Sweet Forty-Two

by Andrea Randall

  Flashes of last night came through in fuzzy form. Leaning against the railing. Knocking on the door. When I reached the bottom of the stairs I looked right, to the door I seemed to remember knocking on. I whipped around, but the pounding in my head reminded me to take things slowly.

  There was another door, one I was certain I’d never been through, and the smell was coming from behind it. I slowly turned the knob, half-surprised to find it open. Georgia had told me that she only operated the bakery for special orders. Given it was Sunday morning, I figured maybe she had some brunch order someone was picking up, though she hasn’t had anything else to my knowledge in the two weeks I’d lived here.

  The door opened into a perfectly polished stainless steel kitchen, which, in turn, was largely open to a seating area that had all kinds of crazy colors and designs. I couldn’t focus on any of them though, because through the large picture window at the front of the store, I saw Georgia.

  She was standing on the rock wall across the street that was the only thing separating our apartment building from the ocean. Her face was tilted up, and her hands were down by her side with her palms facing forward, fingers spread out purposefully. I watched her shoulders rise and fall underneath a deep breath.

  And then, she jumped.

  “Shit!” Any thoughts of mulling around in my hangover were trashed as I pushed through the swinging door into the cafe and pulled the door leading outside so hard I thought I dislocated my elbow.

  “Georgia!”

  Without looking for cars, I took two strides to cross the street and gripped the edge of the wall, leaning forward, looking down, not considering what awful thing I might find.

  It was a playground.

  A fucking playground.

  Over the wall, there was a four or five foot drop, then a sloping sand and grass hill that led to a small play structure in the sand right on the edge of where high tide comes in.

  Having apparently heard me scream her name, Georgia stood a few feet from the swing set, looking up at me, shielding the sun from her eyes. I hung my head, trying to catch my breath and not throw up.

  “Good morning, whiskey. Awfully early for you, isn’t it?” She shouted over the wind and waves, and I hopped the wall and walked down to meet her.

  “I smelled the muffins, or coffee cake, or whatever you’re making in that bakery you say you never use.”

  She smiled, walking over to the swing. “Muffins. And I told you—I work for large orders and stuff.”

  “Do you have a large order today?”

  “Yeah,” she chuckled, “your hangover.”

  Georgia gripped the chains of the swing, walked it forward, pressing the seat against her belly, stuck her arms out, and let go of her arms and legs at the same time. I watched her for a few seconds, swinging on her belly, eyes closed.

  “W ... what are you doing?”

  She opened her eyes, but kept looking toward the water. “See, when I was in elementary school, I heard all my friends giggling about how they were flying when they were swinging. I’d been afraid to use the swings before that. But flying sounded fun. So, I sat on the swing and was ... underwhelmed. No animal on Earth flies in a seated position. So, I started going like this. This ... this is flying.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I walked around and sat on the swing, like a normal person, “I’ll sit like this.”

  “I don’t concern myself with the flight of others, Regan.” Her eyes were closed again, and I felt awkward. Uncomfortable, as if I’d intruded on some ritual.

  “Before you jumped down, you were standing with your hands out ... what was that about?”

  She smirked, a hint of teeth showing on her right side. “Spying on me?”

  “No, I—”

  “Relax. I was stressed. I figured if headstands could help clear Ember’s mind, maybe a little yoga could clear mine.”

  I pulled the elastic from my hair and retied my hair back into less of a mess. “So, what pose was that?”

  “Fuck if I know. I was just trying it out.”

  “You know, Ember might be willing to show—”

  “Take it easy. I don’t even know if I like her.”

  “You might. You were right about Willow, by the way.” I pumped my legs a little, thinking better of it after one stomach-dropping swing reminded me my stomach belonged to Jack Daniels this morning. “Apparently she tried to hook up with Bo.”

  “Told you.”

  “You did.”

  “Did he do it?”

  I laughed a little too loud for my liking.

  “What?” she asked, pushing herself higher.

  “No. He didn’t. He loves Ember. I haven’t asked Ember about it, but that was part of why she was so pissed off a couple of weeks ago.” I didn’t normally gossip, if that’s even what Georgia and I were doing, but it just kind of seemed natural.

  Georgia sighed with a little groan tailing close behind.

  “What?” I let my legs dangle as momentum carried me back and forth a few more times.

  “Had I known Willow Shaw was involved in Ember’s attitude, I might have cut Ember some slack.”

  I shrugged. “She didn’t really cut you any.” I thought briefly to Ember’s assumptions of Georgia, and CJ’s defensiveness.

  “I don’t really give people a reason to think otherwise, Regan. It’s just ... it is what it is.” She shook her head and opened her eyes toward the sand.

  More awkward silence.

  “So,” I started after what felt like two very long minutes, “those muffins are for me?”

  She turned and looked at me, squinting a little as the sun was behind me. “Yeah, I figured you’d need them to settle the assault on your stomach last night.”

  “Oh God,” I winced, “did I throw up?”

  “No,” she laughed, “but you drank more than I’ve seen you drink since I’ve known you.”

