an international driver’s license.
Once he’d parked, he motioned for me to stay in the car while he walked around and opened my door for me. Score one point.
We wandered down the produce rows first, pinching and smelling and even tasting the wares stacked in fetching displays. Vendors hawked the spring produce with calls and samples. We walked down the aisle of flower stands: so many beautiful combinations, set like nature’s jewelry. I wished he’d buy a bouquet for me. Instead, he bought some fresh pears to make into tarts for Sunday and gave me one. We walked toward the bakery with pear juice all over us.
“Eh bien” he said, pointing across the way to the shop name. “Hot Cross Buns. Sounds English,” he sniffed.
I smiled to myself. Gallic pride.
The girl behind the counter looked a lot like the nail chipper Luc had fired before hiring me, but upon closer look, it wasn’t really her. Luc ordered a pain au chocolat, a plain croissant, and a bread pudding. We sat down at a café table, and he divided each one in two.
“Well?” he asked me after he’d tasted everything.
I took a bite of the croissant. “Tough.”
He looked pleased. “Didn’t proof long enough, and they overworked the dough.”
“Poor quality chocolate,” I said after tasting the pain au chocolat.
“Exactement!” he agreed. “And last?”
Suddenly, I had the feeling this was not just a fun day out, but some kind of quiz. I’ve never been a brown-noser, so he was going to get the truth whether he wanted it or not.
“The pudding is really good,” I said. “Better than any I’ve ever had.”
Luc smiled. “I think so too, Alexandra,” he said, leaning closer to me to pick up the leftovers and the napkins. I could feel his breath on my hair. As he pulled away, he looked me right in the eyes. “I’m glad you came with me. I value your opinion.”
As for my breath, I couldn’t seem to find it. “I’m glad you asked me.”
As I helped Sophie close the café, Tanya stopped by. The weather was a little chilly, but we were going for a power walk on the boardwalk at Alki Beach.
“Where’s Luc?” she asked under her breath.
I shook my head. “Already left for La Couronne.” I wanted to know what she thought of him, but part of me was glad he hadn’t met her. Like I said before, every guy who met Tanya seemed drawn to her mysterious vibe, and while normally that was okay, this time…
I introduced her to Sophie. Sophie smiled nicely at her— nicer than she ever was to me.
I took my apron off, and we drove to Alki, got out of the car, and strolled into a rare, sunny spring afternoon.
“My school project last night was great,” Tanya started off.
“Another teacher and I applied for a Gates Grant for computers for low-income classrooms—and we got them! Each of my kids has a computer at his or her desk now.” Tanya beamed, her face pinking up with pleasure and sunlight.
I held my face to the sun. I needed some of that warmth after months of hibernating in the northwest gloom.
“We installed them last night after the kids left,” she continued, “so when they come back on Monday they’ll find them on their desks. I don’t know. I might not want to move schools after this contract. It’s growing on me.” She stopped talking. “Lexi, are you paying attention?”
“Oh…uh…yeah,” I said. “So did you get the computers installed?”
“You are not paying attention,” she said in her teacher’s voice.
When we were kids, Tanya always played the teacher. Then she was the teacher’s aide. Her mom regularly visited the school to celebrate her awards. My mother regularly visited the school to bring in my forgotten homework or lunch.
“What’s up with you?” she asked.
I told her about the French products rack I was working on. “I hope Luc likes what I’ve picked out,” I said.
“Somehow I don’t think you’re distracted about a product rack,” she said. “Even if it is very managerial of you.”
I giggled and told her about my “date” at Pike’s Market with Luc that afternoon.
“Was it a date?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not. But close.”
“Do you think it’d be a problem to date him? I mean, since he’s your boss?”
I bit my lip. “I don’t think so. It’s a small place, and we’d keep it professional. We’re not at that level yet, anyway. Not by a long shot.”
“And you don’t know if he’s a Christian, do you?” Tanya asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t. Maybe soon we’ll have a conversation about that.”
“He doesn’t talk about God, though?” She tightened her ponytail.
“No. But neither do I,” I admitted. “I’m busy working hard. I want that promotion.”
After our walk, I drove Tanya back to her school to pick up some papers she’d left. On the way, I noticed the Church on the Hill on Ballard. It looked small and inviting, and I’d heard someone mention it, though I couldn’t remember who. Maybe I’d give it a try.
We stopped by the café to pick up Tanya’s car. After parting ways, I still couldn’t go home because the open house was in full swing, so I drove to Nonna’s church. I checked my watch. She usually went to the Saturday afternoon Mass. I parked by the side of the road and decided to slip in.
I saw Nonna ten or twelve rows up. Most of the church was empty, and I sat in the back. I didn’t usually participate at Nonna’s church, but I could greet her after the service this way. And who knew? Maybe this was the church for me.
