She nodded over at our Professor. “He needs more than just an Extreme Makeover. Even if you spiffed up his looks, there’s still the fact that his personality is beyond dead boring,” she said quietly out of the corner of her mouth. “Why can’t he just stuff that muffin and get out of here?”
“Breakfast cupcake,” I reminded her.
“Whatever.”
The cold wind cut through the warm coziness in the bakery as more customers came in, wafting a fresh current of vanilla-infused brown butter around.
“Well, ladies, you’re certainly using all of your olfactory enticements today,” the Professor said in an attempt at humor. “You know—”
“We don’t have ‘factory’ anything here,” Maggie replied, cutting him off. “Everything we do is made from scratch. You want factory, you’ll have to go to the Wonder Bread outlet.” And then she stomped off to the back of the store.
“I, uh, I said ‘olfactory,’” he sputtered. “I know I said ‘olfactory.’”
I held up my hand to let him know he didn’t have to explain, but he still looked pained.
“I was going to comment on the mystery of how scent triggers a memory, then a feeling.”
Oh no, another lecture. And that was not quite how it worked with me, but I wasn’t going to get into that.
He carried on in full Professor mode, undeterred. “The aroma travels up the nostrils about seven centimeters.”
At this I began to cringe and hoped I didn’t show it.
“It then dissolves in mucus . . .”
Oh no, not mucus, I thought. I tried to draw him farther away from where people were trying to eat their breakfast cupcakes.
“. . . within a membrane called the olfactory epithelium . . .” he droned on.
I saw one lady grab her purchases, shoot him a dirty look, and hurry out. ‘Mucus’ is never a good word to hear when you’re eating.
“. . . areas of the brain that are part of the limbic system—the oldest instinctual, primitive portion of the brain. So, scent, and the flavor/scent combo, really hit us where it counts,” he finished, rocking back and forth on his heels.
He paused and got a faraway look in his eye. Suddenly he looked vulnerable to me, like a lost little boy. What had our bakery scent touched in him?
I knew if I focused on him, I’d begin to get the answer, but I didn’t have time for that today. And while I was dimly aware of his potential, I had too much going on right now to embrace a fixer-upper side project.
The moment passed and he returned to full Professor mode. “No one knows what actually causes the olfactory receptors to react to a scent—is it the size, shape, or electrical charge of the scent molecule? Maybe one day we’ll find out.” He looked at his watch and made for the door. “Please tell that pretty girl I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”
The bell on the door jangled again as he left. I could see the skimpy strands of his comb-over stand straight up in the cold wind. Yes, Maggie was right. Extreme Makeover.
She popped her head out again from the back of the store.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking abashed.
“Don’t tell me; tell him the next time he comes in. You knew the Professor meant ‘olfactory,’ didn’t you?”
Maggie laughed. “I just couldn’t take him anymore.”
“Interesting. You think he’s insufferable and he thinks you’re pretty,” I said, and left her to digest that little tidbit.
The morning progressed, and soon I came out from behind the counter to greet Roshonda, who had become another regular. When no one else was in the bakery, she told me wedding planner horror stories. Like the bride who wanted her wedding party dressed in traditional German lederhosen or the bride who gained fifty pounds before her wedding, then blamed Ro when the gown didn’t fit and refused to go three sizes larger. They ended up having a seamstress make a panel in the back of her dress and squeezing the bride into a corset.
“Hey, girl,” she said, her smile always bright, as she took her complimentary Americano with a sweet lick of caramel syrup.
“Who’s jumping the broom today?” I inquired.
She leaned forward to whisper. “You can’t tell anybody, but I know you’ll love this. Tyrone Spencer, the rapper who calls himself Dime.”
I was shocked. “Your first celebrity wedding, Ro! That’s amazing. Even if it is for Dime. I have to wonder, though, who on earth would have him?”
“His baby mama, apparently.”
“Isn’t there more than one?”
