“I’d better go,” he said. “I just wanted to say hello.”
She started to say something else, to tell him how much she missed him, but then she heard the click of his phone hanging up. She sat there, holding on to the receiver, unable to let go.
The hours spread before her. Maybe she should make herself something to eat. Ava had always been a lousy cook. When she was growing up, her mother used to joke that Ava couldn’t even boil water and kept prodding her to make a meal, telling her it was a talent she needed to cultivate if she was ever going to get married. “Men love my meat loaf,” she had assured Ava. “It has the surprise of a whole hard-boiled egg right in the center.” But every time Ava tried to make it, her mother standing by, coaxing her, Ava’s heart just wasn’t in it. The meat came out rubbery. The potatoes were starchy. “I followed the directions,” she insisted and her mother held up her hands in defeat. “Get a mix,” her mother urged. “Use cans. Everything’s so easy now.”
When she had married Brian, he assured her that he hadn’t fallen in love with her for her cooking. In fact, she had only made him spaghetti once, with sauce from a jar. He wanted to show her off, so they went out to eat almost every night. “Isn’t she a beaut?” he asked everyone and Ava felt as if she had been dipped in silver so she gleamed.
Marriage, though, changed everything. He began to look at her in a new and distressing way, lowering his eyes, as if he were taking her measure. He called her “the Mrs.” which sounded so much less sexy than “honey” or “doll.” He began noticing things around the house, stooping to pick up a tumbleweed of dust on the floor. He frowned when his shirts weren’t pressed. “Didn’t you know I’d need them?” he asked. “What do you do all day?”
“You didn’t tell me—”
“But sweetheart, isn’t it your job to know?”
“I’m not a mind reader,” she said.
“You’re my wife,” he said, and it sounded like an accusation.
Wanting to please him, she went to the bookstore and bought a cookbook called Meals Men Love. The glossy cover had a picture of a smiling man, his elbows on the table, a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, and coming toward him was his wife in a frilly apron, carrying a huge platter with a roast and potatoes on it. Ava riffled the pages, glancing at the Jell-O molds and the list of what ingredients would float in the gelatin and which wouldn’t (who knew to put cucumbers in lime Jell-O?), the sweet-and-sour spinach with a potato-chip crust that made Ava tired. Carrots had to be curled and celery had to form a spray like a living green plant. You were supposed to have salads and desserts and even a theme, like the Polynesian luau meal complete with leis by each place mat. There was only one recipe in the whole book that urged wives to “let the men do it!” and that was for a salad, and how hard was it to tear lettuce, pour on some bottled dressing, and toss it around? Why was the man in the picture beaming like he had discovered how to send a rocket to the moon? It all irritated her. She wanted to shake his wife and ask her, was she a fool? Didn’t she, like Ava, want to go out to dinner and have it served to her? Did she really want to make a meat-loaf train with carrot wheels and spend hours cutting hard peas in half for the heads of the passengers? She put down the book and called Brian on the phone. “I hate cooking,” she said, and he laughed, which made her feel better.
That night, she tried to make Beer-Battered Chicken. She dredged the chicken in the batter and fried it, but her timing was off, and by the time Brian came in through the door, the chicken had burnt on the outside, but was still pink and raw when she tore at it with a fork. The peas, she saw, were overcooked, all the color drained from them and the pearl onions looked like tiny eyeballs rolling in grease.
Brian might have been sweet and funny on the phone, but she noticed the way a tic pulsed near his mouth when he saw the plate she set before him. She heard the scrape of his fork on the plate, reluctantly teasing a piece of raw chicken.
It wasn’t long before Brian began telling her he had eaten before he came home. She felt a flash of relief. She began to eat by herself before he came home, too, or later, with Lewis, the two of them happy with peanut butter and jelly.
She hadn’t cooked for Jake. When he came into the picture, neither one of them couldn’t have cared less if they lived on TV dinners.
Well, she was alone now and could eat whatever she wanted. A meal didn’t have to include meat or vegetables. She could have pie for dinner if she wanted. In fact, blueberry pie sounded just delicious. There was ice cream in the fridge and no one to tell her not to have it on top.
