by Ava Miles
“Is a language all its own. It’s magical, no?” Andre asked. “We are going to make some beautiful magic together, ma petite, Margie, from Dare Valley.”
Though her parents and the people in the circle she’d been born into had never understood her—or cared to—since leaving them, she’d slowly found other people who fed her soul, so to speak. These people were going to feed her soul. She just knew it.
“You must try one of our punitions,” Belle said, breaking the circle and dashing over to the display in the corner.
When she darted back, Margie took the special French shortbread cookie from her. “Thank you.”
“I mix the ingredients and form the shapes,” Andre said, slapping his chest. “Belle adds her magic by sprinkling them with fairy dust, and the ancestors stoke the fire for our creations so they will be baked to perfection.”
The punition simply melted in Margie’s mouth. “Oh! Oh my!” she said when she could finally speak.
Andre gave a dirty little laugh. “That’s what Belle says when we are home, and the children are asleep.”
“Oh, Andre,” Belle said, slapping him playfully on the arm. “You are a scoundrel. A rogue.”
He waggled his brows. “And you love it, ma petite.”
His wife’s beaming smile was answer enough. “Ignore us. He is…how do you say it in English? Friskier than usual? He has been waiting for your arrival with much anticipation. No one likes to teach like Andre does.”
“I am eager to learn all you wish to show me,” she answered as he grabbed her hand and led her to the door that could only lead to the bakery.
“We must have a tour, ma cherie,” he said to his wife. “We will return when the ancestors are satisfied.”
“That might be a while.” Belle laughed. “I will remain here to sell our bread.”
Andre led Margie behind the door, and the second she stepped inside, she was engulfed by the familiar scents of bread: sour, sweet, yeast, and baking.
“We have two levels where we work,” Andre said, gesturing to the stainless steel counters. “Here we have the preparation area for the croissants and pain au chocolat. You see the machine in the corner. Do you know how to use it?”
She shook her head, eying the massive press that rolled the croissant dough into its famously thin layers. “Not yet. I wanted the kitchen to be ready before mine arrived.”
“No problem, ma cherie. I will teach you how to use it. It is easy. You simply have to make love to the bread.” His brown eyes twinkled. “You know how to make love to the bread, right?”
Margie didn’t embarrass easily, but she could feel her cheeks heating. “Ah…I think so.”
Andre made a kneading motion with his hands. “You stroke it and stroke it until it surrenders with a sigh.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll…try and remember that.”
His brow knit in puzzlement. “It is perhaps different for a woman. Belle!”
His wife poked her head through the swinging door. “Oui?”
“How do women bakers make love to the bread? I am trying to tell Margie, but I think it is different.”
Belle gave him a seductive smile and winked at Margie. “You work it hard when it needs it, and you gently caress it when it wants to resist. And you do it all with love so it always rises to your touch.”
Andre grabbed Belle to him and gave her a soft kiss. “That is why I love this woman.”
Instead of feeling like a voyeur, Margie felt like she was seeing the highest version of a relationship. Here Andre and Belle were, working together in the bakery they shared, loving each other, and supporting each other’s dreams. It was so lovely to behold.
“How many children do you have?” she asked when Belle gave Andre a playful shove so he’d let her go.
“Three,” she said with a wide smile. “This one here wants five, but he has moments of insanity. I blame it on all the yeast he inhales.”
“I’ll have to remember to use that excuse the next time I’m having a moment,” she said.
“Yeast is better than PMS,” Belle said with a glance at Andre. “I hate that line.”
“Me too,” she easily agreed. Howie had blamed her moods on PMS, and it had angered her to no end. In truth, his secret drug problem had not been the only fissure in their relationship. Evan would never say something so simplistic or unkind, she thought, surprised to realize she was comparing them.
The bell rang, and Andre pulled Belle in for another fast kiss. “We installed the bell so she can sneak back here and steal kisses from me when customers aren’t around.”
“Ingenious, no?” Belle asked Margie before disappearing through the door.
“Now,” Andre said, taking her hand. “Let me show you where we make the real magic.”
The stairs leading down to what was essentially a basement were steep, and like when she was using her hobbit bathroom door, she had to duck down to avoid hitting her head.
The heat in the room they entered poured over her body like a wave of molten fire. The ovens in the back were lit and baking row after row of golden brown baguettes. The thick smell of yeast hung in the air, and she inhaled deeply. Detecting a hint of something fruity and sour, she looked at the flour-dusted stainless steel counters for the source, but didn’t see it.
“This is Fabian and Ronan, my two assistants. Meet Margie from America.”
“Enchante,” they both said.
“Enchantee,” she replied.
“They don’t speak English,” Andre said. “You told me you have some French.”
She winced. “It’s really rusty, but I hope to practice while I’m here if you can stand to hear me bungle the words.”
“Speak away,” Andre said. “We will help you find the right words. But we will use English for instruction, I think, so you miss nothing.”
She nodded.
