How to Bake a Perfect Life (35 page)

He answers, “Hello. This is James Gallagher.”

I start to speak, but his message goes on. “I’m in a meeting for the rest of the day, but if you leave your name and telephone number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my assistant, Stephanie Gallagher, at 555-6820.”

I punch the off button and look out the window. Merlin is dancing around the grass as if there is a person playing tug-of-war with him. Katie is sitting on the bench, talking to him. Curved up against her is Milo.
Traitor
, I think.

There’s nothing to do but call Cat.

Turnabout is fair play: He doesn’t answer my call.

No help for it—I’m going to have to go see him in person, and right away. As I walk through the bakery, Jimmy holds up two jars of starter. “You want me to put everything in the walk-in?”

“Leave the rye and malt. I’m still feeding it. The rest … yeah. Put it away.”

In the muffled quiet, I wonder if this is it. If this is the thing that will bring me to my knees. It’s Thursday. There is a very minute chance someone will have this hot-water heater in stock nearby and can install it tomorrow, but I’ve spent my life in restaurants, and I know I’m telling myself a big fat lie. It will be Monday. Maybe Tuesday.

My stomach aches. No revenue coming in on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Maybe even Tuesday?

I have no idea how we are going to survive.

Going to the back porch, I call through the screen, “Katie, I have to run some errands. Do you want to go or stay?”

She walks toward the window. Merlin has given up and is lying in the shade. “Are we going out to dinner later?”

I forgot, in all the madness, to call my mother. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll stay here, then.”

Leaving her in the yard, I don’t even bother with changing anything except my shoes. I trade clogs for a pair of sandals and head out wearing printed cotton chef’s pants and a pale lavender chef’s coat. If I hurry, I can catch Cat while he’s reconciling the books for the day. In the car, I punch in my mother’s number and ask her if she can meet us at Nosh for dinner, to celebrate the whole advent of womanhood. She’s very excited and we make plans to meet there at five-thirty.

I glance at the clock. It’s only one-thirty. I might be able to squeeze in a nap at some point if I can get this all in motion in time.

Oh. But I don’t need a nap, do I? Since I won’t be opening in the morning. Damn it.

Cat is always doing the books at this time of day, and I find him in the corner booth at his restaurant. A couple of guys are standing around, waiting for orders, and he scribbles something, hands it over, and one scurries off. He doesn’t look well. His face is drawn and waxy, his hair a bit too long. Has he been eating? Sometimes he forgets. If there is no woman in his life, he sometimes drinks too much, forgets to take care of himself properly.

When he catches sight of me in the shadows, one dark eyebrow lifts. He waves away the guy who has been waiting and says to me, “What are you doing here?”

“I need advice.”

For a minute, he only looks at me. He shakes his head. Gestures. “Come talk to me.”

When I stand at the side of the table, he looks at my attire and says, “It must be big if you came out without changing.”

“Hot-water heater rusted out. I’ve got to get it replaced as fast as possible.”

“What do you need from me?”

I lift my hands, show my palms. “No money, no phone calls, just advice. Who would you call and what would you do?”

“I’d kick some asses is what I’d do.” He growls and throws a pencil down on the table. “That hot-water heater is only a couple of years old.”

The first ripple of hope touches me. Maybe there will at least be a way to recoup the lost revenue. Eventually. “That doesn’t actually help me today.”

He nods. “Let’s go to my office, see what we can do.”

“You don’t need to make the calls and I don’t need any help financially.” I say it again so it sinks in. “I really need to do this myself. So if you could just give me advice and maybe the best people to call, I would appreciate it.”

He inclines his head. “Okay. I still need to go to the office to get the names you need. Is that all right with you?”

I relent, smiling. “Yes.”

“Come on, then. You want Parker to pour you some wine or something?”

“No, I’m fine.” It occurs to me that I’ve missed him. We spent a lot of time together, and now I haven’t seen him at all for weeks. I miss my friend. “How are you, Cat?”

He steps behind his desk and looks at me. “I had a touch of food poisoning a few days ago. I know you were worrying when you came in. You get this little wrinkle on the side of your mouth.”

“You don’t look well,” I return honestly. “Sure it was food poisoning?”

He shrugs, flips through a Rolodex, and writes some names and numbers down. He hands the paper over to me. “You sure you don’t want me to call somebody?”

“Yes.” I smile. “But thank you. You have been so good to me.” I lower my gaze, nod almost imperceptibly.

He points to the paper. “You let me know if you have any trouble, all right?” He winks. “I know people.”

“Thanks,” I say, and give him a hug.

  W
hen I return, Katie has left a note on the table that she’s gone to the store. It makes my heart hurt to think of her writing a money order to send to her mother, but this is something I have to let her work out on her own.

In the meantime, I call the numbers Cat gave me and arrange for someone to come in and look at the problem. He promises to be here in an hour, which isn’t going to leave a lot of time to get ready for dinner. Realizing that I’m still wearing my work clothes, I jump in the shower—which is served by a regular household water heater upstairs—wash my hair, and shave my legs in some kind of nod toward the big day. Leaving my hair rolled up in a towel, I put on a workaday sundress and some flip-flops, pour a glass of iced tea, and whistle for Merlin to follow me out into the backyard. He trots along happily. “Why didn’t Katie take you with her?”

He looks up, woofs softly, and I nod as if I understand. “I’m so glad you showed up to take care of her.”

Sitting on the bench in the shade, I comb out my hair and let it dry in the air, which makes it smell like fresh laundry. The garden is faintly wilting in the heat of the day, and somewhere behind me a lone cricket is singing. Everything else is on siesta. As
I should be. I lean back and put my head against the tree behind me, closing my eyes for a minute. Just a minute.

