Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  Baker’s Blues

  A NOVEL

  Judith Ryan Hendricks

  Chien Bleu Press

  Also by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  The Laws of Harmony

  The Baker’s Apprentice

  Isabel’s Daughter

  Bread Alone

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Baker’s Blues

  Copyright © 2015 Judith Ryan Hendricks.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Designed by Maureen Cutajar

  Cover design by Stewart Allison

  For Geoff, as always

  Contents

  PART ONE: NOW

  one

  PART TWO: THEN

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  PART THREE: AFTER

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Love doesn’t sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread;

  remade all of the time, made new.

  —Ursula K. LeGuin

  PART ONE

  NOW

  We circle back, learning again what we thought we had known, learning that our map had been incomplete, that vast areas had been only imagined, that our instruments had been insufficient, our chronometer off, our unit of measurement different, our language wrong…once more the coastline had changed. We hadn’t been where we thought we were….

  —Sheila Nickerson, Disappearance: A Map

  one

  September, 2005

  Of all the ways he could have died, drowning was the least likely.

  He swam almost daily, headed for Matador when the surf was up, learned the Eskimo roll at the age of forty, sailed every chance he got. He couldn’t possibly drown.

  As we found out later, he didn’t. Officially, he died of cardiac arrest. It was cold water that stopped his heart.

  It happened on a hot summer day at a lake up in the San Bernardino Mountains. He liked to drive up there to get away from L.A., to swim, to write—his laptop was in the car—or maybe just to be alone.

  Whatever his original intention, he ended up diving off a boat dock into the deepest part of the lake. Deep and, in early July, still very cold. Probably he’d been hiking and was overheated, the doctor said. He might have had an undetected heart arrhythmia. It doesn’t make any difference, really. Whatever happened that afternoon, it killed him. Two girls in a canoe found him floating in a shallow cove, bravely dragged him ashore and tried CPR. But by then it was too late.

  It’s been two months since that 5 A.M. call.

  I was dressed and working on my first espresso, and before I even picked up the phone I was mulling the possibilities. Could be that the one proofing cabinet we had trouble with last week was acting up again. Hopefully just the thermostat. Or maybe somebody was calling in sick.

  As a small business owner, you tend to start exploring solutions before you even know what the problem is. So I was already thinking about how to adjust for twenty-five under-risen loaves of sprouted wheat bread and who I could call to work an early shift.

  At first there was just a sound like someone gasping for breath. Then a vaguely familiar voice said,

  “Wynter?”

  “Yes…Alan?”

  “I…terrible news. It’s Mac. He’s drowned.”

  I remember sitting with my elbows on the kitchen table, hands over my eyes, for what seemed a very long time.

  At some point I must have called CM. But all I remember about the morning is her materializing on my porch in jeans and her pajama top. She told me later that when she arrived I was drinking espresso and making a list of things to do. It must be true because I still have the list. Just a sticky note that says:

  Call Skye. Gabe. Suzanne.

  Name of lawyer?

  Safe deposit key

  Pick up laundry

  Call mom

  The memorial service was my idea—and one he would have hated. It’s at the house in Luna Blanca where we used to live and where he’d lived, alone or otherwise, since I moved out. CM helped me plan everything, right down to the priest. To say that Mac was not religious would be to wallow in understatement, but once in an unguarded moment he admitted he’d been an altar boy. I found it sort of touching.

  Anyway, CM knows this priest named Father Paul who’s a free-wheeling, ecumenical type so I asked him to put together a generic service for an unrepentant lapsed Catholic and he did.

  It’s a warm, clear September day and the house is full of people, including every woman who crossed Mac’s path in the last twenty years, with two notable exceptions:

  1. His mother, Suzanne McLeod. When I called to tell her about the accident she sounded appropriately shocked and distressed, but by the time I called her about the memorial she said she couldn’t make it because of a special exhibit on New England quilts she was opening at the museum that week.

  2. Gillian Welburne, Skye’s mother. To be fair, she’s still running the farm in New Zealand. She and I have exchanged polite emails over the last few months, mostly concerning the trust and the will and the service and Skye’s flight schedule, but the bottom line is, I can’t forgive her for having had his child and she can’t forgive me for having married him.

  I’m at the front door keeping watch for Skye when Kristin French drives up in her Range Rover. She stands by the car for a minute, smoothing her black skirt, pushing her huge sunglasses up on top of her dark hair. She lived here with Mac until this spring when she finally figured out he wasn’t going to marry her.

  I never understood why he didn’t. She’s about ten years younger, a successful producer. Beautiful, smart and strong. They rock-climbed together, went backpacking and kayaking, and she produced his screenplay. It looked good on paper.

  She comes up to me, takes both my hands in hers and kisses my cheek. Then she walks straight through the house and out the French doors to the patio with the assurance of someone in familiar surroundings. Liv’s here, too. I saw her drinking coffee in the dining room, wearing her stupid rhinestone jeans and a black sweater.