The sanctuary was dim, and the stained glass windows strained to reflect what little light still dribbled through the March skies. The smell of hot candles mixed with the musty scent of old stones and the ancient vapor of rosewood incense. It seemed old and continuous, like people had passed the baton of faith over and over again, and I liked that.
I sat on one of th
e hard oak pews and closed my eyes.
I felt awed; I felt holy and reverent. But as beautiful as it was, and as much as it was Nonna’s spiritual home, I knew it wasn’t mine.
After the service, people began to file past me, old and young. Nonna’s face lit up when she saw me. “Lexi!”
“Hi, Nonna. I thought you might need a ride home.” I held out my arm, and we linked elbows.
“No date tonight, eh?” Nonna teased and wagged her finger.
“Thanks, Nonna,” I said. “You always go right for the jugular.”
“I’d rather ride with my girl than the retirement center bus any day,” Nonna said. “Come out this way. I want you to meet my friend Pete.”
She led me down the cool corridor—as a girl, my mother took her first communion there—and into the kitchen in the back.
“There’s my lady!” A man with a wide apron held his arms out to Nonna. She reached up and patted the crown of her hair to make sure her slowly expanding bald spot was covered.
“Pete, this is my Lexi,” Nonna said. She turned to me. “Pete’s in charge of the Saturday night dinners they hand out to the homeless. They line up on the sidewalk,” she pointed out the door, “and get hot soup and bread.”
“Bread if we’re lucky,” Pete said. “We have our food donated, prepared in a commercial kitchen. The grocery store down the way provides the soup, but our bread supplier is uneven.”
“I work at L’Esperance just down the street,” I said. “We often have leftover bread. I’ll ask if I could bring some by on Saturdays.”
“There, it’s done,” Nonna said, snapping her fingers. “Lexi will make sure the bread gets here. See? What a good girl.”
“Well, but, wait…”
“Thank you!” Pete took my hand in both of his and shook it. “I knew the Lord would provide.” He turned back to the soup and the other volunteers waiting to ladle it into large to-go cups to hand out at the door.
“Too bad he’s not a little younger,” Nonna said. “He’d be perfect for you.”
“Nonna, he’s like forty years too old, and not my type, and, Nonna, I don’t know if I can bring the bread. I have to ask.”
“It’ll all work out, dear. You were here for some reason, weren’t you?”
I sighed. We walked to my car, and I took her back to her retirement community. During the drive, she told me all the activities her complex had planned: bingo, craft sessions, after-church potlucks.
If the studios I was going to see that night didn’t work out, maybe I could don a wig and move in with Nonna.
Un homme averti en vaut deux.
Forewarned is forearmed.
When I arrived at work two days later, I said, “Bonjour,” to the Trois Amis, but no one even said hi. “Bonjour,” I said to Guillaume, one of the bakers, directly.
“You didn’t close the walk-in door tightly enough yesterday, and now the pastry cream is runny,” he said. “No pastries today. We had to take some from La Couronne to fill a special order, which left both display coolers empty.” Oh no. Patricia was going to kill me.
“Lucky for you the cheese delivery is tomorrow,” Guillaume continued, “and therefore there is no cheese to spoil, or you’d be out of a job already.”
I knew they were crabby because of the weeks work load, but still…everyone makes mistakes. I’d been helping clean up last night—off the clock—after a special order prep, which Patricia ran back to La Couronne. I’d just wanted to help, and instead I’d ruined an entire day’s worth of pastry.
I did my best to make up for it by working like a dog. I took one small break in the morning to call the cute, cheap studio I’d found on my drive last night only to find out they had a stack of applications already. They’d be in touch. Right.
Luc shouted into the phone at someone from La Couronne, stopping to point at a huge stack of supplies when I walked by. “Can you put those away quickly?” he asked me.
Sure I could! I dragged them behind the counter and got down on my hands and knees, placing things in exactly the right spot. I scooted over, pushing the box ahead of me, trying to pack in as many bundles of napkins as possible.
“Ouch!” Sophie cried. I had shoved the corner of the box into her leg.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Watch what you’re doing!”
I took a deep breath. I am too old to cry.
Then the lunch rush started.
At the sandwich station, I cranked out creamy tuna salad sandwiches, thick ham and cheese sandwiches, red roast beef, and pâté with tiny cornichon pickles, all on baguettes. I worked the knife so fast, I worried I would cut my thumb off. I could hear the hustle in the back too, as Luc and the Trois Amis rushed to fill orders for both L’Esperance and La Couronne.
I pushed my hair off my forehead with the back of my hand, the latex gloves rolling at the wrist and trapping moisture underneath.
