How to Bake a Perfect Life (22 page)

There are so many flowers and plants! So many differently shaped leaves and petals, so many different smells. It’s exactly what she’d want heaven to be like.

It’s not until they get outside, carrying flat boxes of bedding plants Lily says she’ll help Katie plant, that Katie realizes she has not thought about anything. It’s as if her brain just turned off.

Weird. But good weird.

That night she writes to Madison again, though Madison has not written one single letter yet. Not even an email.

Dear Madison
,

Today I planted flowers for six hours with Sofia’s grandmother, and it was the most fun I ever had. My arms are super-tired and I got a sunburn a little bit, but now I had a long hot bath in this beautiful bathroom here and I feel like I could sleep for six years
.

I like it here. I wish you could come visit. We could go to the flower show Lily told me about, which has all kinds of flowers and people try to win prizes. She’s going to take me
.

My dad is doing okay. He doesn’t have a leg and he has burns, but Sofia says he’s all right. I wish he would wake up and write to me, though, so then I would know he was going to be okay
.

I haven’t heard anything from my mom yet, but I guess I will sometime. WRITE ME BACK! What are you doing this summer?

Your BFF
,
Katie

Ramona

  N
ot twenty minutes after my mother leaves with Katie, I’m cleaning the kitchen when the bakery phone rings. Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I say, “Mother Bridget’s Boulangerie. This is Ramona.” I shake the dish towel over the sink.

“Hello, Ramona,” he says. “This is Jonah.”

I think of the first time we met. “Our names rhyme. That’s so funny.”

“It is.” There is warmth in his voice. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee or something? Is this a good time?”

“It’s perfect. Shall I meet you at Bon Ton’s in about a half hour?”

“Yes. I’ll see you then.”

Leaving the rest of the chores, I dash upstairs and take a ten-second shower to rinse the sweat and work of the day off my body. I think about running up and down the alleys looking for Merlin, and the baking, and the email from Sofia. Soon I will need some sleep. When I wipe the steam off the mirror, there are bluish circles beneath my eyes, and I can see worry lines at the corners of my mouth. I purse my lips and relax them three or four times, but the lines don’t go away. There is Sofia’s tragedy, right on my face.

I brush the flour out of my hair and put on some lipstick. The green sundress hides some of the extra weight I carry around my middle. Before I leave, I lock Merlin upstairs so he’ll be safe, then head out to meet Jonah.

The café is only three blocks away, and I am a little early, but Jonah is there already, sitting at an outdoor table with a view of Cheyenne Mountain. A tree shades the table from the high-altitude sun. When he sees me, he stands, and for a moment I pause, feeling oddly nervous. What will we even say to each other after so long?

Then he smiles, and a part of me that is still sixteen melts ever so slightly. I give him my best smile as I come forward. He extends his hand, but on impulse I stand on my toes and hug him instead. It’s a quick fierce greeting, old friend to old friend. His neck smells of ginger, and his hand comes around me, touches my back lightly. I close my eyes, swept into another time, another me. “I’m so glad you could come,” he says, letting me go.

“Me, too.” I sit down and the waitress hurries over.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Well,” I say, and lean back, inclining my head to take in the details I was too rattled to register earlier. He’s wearing jeans and a thin cotton shirt that buttons up the front, with long sleeves he’s rolled up his forearms. His hair is still the same thick dark chestnut, wavy and shiny. His face is so much the same it’s eerie, but he’s somehow grown into the angles. There is a gravity that was missing. Finally I say, “You really don’t look very different. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you in your yard.”

“It’s been a long time.” He folds his hands on his belly. “The advantage goes to me, because you have such distinctive hair.”

I pull a thick section through my palm. “I grew it out again only about four years ago.”

“Was it short?”

“It’s been everything. Long, short, in between. Super-professional. It’s like some big experiment in social adaptation.” The waitress brings my coffee. “When my daughter was small, I had so much to do that I cut it all off.”

“I like it long.”

“Yours was long once, too,” I comment.

“Yes. Back in the rebellious days.”

A pause falls. I stir sugar and milk into my coffee, wondering where to start, how to begin the reacquaintance. “So, how long have you been in the Springs?”

“Not very long—only a few weeks, actually. I flew here at Christmas, found the house, and started the renovations, then moved in about a month ago.”

“I’ve always liked that house, the garden,” I comment. “My sisters and I liked the balcony in the back. It must have a wonderful view.”

“It does. It was not in great shape when I found it, but the bones were good. I’ve been in the L.A. area for a long time, so I’m very happy to be back in Colorado.”

I nod, wondering if it would be too forward to ask if he is a musician. If he is not, perhaps it would be unkind. “What brought you back here?”

“Work. I’m the director for a children’s charity, Hearts Abound. Their headquarters are here.”

“I know it well. We have donation jars in the bakery.” I smile. “You’re
the
director?”

His smile is gentle, amused. “Yes.”

“Wow.” I widen my eyes. “Impressive.”

“How about you, Ramona? Is the bakery yours?”

I laugh, thinking of all the struggles we’ve been facing. “Yes. It was my grandmother’s house. She left it to me when she died six years ago, and I jumped at the chance to create the bakery.”

“The bread is terrific.”

“Thank you. Which one did you choose?”

“Cranberry walnut.”

“Ah. One of my favorites.” I lean forward. “But the girls will tell you I say that about all of them. The sourdoughs, the raisin bread, the oatmeal.”

It’s only then that I realize he’s looking at my mouth, my throat, and there is something in his face that touches me, like the flutter of bird wings. “Which is your true favorite?” he asks quietly. His voice moves down my neck like a whisper.

The atmosphere has shifted, the air growing taut between us. “I’m not sure.” I smile and give a tiny shrug, maybe flirting the slightest bit. “Depends on the day.”

