Before I can come up with anything to say, the suitcase is filled, shut, waiting by the door.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says. “To get some books and files.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Okay, look…I’m sorry—”
“You’re not sorry.”
“I was worried, that’s all. I don’t understand what’s going on with you.”
“What’s going on with me is I need some time to myself. I need some quiet. I need to work. I don’t need you following me around, going through my stuff, accusing me of—let me ask you something. Do you really think if I was screwing Liv I’d be bringing her up to our bedroom on Saturday afternoon?”
“Honestly? I have no idea what you would or wouldn’t do anymore.” I put my hand on his arm. “I know you need to work, but how can you work when you’re wound so tight you’re about to snap? I think we should go up to Orcas like we planned—”
He shrugs off my hand. “What you think we should do has nothing to do with reality. Believe it or not, this is not about you.”
“Then tell me what it is about, because I’m damned sick and tired of trying to figure it out. I’m tired of walking on eggs. I’m tired of you staying out till all hours, drinking too much, acting like I don’t exist. Just be honest for God’s sake. Tell me what’s wrong—”
“Wyn…I just did.” He picks up the suitcase and walks out of the room.
I sit on the bed, holding my pillow, until a shadow of movement makes me look at the doorway. Brownie stands there, swinging her tail slowly back and forth.
“Hey, Brown Dog.” I slide off onto the floor and pat the space beside me. She comes to lie down at my side. I can’t believe she dragged herself up the stairs. I comb my fingers through the silky fur on her back while she twitches contentedly.
We sit there together for a long time.
My mother’s house appears welcoming and familiar from the outside, but inside it’s a mine-field of memories.
This is the house where I grew up, where my father died, where I had to move back home after David, my first husband, locked me out, where my mother and stepfather got married. And it was here, seven years ago on the patio (the patio they’re getting ready to tear up, appropriately) that Mac and I were married.
If it were up to her, my mother would keep the place like a museum, but Richard has an architect’s sensibilities and a compulsion to renovate, so over the years walls have been knocked out, ever more daring colors of paint applied, the kitchen totally made-over, a master suite added downstairs, three new sets of French doors installed. In spite of all that, the place feels haunted to me, and no amount of remodeling is going to change that.
At the moment, my mother is sleeping off the after-effects of cataract surgery. I took her this morning, waited for her at the surgical center, and drove her home afterwards because Richard is in Palo Alto for his class reunion. In spite of her protests that she’s just fine, thank you, Brownie and I are spending the night, and I’m going to have to tell her about Mac. I’ve been dreading the moment.
It was bad enough when David and I split up, but she didn’t love him the way she loves Mac. For the last seven years she’s taken every opportunity to remind me that he’s a “keeper.” Like marriage was some kind of catch-and-release program.
I take my lunch and a bowl of ice for Brownie out to the patio and settle on a wicker loveseat under an arbor covered in bougainvillea. I nibble on a hunk of crumbly cheddar and try to read the book I brought with me, but it’s an exercise in futility. Memories clamber over me like a fast-growing, thorny vine.
Our first two years in L.A. we lived in a tiny, crummy one-bedroom apartment over a garage in Santa Monica. Mac was working as a bartender and trying to write while I labored to get the bakery underway. I’d just invested most of my divorce settlement in it and we couldn’t afford luxuries like movies or eating out. Our recreation consisted of reading, watching television, walking on the beach and marathon sex.
Working at the Queen Street Bakery, even as a partner, hadn’t prepared me for the crushing responsibility of having my own business. The tax forms called it The Bread Maven LLC, but really it was just me. Fortunately I had Tyler, and she was a glutton for work. As was my one other employee, Doris, who wasn’t a baker, but had a cheerful demeanor and a good memory and could fix the toilet and balance the register to the penny.
I was a nervous wreck the first few months after we opened, I reviewed the bake sheet and inventory compulsively, afraid I’d forget to bake something, or that I’d order too much or too little of our supplies. I obsessed about our used equipment—kind of funny, since nearly everything at Queen Street was ancient. I worried about quality, testing and re-testing and tasting things till I couldn’t fasten the top button on my jeans. But the hardest thing of all was to watch all those beautiful loaves of bread come out of the oven in the morning, sit on the shelves all day to be bagged as day-old and then finally thrown away. The second week we were open, I came to my senses and called the food bank, and they picked it up for distribution to the missions and hospice and Meals on Wheels. That helped, but not enough.
Some days after Tyler and Doris had left in the afternoon, I would lock myself in my office and pour over the finances and cry, then wash my face and redo my makeup and go home. I never wanted Mac to know. He was working hard, too, and there was nothing he could do about it anyway.
Most nights I stayed at the bakery long enough so that he would have left for his job and I’d have time to collect myself before I had to face him. But one night I walked in to find him lying on the couch reading a book. I couldn’t manage more than a terse,
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“Jason wanted to trade for Thursday night,” he said.
