Friendship Bread

by Darien Gee

  Julia motions Mark to step outside. “I thought I told you. I’m going to take lessons, too.”

  This is news to him but he loves it. “I definitely would have remembered that,” he tells her. “Should I get my trumpet?”

  Julia closes the door to Madeline’s room. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Of course not. I just think you should consider a trio. Two cellos and a trumpet. We could make money on the weekends. I’m pretty sure we’d be the only one of our kind.”

  She gives him a playful swat.

  At the door for the Thicket room, Julia puts her fingers to her lips and cracks the door so Mark can get a peek. Inside Gracie is sprawled out on the bed in a deep sleep, the covers kicked to the side. “I have her pajamas in the car,” Mark says. “Should I change her?”

  “No, let her sleep.” Julia tiptoes inside and drapes a heavy afghan over her daughter. “We can check on her later.”

  Mark follows her down the front stairs. “I also brought a change of clothes for you. Your sweats and that blue shirt you like. I thought it’d be more comfortable in case you decide to pull a late night.”

  “A late night? I’ll be here all night. But thanks, I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They stand at the bottom of the landing, suddenly embarrassed and a bit uneasy.

  “So …” says Julia.

  “So …” Mark repeats. He clears his throat, then gazes past her into the sitting room. “It looks pretty busy in there.”

  “It’s nuts,” Julia agrees. “We have three hundred loaves and counting. I think we’re going to hit five hundred by daybreak.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of Amish Friendship Bread.”

  Julia grins. “Never underestimate the power of one bag of starter.”

  A young girl with black hair dressed in punk gear emerges from the room, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She’s covering the mouthpiece of the phone and calls up to Julia. “I just got a call from Dora Ponce. Her husband is president of the local Rotary and she got him to ring every Rotarian in the county to see if any of their wives had any starter and would be willing to bake. She has one hundred and twenty loaves for us.”

  Mark raises his eyebrows, impressed but a little concerned. He has a feeling things are going to go much faster than Julia realizes.

  “Uh, okay, Connie,” Julia says to her. She glances at Mark. “Tell her thank you, and to bring them over whenever she’s ready.”

  Connie nods and gets back on the phone.

  “I think you’re going to hit five hundred by nine P.M.,” Mark tells Julia.

  Given the way she’s chewing on her lip, she’s obviously thinking the same thing. She looks at him and asks, “What do you think I should do?”

  It takes Mark a moment to realize that she’s asking for his help. Julia hasn’t asked for his opinion about anything since Josh died. She’s always made up her own mind, and he’d be lucky if she even informed him, much less consulted with him. He thought it had come to the point where his opinion didn’t matter anymore, at least not to Julia.

  He quickly thinks. He has no idea how many people have starter or who will still be baking as the night gets later, but he has a feeling Julia will need to be prepared.

  “You need more bodies,” he says. “You’re going to need people to help you inventory all the loaves as they come in, and then figure out how to transport everything from Madeline’s to the cars or trucks or whatever you’re using. You’re going to need boxes. You need to have available drivers and people to help unload in Barrett. Then enough people to help slice and serve. I assume the Red Cross has people, but they’re going to be very busy doing other things. You don’t want to create more work for them if you can avoid it.”

  Julia is nodding as she listens, deep in thought.

  Mark continues. “If this ends up being something that goes on all night then you’re going to have to work in shifts. People will need sleep. Better to err on the side of caution and have too many people than not enough.”

  “You’re right. I’d better make some calls.” Julia is all business now, and heads for her computer. She pauses before turning back to look at her husband, the look on her face suddenly shy. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to stay, would you? I mean, I know you have work tomorrow …”

  “I’d love to stay,” he says quickly. This is new territory for them, and he doesn’t want to blow it. “Did you say you had some heavy lifting for me?”

  “There are several boxes in the sitting room. Connie will show you. She’s the girl with the spiked hair …” Julia gestures to her head and grins.

  “Right. I’m on it.” He turns to the sitting room.

  “And Mark?”

