The Walking Bread

by Winnie Archer

  Laura readjusted her baby boy on her hip and handed Olaya a twenty. Once she had her change, she threw me a pointed look, grabbed the twine handles of the brown bag, and strode straight out the bread shop door.

  “Am I supposed to—” I looked at Olaya. “Does she want me to—”

  The door, newly adorned with a bell, dinged and Laura stuck her head in. “Ivy.”

  “—follow her . . .” I finished, knowing the answer to the question was yes.

  “Good luck, m’ija,” Olaya said with a wink.

  “Mmm.” I needed answers, not luck, but Laura couldn’t give them to me.

  The bell had barely dinged behind me when Laura whirled around, wagging her finger at me. “You . . . you—”

  I held my palm up to her, resisting the urge to grab her flapping finger. “Laura, come on. High school was a long time ago. Can we just move on?”

  Her little boy kicked his legs, happily gumming the skull cookie. His free arm flailed around haphazardly. Laura tried her best to contain him, but he bonked her on the back of her head. “No, Mateo,” she scolded. She released her grip, letting him slip down her body. He landed on his feet, wrapping one arm around her leg to hold himself steady, still working his way through the cookie.

  “I’m trying, Ivy. I really am,” she said. “But I’ve hated you for so long.”

  Hate was such a strong word. “Laura, I never—”

  “I know, Ivy. I know. You broke his heart—”

  “No, Laura.” I stopped her. “I did not break his heart. You actually did that all on your own.”

  Not long ago, Miguel and I had figured out the truth about the end of our high school romance. He’d raced out of town, the dust from his truck’s tires coating me in a cloud of despair. But he’d left thinking that I’d betrayed him, spending years in the military, almost as if he’d been trying to force me out of his mind once and for all.

  Until we’d both come back.

  Laura had done her best to scare me away from Miguel, telling me that he wanted nothing to do with me, telling him that I was sure to dredge up old wounds and break his heart again. “I get it,” I said. “You were his baby sister, and I was stealing him away from you. So you lied.” She’d told Miguel that she’d seen me with someone else. He’d had a teenager’s broken heart based on her jealous lies, and they’d festered for years.

  She dropped her head, looking tortured. She was at battle with the emotions that had turned her against me for so long. It was as if a demon inhabited her body and was fighting to stay in. But finally, Laura won. Her eyes glassed over, her lower lip quivering. “I never meant to . . .” she started, her entire demeanor shifting before my eyes. The blame she’d been holding on to dissolved until all that was left was the ache on her face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t mean to, you know?”

  She’d been an adolescent. Of course she hadn’t thought about the repercussions of her actions. Even if she’d thought about them, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—have foreseen all the fallout. “I know.”

  “He’s my big brother. I just—you—” She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “I thought I could keep him for myself. I didn’t know he’d leave. I didn’t know you meant—mean—that much to him.”

  I hadn’t, either. All I’d thought as he’d driven away was how little I must have meant to him. Laura and I had both been wrong. “Have you talked to him about it?” I asked.

  “No, because he’s doing that thing,” she said.

  I knew exactly what thing she was referring to. Miguel had a way of shutting down. Everything seemed okay on the surface, but underneath, whatever was bothering him festered, and those buried emotions, whatever they were, seeped into his attitude like toxic water leaching through the soil. “It’s like a lake that’s been dredged, Laura. It all came to the surface again, but he’ll get over it. Just give him time.”

  She nodded, her face sullen. I heard the distant caw of a seagull; the whir of cars rolling past. From the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of something blue at the curb. Recognition registered and I reacted without thinking, lunging, my arm outstretched. Laura registered what was happening at the same moment. “Mateo, stop!” she yelled, just as my fingers clamped around a fleshy little arm.

  Everything came back into focus. Mateo tottered on the curb, one foot dangling, the other rooted only because of my grip on him. “Coo-coo-coo . . .” he said, reaching toward the street, his fingers opening and closing. The half-eaten sugar skull cookie lay in a mushy mess out of his reach.