  My watch says ten after, but I keep it set a few minutes fast because I hate being late. I also hate other people being late. Wouldn’t you think you could manage to be on time for your father’s memorial service? Or at least call. It’s not like we can start without her.

  Just as I’m reaching for my cell phone, a green and white taxi screeches to a halt at the mailbox and Skye unfolds out of the back seat like a young stork hatching. I’d forgotten how tall she is. She drags her roll-aboard up the walk and gives me a careful hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she says in her wonderful Kiwi accent. “The effing driver got lost.” Sunlight on her face shows the traces of dried tears and a tiny smudge of mascara.

  We stash her bag in the hall closet and wa
lk out to the patio. Everyone’s already seated around the pool. My mother and Richard with CM and Nathan. Alan and Sylvia Lear—Mac’s agent and his wife. Willow Maidenhair, his therapist. A couple of writers. A few neighbors. Some studio people that I don’t know and who obviously think I’m his sister.

  Local blues guy Jim Bozeman is playing his guitar version of “Sometime other than Now,” a song Mac liked.

  Father Paul thanks everyone for coming. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Dockers and looks more like a UCLA grad student than a priest.

  “We are here today to celebrate the life of Matthew Spencer McLeod, known to his friends as Mac.” He mispronounces the name, saying McLee-od instead of McLoud, at which point Skye very politely corrects him.

  He talks about Mac as a father, the fact that he never knew about Skye till she was sixteen but how he worked at forging a bond with her and how close they’d become. He describes—tactfully—my relationship with Mac, how even though we divorced, we remained “good and loving friends.” He talks about Mac’s writing, his affinity for the outdoors, his love of music. He ends with a generic prayer, but when I look up I catch him sheepishly crossing himself.

  Now people start getting up and telling their stories about Mac. The number of people who want to talk surprises me. Also some of the things they say. A journalist named Karla talks about his generosity, the way he’d helped her with a novel manuscript. Alan says he was a “gentle soul and a fine writer.” Kristin calls him emotionally honest. I stare at her. Seriously? Gabe Cleveland gets all choked up, saying Mac “played life without a helmet.”

  Then Skye stands up. Everyone’s attention is riveted on the young Amazon, her fair hair moving slightly in the breeze. She reads Section 52 of Whitman’s “Song of Myself”, and her voice is clear and strong until the last three lines…

  Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

  Missing me one place search another,

  I stop somewhere waiting for you.

  She falters then, but by that point everyone has fallen in love with her.

  And then it’s my turn. CM nudges my foot gently with hers.

  Even under the best of circumstances I’m not good at speaking to more than one person at a time about anything. Now here I am with thirty people looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something touching or meaningful. What do I say about Mac McLeod? My ex-husband. And other complicated job titles. Lover. Friend.

  I bunch the wad of tissues in my hand and stand up.

  “Mac was…” I begin, and then my brain goes suddenly dark. I’m sure they all think I’m going to cry, but it’s not that. There simply are no words waiting in the queue. What do I say?

  That there was a time when I hated him, with that special intensity reserved for people you love beyond all reason and who then disappoint or hurt you? That during his periodic wrangling with depression, I’d managed to not hate him, but just to temporarily forget that I loved him—or at least to not act on it.

  My breath feels superheated and sweat is beading my forehead. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been standing here, but I feel like I’m swaying slightly. Then CM touches my hand, almost imperceptibly, like a breeze, but somehow it grounds me.

  “Mac was a huge part of my life, and I’ll miss him every single day. Thank you all so much for coming. I’m sure it would…mean a lot to him.”

  My knees fold and I sit down.

  Thank God, Big Jim Bozeman picks up his guitar and begins to play softly. CM, thank God for her too, invites everyone to the buffet. Conversation begins as a hiss that swells to a buzz, and I escape inside.

  When I step out of the powder room, a man is standing by the front door, his back to me. Broad shoulders, dark, longish hair curling over his collar. Familiar. When he hears the door click shut, he turns around.

  Alex.

  He doesn’t say anything, just comes over and holds me for a minute. He feels solid and warm, like a rock wall in the sun.

  “Sorry, my flight was late,” he says.

  “Thanks so much for coming. It’s great to see you.”

  He holds my shoulders. “It’s great to see you too. I just wish it wasn’t for this.”

  Death always seems to make people hungry and horny.

  When Alex and I proceed to the dining room, the guests are stuffing themselves, tossing back champagne. Half the male contingent is hitting on Kristin and the other half is eyeing Liv, who immediately zeroes in on Alex.

  In the kitchen, Skye huddles in a corner with her cell phone, eyes darting from one stranger’s face to another.

