How to Bake a Perfect Life (25 page)

“I lived in Argentina for a few years.” He puts the bread in the oven and stirs a pot on the stove. “After I left New York.” He pours wine into oversize glasses and gestures toward the dish of cheese and fig preserves ready to carry out. “Will you take that?”

Finally, I notice there is music playing quietly. Spanish guitar. “ ‘Asturias,’ ” I say, and smile.

“Yes.” He inclines his head. Lifts one shoulder, and I understand
that he is every bit as nervous as I am. “Let’s go out on the porch, shall we?”

The air is as soft as down against my skin as I sit. He puts the dish of fig preserves on a small table between us and holds up his glass. “To old friends,” he says.

“To old friends.” Our eyes meet over the wine, and I’m suddenly filled with a wild sense of happiness. I laugh. “How wonderful, Jonah! Cheers.”

His eyes crinkle. “It is wonderful.” He takes a stick of cheese and dips it into the dish of preserves. “Try this,” he says, offering it to me with his left hand, the one with the damaged fingers. I take it, touching his hand lightly.

“Mmm. This would be very nice with Bridget’s sourdough.”

“I love that you became a baker. You fell in love with bread so much that summer.”

“Poppy was a good teacher. And it was magical, you know?” I shake my head. “It’s funny how you can get so off track.”

“I ate nearly the whole loaf of bread you sent home with me.”

“Really? That’s wonderful.” I feel a little shy. “How about you, Jonah? Did you learn to play the guitar with your other hand?”

“I did,” he says. “Alas, I could never capture the same … gift, though. That’s why I ended up traveling. In Argentina, I fell in with some composers, and that’s where I stayed for a long while.” He smiles, dipping the cheese. “There was a woman, of course.”

“Of course.” I smile. “Did she break your heart?”

His mouth tilts sideways as he meets my gaze. “I’m afraid it was the other way around. In the end, I didn’t want to stay there, and she wouldn’t leave her family to come to America.” He shrugs. “It was a good time in my life. Learning to compose.”

“You did?” I’m immediately enchanted. “Classical music?”

“Spanish influences, guitar and cello. But mostly I wrote scores.”

“Wrote? You don’t anymore?”

He shakes his head faintly. “Things … got in the way.”

Something in his face makes me ask, “Do you miss it?”

In the house, the music shifts to cello, a slow long bowing of singular beauty. I watch as he turns his glass of wine in a circle on the table. His untouched thumb is long and graceful, and he looks restlessly toward the mountains. “Sometimes. Not very much anymore.”

Rising around him like heat waves, invisible but bending the air, is his sorrow over that choice. Much too large for this moment, so I say, “We go where we should, I suppose.” I lean toward him. “It smells as if you have become a wonderful cook. What have you made?”

Immediately the air shifts. He smiles. “Pasta. With prosciutto and asparagus and fresh peas and sun-dried tomatoes. Are you hungry now? Would you like to eat?”

“Whenever you like.”

As I watch, his body softens and he leans back in the chair, then looks over at me. “Let’s wait a little. Drink this wine and then go inside. I love this time of day.”

“So do I.”

He says, “You were a godsend to me that summer, you know.”

“Was I?” I laugh. “What I remember is chasing you shamelessly.”

“You did,” he agrees, and raises his glass to me. “It was the best thing that had happened to me for a long time. You can’t imagine how healing it was.” He pauses. “Or how difficult.”

The air has gone quiet, falling into the purple hush of dusk as the sun slips suddenly behind Pikes Peak. Something electric buzzes between us—or maybe that’s just me. “I’m sure it was terribly embarrassing.”

“Not at all. It—” He bows his head briefly. “But you were so very young.”

All at once I am standing in my aunt’s garden in the red light of a summer dusk, nearly fainting as he bends over to kiss me. It
has been almost twenty-five years, but the moment rushes back to me as perfectly detailed as if it happened ten minutes ago. The heat of it rushes down my spine, and again it is like he is a magnet and my body is made of iron shavings.

I raise my glass. “To your kindness, sir. It was a very hard time for me.”

He touches my glass with his own. “So tell me about your daughter. What is she like?”