  “I really have no memory of last night after saying hi to y—” I dug my heels into the sand as more unfortunate flashes from last night flickered through my brain. The envelope from David Bryson. The card from Rae. I looked to Georgia, who appeared to be studying my internal playback.

  “Don’t worry, I have it.”

  I covered my mouth, certain I really would throw up. “Did I open it?”

  I would have remembered reading something from Rae, right?

  Georgia raked her fingers through the cold sand, bringing herself to a stop before adjusting to a seated position on the swing. “No, you didn’t. In fact, you were going to leave it on the bar, but I put it in my bag.”

  “Thank you.” Leaning forward, I took one deep breath and slowly stood.

  “Come into the bakery with me,” Georgia said, leaping from her seat. “The muffins will be done in two minutes.”

  “K.”

  I couldn’t form thoughts. Still thoroughly hung over, with no recollection of last night, and no dreams to remember, I was left with the knowledge that somewhere in that building sat Rae’s last words to me. I assumed they were words, though I hadn’t opened the card, and wasn’t sure I had any intention of doing such a thing.

  Halfway up a set of stairs I hadn’t seen on my way down, Georgia stopped and waited for me to catch up to her.

  When she lifted her face, her eyes were misted over and her cheeks were pink. “I’m ... I’m sorry about Rae.” She extended her hand toward mine and gave it a small squeeze before letting go and resuming her hike up the crumbly stone steps.

  Once at the top, while we waited for a few cars to pass, I asked, “What did I say about her?” My voice shook, and I knew it was less from dehydration of my body and more from the drought in my soul.

  We crossed the street, and Georgia held open the door for me. “You told me she was Bo’s sister.”

  “That’s all?”

  Georgia smacked her lips together. “Yep. That’s it.”

  “Then how did you ... why did you...”

  “I Googled her. Her obituary wa
s the first link I clicked.”

  “Oh...” I wanted to know what she read, what she was thinking, all of it.

  But, when I stepped into the bakery I’d fled a half hour ago when I thought Georgia was leaping into nothingness, I was knocked over by everything I’d missed in my haste.

  I was thrust into a whimsical space that left me turning in a few circles, wondering how I’d missed it all in the first place. The walls were a pale blue, and booths lined with black and white diamond pattered fabric lined two adjoining walls. Above each of the six tables were chandeliers. Well, chandeliers in the sense that they were lights hanging down from the ceiling. The main light source came from what looked to be a small teapot, surrounded by four teacups that had smaller lights shining out of the bottom of their attached saucers.

  A large clock was hung on the main wall, but it was wrong. The numbers were in the wrong place and the hands of the clock were squiggly, not straight. The wall immediately to my left held what looked like a candy bar. Bright colored teacups that looked as if they were about to topple over held glass jars that were filled with candy and sprinkles and chocolate. Above that was a large painting of a playing card. The Queen of Hearts.

  “The Mad Hatter,” I whispered as I walked forward, toward the display case, which was a scene all its own.

  “What?” The door closed behind Georgia, and she locked it shut.

  “It all makes sense, now,” I said as I stood in front of the nonsensical desserts.

  “I doubt it. But, what are you talking about?”

  “Alice in Wonderland.” I turned on my heels, holding out my hands.

  Georgia lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, a smile starting in her eyes, but traveling no further. “How does that make sense of anything?”

  “The rocking horse fly!” I shouted as recognition overtook my brain.

  She jumped, and shouted back, startled, “What about it?”

  I clapped my hands together once. “The tattoo.”

  “Which one?”

  “The rocking horse fly, Georgia.” I reached my hand out and spun her around, placing my finger on the spot under her shirt that held the tattoo.

  “Okay, okay, calm down.” She rolled her eyes, taking a step back. “Come with me into the kitchen before your head explodes.”

  “Jesus, G, this place is fantastic. Why isn’t it open, like, all the time?” My eyes followed her all the way to the large stainless steel oven and watched her bend slowly over, pulling out a pan of muffins before closing the door.

  “I told you. No time.”

  “This looks new, though. Why would you open a place you had no time to run?” I hadn’t considered the personal nature of my questioning until I watched her face fall.

  “Sometimes our intentions are roadblocked by life, Regan.”

  “So was Alice in Wonderland your favorite movie as a kid?” Since I kept screwing up socially with Georgia, I’d gotten better at changing the subject.

  She set the muffin tin down on the stainless steel counter. She curled her hands around the edge of the countertop and sighed. “Still is. The books are incredible, too.”

  “Books? Plural?”

  “You know, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass.”

  Without much thought, I reached across the space and grabbed her hand, determined to examine one of the mystery tattoos I’d noticed during our first meeting. On the inside of her finger, Who are you? was scrawled in cursive black ink.

  “Who are you? The caterpillar.” I locked eyes with her and she smiled.

  “Look at all of those adorable little light bulbs just bursting away over your head.” She pulled her hand away from me and used it to mess up my hair more than the ocean wind already had. “Go. Wash your hands and you can help me with the next batch.”

  Over at the sink, I turned my head and looked over to the seating area. As people walked by, they stopped, looked in, smiled at their friends and pointed at things, and some even pulled on the door before walking away with an unsatisfied stomach.