“Hurry!” Sophie hissed under her breath.
I plated a sandwich, then a pastry, with silverware and a napkin. I assembled sandwiches and put half of them into to-go boxes. The line stretched out the door, and I could see people shuffling from foot to foot and checking their wrists, watching their lunch hour tick away.
A man came toward the pastry case. He tried to get my attention, but I avoided eye contact, irritated. Why isn’t he in line like everyone else?
He waited impatiently for a few minutes, slipped his business card into the fishbowl for a free lunch, and then checked his watch again.
Finally, he waved Sophie down. She softened, seeming to recognize him. She smiled. I turned and watched them.
He was nice looking, what my mother would call earnest. What Leah would call clean cut. What Tanya would call sweet. He had on nicely cut pants, a crisp white shirt, and suspenders. Definitely not Sophie’s type, which usually ran to Charming Bad Boy in Need of an Immediate Cash Infusion.
I liked the suspender look, but I wasn’t ready to award any points since he’d bullied his way to the front of the line.
I overheard Sophie say, “Yes, definitely. I saw Lexi write it down.”
Me?
She nodded at me to come over. “Could you take care of this man while I finish up the lunches? He’s the one who called in the special order from Davis, Wilson, and Marks the other day.” She turned her back to him. “Remember?” she whispered. “The corporate account we lost and now might get back?”
Ah yes. So he hadn’t bullied his way forward. He was here for a pickup.
I tried to look pleasant. “I’ll go see if it’s ready.”
He smiled at me, and I relaxed for the first time that day. Clean cut and earnest. Cute? Cute! It had been a long time since I had noticed a guy in that way….except Luc.
“Thanks,” he answered. “The meeting starts in about fifteen minutes, so I need to get out of here. It should be a large platter of sliced breads, cheeses, and fruit.”
I rolled off the gloves, pitched them into the trash, and headed back toward the cooler. The order should be ready. Luc always did the special orders first thing in the morning.
I pulled open the cooler door. Racks of choux pastry, neatly folded like tablecloths, waiting to debut, rested between sheets of plastic wrap on one wall. Huge tubs of choux cream, ready for mille-feuilles and other pastries stood patiently to the side. Fruit, meats, and cheeses for sandwiches were there but not the kind appropriate for a platter.
No special order.
Ah. Here was a box.
“University of Washington afternoon meeting.” I looked inside. Meat and cheese, fruit, pastry. No pastry in the Davis, Marks guy’s order, and he wasn’t with the university.
I shut the door and went back to the bakery to find Luc. “Did you do a special order today for Davis, Wilson, and Marks this morning?”
His eyes lit up, the first time he’d looked happy all week. “Oh, bon! They are back, that is good. Very influential firm,” he told me. Then his face went flat. “Today? Non. No order
for them was prepared today.”
“I put it on the board last week,” I said. “Sophie and I even talked about it.”
Luc walked over to the bulletin board, and I followed. He looked down the side of the board marked for the bread makers. Nothing was there. He reached out and untacked the lone order on the board. Yes, that was it. I recognized my handwriting. Relief flooded through me. At least I couldn’t be blamed for this!
Luc pointed at something on the order. “Mon Dieu, Alexandra. You wrote down the wrong date! This order says it is for tomorrow!”
“Ooh la la, Alexandra,” Luc said. The oven buzzer went off. “I have to get that. Then I’ll come and take care of this problème”
“No, I can do it,” I said.
He looked skeptical, but the buzzer sounded again, and he raced to pull the baguettes. Dear God, please help me.
I returned to the front, where the man waited impatiently. I moved close so every customer in the place didn’t hear.
“I’m sorry,” I started, “but I wrote the wrong date on your order. It wasn’t filled.”
His eyes widened. “What? But our meeting is in just a few minutes. And this is a very important meeting!”
“I’m so sorry. Can I make up something else?”
“Like what? I can’t just throw a box of doughnuts at this level of client. My boss is going to kill me.” He ran his hands through his hair. “All right. A pastry tray will have to do.”
“I’m sorry, but we’re out of pastry trays right now,” I said. Because I left the door to the walk-in open last night, I thought, crushed.
“This is so unprofessional.” His voice rose, and he leaned toward me in his agitation. “What am I supposed to do?”
As he glared at me, my day, week, month, and life came crashing down.
I could please no one.
I couldn’t please my parents—they wanted me to have a job that reflected their years of hard work and money and what they saw as my own abilities. A career.
I couldn’t please Nonna because I had no man.
I disappointed myself. I had such high hopes for the kind of life I’d have: travel to France in college, cool and meaningful job afterward, good church and good friends. A “ring by spring.” Had that happened? Non.