“Sofia.” Even her name makes me happy, and the corners of my mouth curve upward as I look out to the ocean of grass surrounding the ship of a house. “She’s very, very, very smart, like my mother, and has a mighty will, like my grandmother. She’s quite beautiful, dark hair, blue eyes. Curvy but in no way fat. She’s a terrific person.”

“So,” he says in his mellow voice, “she’s smart like your mother and stubborn like your grandmother. How is she like you, Ramona?”

“Hmmm.” I think,
Only you would ask that question
, and ponder it for a moment. At first, all I can come up with are the ways she is not like me. “She’s not a baker, or even really much of a cook thus far. She’s a lot less at the mercy of events than I’ve been in my life, and she’s wary about relationships with men, smart. Not my strong suit.”

“How is she like you?” he repeats.

“She has my sense of wonder,” I say at last. “And a sense of the absurd. And she loves music.”

“Do you still?”

“Absolutely.” I smile. “Maybe I should make you a tape.”

He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was sure I could school you in good musical tastes. Arrogant.”

“No, I loved it. I still have that tape, actually. A few years ago I had my brother burn me a CD of the same songs so I could listen to it.” I stick my feet out in front of me and cross them at the ankles. “I could probably recite the whole playlist.”

He relaxes, too, but in the manner of a cat, alert in the dusk. “I remember ‘Malagueña.’ ”

“Yes. And ‘Asturias,’ and Segovia’s Cello in C.” I gesture with my half-empty glass toward the soft strains of guitar coming from within the house. “I’m hearing bits and pieces of it playing now.”

He nods, looking slightly abashed. “All my favorites. I wanted to play them for you, and that was as close as I could come.”

Tears spring to my eyes, and I look away, trying not to let them show. It’s been such a long day, I’m dangerously emotional, and the thought of how things might have been different for me if we’d been able to—

Ridiculous.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

“Not at all.” I take a breath.

He rises. “The mosquitoes will be out soon. Shall we eat?”

“Perfect.”

I wander in with him and take off my shoes at the door to spare the beautiful floor the scraping flap of my sandals. The wood is cool on the soles of my feet, and, as ever, the temperature drops the second the sun goes down. I should have brought a sweater. “Can I help?”

“Not at all. I only need to stir it all together.” He gestures. “Have a seat.”

A table, Arts and Crafts style, is set with three places. I gather one and take it away, which is my restaurant training, and he smiles.

Jonah serves his pasta in a big bowl, along with the bread I brought, warmed in the oven. He slices it expertly with a serrated knife. “Well done,” I say.

“I am good in the kitchen,” he says. “It’s my hobby.”

“I hope you’re not a snob about it.”

He laughs. “Probably I am. But not always.”

The wine has eased my nervousness enough that I lean forward
comfortably. “Now tell me about you, Jonah. Do you have children?”

“No.” He does not quite meet my eyes. “I have spent my time on travel and debauchery.” He raises his fork and looks at the food. “And learning to cook.”

“Ah, so that’s where that aura of world-weariness comes from.” I smile and take a bite of the pasta. My mouth is filled with a dozen flavors and cues, tomato and cream and the texture of the penne, the saltiness of the prosciutto. I widen my eyes and look at him, putting my fingers lightly against my lips as my tongue and teeth release more and more of the flavors—there, cracked pepper, and then the elegance of asparagus. Jonah watches me, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips.

When I swallow, I put down my fork. “I’m almost afraid to take another bite. It couldn’t possibly be that good.”

He laughs, and the sound is as sexy as the music, as the food, as his dark hair falling down on his forehead. “I think you’ll find it holds up.”

And then there is only eating. My bread with Irish butter, and his magnificently orchestrated pasta, and the wine, so velvety and rich. I eat more than I should and, sitting there with my empty plate, I put my hand on my tummy. “I wish I had two stomachs,” I say, and laugh. “I’m eyeing that little bit of sauce there and all I want to do is bow my head and lick it up.”

His face is faintly flushed. He laughs, too. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to cook for someone who appreciates it so much.”

“Did your wife like your cooking?”

“I hadn’t become serious about it then, but she was an actress. She had to stay very thin.”

I grin. “Are you implying something, sir?”