  His heart is beating so hard he’s sure she can hear it. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 23

  It took less than three hours from the moment the women decided to bake for Barrett for word to spread around Avalon.

  Russell Rogers’ wife called him on the golf course just as he was finishing up his round. It had been a lousy back nine, and he just wanted to hit the club bar and unwind, mulling over his pathetic score card.

  “You have to go to the store,” she told him. “Now.” She gave him a list of ingredients and an absurd quantity.

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat,” he had muttered as he shoved his putter into his bag. “Woman, this is not a good time.”

  “This is the perfect time, Russell. Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve snuck out to play some golf. And with all the tragedy that’s happened because of the flooding!”

  Well, that would explain why the course was so damn wet. Still, it should have drained better.

  “I need you home in an hour. The ladies from my knitting circle are coming over and we’re baking for Barrett. Don’t be late.” She hung up the phone.

  In the store, Russell finds a small mob in the baking aisle. He is reaching for what looks like the last bag of flour just as a young girl steps in front of him smiling sweetly.

  “That’s my bag,” she informs him. Her name is Winifred Leary, and she’s six.

  “Well, how come it’s not in your cart?”

  “It’s too heavy. I’m waiting for my sister to come help.” She puts a proprietary little hand on the top of the bag.

  Russell glances around. “Well, where is she?”

  “Getting the milk.”

  The last thing Russell needs is to catch heck from his wife. “I’m sure they’ll be bringing more out. How about I take this one and you ask that nice man over there for another one?” He points to the pimply teenager wearing the store’s logoed shirt and obligatory visor, fielding questions.

  “Are you baking for Barrett?” Winifred asks.

  He’s not, but his wife is, which is pretty much the same thing. “Yes,” he says, squirming a little.

  “Oh. Well, me, too.”

  They stand there at an impasse. Russell knows this little girl can probably outstare him and, if need be, outlast him. What’s taking her sister so long?

  “Folks, I’m sorry, but there’s no more flour in the store.” The young clerk looks nervous making this announcement. “But we just called over to the Pick and Save and they have plenty.”

  Russell doesn’t have time to go to the Pick and Save. “Let’s make a deal,” he finally says. “I’ll buy you a candy bar and you give me this bag of flour. We both win.”

  Winifred acts as if she hasn’t heard him. “I think we should share it. We’re both making Amish Friendship Bread. So we can split the bag.”

  Now Russell is confused. How are they going to do that?

  “We can get a plastic bag at checkout. Deal?” She holds out her little hand.

  Russell doesn’t know how his wife is going to feel about a bag full of loose flour, but what choice does he have?

  “Deal.” They shake on it, then Russell puts the bag into his cart and they go off in search of Winifred’s sist
er.

  Ervin Holder usually works in the produce department at the Pick and Save, stacking fruit, picking out old ones, cutting up samples. But when no one answered the call for assistance on aisle six, his boss told him to go out and help, so that’s what he did.

  Ervin is shocked by the number of people blocking the aisle, grabbing items off the shelves. At first he thought that maybe something had happened and people were stockpiling, only they seemed to be stockpiling items in the baking aisle, not water or toilet paper like the week before when Avalon threatened to flood.

  “The PTA is gathering to bake Amish Friendship Bread for Barrett,” Cordelia Gutierrez informs him now. She’s president of the parent-teacher association at Avalon High School, where she has two teenage boys. “I need ten five-pound bags of sugar. Do you have more in back?”

  “Er, I can check …”

  Bridget Gholston, a beauty technician who works at Naughty Nails, calls to Ervin from the pudding section. “Are you out of French vanilla? I really prefer French vanilla over regular vanilla.” Her electric blue manicured nails click against the empty space on the shelf.

  Lila Schneider looks into her own cart filled with boxes of Jell-O pudding. “How does the French vanilla differ from regular vanilla?” she asks.

  “It has a stronger vanilla flavor,” Bridget explains. “It’s also darker in color, but you can’t really tell once the loaves are baked.”