Ro had a wicked laugh. “Yes! But the bride-to-be is the most recent. And let me tell you, that woman is pretty damn impressed with herself for getting Dime to commit. She kept telling me that the theme of her wedding is the theme of her life: ‘Go Big or Go Home.’ How gross is that?”
“Pretty gross,” I agreed.
“Yeah. And I know I said I needed a super-high-profile gig to launch myself to the next level, but I now fear I may live to regret those words. Dime’s girlfriend threw an honest-to-goodness fit when her driver refused to park in the handicapped spot next to my door. Poor thing was forced to walk a full twenty feet in her Louboutins.”
“How horrible for her. That chauffeur is monster,” I said, and we both laughed. “And you clearly need that coffee.”
“Actually, I have to drink and run. My next client is a corporate attorney coming in for her second consultation. She’s a lovely person, so I hope she cancels out the memory of Nickel.”
“Nickel?”
Roshonda laughed. “Dime’s fiancée, although that’s not her real name. I’ve decided to call them Nickel and Dime. Makes me feel better.”
“Fun with customers.” I winked.
“By the way.” Roshonda came up close and whispered in my ear. “I got a call from Mariah Fleetwood earlier. Luke asked her to book two first-class airline tickets from New York down to the Super Bowl this Sunday. She said she wasn’t planning on gossiping to anyone else, but if it were her husband, she’d want to know.” Ro gave me a sympathetic squeeze and a rueful smile. “So now you know.” Mariah was a buddy of Ro’s from college who now ran a luxury travel agency out of Queen City. It was part of Luke’s image to remain loyal to hometown businesses when possible, so of course he’d contacted Mariah to manage his itinerary. Either that or he was trying to get a message to me through a friend of a friend.
The whole story made Luke’s phone message from earlier this morning all the more puzzling. All I heard was a man singing that it was not your fault but mine, and a banjo thrumming. Oh, yeah, Mumford & Sons. As if that explained anything.
OCTOBER 1941
Mrs. Ellison was a Fairview lady who paid well and paid on the spot, and Lord knew, Edie and Olive needed the money. Since their mother died, they’d been on their own. What nineteen-year-old Olive earned at the bakery and Edie made from sewing after she got home from high school barely put food on the table. But Mrs. Ellison was a good customer, and Edie kept concentrating on that. Edie couldn’t afford to show Mrs. Ellison how she really felt.
Jean Ellison, that spoiled brat, didn’t know how lucky she was.
Instead, Jean complained because another girl in her class was having McCall’s pattern 4054 made into a dress for the autumn dance.
“We’ve already bought the pattern and the fabric and we’ve had Edie make up the dress, Jean,” Mrs. Ellison explained to her daughter. She played with the pearls at the neck of her burgundy gabardine dress. “It won’t be the same as Betty’s, unless she bought the same fabric and had Edie make it, too,” she reasoned. She turned to Edie. “You didn’t make a dress for a Betty Simms, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
Then Jean wanted the neckline lower on the already off-the-shoulder dress.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jean,” replied Mrs. Ellison, losing patience. “You’re only si
xteen. Do you want the dress to fall right off in front of all the boys?”
Jean smiled a dreamy smile into the long mirror. She preened and turned in the pale blue gown, raising a shoulder in a pinup girl pose, flipping her long honey-colored hair back with one hand.
“The bertha collar won’t lay right with a lower neckline,” Edie blurted out as she took a straight pin out of her mouth, then wished she hadn’t said anything. “Plus,” she said more meekly, looking over at Mrs. Ellison and then back at Jean, “your brassiere would show.”
Jean’s soft smile turned to a furious frown. “Who cares?”
Pouting into the long mirror, Jean did a quick turnaround on the step stool to face Mrs. Ellison. “You’re just such a fuddy-duddy, Mother. You still want me to look like a little girl!” She stomped down, almost knocking Edie backward, and ran to her room, tripping on the still-unpinned part of the hemline. She slammed the door shut and then, with even more drama, locked the door.