He nods. Our eyes meet, lock. The waitress swings around with coffee, breaking the moment. I am relieved.

“Your daughter must be grown. What is she like?”

The dark cloud of her life moves through me, aches.

“I’m sorry,” Jonah says. “Is that a sore spot?”

“No, no. I’m sorry.” I shake my hair away from my face. “Sofia is a delight and a fantastic person. She’s pregnant with her first baby, so I’ll be a grandmother in a couple of months.”

He laughs. “You hardly look old enough to be a mother.”

“Oh, please. Thank you, but, believe me, I feel plenty old enough.” I fold a sugar packet into precise quarters. “The trouble is, she’s in Germany right now with her husband, who was wounded badly in Afghanistan. They’re waiting to stabilize him before they move him to San Antonio.”

“I’m sorry. That must be terrible.”

I’m about to make some comment that will excuse him from the burden of this darkness, but I find myself saying simply, “It is. And Katie, the girl you met, is his daughter. So she’s feeling it.”

“Burns?”

I nod.

“I hate this war. Is it all right to say that to you?”

I bow my head to hide the unexpected and intense emotions that rise at that statement. “I hate all of them.” I lift my head, sigh. “It used to be so much easier to make pronouncements, you know? It feels complicated now. I do wish we lived in a world that used some other method to solve problems—it’s so wasteful, on every level—but this is the world we live in.”

“Well said.” He inclines his head. “Now I find myself remembering the way you always said the most unexpected things.”

“Did I?”

“You must have an old soul.”

I snort, in a very old-soul way. “My family would disagree with you on that.”

His chuckle is warm. Inclusive, somehow. “They just don’t see you clearly. It’s hard for families to see one another sometimes, don’t you think?”

It’s my turn to incline my head. “Yes. And that’s what I remember about you—how kind you were to me. I always felt so … honored in your company.”

“I’m glad.” Again there is that moment of connection, weaving between us like the first notes of a symphony.

I break it, picking up the menu. “You know, I’m a little hungry. Would you mind if I ate something?”

“Not at all. I’ll join you.”

In the end, I sit with him over a late lunch for more than two hours. In silent agreement, our conversation is carefully superficial, about public things, nothing too dark or charged. He makes me laugh with stories about his work, and I tell him about the bakery and my cat, Milo.

As we talk, our bodies move ever so slightly closer. He bends over the table and I lean in. I find myself watching his mouth move and looking at the long line of his throat, admiring the
shine of his hair in the late-afternoon sunlight. Something that has been sleeping low in my belly wakes up, stretches up my spine, spreads across my upper back.

He wears no ring, but that doesn’t always mean anything. It’s hard to ask straight out, to reveal that I might be thinking of him in that way.

Finally, the waitress apologetically asks us to leave. In surprise, I look around and see that the place is empty. “We closed an hour ago.”

I laugh, glance at Jonah. “Sorry. We’re old friends. Time got lost.”

Beyond the low iron fence, we pause. He looks down at me. “Did you marry, Ramona?”

“Yes. And divorced.”

“Ah.”

“You?”

He meets my eyes. A light is there. “The same.”

I nod, holding his gaze.

“I wonder,” he says, “if you and—Katie, is it?—would like to come to dinner sometime? I’m a good cook, I promise.”

Is Katie a chaperone or is he being kind? “I would love that. Yes.” I lift a finger. “One caveat. I get up at two in the morning, so I prefer earlier rather than later.”

“Do you have days off?”

“Sunday and Monday.”

“What about tomorrow, then? I’ll cook, and you can bring Katie and her dog, and we’ll eat on the porch. Five-thirty early enough?”

Something like hope blooms in my chest. “Yes.”

To cope with my unusual hours, my habit is to take two naps each day—a short one after the morning rush and a longer,
deeper one late in the afternoon. When I get back to the house, Katie still has not returned.

Milo and I go to my north-facing bedroom and curl up on the bed. A breeze sweeps the curtains up and down in a little dance, and the air feels fresh on my tired skin. Milo covers my belly with silk and purr. I close my eyes and think of Jonah, his adult face, his still-kind eyes, and something that was missing when he was younger: an unmistakable sense of presence and power. I drift off.

That’s where I am, suspended somewhere between past and present, when a voice arrows into my consciousness.

“Ramona,” it says. “Wake up, I need to talk to you.” A hand is wrapped around mine. Struggling to surface, I say, “Jonah?” before I realize where I am. And when.

And who it is in front of me. Not Jonah, of course, but Cat. Who sits intimately on the edge of my bed, holding my hand. I bolt upright, yanking my hand away. “What are you doing? Get out of here! I told you I don’t want to talk to you.”

He tsks. “Ah, no no no. Don’t be silly. You were angry at my high-handedness, but that’s nothing to worry about. I’m sorry.” He puts his hands over his heart. “
Mea culpa
.”

In the cascade of quiet light coming from the windows, he looks as roguish as a pirate—which is, of course, the charm. It has been my curse to be surrounded by big personalities, starting with my father and my grandmother, then Sofia’s father, and then my ex-husband, Dane.

But I am tired of being buffeted by all of their wishes. Swinging away from Cat, I put my feet down on the floor and push my hair out of my eyes, my fingers automatically going to the end of my braid so I can brush and rebraid it. “No. You need to go.”

He hasn’t moved, and I see, unexpectedly, that he is filled with regret. I waver, feeling that familiar pluck in my chest, a need to make sure everyone else is happy.

No. Steeling myself, I walk around him, unweaving my braid as I go, so my hair is falling down my back, which is a mistake I would not have made if he had not awakened me. My hair is like a siren call to him, irresistible, and he follows me into the kitchen, watching from the table as I pour out the old coffee and draw fresh water for a new pot. “You really don’t want me to talk to you at all?”