  “I can’t talk now,” I hear her say. “I’m at the bloody memorial service, for God’s sake. I’ll ring you later.” She snaps the phone shut and slips past me without word, through the door to the hall.

  My mother is talking with Tyler and CM…probably about me, judging from the sudden halt in the conversation.

  “It was a beautiful service, honey,” my mom says. “Mac would have loved it.”

  “The music maybe,” I say. “The rest of it, not so much.”

  Tyler studiously avoids making eye contact.

  “Nate’s going to take Richard and your mom back to the condo.” CM gives my arm an encouraging squeeze. “I’ll stay here till we get everything cleaned up.”

  I circulate.

  Thank you for coming. It means a lot. Mac would appreciate it…That was a lovely story you told about him…

  The tiny sample bottle containing six Valium that Dr. Greer gave me is tucked into my top bureau drawer at home, waiting for me like a promise, and that’s what keeps me going. Shaking hands. Hugging. Crying. Smiling.

  Watching Kristin walk around this house, knowing that six months ago she was living here…it brings out this weird territorial thing in me, like I want to slap her hands and say Mine! Don’t touch.

  She and Skye are talking, heads together, by the bay window where Mac and I used to put the Christmas tree. They hug and then Kristin looks up and sees me. She comes over, still wearing her shades on top of her head. “Wyn, thanks for doing this. And for including me.”

  “I’m glad you could be here,” I say. It’s almost true.

  “Well…take care of yourself.” She touches my shoulder lightly and lets herself out.

  “Classy lady.” Alex is standing next to me. “Who’s the other one? Liz?”

  I come precipitously close to laughter, but I set my jaw against it, afraid if I start I won’t be able to stop.

  “Liv. She’s harder to explain. Maybe we could have dinner one night. How long are you in town?”

  He looks at his watch. “About three more hours. I already called a cab.”

  “Oh, no. Really?”

  “That little shit Ferris is getting married tomorrow and going to Hawaii for a week, so I’ve got to be at the café.”

  I smile. “Haven’t you told him chefs don’t get to have normal lives?”

  “I told him. He wasn’t listening.”

  An awkward pause. Then I ask,

  “How are the boys?”

  “Good. Dustin’s graduating next year. He’s got early acceptance at Stanford and he’s got a summer internship at JPL.”

  “In Pasadena? Wow. That’s really great. And Jesse?”

  “The skateboard king,” he says. Then, “Any chance you’ll be on the island this year?”

  “Probably not. We’re short staffed right now, and then November is—”

  “Right. Your busy time.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets. “We had a pretty good storm two weeks ago. Some trees came down on my road, so I went by to check on your place…”

  The “place” he’s talking about is the cottage on Orcas Island. Formerly Mac’s and mine. Then mine via the divorce settlement. Funny, how badly I thought I wanted it. But after a year of finding reasons not to go up there, I decided it came with too much history and Mac obligingly bought me out. Now it’s back to me, like some real estate fruitcake that keeps being re-gifted.r />
  I ask, “Is it okay?”

  “Yeah. Mostly.”

  “Erica hasn’t mentioned anything about it.”

  “Erica won’t mention anything till she can’t rent it anymore. In that location with your view, she could probably rent a tool shed for a grand a week. It looks like it could use some work is all. If you want I could check it out.”

  “That’s so nice of you, Alex, but I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  He gives me a small, rueful smile. “Right. You know, my life is pretty fucking exciting.”

  Now I do let myself laugh.

  By two-thirty the buffet has been picked clean. Most people have said their goodbyes and drifted away. Father Paul, Jim Bozeman and the kitchen crew have taken their checks and left. Nathan has driven Richard and my mother back to their condo, but CM stays with me and Tyler and Skye. Everything’s been tidied up and put away, but for whatever reason, I feel compelled to go over the kitchen again, collecting every stray crumb, mopping up every drop of water, scrubbing the sink, polishing the chrome faucets to blinding brilliance.

  Tyler’s getting antsy. She paces. She sighs.

  “Wyn, for God’s sake, give it a rest. Haven’t you done enough today?”

  She’s right. I know. But…I wipe fingerprints off the refrigerator door.

  CM says very gently, “Come on, let’s lock up.”

  “Okay. Just a minute.”

  I bring the waste basket out of the powder room, empty it into the kitchen garbage, tie the bag closed and set it by the back door. Fine. But when I pull out a new bag and begin to fit it carefully into the garbage container, the volcano that is Mt. Tyler blows up.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” On the shrillness scale her voice sits right between screech and whine. “He treats you like shit, you clean his house. And he’s not even around to appreciate it. Not that he would anyway.”

  She rips the bag out of my hand.

  “Tyler, that’s enough.” CM never raises her voice, but she always makes herself heard.

  “Damn right it’s enough.” She wads up the bag and throws it on the floor. “It’s way more than enough.”