Bread Alone (41 page)

“This worries me,” I say lamely.

She stands up, hands on her hips. “Can’t you be happy for me simply because I’m happy?”

I swallow carefully. “Can I be totally honest?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to be, no matter what I say.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t help wondering—Is this what you want?”

“Not really. But I didn’t have any classes scheduled for spring, so I thought I might as well get married.”

“Sit.” I ease down and pat the space next to me on the futon. She walks over to the window and pretends to be looking at something. “I was thinking the other day. About David and me, but it could apply to you and Neal, too …”

She turns around, leans against the windowsill. “Yes?”

“This probably sounds silly, but remember that theory you had about who you marry?”

“No.”

“You told me one time that you thought people tend to marry whoever they happen to find themselves with when their internal clock tells them it’s time to get married. Whether or not—”

“Oh, come on, Morrison. I must’ve been nineteen years old when I thought that one up. It has nothing to do with present reality.”

“Well … it wasn’t that long ago that you didn’t even know if you wanted to see him again. And you don’t even like diamonds,” I blurt out.

Her eyes narrow. “What’s with you? Does it really matter what kind of ring it is?” She starts walking back and forth in front of me.

“CM, I want you to sit down and listen—”

“My ears work fine standing up.”

“No, please sit down.” I lower my voice. “Please.”

She perches on the chair. Right on the edge so she can jump up and throttle me.

“I want you to be happy. You know that.” I pause, hoping she’ll agree, but she doesn’t. “Why did he give you a diamond?”

“They must have removed part of your brain when they got the appendix. Why do you think he gave me a diamond? Because he loves me. He wants to marry me. Is that so hard to fathom? You think you’re the only one in the room who can get married?”

I should just shut up. We can patch this up now. Except I can’t stop myself. “No, but—he knows you. He knows you don’t like diamonds—”

“What the hell are you trying to say?”

“Neal got you a diamond because it’s what
he
wanted to give you, not what you wanted—”

“You!” She points her finger at my nose. “You are way jealous.”

“Yeah, I am, but it has nothing to do with this.” She’s already pissed; I might as well go for broke. “Don’t you see what’s happening? You’re in panic mode—”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t say another—”

“Neal Brightman is not your last chance to get married.”

She’s on her feet, heading for the door.

“Listen to me.” I jump up, too, and the sharp pull of my abdomen makes me gasp. “The man can only love you when everything’s hunky-dory for him, don’t you remember?”

She turns quickly and shoots me a look that’s an Arctic blast in the face. “Every relationship has problems, as you, of all people, should know. At least Neal’s not out fucking his secretary.” She has the grace to look embarrassed.

“Don’t you remember how we always said if one of us was getting ready to make a bad mistake, the other one should tell her, no matter what? I’m trying to help—” The words tumble out, blocks tipped over by a clumsy child.

“The hell you are!” she snaps. “You’re jealous. You didn’t want your mom to get married and you don’t want me to get married. Nobody’s
allowed to be happy if you’re not happy. When did you get to be such a selfish, spoiled …”

She doesn’t finish, but I can fill in the blank. She slams the door so hard it bounces open again and I hobble after her.

“CM! Wait a second. Talk to me.” I get past the hemlocks just in time to see her car pull away from the curb. I grab one of the branches to steady myself and the needles lie cool and smooth in my palm.

“She’s not his secretary,” I say to no one but me.

Seventeen

I
want to vomit, but I know how that would feel, so I pop a warm Coke and take little swallows till the nausea passes.

Can’t she see how defensive she is? Doesn’t she realize this will never work? As soon as his dissertation hits the skids—and it will—he’ll be hanging over her shoulder again. Mr. Moody Blues. Accusing her of neglecting him, of being self-centered. He’ll bitch and moan and make her feel guilty. Then she’ll come running to me.

Just like I always go running to her.

Of course, this whole thing will pass, and we’ll take up where we left off Either she’ll marry him or she won’t. She’ll be happy or she won’t. It never makes any difference between us. In a couple of days, we’ll be talking on the phone and we’ll laugh about it.

Except, how could she think I’m jealous? I mean, I am, but only in general. I accepted that a long time ago. How could you not be jealous of someone who sometimes renders you invisible by her very presence? But jealous about her getting married? Not likely. And that crack about David fucking his secretary. I suppose she thinks she can dip him in horse shit whenever she feels like it. But I say one thing—actually, one pretty tame, wishy-washy thing—about Neal and she’s all over me like head lice.

I need to make bread. I need to and I can’t.

When Gary comes back, I’m on the phone with Jen, taking down her personal recipe for “short” scones.

3 cups flour

½
cup sugar

5 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup unsalted butter, chilled, cut in small cubes

½ cup dried cranberries, soaked in orange juice for 10 minutes

½
cup chopped, toasted pecans

½
cup milk

1 egg

Zest of one orange

Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in large bowl. Cut in butter until dough is in pea-size crumbs. Drain cranberries and add to dough along with pecans. Whisk milk, egg, and orange zest in small bowl. Add to dry ingredients and mix just until incorporated and dough clumps together in a ball.

Roll out on floured surface ½ to ¾ inch thick. Cut into desired shape, and freeze or bake at 375°F until golden brown, about 25 minutes (longer if frozen).