  Laura scooped up her son, squeezing him against her. “Don’t do that, boo. You scared me.”

  The corners of his mouth had turned down and he looked like he was winding himself up for a wail, but Laura held him close. Little Mateo managed to rein in the cry he’d been about to unleash, gnawing on her shoulder to pacify himself. She pressed her open palm against his back, rubbing it in a slow circle. He gurgled, his gummy saliva leaving a wet spot on his mama’s shirt.

  I laid my hand on his back, as much to soothe him as to soothe Laura. For the last twenty years, she’d held me responsible for her brother leaving. The last fifteen minutes had been a breakthrough. I felt as if a ton of bricks had fallen from my shoulders, so I could imagine the relief she felt. “You have a little girl, too?” I asked.

  Laura wiped away a tear. “Andrea,” she said with a smile. “Mateo’s eighteen months. Andrea is two and a half.”

  “You are one busy mama,” I said. She was a few years younger than me, but looked worn-out. Still, it was an exhaustion that I wanted to experience. To know what it felt like to have a child growing inside of me, to give birth, to hold a precious newborn against my breast. Motherhood. My biggest regret was that I hadn’t given my mother grandchildren.

  I didn’t know if it was in my future. Looking at Mateo, I certainly hoped that it was.

  “She’s with my husband,” she said. “Father-daughter date.”

  Those three words took me back. I’d started going to Valentine’s dances with my dad when I was four years old. It was an annual event, and it went on for years. We added on ice-cream dates, roller-skating in the summer, dinner once a month, trips to the library. I looked forward to those times more than anything, until I decided that the idea of a date with my dad was for little girls. At eleven years old, I was far too grown-up.

  A warm glow washed over me. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to go on a date with him again.

  As if it had been choreographed, my phone rang at the exact same moment that Laura’s did. She dug hers from her giant black purse, which doubled as a diaper bag—or the diaper bag that doubled as a purse—and I pulled mine from my back pocket.

  Laura cuddled Mateo against her shoulder as she took her call.

  “Ivy, you there?” Miguel’s voice was in my ear.

  “Yes, sorry. Hey.”

  “Any news?” he asked, referring, I knew, to Billy and Max’s murder.

  I sighed. For the few minutes Laura and I had been talking, I hadn’t thought about my brother and the murder rocking our small town, but now it all came back like a cannonball hurtling through the air, hitting its target head-on. “Nothing noteworthy.”

  “I’m on my way back from the city. Walk on the beach later?”

  “Definitely,” I said. He knew how the sound of waves crashing or the feel of sand between my toes could alleviate my worry.

  Suddenly Laura was by my side. “Is that Miguel? Can I talk to him?”

  Before I could hand over my phone to her, though, Miguel’s voice snapped in my ear. “Is that Laura?”

  “She wants to talk to you,” I said, knowing that talking to his sister was the last thing he wanted to do. I was the reason he and Laura were at odds, but it was high time they mended fences.

  He was silent for a beat. “Where are you? Why is she there?”

  “At Yeast of Eden. To get bread, like everyone else. But, Miguel, we talked. It’s okay. Really.”

  Another b
eat. “How—” he started, but before he could formulate his question, Laura snatched the phone right out of my hand.

  “Miguel, Sergio got called to take another truckload of cars. I need to get Andrea from him, but my car’s in the shop. It won’t be ready for a few hours.”

  Miguel said something that caused Laura to bite down on her lip. Her eyes turned glassy. She pivoted until her back faced me, lowering her head. “I know. I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaky. She listened and nodded while Miguel said something else. “Me too.”

  And just like that, it seemed their walls had come tumbling down. She didn’t need to say more than that. He was ready to forgive her. At long last, the past, it seemed, was behind us.

  Laura fell silent, listening to whatever Miguel said next, and then, in the middle of her tears, she laughed. She met my gaze, nodding and smiling, the emotions I imagined she’d had bottled up for twenty years bubbling to the surface. It seemed to be the way of things with the Baptistas and the Culpeppers. We suppressed our feelings, or buried things we didn’t want to face, but then, once the dam broke, it all came pouring out in one glorious mess.