  Lila considers this. “And do you still use the vanilla extract?”

  Bridget nods. “I even add an extra teaspoon. Men love vanilla, you know.” She offers a knowing smile and a wink, making Lila giggle.

  Mona Coulson sniffs. She heads the women’s Christian ministry for Avalon First Baptist, and she knows exactly who Bridget is. “Well, we’re baking Amish Friendship Bread for Barrett.” The way Mona says “we” means to incorporate everyone but Bridget.

  Bridget gives her a sweet smile. “Well, isn’t that nice? So am I.”

  The two women glare at each other over Lila Schneider’s shopping cart.

  Lila’s eyes cut uneasily between the two women, realizing that she’s caught in the middle. She attempts to edge her cart out of the way but she’s blocked on either side by Mona or Bridget. “Um, excuse me …”

  Bridget puts a hand on Lila’s cart. She gives Mona a hard look. “Now I know you wouldn’t be insinuating that a heathen like me can’t bake bread for Barrett. Are you, Mona?” Bridget knows Mona well. Aside from seeing her picture in the newspaper every Christmas under the special “Church Round-Up” section, she and Bridget used to be best friends in high school.

  “I’m just saying that some of us are focused on how we can help the greater good, and not thinking about how to get a man in bed.”

  Bridget’s eyes flash. “First of all, Moan-uh, I am baking bread for the greater good and since half of that greater good is of the male persuasion, I’m sure they won’t mind a little vanilla to calm their spirits. The women, too.”

  “Vanilla is a calming scent,” Lila interjects. “It’s very relaxing. I have a few vanilla-scented candles at home …”

  Bridget holds up a hand, silencing Lila. “And second, I don’t have to think about how to get a man into bed; I know how to get a man into bed. Unlike some people.” Bridget smirks.

  Mona’s mouth falls open. “What … I … you …” she sputters.

  “And third, I’m not doing this because I have some immature need to be recognized as a holier-than-thou person when we all know the truth!” Bridget says this last bit with flourish, crossing her arms and giving Mona a knowing look.

  Mona snaps her mouth closed, her cheeks flaming red.

  “I don’t know the truth,” says Roy Banes, a mechanic who’s helping his wife with the shopping and has been watching this little incident unfold with interest.

  “Me, either,” adds Wiley Brown. Wiley drives a water truck for the county.

  Patsy Jones isn’t rooting for any one particular woman, although she has done a few church bake sales with Mona and the woman is annoyingly condescending. After all, we’re all God’s children—Bridget, too, even though she works in a store that clearly promotes the objectification of women and sin—but Mona acts like she’s the chosen favorite.

  “Me, neither,” she corrects Wiley, and then wants to bite her tongue because it sounds as if wants to know, too, which she doesn’t. But if something is going to be said, well, it’s a public place, isn’t it? And she hasn’t finished her shopping yet.

  “This is ridiculous.” Mona’s nostrils flare. “Nobody here expects to believe you, Bridget, as they are all good folk who aren’t interested in malicious gossip.”

  Bridget doesn’t say anything, a look of utter satisfaction on her face as she watches Mona squirm.

  “So? What is it?” Roy demands impatiently. “We don’t got all day.” His wife swats his arm, but she isn’t exactly dragging them away, either.

  Bridget arches an eyebrow. “Well, Moan-uh, what’s it going to be? Think you can lighten up on your ‘I am better than you’ attitude or do I need to tell these good people what transpired—or, rather, what didn’t transpire—between you and our gym teacher, Mr. Grabowski, when we were in the tenth grade?”

  There is a collective gasp among the shoppers.

  “Bridget Avery Gholston, you promised!” Mona’s voice is shrill. “You swore you’d never tell!”

  “What, are you kidding me?” Bridget stares at her in genuine disbelief. “You’re kidding me, right? We’re forty years old, Mona! You haven’t spoken to me since we were eighteen. You ignore me at reunion, or whenever you see me on the street. And we were best friends!”

  “That’s not very Christian,” Patsy comments.

