Bread Alone (34 page)

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He’s still holding my face in his hands. His eyes are deep, but gentle. If I drown, it will at least be pleasant.

“I’m not sure. Maybe we should try it again.” The realization of how long it’s been since anyone kissed me like this sharpens my need, breaching my defenses like a traitor from the inside. You forget how that little electric spark dances over your skin, the sweet awkwardness of noses and chins, the softness of eyelashes, the burnished smoothness of a freshly shaved cheek.

It’s a wrench when I finally pull away. “I have to get ready for work,” I manage.
Take a cold shower.
“What time?”

He looks at his watch. “Ten-thirty.”

“I mean Friday. What time should I meet you?”

Fourteen

I
t’s been over a week and CM hasn’t called me back. True, she might be out of town, but that’s never kept her from picking up the phone before. She might still be pissed off at me, but I doubt it. She’s not the type to let things fester. When she’s mad, she blows up, cools off, and that’s it. That leaves Neal. Either their reunion was total disaster and she’s too depressed to talk about it, or it was total bliss and he’s still there.

When she phones me Thursday afternoon, I can tell by her voice it’s the latter. “Sorry I haven’t called. I was thinking I’d stop by there on my way home. If you’re not busy.”

“Well … let me just look in my Day-Timer. Oops! Today’s the day Harrison Ford’s giving me flying lessons.”

“We can talk while you’re packing your parachute.”

My latest bread experiment is coming out of the oven, all crusty and golden and filling the house with its sweet toasted-corn smell about the time she walks in.

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked all the time.”

“Then you wouldn’t be able to barge in whenever you want.”

She drops her purse on the futon. “God, that smells great. What is it?”

“Cornmeal-millet bread. Play your cards right and you might get to taste it.”

She hugs me. “Have you recovered from the wedding?”

“Yes. And just in time, too. I got divorce papers. Have you recovered from Neal?”

“Oh, God.” She’s actually blushing. “I feel bad coming over here like some goosey teenager when you’re dealing with divorce papers …”

“I’m young, I’ll get over it. So tell me.”

“It was incredible.”

“Besides the sex.”

“No, everything. We talked all weekend and he canceled his flight and stayed till yesterday. I think he did some major soul-searching after he left last fall. He was feeling inadequate about losing that job and he was taking it out on me … but he’s sort of come to grips with that now …”

“Sort of?”

“I think he has. Anyway, he asked me if I’d be willing to try it again, and I said yes. He’s moving back up here in two weeks.”

“Into his own place?”

“Well … no. Why would we do that?”

“Maybe to see how it goes?”

“It’s going to go fine,” she says firmly. “His dissertation topic’s been accepted by the committee, so all he has to do is write it.” “Is he going to work?”

“I’m sure he’ll find something. Some tutoring, or maybe he can teach in a private school.”

I run my tongue between my teeth and my upper lip to keep from saying anything nasty, but I might as well say it, because she knows what I’m thinking.

“He’s never going to be a type-? overachiever,” she says.

“I just don’t like the idea of him living off you.”

“I wouldn’t mind supporting him while he writes his dissertation.” She’s right on the edge of defensive. “If that’s how it pans out.”

“I know, and I’m sure he wouldn’t intentionally take advantage of you, but … sometimes …”

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes nothing. You’re smart enough to know what to do. And I’m certainly no one to be giving advice.”

“So tell me what David said. If you want to.”

“The whole thing makes me tired. The gist of it is, we both changed. We weren’t communicating. We were making each other miserable. Meanwhile, Kelley was there beside him every day. ‘In the trenches,’ I believe he said.”

She screams with laughter. “The ‘
trenches’?
The closest David’s ever been to a trench is when CalTrans had Highland all dug up.”

I laugh till the tears come, which is a good thing, because otherwise it might just be tears. “But I haven’t told you the good news. I had my first date.”

“Really? With who?”

“Whom.
My new stepbrother.”

“Kinky. I like it.”

“It feels a bit strange. His name’s Gary.”

“Good for you. You need a transitional man. To sort of get you back in the swing of things. What’s he like?”

“Kind of cute. Nice.”

“What else?”

“I’m hot sure what else. I’ll let you know after tomorrow.”

“Does he live here?”

“Marin. He’s just here on business.”

She rolls her eyes. “What does he do?”

“Parks cars.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He has a little company that does contract valet parking.”

“His mother probably watched 77
Sunset Strip
when she was pregnant.”

“He took me to Canlis Tuesday night, but I don’t know where we’re going Friday. Maybe we’ll just get room service.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You be careful. Remember, this is Transition Man.”

“Sounds pre-Paleozoic.”

“And don’t forget to take a raincoat for his little soldier.”

That first batch of cornmeal-millet bread tastes great, but it crumbles like baking-powder corn bread when I slice it. Not enough gluten.

I try again, cutting the cornmeal in half, adding another cup of whole wheat flour, and grinding half of the millet in the bakery’s hand-crank grain mill. This is more like what I had in mind—chewier, but still with plenty of crunch from the cornmeal and millet. It makes toast to die for, especially slathered with salted butter and a little honey.

I take some to Linda, and she grudgingly admits it’s good. “You have fun playing with all these trickity things at home,” she warns me, “but if you think we’re going to be changing anything around here, just get that idea out of your head right now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of changing one teaspoon of anything in the sacred black book.” She’s a one-woman stone wall.