I headed into the kitchen without further comment and started pulling cheese out of the fridge and slicing the bread I’d brought home and pouring a huge glass of wine for myself. Before I could take a swallow he came into the kitchen, took the glass out of my hand and led me back out to the living room. He sat me down on the sagging couch, unlaced my Doc Martens and took them off, peeled off my socks and swiveled me around so my feet were in his lap.
“Oh, ick. Don’t.”
“Quiet,” he said. He started to massage my feet. Gently at first, then stronger and deeper. I could feel my whole body melting into the couch. When he started on the aching muscles in my calves I began to cry.
I pulled a Kleenex out of my pocket.
“You could’ve just told me,” he said.
“Told you what?”
“That you were sitting there crying in the bakery every night.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
He laughed. “I don’t have to. You’re worrying enough for both of us. Besides, I know it’s going to work.”
I blew my nose. “How do you know?”
“I just do. Make a note on the calendar. Six months from today. You’ll be scrambling to hire more people.”
He stood up and tugged me to my feet, led me into the bedroom, parked me on the bed. Instead of sitting down next to me, he opened the closet and started flipping through my extremely limited wardrobe. I kept dripping tears, like a leaking faucet. A couple of times, he took things out, considered them, put them back. Then he got to the last thing. The gold panne velvet dress from my mother’s wedding, slumbering in its plastic cocoon. He pulled the cleaners’ bag off.
“You should wear this one,” he said.
“Now?”
“Two weeks from Saturday.”
I looked at him. “Are we going somewhere?”
He hung the dress on the closet door. “To your mother’s house.”
“What’s happening at my mother’s house?”
“A wedding…?” There was just enough of a question at the end.
“But—” I hiccupped. “I thought you didn’t want to—” Hiccupped again.
&n
bsp; He sat down beside me and I hiccupped again.
“Hold your breath,” he said. “Count to thirty.”
While I counted he picked up my hand and kissed my floury cuticles. “I didn’t. But now I do. Do you?”
I gulped air. “Is this a proposal or are you taking…a survey?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Yes, but…you don’t just get married. There’s paper work and blood tests and witnesses and—” I took a long, slow breath. The hiccups seemed to have stopped.
“You think you’re the only one who knows how to make things happen?”
“No, but…”
“It’s mostly taken care of. You just have to get a blood test.”
“There’s a minister?”
“A judge.”
“What about CM?”
“Trust me, it’s all done.”
I hiccupped again.
Eventually, my mother shuffles out, wearing one of her pastel warm-up suits.
“Nice eye patch,” I say, smiling. “Too bad it’s not Halloween; you could be the queen of the pirates.”
She sits down next to me and pulls a grape off the bunch on my plate. “Mmm. Now I remember. I’m hungry.” She tosses a cube of cheddar to Brownie, who rolls it around on the brick patio for about five minutes to make sure it’s dead before eating it.
I go in the kitchen, fix her a sandwich and a glass of tea and bring them out. She’s put on the giant sunglasses the doctor gave her. As soon as I sit down, she turns to me.
“How’s everything going at work?”
“Oh, you know. Fine. Busy.”
She takes a bite of the sandwich, chews it slowly. “And Mac. How’s Mac?”
I bite my lip.
“That’s what I thought,” she says. “You’re walking around like you’re held together with piano wire.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“He’s…um…staying over at Alan’s for a while.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“He’s angry at me.”
“He must be pretty darned angry to be staying over at Alan’s.”
I let out a long breath. “He’s pissed off because I went through his desk.”
“That’s not like you, Wynter.” She gives me a raised eyebrow. “What were you looking for?”
“Some clues about what’s going on with him.”
Ever one to cut to the chase, she asks, “Do you think he’s having an affair?”
“No,” I say immediately. Then, “I’m not sure. He’s just acting…weird.”
“Weird?”
“He seems unhappy all the time. Angry.”
“He’s a very private person, Wyn. The surest way to run him off is to interrogate him, snoop through his desk, check up on him—”
“For God’s sake, Mom, it’s not like I’m stalking him.”
“I’m trying to be objective—”
“I don’t want objective. You’re my mother. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
She reaches for my hand. “I am on your side, Wynter. Always. But I have to tell you the truth as I see it.”
“He has a daughter.”
It’s like a cold, silent splash of water. I can see her recoil from it.
“A daughter?” she repeats. “Really? Well…that’s…I mean…” She gathers herself. “When did this happen?”
“The girl is seventeen.”
She relaxes a little. “So, long before he met you.”
“Yes, before he met me. But he knew about her over a year ago.”
“And when did he tell you?”
“He didn’t. She turned up on our doorstep two weeks ago.”
She takes a thoughtful sip of tea. “Well, did you ever stop to consider that he was probably just concerned about your feelings?”
“It makes me wonder what else is going on.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so quick to think the worst. That whole experience with David made you very distrustful.”
“I like to think it made me smarter.”
“Obviously, you’ll need to talk to him—”
I set down my glass too hard. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s like doing a monologue. He never says anything back. Except he’s tired. Or he’s stressed.”