His eyes sweep over my body. “No way.” He stands and collects the plates. “Would you like coffee or something?”

“No, thank you. I suppose I’ll need to get back soon, check on
Katie. She hasn’t been here long, and that house can be kind of creepy at night.”

“Sure? Maybe a round of backgammon?”

I smile. “No, thank you. Really.” I feel fizzy and relaxed, aroused and wary. “I’ve had a very good time, Jonah.”

“So have I.”

His phone rings on the counter, spinning in a circle. “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot to turn it down.” He looks at it for a moment, hands loose, as if he knows who it is. I wonder with a stab if it is a woman. Maybe that’s why he’s so formal with me, keeping his distance in a way I can’t quite name.

“Well,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”

He walks me to the door. “Sure you don’t want to stay for another glass of wine?”

I nod with regret.

I’m aware of my skin, aware of the ginger-and-peaches smell of him, aware of the darkness and crickets beyond the door. A shiver rushes up my spine, and I want to kiss him more than I have wanted anything in years.

I bend to put on my sandals, and when I straighten, I realize he’s been admiring the view of my cleavage. For a minute I linger, and then something makes me bold. “Are you involved, Jonah?”

“No,” he says.

So I stand on my toes, put my hands on his shoulders, and lift my face, which he bends down to kiss. Our lips brush, and then again, and I take the half step closer to bring our bodies into light contact. He puts his hands on my wrists, and we both turn our heads. There is such tenderness in the kiss that I feel my spirit filling with air and light and promise.

Then he gently takes my hands away and steps back, pressing my hands into a prayer, palm to palm. Hair falls down on his forehead, and his eyes are so acutely sad that I feel I could weep. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t do this right now.”

Something makes me touch his cheek. I nod. “Okay.”

We simply go out on the front porch and I look at the starry sky. “Good night, Jonah.”

“Good night. It was good to see you.”

I look back at him over my shoulder. “You, too.”

RAMONA’S BOOK OF BREADS

MULTIGRAIN CRANBERRY WALNUT BREAD

This is a wonderful bread, chewy and very flavorful, and it uses a slower fermentation period to expand those flavors. Plan to begin a day before you want to serve it. It also uses a sourdough sponge. Any starter will work just fine, but if you happen to have a hearty rye starter, it will be especially lovely here.

TO BEGIN:

1 cup cranberries, soaked for an hour in hot water

PREPARE THE SPONGE:

1 cup sourdough starter at room temperature

½ cup bread flour

½ cup whole-wheat flour

½ cup ground walnuts

1 cup cranberry water, poured off the cranberries (add a little plain water to make a full cup, if necessary)

2 T molasses

1 scant tsp yeast

Mix together all ingredients and knead for a few minutes, then wrap tightly in plastic wrap and allow to rise at room temperature for 2–4 hours. It should be very foamy.

TO MIX THE DOUGH:

Sponge, from above

1 T oil

1½ cups walnuts, broken into pieces

1 tsp sea salt

¼–½ cup whole-wheat flour

1 cup soaked cranberries

A stand mixer or bread machine is highly desirable for kneading, because this begins as a very sticky dough.

If using a mixer, put in the sponge and sprinkle with the oil, walnuts, and salt; knead on low for a couple of minutes. Let rest for 30 minutes, then knead again for 10 minutes, or until the dough starts to pull away from the bowl. If it continues to be sticky after the first few minutes, add flour a little at a time, no more than ¼ cup at this stage. Turn out onto a floured counter and gently knead in cranberries. Let rest again for a half hour.

If mixing by hand, turn the sponge onto a floured surface. Oil your hands and knead the oil, walnuts, and salt into the mix until a rough dough forms, then let stand for 30 minutes. Sprinkle dough with flour, oil your hands again, and begin to turn and fold, turn and fold the dough, adding flour a little at a time until it is less sticky. Gently knead in the cranberries and let rest for half hour.

Dust with a little white flour if needed and form the dough into a rectangle. Put this in an oiled 2-quart container (a 4-cup glass measuring cup works well) and mark where the dough will be when doubled. Roll the dough to coat it on all sides. Cover and let rise until doubled.

Deflate the dough, cover tightly, and let stand overnight in the fridge.