“Why you want to be foolin’ with bread on your days off is beyond me anyways.” She stands there, hands on hips, her mouth drawn into a thin line, eyes shifting from side to side, as if making bread at home is a subversive activity that she might report to the work police.

It crosses my mind that I could do an end run here, take some of my samples to Ellen, ask her if she thinks we could give them a try. Maybe on Saturdays only. But Linda’s hard enough to work with as it is. Going over her head would only inspire her to even greater heights of antagonism.

Gary and I agreed to meet in the bar at the Edgewater, in case he was running late, but he’s sitting at a table near the fireplace, and his face lights up like a birthday cake when he sees me. I’m not accustomed to this kind of overt approval just for showing up.

When he stands up to kiss my cheek, my stomach gives one little flip of protest and then settles down. This is okay. I can do this. He tells
me I look beautiful and I come very close to saying, “What?” just to hear it again.

“What would you like?” he asks. He’s wearing what I’ve always called an “English-poet jacket”—a tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches. David wouldn’t have been caught dead in one.

“Chardonnay, I think.”

It takes him a few minutes to get the waiter’s attention. David never had to try. There was an aura about him that caused service providers to hover, waiting for instructions. Why the hell am I doing this? When I’m eighty-seven, am I going to be propped up in bed in a nursing home, thinking about how David handled waiters?

After he orders my wine, Gary tells me that his meetings went better than he expected.

I smile. “That’s good.”

“I’ll say. It means I can come back in three weeks.”

I think I’m supposed to be enthusiastic at this point. When I don’t say anything, his hand moves to cover mine. But gently. I almost don’t feel it.

“I was hoping you’d be pleased.”

“I am. Really. I’m just … nervous, I guess.”

“Perfectly natural. But I wish I could say something or do something that would make it okay.”

I laugh. “Men always want to
do
something. Sometimes you just have to sit tight till things work themselves out.” I extricate my hand and pick up my wineglass.

He says, “I talked to Andrew and Katie right before I came downstairs.”

It’s a few seconds till my brain kicks into gear and I realize he’s talking about his kids. “What are they up to?”

“They’re at Erica’s, my ex-wife. Katie had cheerleading practice this afternoon and Andrew’s science project won first prize in the school competition, so now he takes it to the district.”

“You must be very proud of them.”

He looks at the table, then back up at me. “I guess it’s hard to
understand if you don’t have kids. I just get such a kick out of every new thing they do. Sometimes I tend to run on about it … I don’t want to bore you.”

“I’m not bored.” In my head, I hear CM:
“Liar.”

“Do you ever want children at all?”

“I never have.”

“Oh. Any particular reason?”

“No. I just think some women are meant to be mothers and some aren’t. Besides, I taught high school. I’ve seen what becomes of those cute little babies.”

“I think you’d be a great mom.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You just seem like such a—”

Now I’m laughing.

“No, you do. You’re a warm, caring—”

“I’m selfish and spoiled.”

“You’re lively and interesting—”

“You’re scraping bottom, Gary. Besides, I don’t relate well to kids. It runs in the family.”

“You would if you had some. Or if you met—”

“Oh no. Don’t go there. Not even hypothetically. I’ve always believed that once you have a child, your own life is pretty much over.”

“Not true. It’s really just the beginning.”

“Men can say that because they don’t have to hang around and deal with the little—”

“I do.” Suddenly he’s serious.

“Sorry. Most men.”

The piano player sits down at the baby grand and opens his briefcase. Gary looks at his watch. “We’d better get going. We’ve got a reservation at the Dahlia Lounge in fifteen minutes.”

The Dahlia’s a pretty romantic place in spite of the fact that it’s small, crowded, and noisy. The walls are dark and the booths are lit by exotic-looking paper fish with lights inside. The service is efficient but relaxed. I unbend, even taking the liberty of looking into my stepbrother’s
pretty eyes. He picks up the cue, resting his arm on the back of the banquette so his fingers just touch my shoulder. For a minute, I want to giggle. He acts like I’m going to drop my chin and take a bite out of his hand.

“How long were you married to David?”

“Seven years.”

“What’s he like?”

“Oh … handsome, charming, bright, successful.”

“Sounds like the ideal husband.”

“My oma used to say, ‘If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.’ What about you? How long were you and Erica together?”

“Eleven years.” He smiles like a man who’s found out more than he ever wanted to know about divorce.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

“I miss all of us together. The way it was. After she went back to law school, nothing was ever the same.”

“I would imagine law school’s pretty demanding.” I set down my glass and lean back against him just to feel his breath on my cheek.

“It is, I know it is.” He shakes his head. “I guess I never understood why she wanted to go in the first place. She was making good money as a paralegal. Or why she couldn’t have waited till the kids were older.”

“It must have been really important to her,” I tell him gently. “Studying law isn’t a commitment you make lightly.”

“Neither is marriage,” he says.

After dinner, when he asks me if I want to go back to the Edgewater for a drink, I know what he’s really asking and I say yes. In the lobby, neither of us glances at the bar; we head straight for the elevators. We’re the only ones in the car and he pulls me into his arms. He tastes like the red wine we drank at dinner, the apple dessert. I like his aftershave—not Polo. The first recognizable emotion is relief. Number two is gratitude. It’s all coming back to me now—how it feels when a man wants
you, how it borders on reluctance, because he’s not sure once he’s touched you that he can stop himself. It’s like a drug, that touch.