Mrs. Ellison rolled her eyes heavenward.
Edie sighed, but tried to hide it. She’d never be home in time to listen to The Aldrich Family at nine o’clock if she didn’t get this hem finished. And she still had to press the gown once the hem was done.
“El, dear.” Mrs. Ellison walked to the top of the stairs and called down to the living room. “Please do something with your daughter.”
“I’m trying to listen to Edward R. Murrow,” he called up to his wife. “There’s a war on in Europe, you know.”
“Well, there seems to be a war on up here, too, dear.”
In his own good time, Mr. Ellison came upstairs in his reasonable, measured way, his cardigan sweater buttoned over office shirt and tie, pipe in hand.
He gently rapped on Jean’s bedroom door. “Princess,” he cajoled. No answer. “Sweetheart,” he tried again. The door stayed shut. He looked at his wife, whose mouth was set in a firm line.
Come on, come on, Edie thought. At this rate, I’ll be here all night.
Then he looked back at the door, as if the wood held the answer to his problem. He took several thoughtful puffs on his pipe.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he announced to them all. He turned his face back to the door. “When you make your debut next year, Princess, we’ll talk about a different style of dress. But not before. And that’s that. Let’s not waste any more time. You’ve got homework to do. So open the door right now, Jean Ann.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Jean sighed dramatically, swinging the door open. She flung herself in his arms. “I’m glad you understand.” He gave her a hug and absently patted her on the head.
“Now, let’s not have any more foolishness.” He gestured toward Edie with his pipe. “Miss Habig was good enough to come this evening at short notice, and we shouldn’t keep her any longer.”
“All right, Daddy.” Jean fluttered her eyes down toward the big-patterned carpet, seemingly contrite. Her father, his duty done, went back downstairs to the big console radio.
Jean’s head snapped back up. She flounced past her mother and got up on the step stool again so Edie could finally finish hemming the long gown.
And now it was time to get home, Edie thought, as she briskly walked, almost at a run. Although Mrs. Ellison had suggested that Mr. Ellison drive her home, Edie declined and Mrs. Ellison didn’t press the matter.
Under a streetlamp, she bent down and removed a piece of gravel from her red shoe and hoped it didn’t put a hole in her anklet sock.
By the time Edie reached the old canal in Lockton, a smoky yellow fog had rolled in, blanketing the stone slab sidewalks and brick streets. She could hardly make out any of the familiar landmarks. Except for the pitifully weak circles of coal-dusted light that the streetlamps beamed out, everything was murky.
The smoky air seemed to muffle sound as well. No cars, no streetcars, no one out walking. Even the clack-clack-clack of the machines making cotton batting and mattress covers was muted.
Edie walked past the warm light of the Friendly Café. It was after dinner hours, so only one couple sat in a booth at the window, drinking coffee and eating pie. Pie sounded good, thought Edie, and almost stopped in. But home sounded better.
She quick-stepped through a puddle of darkness between the streetlamp and the pedestrian walkway on the side of the two-lane bridge. Almost home.
The tall man startled her, staggering up from the creek, reeking of whiskey and stagnant water.
He came right up to her, blocking her path, and whistled low.
Edie’s heart pounded. There was something familiar about him, but she was too frightened to think what. She stood absolutely still, as if that way she’d be invisible and he’d move on.
He leaned so close to her that his chin almost touched her forehead.
That was when Edie tried to scream, but nothing came out.
He wove back and forth, unsteady on his feet.
He grabbed her face with his big hands, leaning in to kiss her. She twisted away and tried to run past him, but he was suddenly alert and fast.
He grabbed a sleeve of her coat, yanked her toward him, then gripped both of her arms. The sudden movement threw them both off balance. He fell backward, pulling her down the steep bank, and they rolled to a stop.
Edie felt cold stones against her back, the weight of him. Her right arm went numb, pinned under her at an awkward angle.