“Now, this is where we make the bread. We have a few signature breads everyone who visits us expects to see. But every once in a while, especially around a holiday or if I’m feeling inspired, we will make something special. I don’t use any starters like some bakers do. My people were farmers, and our recipes are done differently. Our farm loaf uses potato water from the yellow potatoes Belle buys in the market and boils before she closes the bakery for the night. The red bucket in the corner is for the water we drain from the cooked potatoes once they cool.”
He gestured to the wall opposite the wall of ovens. Sure enough, a couple of massive buckets stood on the stainless steel counter next to the huge industrial bread mixers.
“It is empty now,” he said, picking up the bucket and shaking it before setting it aside. “This bucket however—the green one—is almost always full. Our sourdough bread is made from the water of the apples and pears we cut up into quarters and leave for three days. The natural yeast forms on the top in white bubbles, and when it is ready, we discard the fruit and use the water to mix with the ingredients. The water we use is warm, not like the cold water used to make your San Francisco sourdough. Pretty simple, no? Our process here is not difficult. And while yours is very dense, ours is light and airy with a floral essence all its own.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” she said, intrigued. “I’ve researched bread starters, and honestly, I find them rather intimidating. I like the idea of using potato water or fruit water to give a bread flavor and leavening.”
“Here, try some.”
He grabbed a baguette resting in one of the many trays in a bakery rack that stood six feet tall. Breaking off a chunk, he handed the end to her. The other two bakers stopped cleaning the empty baking pans to watch her. She took her first bite and sighed. While she loved San Francisco sourdough, the texture and taste resembled play dough. This was…something uniquely different, and she knew in that moment, she was going to bring this recipe back to Dare Valley and bake it at Hot Cross Buns.
“This is incredible, Andre,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed sourdough more.”
He slapped his chest. “You stick with me, Margie. I will show you all my magic, and you will show me yours.”
Fabian and Ronan laughed and said something in French about the whole bakery being filled with magic, but that was all she caught of their interplay.
“I don’t think I have as much magic as you do, Andre,” she said, tearing off another piece of bread and savoring it. Bread like this made butter seem superfluous, and she knew most French people ate their bread plain.
“You have more magic inside you than you realize, ma petite,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I will help you remember this.”
Unable to look away, she only nodded, chewing slowly.
“Now, as you can see, we have five industrial mixers. Four are for a specific type of bread unless I’m making a special. I labeled them to help you while you’re here.” He pointed to the handwritten labels taped to the bottoms of the mixers. “Two are used for traditional baguette since we supply some of Paris’ finest restaurants. Then one is for baguette sourdough and our farm bread with the potato water. The last I use for treats like the punitions. Remember?”
“Yes,” she answered, recalling the buttery shortbread. “I’ve got it.”
He moved on to the stainless steel counters and picked up a baker’s blade—a wicked-looking curved razor blade, which looked to be glued to the end of a pen. Evan would get a kick out of the invention, she thought, and couldn’t wait to tell him about it.
“This is the baker’s weapon,” Andre said, making slashing motions with it like he was wielding a small dagger. “It is how you differentiate yourself as a baker and put your stamp on the bread you sell. In Paris, this is very important.”
“This has to do with the patented bread types, right?” she asked.
“In some cases,” he said, reaching behind him on another line of stacked trays and pulling off a beautiful ball of dough. “Feel this.”
“I haven’t washed my hands,” she said, looking around for a sink.
“Did you not put a hunk of bread in your mouth?” He rolled his eyes. “The ovens will burn off any germs, ma petite. Do not be so nervous. Touch it.”
He almost made it sound like an invitation to sin. She poked the dough with her finger. It gave to her touch unlike any other dough she’d ever felt. Bubbles formed where she’d made contact.
“Tell me you have not felt anything softer.”
“I haven’t. Truly.”
“My bread lives and breathes like a human being,” he said. From anyone else it would have sounded crazy, but he meant it. On some level, she felt the same way about her own baking, although she would have described it differently.
“This is love,” he said and kissed the dough. “Now, let me show you how I wield my weapon.” He abruptly laughed and looked toward the ceiling. “Belle would call me…how do you say? On the carpet? For talking like that to a lady. But we bakers are a pretty dirty lot. Our bread dough reminds us of breasts, and it is our life’s work to craft a recipe that makes the perfect breast so we can play with it in the dark hours of the night. No wonder the priests used to make the bakers go to confession once a week.”
“I hadn’t heard that before.” Confession for bread making? She tried and failed to disguise her chuckle. “I’ll have to find another…ah…goal to inspire me.”
“Yeah, it does not work the same for a woman,” he said, putting the dough in the center of the floured surface of a well-used pastry cloth. “It’s said the first great male bakers in France were monks. I always thought it was one of the few good outcomes of a vow of celibacy, n’est-ce pas?”
“I agree,” she said, laughing fully now. Confession, sin, and now monks. France had a long, colorful history. “I’ll have to share your view with a friend of mine.”
Evan would find the story amusing after his recent celibacy kick. Goosebumps suddenly rolled across her skin as she thought about them coming together as lovers. Would it be tonight? She hoped it would be tonight. Already, her insides felt like over-risen bread loaves, ready to explode, needing heat for completion.