  “And I still haven’t told your secret. After all these years. Have I?” She spins around to the crowd. “Have I?”

  They all shake their heads, acknowledging that, indeed, Bridget has not yet told Mona’s secret.

  “But she slept with him, right?” comes Wiley’s guess.

  “No, she didn’t!” Bridget snaps.

  “Well, then, did she …”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Mona says loudly. “He didn’t want to. Wouldn’t.” She glares at Bridget. “Happy now?”

  Bridget studies her fingernails. “No, not really. An apology would be nice. For all of those years of snubbing and putting up with your condescending crap.”

  Mona casts her eyes to the ceiling, her lips pursed.

  “Aw, come on,” Roy says. “Apologize. Some of us would like to watch a little TV this afternoon.” His wife elbows him in the ribs. “Ouch! I mean, make Amish Friendship Bread for Barrett.” He rubs the sore spot.

  “Come on.”

  “Say you’re sorry.”

  “Apologize.”

  “It would really be nice if you said sorry,” Lila finishes meekly. Even Ervin the clerk is nodding his head in agreement.

  Mona blows out her breath, fidgeting in place. “FINE.”

  Bridget taps her foot. “I’m waiting.”

  “I’m … sorry, Bridget, for not having had a very Christian deportment toward you all these …”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mona!” Bridget looks exasperated.

  “OKAY! I’m sorry for being so mean.” The words come out in a rush, almost like a sigh of relief.

  There’s a titter of approval as everyone breaks into a smile, including Bridget.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Bridget grins. “A few tears would have been nice, but that’s okay. I’d take an invitation to bake with you this evening, too, but I’m afraid I already have plans.”

  Mona looks relieved.

  Lila looks like she has actual tears in her eyes. “I’m so glad it worked out!” she cries.

  Mona shoots her a look but Bridget gives Lila’s hand an affectionate pat. “You are such a sweetheart, but your cuticle beds are a mess. Why don’t you come in next week and we’ll get them fixed up nice and pretty? Maybe help yo
u do a little shopping, too. We just got in a shipment of silicone rabbits. Do you know what they are?”

  Lila shakes her head. She pushes her cart after Bridget as the two head for checkout, leaving Mona to look up toward the Pick and Save ceiling, annoyed but her heart a little lighter.

  Wiley Brown watches the women check their shopping lists, all grabbing the same things off the shelves. Flour, sugar, boxes of Jell-O instant pudding. Their carts are already filled with milk and eggs, and there’s a murmur of talk about “Amish Friendship Bread.”

  Wiley’s just here because he has a thing for condensed milk. He takes it in his coffee and adds it to his soup. It works good in meatloaf and mashed potatoes, too. As a bachelor he’s learned to cook for himself, and while he may not do anything fancy, he can feed himself well enough.

  “What’s going on?” he asks the woman next to him. She hands him a piece of paper and explains what it is. It sounds interesting enough, but he doesn’t have that starter stuff, and either way it’s clear he’s too late in the game.

  Cordelia Gutierrez senses his hesitancy. “We’re gathering a bunch of people together at the high school cafeteria,” she tells him. “Believe me when I say we have plenty of starter. Ingredients, too. What we need now are people to help mix and bake.”

  Wiley straightens up. He knows about the flooding in Barrett as part of his route goes through there. “I can mix and bake,” he says.

  “Well, if you want to spare us a few hours tonight, I’m sure it will be appreciated.”

  “Yes, ma’am. When should I be there?”

  Cordelia glances at her watch and sees it’s already five o’clock. “Now would be good, but we’ll be baking all night.”

  He can swing past the deli and pick up some fried chicken, then head on over. He’s relieved that he thought to take a shower as soon as he got home today. “I’ll see you there,” he says.

  Rhea Higbee, a cashier at the Pick and Save, has been scanning the same things all afternoon. She’s on break now, and rather than step outside for a cigarette, she calls her sister.

  “Dawn, it’s me,” she says. “Something funny is going on over here …”