She put on the radio. Ray Charles was singing that he couldn’t stop loving you. “A lot of good that will do you,” Ava told him. She went to the bookcase and took out her mother’s old cookbook and leafed through it until she found a recipe for blueberry pie. She got out the butter, shortening, cornstarch, and flour, and some frozen blueberries she had bought. “Stop acting like an idiot,” she told herself. “You can do this.” And if she couldn’t, she’d throw it out and no one would know. She got out a mixing bowl, tied an apron around her waist, and took a deep breath.
An hour and a half later, Ava stared in amazement at her pie. The crust was golden and when she tapped it with the edge of a fork, it flaked.
She took a bite. The crust melted along her tongue. The fruit was tangy. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty good. She sat there, in her tiny kitchen, and slowly, carefully, devoured the pie.
AFTER THAT, AVA began to bake pies whenever she could. She found she looked forward to it on the long nights when there was nothing to do, when everyone else was home with their families. She began to experiment, buying apples one week, and pears the next. Sometimes nothing worked right. The crusts came out hard or tasted like cardboard. More than a few times, the fillings were gelatinous or runny. Ava leaned against the counter, surveying the damage. So what if a few pies were disasters? She didn’t feel like giving up. There was no one judging her, no one telling her not to waste the flour and the butter. Plus, with a whole night ahead, she could throw out the bad pies, clean her work area, and then start again from scratch. Humming with pleasure, she made pie after pie until they began to look better, to smell better, and when she put the fork in her mouth, she shut her eyes and swooned.
She began to realize that she didn’t have to follow the recipes exactly, that she could use maple syrup instead of sugar and it would still taste delicious, that she could add less corn starch or more fruit for a brighter-tasting pie. She worked to perfect her crimp, studying the photos in her cookbooks, laying one finger along the dough, taking her time. She remembered her mother telling her that so much of cooking was your mood. You could have the best ingredients in the world, but if you were feeling ornery, nothing would taste right.
What got Ava, though, was there was no one to share her giddy joy when a pie came out right. “Oh, smell that!” she said to herself as a waft of cinnamon rose in the kitchen and the apples began to bubble. “How pretty!” she said, but the only other sound was the music from the radio. She wished she had a camera so she could photograph this pie and send a print to Lewis, with the words, look what I can do!
Ava brought one of her blueberry pies into work. She didn’t know what she expected, but she felt jumpy. Every once in a while people brought in food. There were always Charmaine’s mother’s famous lemon squares or Richard’s wife’s chocolate cake, which was always too sweet for Ava’s taste, and sometimes, someone would splurge and bring something in from Bell’s Café down the street. Well, this blueberry pie was Ava’s simplest, the filling just blueberries and real maple syrup, vanilla, and cinnamon, but it was so perfect looking, so beautiful, she wanted to show it off. As soon as she stepped into work, she felt nervous. Charmaine was sipping a can of cherry Metrecal, making a face even as she smoothed the fabric of her skirt around her hips with her free hand. Betty looked at the pie. “Where’d you get that? Is that from the Teacup Café?”
“I made it,” Ava said.
“You?” said Betty. “You told us you were a lousy cook.”
“I am. But I can make pies,” Ava said.
Charmaine gave the pie another, more serious glance. “It looks good,” she decided. She put the can down. “I can diet tomorrow,” she said.
Ava placed the pie out by the coffee. By noon, when she returned to the kitchenette, the whole thing was gone. Richard was standing there, scraping his fork on the plate. “Did you have some of this?” he asked. “It’s fabulous.”
“I baked it,” Ava said.
He lifted his brows. Ava felt a flush of pleasure creep up along her neck. He had never said anything particularly kind about her work. Every few months, he had evaluations of the staff, and when it was Ava’s turn, he always told her “Keep up the good work,” and then refused to give her a raise. Last time, she asked him to tell her what she was doing that was good. She wanted to hear it. “Just keep on doing what you’re doing,” he had said. Now, he set the plate down. “Really?” he said. “Best pie I’ve ever had.” He winked at her, something she usually didn’t like. “Ava, you’ve got something,” he told her. For the first time that she could remember, he was looking at her face and not her bosom.