“Well, maybe he is.” She sighs. “Wyn, you probably don’t want to hear this, but every marriage has peaks and valleys. The valleys are a very vulnerable time. But you can work through it. Maybe you should consider seeing someone.”
“Seeing someone” is her euphemism for getting a professional involved. The very thought puts my teeth on edge.
“Are you still planning to go to Orcas in June?” she asks.
“I’m planning to go. I can’t speak for him.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea—going up there alone? Leaving him here by himself?”
“I think he’s by himself whether I’m here or not. It’s been like that for months. Maybe longer.”
She looks doubtful. “Are things really that bad?”
Four feet away, just where the willow love seat is now, that’s where we stood. I don’t recall being that happy at any other time in my life before or since. It wasn’t as if I was a 19-year-old virgin bride. When I met Mac I was 32 years old and in the throes of getting a divorce from David. I’d learned a lot about love and its aftermath. Learned the hard way.
Now his desertion feels like even more of a betrayal because it calls into question all those hard lessons I thought I’d learned.
Finally I say, “Yes. Things are that bad.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. She feeds Brownie another chunk of cheese. “I hope…”
“Me too.” I turn to look past the patio to the beds where Icelandic poppies nod in the breeze and I make myself smile. “Why don’t you show me what you and Richard are planning to do back here?”
seven
The lights are already on inside when I arrive at the bakery, and both Tyler’s and Cheryl’s cars are in the lot. My head is humming with plans, a product of several sleepless nights.
I pull the list out of my pocket. Run the monthly financials on new software, more training for counter employees on new terminals, complete revision of employee handbook…try a new bread recipe from Kathleen, talk to Rafe about changing fruit tarts, ask Tyler for price check on Hemmings unsweetened baking chocolate…
I start to call out, but something about the voices coming from the staff break room makes me walk quietly to the half-open door.
Tyler says, “She was probably just having a bad day.”
“Yeah. The longest bad day in history. She’s all of a sudden hanging around all the time, looking over our shoulders, second-guessing everything we do, nit-picking, bitching. It’s like she all of sudden doesn’t trust us. She yelled at Hannah for making sandwiches too fast, for Chrissakes. Tiffani made a simple suggestion and was cordially invited to put in an application for employment at Great Grains. It used to be fun to work here, but—”
When Cheryl sees me in the doorway her face goes chalky. She flounders for a minute, then plunges ahead.
“The others got together and asked me to talk to Tyler. Wyn, I’m sure there’s a reason, and we all feel bad about—whatever it is—but you’re driving us nuts. I’m sorry.”
I pull out a chair and sit down. “The truth is, I think we’ve all gotten a little sloppy. Myself included. So possibly I’ve over-reacted…in the last week or so.”
She takes off her black geek glasses and regards me with concern. “You know, I have a friend who’s a therapist—she’s totally compassionate and—you might feel better if you talk to someone about whatever it is…”
Tyler gives her a filthy look.
“Cheryl, I understand your concerns. We’ll talk about it later. Okay?”
She nods and slips out of the room, closing the door gently.
I swivel in the chair to face Tyler. “Are the peasants revolting?”
She offers a weak smile. “Well…they do smell a bit, but they can’t help it.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Actually, you have been a little…snappish lately. Tiffani thought you’d fired her.”
“I want things done a certain way. As the owner, I believe that’s my prerogative.”
“Well, you sort of suggested she should go fill out an application at Great Grains.”
“All I said was—oh, crap, I don’t even remember what I said.” I slump in the chair.
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry. I guess I should have told you. Mac and I are…sort of separated.” It’s almost a relief to say it out loud.
“What? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I could muddle through. Obviously that is not the case. But I really didn’t think I was—”
“I knew this was going to happen.”
“You did?”
“Of course. That’s what they always do when they get successful. Dump the one person who made them a success.”
“I didn’t make Mac a success. He worked hard for it.”
She snorts. “If it wasn’t for you he’d still be writing bad poetry on legal pads. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know…exactly. We just haven’t been getting along. Stress, maybe. He’s having a hard time with this screenplay thing. I wish he’d…Anyway, he—we decided…mutually…that it would be best if he moved over to Alan’s for a while.”
“Right. Mutually. So what will you do? Get a lawyer? Or just put out a fatwā on him?”
I smile at her, my ever cynical, ever practical Tyler. “I have no earthly idea what I’m going to do. At the moment I’m just trying to put my shoes on the appropriate feet.”
“That son of a bitch.” She kicks an empty waste can, which lands with a crash across the room. She goes to retrieve it and I stand up, pushing the chair back to the table.
“I guess we should have a staff meeting this morning. Better alert the troops.”
That afternoon in a desperate attempt to distract myself and clear my head, I go to Beverly Center with a vague notion of buying towels I don’t really need. Instead I end up aimlessly riding the escalators, staring at the window displays.
Baker's Blues Page 7