He paces until I hang up, then I have to give a report of my activities. I skip the whole CM scene. When I start dragging out flour and sugar and butter, he says, “What are you doing?”

“Making scones.”

He looks at me as if I’m delirious. “Why?”

“Because I need to.”

“Can’t we just buy some—”

“Gary, please. It’s not the scones I need, it’s making them. I’m going
nuts. Why don’t you get us a glass of wine and park yourself in that chair and tell me all about your meeting?”

He uncorks the Napa cab and pours two glasses. I confess I’m not listening too closely about the meeting. Something about setting up interviews in Portland. I’m rubbing the butter into the dry ingredients with my fingertips and thinking about CM.

“… so we run ads in the college papers, but then you have to make them understand that people who use valet parking are generally older and they don’t feel good about sending their Lincoln or Mercedes off with somebody who looks to them like a wild-eyed radical junkie, so they have to keep their hair short and have clean fingernails and absolutely no beards …”

I enjoy a malicious thought of Neal being told to shave his beard so he can park cars for Gary’s company.

I scoop the dough onto the countertop and roll it out with my grocery-store rolling pin. I think of my oma’s big maple rolling pin lying unused in the bottom of a drawer in my mother’s kitchen. That sucker weighs about two and a half pounds and moves like a skater on a frozen lake. The wood’s sleek and golden from years of pie crust and cookies and biscuits. She always cleaned it by rubbing flour into it and wiping it off with a flour-sack towel.

“You never, ever wash a rolling pin,” she told me.

“Have you thought about tonight?” Gary says.

The way my head snaps up, he probably realizes I wasn’t listening, but he sits there in his blue oxford-cloth, button-down shirt and khaki pants, hair falling clean and soft on his forehead, smiling like a choirboy. Why can’t I just accept my good fortune and run with it?

I get out my chef’s knife and cut the dough into triangles.

He tries again. “So, what do you feel like doing?”

I pull out a cookie sheet and arrange the scones on it in orderly rows, lay it in the freezer. I turn around. “Can I ask you a question?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

“Did you ever cheat on Erica?”

The smile evaporates like water on a hot griddle. “No. Why?”

“Did you ever want to?”

“Not really.”

“What does that mean, ‘not really’?”

He looks directly at me. “It means I met someone once that I was attracted to, but I never pursued it. Later I realized it was probably just a revenge fantasy.”

“Revenge for what?”

“Erica had an affair with a friend of ours,” he says quietly.

Batting a thousand today, Wyn.
“I’m sorry. That was a stupid conversational gambit.”

“You obviously had a reason for asking.”

The reason being that I’m in training to be a bitch.

“Is that what happened with David?”

I manage a laugh. “You mean my mother didn’t spill all the dirt?”

He shakes his head. “Why would she?”

“Sometimes I don’t know why she does things. We don’t understand each other very well, I guess.” I take out my plastic bench scraper and clean off the counter, wipe my hands.

“Is that what happened?” he asks again.

“Sort of. It was a woman in his office. I guess now they’re getting married.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t it seem weird, us sitting here talking about our exes? Comparing their liabilities. Like they were former employees or something. Instead of someone you thought you’d be waking up next to for—You know what I want to do?”

“What?”

“I want to go on a tour of that house out front.”

“Isn’t it locked?”

I shrug. “Maybe we can find a way in.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I think that’s called ‘trespassing.’”

“We won’t break anything. If nothing’s open, we won’t go in. Come on. Before it’s too dark.”

“This would be the tradesmen’s entrance,” Gary says. “All these big old houses had one. By the kitchen.” The rusted knob is so loose that the door swings open at a gentle push.

We step inside, inhale the damp, stale air. My eyes gradually adjust to the dimness. There’s something about a house that’s been shut up for a while. Sadness builds up like a static charge just waiting for a conductor.

“The mudroom,” he says. There are pegs in the wood paneling, a bench, and a built-in corner cupboard with doors sagging on broken hinges. The bead-board walls are streaked with black, probably mildew.

“What’s a mudroom?”

He smiles. “A place to leave mud. Boots, raincoats, umbrellas. So you don’t mess up the rest of the house.” He takes my hand, pulls me into the kitchen. They got as far as gutting it. The bleached shadows of cupboards and appliances are all that’s left on the dirty walls, except for stubbed water and gas pipes.

The dining room’s obvious by the chandelier hanging over the spot where the table would be. “Watch your head.” He picks up an unopened can of paint, turns it around. “ ‘Goldenrod,’ “ he reads off the label.

“I read somewhere that a lot of people split up when they’re in the middle of some big project,” I say.

He nods, looking around us at the piles of new lumber and boxes of nails languishing under a thick layer of dust. “Planning holds you together because it’s fun—mostly imagination and anticipation. Then when you actually have to start working, reality sets in.”

The thing in the living room covered with drop cloths turns out to be an ebony grand piano. With one finger, I pick out the melody line of “Moon River,” the only song I remember from my abortive piano lessons. Out of tune, but not hopeless. We cover the piano again.

The stairs groan and our footsteps echo off the bare wood. Dust motes dance in the last light of afternoon spilling through a tall, narrow window. We stop on the wide landing, halfway up.