All that day, while typing up invoices for tubs, she thought about pie, about a new kind she might try. Bourbon chocolate. Pear spice. Apple pecan. She thought about how, when the weather got warmer, more fruit would be in season. She could drive right down to the DeVincent Farm Stand and get it.
At lunch, instead of staying in and eating at her desk, she began to frequent different cafés, just to taste test their pies, to examine the crusts at close range. She went to Juniper Tree and ordered the apple pie and when she couldn’t tell what the spice was, she asked. “Cloves,” the waitress said and Ava made a mental note to buy some. She went to Bell’s Café and had the Dutch apple, wanting to compare, but when she asked the waitress for the ingredients, the waitress laughed. “Bell won’t tell you any trade secrets,” she said. “Don’t even think of asking. She’d probably tell you the wrong thing anyway, just to throw you off the track.” The waitress nodded at an older woman with a long gray braid, who was angrily fussing with a blue-checked tablecloth.
“Is she always that intense?” Ava asked and the waitress laughed.
“That’s just Bell,” the waitress said.
“Well, please tell her this pie’s delicious,” Ava said. She watched as the waitress went over to Bell and spoke to her quietly. Bell stood up, her hands braced on her waist. She nodded when the waitress was talking and then glanced over at Ava, narrowing her eyes, as if she were sizing her up. It made Ava so uncomfortable that she quickly wolfed down the pie and left a big tip.
Every night, Ava couldn’t wait to get home. She no longer minded coming home to an empty house because she would soon be moving around her kitchen, baking, experimenting, listening to music. She made three small pies, each one different, and cut tiny slices for herself.
She tried to cook other things. She made a beef stew, which had no flavor. She roasted a chicken, which was dry. Never mind, she told herself. It didn’t matter if those things were not part of your gift. You just had to have one thing that was your own.
She brought more pies into work and suddenly people were not only friendlier to her, they seemed to be waiting for her. “I know it’s only nine, but this key lime pie is screaming my name,” Betty told her. “I’ll just have a sliver,” Charmaine said and cut a thick slab. “Now, this pie is something you want in your hope chest.” The men in accounting and sales had their secretaries cut them big slices and bring them into their offices. By ten, the pie was gone. “Great, now I can never fire you,” Richard said.
“Maybe you could give me a raise,” Ava said. “Then I could make more pies.”
Richard laughed. “You’re such a card,” he said.
That night, when Ava got home, she was planning on making three new pies: orange cream, lemon cream, and raspberry, made with frozen berries. She had never tried cream pies and she was a little anxious, but when she opened the door, she nearly skidded on the mail. She picked up the envelopes: bills, more bills, a postcard from Lewis of a snowstorm, and on the back he had written, “Doing fine, love Lewis.” She traced his words with her finger. “Love.” It got her every time.
She was spending more money now on groceries, which made her worry a little about her bills. She always paid them on time, and she was careful about money, but how she wished she had a cushion in the bank. How many more times could she ask Richard for a raise and hear him say no? She knew how lucky she was that he had put her on full-time, but his face closed up every time she mentioned salary.
She went into the kitchen, knowing she’d feel better as soon as she could get her hands in dough. She poured out the flour and it spilled on the floor. She put too much water in and, almost instantly, the dough turned sticky. Her mother had been right, emotions did get into the food. She looked at her messy kitchen. If she kept on, she knew the crust would be hard and the filling too sweet.
Ava sat heavily at the kitchen table. She looked at all the rows of spices on the shelf and wanted to clean and alphabetize them. She wanted to scrub the walls and the floor and then make herself a bath so hot, the tension would float away, but she knew the way she felt, that as soon as she started to touch the spices, they’d spill. As soon as she got in the bath, she’d scald herself.