He put his hand over her nose and mouth, and she couldn’t breathe. She heard the water trickle past, a car shift gears as it rolled over the bridge, several sirens in the distance.
She tossed her head back and forth, moving the big hand a little, and gulped in air. She tried to scream again, but still nothing came out.
She blacked out for a while, but came to with the pain.
It hurt so bad, she thought she was on fire and she wondered if she was. She could hear a fire truck’s siren getting closer, then fading away. I’m going to die.
It seemed to go on forever. She blacked out, woke up to the searing pain, and drifted off again to nothingness. When she surfaced again, she kept her eyes closed. The pain was still there, but not as bad. He grunted, then rolled off Edie and onto his back, spread-eagled. He didn’t move.
Edie turned her head slightly and saw that his mouth had fallen open, but she was still too scared to move. Everything was black again for a while.
And then Edie opened her eyes. She heard something, but it stopped. The cold, muddy creek water had seeped into her clothes. Her body hurt all over. She shivered. If she just let go, she could drift down, down, down to another place.
Her eyelids flickered shut for a few moments, but the sound woke her again. A sound like the whirring of wings.
She felt the lap of small waves from the direction of the oxbow bend, where the wild geese still flocked in cold weather. The vibration hummed just above the water and echoed back under the bridge.
“Get up, Edie.”
Wings beating on water.
Somewhere inside that sound, she heard her mother’s voice carrying down the creek.
“Get up, Edie. Get up. Go on home.”
But that can’t be, Edie thought dully. Mama was dead.
Edie closed her eyes again. She must be dreaming. But her mother’s voice grew louder.
“Get up, Edie. Go home.”
A fearful thought slashed through Edie’s cloudy brain. What if the man heard and woke up?
Her eyes flew open. She felt the small, choppy waves lapping at her feet. The factory whistle shrieked. There was a humming in her ears. “Hoooooooommmmmmme.”
She eased up so she could feel her arm again, and the pain made her wince as she moved it from under her body to her side. The effort made her lightheaded.
But still the hum like the steady drone of bees carried the word she clung to: “Hoooooooommmmmmme.”
She knew that once
she moved, she would have to keep going or the man could wake up and hurt her again. She rolled over on her hands and knees and got her bearings for a few seconds.
He was still passed out.
She felt the gravel in the creek bed bite into her palms. She had lost a shoe somewhere. But she moved.
Lurching forward, she slipped in the mud, then twisted to stiffly pull off the torn panties down at her ankles and the other shoe. She shoved them both in her coat pocket. Edie crawled on hands and knees up the steep and slippery bank, grabbing at the scrub trees and clumps of tall weeds. She made it to the pole of the streetlight on the other side of the bridge and dragged herself upright. She stood under its dim circle and caught her breath.
“Better go home and sleep it off, doll,” a man muttered as he walked past, clutching his metal lunch box under his arm. He didn’t tip his cap. “Hate to see a woman drunk,” he said, shaking his head as he walked by and then was lost in the smoky haze.
Mr. Schramm, she thought. She called out to her friend’s father, but her voice still didn’t work. How could Mr. Schramm not know me? How can he not see I need help?
She heard more men, talking quietly, walking home from the three-to-eleven shift.
She had to get home.
Edie steadied herself, then hobbled from the support of the streetlamp and turned the corner.
Home. Home. Home.
She lurched toward anything to hold on to—wrought-iron gateposts, a parked car, the broad girth of trees—until she reached the little house and let herself in the front door. With her last bit of strength, she threw the bolt on the old lock they never used and slid down against the door, onto the floor.
She heard Olive snoring softly upstairs.
Edie lost consciousness again, her head lolling on her shoulders as she slumped against the door, legs splayed out.
The violent trembling brought her back to the surface again.
Where am I? she wondered. In the dark, she saw the familiar outline of the hallway, the light of the streetlamp coming in the window.
The Cake Therapist Page 8