  Laura adjusted her hold on Mateo, repositioning him so he fit more snuggly on her hip. “I will,” she said; then she handed me back my phone.

  “Hey,” he said. His voice seemed lighter somehow, as if the burden that had visibly been lifted from Laura’s shoulders had also floated right out of him. It was just the two of them—Laura and Miguel Baptista—against the world. I’d seen it with my own eyes back when we were kids, and here it was again. Ultimately, nothing could tear them apart—just like nothing could tear Billy and me apart.

  Laura caught my eye. “I have to go,” she said, but she looked around as if she were lost. “How are we going to get sissy?” she said to Mateo in a low voice.

  “Hold on,” I said to Miguel, refocusing on Laura. “I can take you,” I told her. Another peace offering.

  “Are you sure?” Laura asked. “I hate to ask—”

  “Positive.” It would give me something to do and a little distraction just might open up my mind to some new avenue to pursue.

  “My husband, he can’t get his flatbed through town here,” she explained.

  “It’s no problem.”

  The relief on her face, though, told me that it was a big deal. “Thank you,” she said.

  I responded with a smile and a nod before my attention was drawn back to Miguel. “I can thank you personally,” he said in my ear, a good dose of flirtation—and suggestion—in his voice.

  “That could be arranged,” I said, grinning to myself for the first time in a while. The sooner, the better.

  Chapter 8

  Sergio Morales reminded me of Pitbull, the rapper, not the dog breed. He boasted the same faint stubbly mustache and narrow soul patch shooting down from his lower lip and had the same build. He was on the short side, about five foot seven, from my estimation, but his demeanor was big and bold.

  He had been leaning against a flatbed truck, arms folded over his chest, when we drove up, but pushed himself to standing as we parked. He might have looked a tiny bit menacing had it not been for the wide smile adorning his face, the little wave he offered to us, and the little girl in a yellow dress spinning in circles in front of him. She was a miniature version of her mom, from the waves of her dark hair to the amber of her eyes. Andrea, I presumed.

  Laura’s mini-me stopped to stare as I got out of the car, but the second Laura’s feet hit the ground, she jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “Mama! Mama! Mama!” Laura scooped her up as I got Mateo out of a booster car seat we’d managed to borrow from Maggie at the bread shop. Turns out she often drove her baby brother here and there.

  Just like Andrea had beelined for her mother, Mateo zeroed in on his father. “Papapapapa!” He reached for him, practically lunging out of my arms.

  Sergio strode forward, taking him from me and flying him above his head like an airplane. Mateo squealed happily. “Hey, buddy,” Sergio said as he lowered the boy to eye level. “Been a good boy for Mama?”

  Mateo threw his head back, nearly leaping out of his dad’s arms, but Sergio was an experienced dad. “Calmate,” he said as he put his hand on his son’s back. Mateo shoved his fist in his mouth, slobbering away as he gummed it.

  “Babe,” Laura said, Andrea holding on to her hand. “This is Ivy Culpepper.”

  Sergio cocked a brow. “The Ivy?”

  “The one and only,” I confirmed at the same time Laura scolded him with an indignant, “Sergio!”

  Her husband stepped back before she could take another backhanded shot at his arm. “Whoa there. Can you blame me for being surprised? You two have been mortal enemies for, what, like, twenty years? And now she’s giving you a ride. Es un milagro,” he said. He winked at her, then held out his hand to me. “Mucho gusto. Sergio. Nice to meet you.”

  I shook his hand, instantly liking his easy laughter and the affection he clearly had for his wife. “Mortal enemies might be a little strong,” I said, although it was 100% true given that, until I’d run into Laura recently, I hadn’t even known there was any sort of problem between us. “But I’m glad for the miracle.”