She had to get out. She needed to do something. She got her coat, then went back to the kitchen and took one of the pies she had forgotten to bring to work, a chocolate mint pie. She put it on a plate and wrapped wax paper over it. Maybe it was time to try to sell her pies. The worst that could happen is she’d get some advice on how to make her pies better.
She drove to Bell’s because it was closest. As soon as Ava walked in, she felt suddenly bold. The café was filled with people, couples holed up in the back, a family arguing over spaghetti. It was freezing outside, but the café was warm and welcoming. There were only two waitresses, both in black aprons, gliding among the ferns and the rustic wood walls. And there, in the back, was Bell, who looked up at Ava and then glanced suspiciously at the plate. She strode over. “Excuse me? You’re bringing pies into my café?” Bell said.
“I guess I am.” Ava pulled back the waxed paper. The sugar on the crust glistened.
Bell studied her. “And?”
“I thought maybe you might want to buy my pies,” Ava said.
“We make our own pastries here.”
“Try a bite.” Ava knew she was begging.
“Let me see your hands,” Bell said.
“My hands?”
Bell gestured. “Hands,” she said. She took the plate from Ava and then she waited until Ava held out her hands, and then she took them. “Cold hands,” she said.
“I have a circulation problem,” Ava told Bell. She ran one hand against the other.
“Don’t do that.” Bell said. “Don’t rub your hands that way.” Ava stopped, confused.
“You don’t want to warm them up,” Bell said. “Every time I hire a pastry chef, I check if their hands are cold or warm. If they’re warm, too much dough is going to stick to their fingers, but cold, you get perfect crust every time. The art is in the crust.” She glanced at Ava’s pie and pulled off the wax paper. “Don’t get your hopes up, though. Still doesn’t mean the pie will taste good,” Bell said.
Ava scrutinized her crust. She had spent nearly an hour crimping the edges, making sure it was perfect.
“Crimping’s not bad. That’s a nice signature.” Bell touched the crust. “Different people crimp differently. It gets so I can see a pie, look at the crust, and I know who baked it.” She touched the edge of the crust and then reached behind the counter and took a fork. She took a bite while Ava waited and then she put the fork down.
“If it’s not good enough, why isn’t it good enough?” Ava said.
“I didn’t say that,” Bell said. “I’ll buy this pie, slice it up. If it do
es well, I’ll order more.”
Ava felt like throwing her arms around Bell, but the other woman stepped back from her. “This isn’t charity,” she said. “I just think you might have a white thumb.”
The only thing anyone had ever told Ava she was good at was in bed. She couldn’t help smiling.
“What?” said Bell.
“My ex-husband thought I was a lousy cook.” As soon as she said ex-husband, she wondered if she had made a tactical mistake, but Bell nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, what did he know?” she said. “There’s a reason he’s your ex.” She leaned on the counter. “Men expect you to cook up a storm at home, but if you dare to go in a professional kitchen and there’s money involved, forget it. Do you think it’s in their genes to be such stinkers?”
Ava laughed, and then Bell did. “My husband was different, but he’s gone now,” she told Ava. “Anyway, right now, we’ll see how this goes.”
The next day, when Ava got home from work, she was too anxious to bake anything. Instead, she was watching Jimmy Cagney on Million Dollar Movie, when the phone rang. She backed toward the phone, watching Cagney smash a grapefruit into his girlfriend’s face.
“The pie is gone,” Bell said. “People want more. And so do I.”
INSTANTLY, AVA HAD a new schedule. She got up two hours early on workdays to bake, so the pies would be fresh when she brought them to Bell. Money changed everything, Bell had told her, and she had to admit it did. The whole process of baking became different, more exciting somehow. It wasn’t very much money, just three dollars a pie, but it was twice what it cost her to make each pie. She set up a little savings account at the local bank, and by February, she was seeing it grow. She began to dream about all the fresh fruit she could buy when they came in season, expensive things like raspberries. Every time she made a deposit, she couldn’t help smiling. Plus, it made her bolder. She knew her chocolate pies sold out, but what if she grated a dash of ginger in there? What if she put in orange peel? What if she let the dough sit even longer than usual?
Is This Tomorrow Page 22