“You are not here, ma petite,” Andre said. “Come rejoin me. You must be present to make magic.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook herself. “Please continue.”
“Brian must have shown you how he learned to make bread, but everyone makes it differently, even when they use the same recipe.”
She nodded. “I know. Even though I’m using Grandma Kemstead’s cinnamon roll recipe, mine still turn out differently. It’s slight, but I can tell.”
He rubbed her shoulder. “You understand me then. So, I will show you my way, and you will find your own.”
“Actually, Brian didn’t teach me how to make baguettes. He didn’t want to give me any bad habits,” she said, touching a finger to the flour on the cloth, itching to get her hands dirty. “He wanted me to learn from the master.”
“Just so,” Andre said, nodding his head in approval. “First, you must make the proper baguette shape.” He used the heel of his hand to roll the ball of dough into a circle. “Now you tuck one side into the middle and pinch the seams. Then, you do the same thing on the other side. Then there’s the third tuck. You take one side and connect it all the way to the other side.”
His hands moved slowly so she wouldn’t miss any of the steps, and he glanced at her every few moments to make sure she was still with him.
“The last part is easy. You use both hands to roll it into the shape of the slender arm of a beautiful woman. A dancer’s arm. See?”
And she could see it. He left one end of the baguette a little thicker than the other so it looked like a woman’s arm from elbow to wrist.
He reached for a baker’s blade. “This little tool is your paintbrush. You are going to slash it across the bread to make the cuts everyone has come to expect from a proper baguette.” He made the diagonal slashes with the precision of a master. “Slash. Don’t saw. She will open to you better if you treat her with swiftness and gentleness.”
When he set the baguette aside and reached for another ball of dough, she watched in fascination as he worked ten times faster than he had during his first demonstration to shape it into another baguette. This was a true professional at work, and she wondered how many baguettes he could shape and slash in a minute. She decided to ask him.
“I’ve never counted. The bread sets the pace. You find your rhythm with the dough.”
Margie felt that way with her cinnamon rolls. Sometimes it felt like the dough wanted her to go slower. She mostly listened—unless she was in a rush.
“Once you master the proper baguette,” Andre said, “you can allow your imagination to come forth. That’s where the true magic comes.” He grabbed another ball of dough and shaped it. His slashes this time were more like the lines that divided a highway. “You can do anything with the blade, ma petite. Don’t be afraid of putting your mark on the dough. It’s like putting your mark on a lover, no?” He bumped her playfully. “Do you know what I mean?”
She thought of the fingernail marks or soft nips she’d made on past lovers, and the delicate bites she’d received in kind. Then she thought of Evan and wondered what kind of marks they would leave on each other.
“You are ripe, ma petite,” Andre said, studying her. “It is not just the sensuality of the bread. There’s a man. You are flushed.”
She raised a hand to her chest, embarrassed the heat her skin was releasing was visible to the naked eye. “Yes, there’s a man.”
“When it’s good between a man and a woman, the bread rises higher, but when it’s sour, the dough seems to struggle, and the taste is flatter.” He patted her on the back. “Just a word of wisdom. I became insanely successful when I met Belle. There were no accidents in that regard, ma petite.”
The notion of becoming more successful because of love appealed to her romantic side. “I appreciate your wisdom, Andre. I hope you will always share it with me.”
“As long as you are he
re, Margie,” he said. “Now, you will show me what you can do with the bread. First, you will form a traditional baguette. Until you have made it perfectly, I will not be satisfied.”
When he inclined his head toward the tray filled with rising balls of dough, she reached for her first one. It felt like the softest pillow in her hands. In that moment, she decided that was the way she’d envision them—as pillows. Breasts would never work for her. She laid the dough on the pastry cloth and reached her hand out to the nearby container of flour to add some more to the cloth.
“Do not use too much flour,” he said, shaking her hand free until she was only holding a pinch. “The downfall of many bakers is their over-use of flour.”
“Grandma Kemstead said the same thing about the cinnamon rolls,” she told him.
“She knows then,” Andre said. “Now, roll it into a circle.”
She used the heel of her hand like he did. The dough was so alive, she could feel the bubbles burst at her touch. “You make it look so easy. Getting the thickness even as you roll it out is a challenge. Do you never use a rolling pin?” That’s what she used for the cinnamon rolls.
“Never for bread.” He gave a wicked wink. “A rolling pin for bread is like a kinky sex toy. You only bring it out when all else fails.”
Margie disagreed, but she declined to comment. Somehow, bantering with Andre about the sensuality of bread felt dangerous, and she wanted to get to know him better before she threw back a comment so incendiary. Instead, she rolled the bread until she felt it was even and then tucked it together three times like he’d shown her. Rolling it into a baguette that resembled a woman’s arm proved more challenging.
“Mine looks more like a rabbit’s leg.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and jostled her good-naturedly. “You practice. I made an entire tray of bread dough for you today. But to inspire your imagination as you learn the basics, let me show you something else.”
He grabbed another ball of dough and rolled it into a perfectly formed baguette. Then he used some kitchen shears to cut the top of the bread every few inches.