  I took in the size of the truck and the trailer hooked up to the hitch. It wasn’t like a flatbed semi, but it was plenty big to haul a decent-sized load in and around Santa Sofia. The spring breeze fluttered a white sheet of paper from the bed of the trailer, skittering it onto the ground nearby. There was something familiar about it. I bent to pick it up, immediately recognizing it—a registration tag for the Art Car Show, the ones that the committee required be displayed on the front right area of the car.

  We were in the parking lot of Baptista’s, nowhere near the hangar where the already-registered art cars were being kept, but I put two and two together. Laura had said her husband was a truck driver and that he was doing a local job, covering for a friend. “You haul cars,” I said.

  “Sometimes,” he nodded.

  My heart beat faster. Was it serendipity that Laura had brought me to her husband, who just might know something that could help me? “Do you take art cars to the hangar?” I asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

  “Yep, my third trip in the last few days,” he said. “Pretty tragic about that man who died.”

  “Yeah, definitely.” I forged ahead with the question burning on my tongue. “Did you happen to bring his car—Max Litman’s car—the other day?”

  But instead of affirming, he shook his head. “Nah, I’ve been filling in for a buddy,” he said, “but not since last week. Not connected to the art cars. He took the first round to the hangar. It’s his business.”

  I was disappointed, but also not surprised. It would have been way too easy if Sergio had some of the answers I needed. “I’d love to talk to him,” I said.

  Mateo airplaned his arms, one of them thunking against his dad’s head. Sergio grimaced, clasping his hand around his son’s wrist. “Cuidado, m’ijo,” he said.

  Mateo propelled his body away from his dad, his arms flying again. Laura lurched forward, grabbed him, and lifted him out of Sergio’s arms. “You’re a rascal,” she said, half scolding, half laughing. “Let’s look at the flowers,” she said, putting him down and grabbing his hand to keep him steady on his feet.

  I watched the interaction between Laura and Sergio. The lift of an eyebrow between best friends could convey an entire paragraph worth of conversation. The pursed lips between a mother and child spoke volumes. A single look between a husband and wife, like the subtle glance that passed from Sergio and Laura, expressed understanding. My former husband and I had never gotten to the point where we developed that form of communication. In a fleeting thought, I wondered if Miguel and I ever would.

  Sergio winked at Laura as she held Mateo tight, ushered Andrea forward, and strolled away from us. He looked back at me. “It’s eaten her up, you know, all the stuff between you and Miguel. About everything that happened back when you were
all kids.”

  “I know. But it’s all good now.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “She ended up with an ulcer. Miguel doesn’t even know that.” He looked across the parking lot at his wife and children, his expression soft. “All these years, it’s torn her up from the inside out, her guilt over breaking you and Miguel up.”

  “It was a long time ago—”

  “But it drove Miguel out of town. Into the military, no less. If anything had happened to him, I think it would have destroyed her.”

  I remembered her outright disdain when I’d seen her at the Winter Wonderland Festival not long ago. There had been no love lost. This turnabout—the burying the hatchet—had come out of nowhere.

  “Self-preservation,” he said, as if he could read my mind. “We’ve been married almost eight years, and we’ve known each other for a lot longer than that.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I have no clue what’s going on inside her head, but then there are other times when I can seriously read her like an open book. When you moved back here, it pretty much turned things to crap for a while. She lost it. She went back and forth between thinking that the past was going to bubble right back up, or that it wouldn’t, but that she’d be looking over her shoulder, sure it was just a matter of time before it all went to hell. Basically, she didn’t want her brother to know that she’d lied. Stupid after all these years, but baggage is baggage. It keeps the therapists in business.”

  I started to speak. To say that Laura had been a kid. That it didn’t matter, but Sergio held up his hand, palm out. “I know, believe me. I’ve been telling her for years that she needed to tell him what really happened, but she wouldn’t do it. She was afraid. She painted you as a villain back then. She thought that doing it again could give her a little time to figure out what to do.”

  Sergio wasn’t judging his wife. He was just being brutally honest. “She was ready to let it go, though. We just talked. Finally.”