  “Do people always try to get in here?” I nodded toward the door as more people passed, a wounded look across their faces.

  “Sometimes. The sign says Open by chance, so they don’t usually get too disappointed.”

  Sure enough, just as she said that, I saw the rectangle sign hanging from the door, a large Cheshire-like smile stamped where the period should be.

  “Wow, you’ve really committed to the theme, haven’t you?” I dried my hands and walked back to the prep area.

  Georgia set butter, eggs, and sugar onto the table. “If you’re going to do something, you’ve got to do it right. Completely.”

  “I guess you’re right. So, where’s the flour? I can sift that.”

  She looked up in a flash, mouth opening slightly. “You bake?”

  “Probably not well, but I know that my mom always sifted things. I wanted to sound smart,” I admitted.

  Georgia smiled and squatted down, coming up three times, placing a different container in front of me each time.

  “This is...” I shook my head, my kitchen prowess fleeing by the second.

  “Flour. Sorghum, tapioca, and white rice.” She tied an apron around her waist and tossed one to me.

  “I ... um...”

  “This is a gluten-free bakery. I don’t use wheat flour at all. So, listen carefully, or you’ll fuck it all up...”

  Georgia

  Keeping his mind off of that letter was working, even if it was at the risk of opening myself up more than I wanted to. More than I needed to.

  The look on his face last night, and then again on the swings, was too painful to swallow. If he wanted to talk about my bakery and his reasoning for why the theme was what it was, I’d allow it.

  “I’m listening.” He didn’t make funny faces or weird noises when I uttered the phrase “gluten-free,” so we were seemingly off to a good start.

  “How much do I use?” He tied his apron around his narrow tattoo-free waist and waited for instruction.

  I placed the sifter and a large stainless bowl in front of him. “A cup of each, then add in a half teaspoon of baking soda and a half teaspoon of salt.”

  “Salt?” His lip curled up in question.

  “You have to put salt in baked goods, or you won’t taste it.”

  “But that’s such a small amount for all of that flour.” His eyebrows pulled in as if we were in a chem-lab. We were, sort of.

  “Trust me. Add the flour and baking soda. Then I’ll scoop out a few tablespoons and we’ll make one muffin without the salt. After they’re done, I’ll show you the difference.”

  I take my salt seriously.

  “Okay.” He shrugged and started carefully measuring the flour, dispensing it into the bowl with equal caution.

  I moved to the large stand mixer in the corner of the kitchen and began creaming the butter and sugar, adding the eggs one at a time.

  “What’s the name?” Regan asked.

  “Of?”

  “The bakery. There’s no sign out front.”

  “Oh ... there isn’t one. I couldn’t decide.” I cleared my throat at the questioning of an interloper in my sanctuary.

  One I’d invited in, but that doesn’t always matter when your soul is inches away from total exposure.

  “What about Mad Hatter’s, or something?”

  “Too obvious.”

  “Yeah. This is all sifted. Do you have coffee? I swear I smell coffee.” The adrenaline rush of the ocean and the decor of the bakery seemed to be waning in his voice.

  I pointed to a ledge behind him. “Right there. Cream and milk are in the fridge, sugar is over there.”

  “I think I need black today.”

  I chuckled. “I get it. I have days like that, too.”

  Most days, really.

  “How long have you been baking?” Regan yawned as he brought the bowl over to where I was. He leaned against the counter and loudly slurped
his coffee.

  I began the process of adding the dry ingredients to the bowl, scooping in yogurt between additions.

  “Forever, it feels like. My grandmother was always in our kitchen, especially on Sundays, and she’d make sweet breads, brownies, cookies, muffins, sandwich bread. All by hand. After church I’d spend all day planted on a stool next to our island.”

  “Church?” Regan tilted his head to the side. Interrogation was exhausting.

  I nodded. “Yeah, you know, church. Sunday. Jesus. Crown of thorns and all that?” I drew an imaginary circle around my head with my index finger.

  “I get it...”

  “Anyway, baking has always been a meditative and especially rewarding escape.” Once the ingredients were all combined, I went to the deep freezer to pull out a bag of blueberries I’d picked and frozen over the summer. “Like music for you, I guess.”

  Regan sighed. “Yeah. I don’t know what I would have done most of my life without it.”

  “Did it start as an escape for you?”

  His lips twisted. “What four-year-old needs to escape something?”

  You have no idea.

  “You know what I mean,” I huffed, hoping he hadn’t read too much into my question.

  He didn’t seem to. “At first I was really proud. Excited. I got a lot of attention because the violin came so easily to me. I worked hard because I wanted to be better. To get more attention.”

  Using an escape to get attention was foreign to me on every level possible. But, he’d just said he hadn’t started out on the violin to escape.

  “After a while,” he continued, “it became a self-fulfilling escape, if that makes sense. All of the praise I’d received and all of the pride I had in myself grew to pressure in no time.”

  I pulled out a fresh muffin tin, handed Regan a small ice cream scoop, and took one for myself. I scooped some of the batter up, clicked the handle to pour it in the tin, and looked at him. “Like this. So, pressure?”