Merlin woofs softly and I imagine he’s talking to someone, but I’m far enough gone that my brain spins out a funny little dream. My grandmother sits beside me on the bench, smelling of talcum powder and freshly ground coffee, which she loved with an unholy passion. “He’s a good dog.”

“Yes. He takes good care of all of us. Old soul.”

“He is that.” A breeze ruffles her short white hair, then she turns and puts her hand on mine. “You need to call Sofia. Right now.”

I jolt upright, having almost fallen sideways. Merlin lifts his head and solemnly waves his tail. Blinking, trying to clear the fuzziness from my brain, I think I can still smell that lingering scent of talc and coffee beans. I rub my face vigorously, pick up my phone, and check the time. It’s four, making it five in San Antonio. Sofia will probably be at dinner.

Still. While I am not as superstitious as some people in my family, getting a direct edict from a dream is not something I can ignore. Especially with that lingering sense of doom in my belly. Taking a long cold drink of tea to clear my head, I punch the shortcut that dials her cell phone.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her voice says, “Hi, it’s Sofia. Leave a message or send me a text.”

“It’s your mother. Give me a call, okay?”

To be doubly sure, I also text her:

Thinking about you is everything okay?

To my surprise, the phone dings quickly.

Not a good time to talk crazy day. Oscar is not good. Will call in my morning. Too tired to talk right now.

What does that mean, crazy day? I text back:

Is the baby okay?

False labor today. Braxton Hicks. But we are fine. Fine. Don’t worry.

My phone trills, the actual ringer, and it’s the repairman. “Meet you in front,” I say, then text to Sofia:

Okay. Anytime. Any hour. I’m here. I love you.

As predicted, the heater has to be ordered, and although they’re hoping for delivery tomorrow, it will probably not be here until Monday.

It’s what I’ve been expecting, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. I nod, valiantly trying to be an adult businesswoman and not burst into tears.
What would Cat do?
I ask myself, and it gives me the courage to cross my arms over my chest and say, “This water heater is only a few years old. What happened?”

He frowns. “It looks like it might have been damaged when it was installed, honestly. See this?” He points out the rusted wound. “That’s been coming apart for a long time.”

“So, workmanship, then?”

He nods. “Considering how much this is going to cost you, I’d sure talk to a lawyer about getting some of it back. Not that it’ll help today.”

“Right. Thanks.” I hold out a hand and he shakes it firmly.

“I’ll call you as soon as they call me.”

As I’m writing out the bad news on the sign in front, Katie walks up. My mouth drops open. “You cut your hair!”

“Do you like it?” Shyly, she swings her head, and her hair, a tumble of loose, healthy curls, swings around her neck. The colors
of caramel and toast and some brighter streaks of lemon from her days in the garden are shiny, laced throughout.

Impossible not to reach out and put my hands in it. “Wow, Katie, it looks terrific. Can I take a picture to upload to Sofia and your dad?”

She poses, inclining her head and smiling directly at me. I snap a couple of shots with the phone and tuck it in my pocket. “Lily will be thrilled.”

And when she arrives to drive us over to the restaurant, she makes as much of a fuss as I did. Katie is wearing a lime-green tank and jeans, with pretty sandals on her feet, and with the haircut and her height, she looks about sixteen. Still coltish and gamine with that angled face and elfin eyes, but much older. “You look gorgeous,” my mother says. “Did Ramona go with you?”

“No,” she says. “I decided I wanted to surprise you guys, so I went to that place down by the grocery store.”

So independent
, I think, and I’m proud of her for it. “I love how you think for yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Nosh is a downtown eatery that serves small plates, and my mother loves it. We order a selection of plates to share, vegetables and meat dishes and even the duck, which my mother insists upon. I’m trying to keep my mind on the celebration instead of the doom hanging over me. In the back of my mind, I wonder what’s happening with Sofia, what the unease I feel might be.

As for the bakery, I keep playing with possibilities, but not one is realistic thus far. The one thing I know I will not let stand this time is Stephanie’s refusal to help me. This has to end, although I’m not sure how.

We toast Katie discreetly, celebrating what we call her special
day without saying any more. She’s glowing with good health—amazing what a couple of months of good food and fresh air can do for a child.

Midway into the meal, Lily says, “Have you heard from Sofia?”

I have a mouthful of food, which gives me a chance to think about my response. “Yes,” I say, and drink a sip of water. “She texted me this afternoon.” I pause, glance at Katie. “She didn’t say a lot. Just that she had some false labor today and things were really overwhelming.”

“I hate her being there all alone.” My mother delicately nibbles a spear of endive. “When are Poppy and Nancy going to get there?”

“They aren’t. I thought I told you. Sofia didn’t want to deal with their eccentricities.”

“I don’t think they’re eccentric,” Katie said.

“Maybe a little,” I say.

Lily snorts. “I love my sister, but she’s been a hippie since the day she was born. That’s not what Sofia needs right now.”

“You sent
me
to live with her.”

“Sofia’s pregnant,” Lily says dismissively.

“So was I, as you may recall.”

Katie looks between our faces. “You lived with Nancy and Poppy?”

“Only Poppy. That was when they met, the summer I was pregnant with Sofia. Nancy was the midwife who came in to deliver her.”

“And that was when they fell in love? Cool.”

This is the thing I like best about this generation of children, all those Sofia’s age and younger—they don’t even think about mixed-race or same-sex relationships. Or any variation therein. Love is love. “It was. They’ve been really happy together.”

Maybe sensing the tension at the table, Katie asks, “When were you pregnant with her?”

“I was fifteen.”

“Why did you get pregnant? Didn’t you use a condom?”

I chuckle. “No. I should have. But they weren’t as easy to get then, and we didn’t talk about it so openly.”