How to Bake a Perfect Life (37 page)

He puts a hand over his chest. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“I know. But that’s how it is. Life happens to you.”

“Speaking of that …” He puts his feet down, stopping the glider, then stands up, pulling me gently to my feet. “It’s time.”

“For?”

“The natural thing for two lovers to do is to make love.” He
pulls me into his body. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, and the day before that and the day before that.”

And for the first time, it does seem right. It’s not a decision made in the heat of the moment, although when he gathers me close and kisses me, I find myself melding into him, our skins dissolving one into the other. His hands press down the cloth of my dress, moving surely across the landscape of my back, cupping my bottom. I press upward into him, head bending backward to accommodate his tongue. My hands are roving, too. Over his back, down his arms, hands open along the outside of his thighs. I feel the air on the back of my bare legs and realize only as his hands move beneath my skirt that he’s tugged it up. “Is Katie asleep?”

“Yes,” I say, but the sound is strangled, because he’s sliding those clever fingers between my legs, and I make a noise, then step away. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He smiles and follows me, and I lead him up the back stairs, through the dark kitchen, and into my bedroom, which is messy because it always is. At least the quilt is pulled up over the pillows and the clothes are mostly piled on one chair. I close the door and reach for him.

“It’s too dark,” he says.

“My room is messy.” I think of how tidy his house is, everything in its place, all the clutter stowed. If he even owns any clutter.

“I don’t care,” he says, laughing. “I want to look at you, not your bedroom.”

Reluctantly, I turn on a lamp, and I’m even embarrassed by the fact that there is a scarf around the shade, a peachy color I love so much I want to put it everywhere. I turn back to find him looking at me soberly, and he reaches for the buttons of my dress. I start to help him, but he says quietly, “Let me.”

He takes his time, unbuttoning each button, and then he pushes the light dress off my shoulders and I’m standing in my
panties and bra. I kick the dress aside and move toward him. “I used to imagine that you were in my room with me,” I say, unbuttoning his shirt. “That you were lying in my bed and our chests were bare.”

“I used to imagine a little more than that.”

I take off his shirt and lean in to kiss the hair across his chest, inhaling the scent of him, so concentrated here. His skin is warm. His hands skim down my hair. His mouth presses into my temple, and it feels holy and quiet and perfect. He pushes down my panties until I can kick them off. Last is my bra, and he’s slow with it, his hands grazing my breasts, but then it, too, is gone, and I’m standing naked before him, clad only in my hair.

His eyes glitter as he pulls it around, great swaths of hair that fall over my shoulders and arms, breasts peeking out. “You look like a painting, a pre-Raphaelite woman.”

And in that moment I see myself through his eyes, and it’s much sweeter than the reality. I hold out an arm. “Come to me, Jonah,” I say, and he comes, tumbling me backward to the bed, where we start to laugh and kiss and kiss and laugh, tangling limbs, naked chests pressed together. I wrap my legs around his jeaned hips and push him up to look in his eyes. “There’s something wrong with this picture.”

He goes to his knees and gestures. “A little help, maybe?”

Laughing, I reach for the buttons and skim him out of his jeans and underwear, inclining my head as his flesh leaps out. “Nice,” I say, and circle it with one hand. He allows it briefly, then he’s covering me with his long elegant body and our mouths join, and the mood shifts. I feel it, as if there is light edging around the bed, soaking into us, almost a sound. He touches my face, whispers my name, kisses my neck, and I kiss his chin and his neck, thinking of the self I was at fifteen, wanting him so much it practically flattened me every time I saw him.

And it has not changed. I’m breathless with wanting him,
craving the union that comes at last when he pulls me closer and touches me with his fingers to smooth the way. Then he bends over me, bracing himself on his elbows so I can look up at him.

Jonah.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, and slides into me. It’s the most intense moment of connection I have ever had with another person. It feels as if our bodies blur, that I am him and he is me, and our skin is melting into each other’s. Still I keep my gaze on his deep-gold eyes, until he leans down and kisses me and seals us together, moving us so tightly into a unit that I know it cannot ever come apart. “Jonah!” I cry, and then I’m tumbling into the union, and from here it feels we are eternal, that we have been together in some way for all of time, traveling as a pair.

When we are finished, I keep my arms tight around his neck, panting. Our skin is slick with sweat and I can feel his heart pounding against me, mine practically shattering my ribs. Suddenly I’m shaking head to toe, and he simply gathers me up, enfolds us within the blanket, and caresses my back. “Shh. Shhh. Shhh.”

Finally my body seems to absorb the shock of it. “Jonah! Oh, my God!” I put my hands in his hair, on his face. “I can’t believe it.”

He smooths hair away from my face. “I know.”

I lift up on one elbow, touch his mouth, his chin, his throat. His eyes are calm and deep. Tender. “That was so much … it was …” I shake my head. “Maybe it was just me,” I finally manage. “But I’ve never felt anything even remotely like that in my life.”

“It wasn’t just you. I’ve been waiting for that for a very, very long time.”

I fall against his chest, nestling my head into the hollow of his shoulder. “Me, too.” I close my eyes, breathe in. “Me, too.”

Katie

  K
atie awakens in the dark with a deep, throbbing pain in her low abdomen. It’s just her period, she knows that—she’s heard her mom complain about cramps often enough—and she takes it as a badge of honor.

But she didn’t expect them to be like this, as if there is a fist with giant knuckles in her belly, twisting and turning very slowly, each knuckle rubbing along some sore place. She pulls her knees up to her chest and tells herself to go back to sleep. It’s no big deal. Only cramps.

Maybe she should go down and ask Ramona for some help. Katie’s embarrassed, but it was okay this afternoon, and Ramona was really nice, showing her all about the whole business.

It is still hard to get used to, though, the feeling of something between her legs like that. Tears well up in her eyes, and she dashes them angrily away. All these emotions are so stupid! She feels like they’re something outside her, demons taking over her mind and body. She got so mad at Lily over dinner and she tried to hide it, the red tide rising through her so she was like a cartoon character with steam coming out of her ears.

It
isn’t
fair, though. Lily knew how much Katie was looking forward to the flower show, and it won’t be the same with
Ramona, who doesn’t even like flowers that much! The loss of it makes more hot tears stream out of her eyes.

A wave of knuckles rolls through her belly, and she makes a noise and flings back the covers. Merlin trots over and they pad downstairs, but before she gets to the bottom, she hears voices. Ramona.

And a man.

In Ramona’s room.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, Katie turns and goes back upstairs and climbs into bed. She wishes for her mother.

Merlin appears at the side of her bed and woofs softly for permission to come up. Ryan told her never to let him on the bed, but sometimes he feels like her only friend. Tonight she’s so miserable she just doesn’t care about any stupid dog-training rules. She pats the bed beside her and says, “Come on, baby.”

Even though he jumped a fence, he always does a funny thing with his chin to jump up onto something like this. He does it on the couch, too—a tap with his chin to the surface of the bed, and then again, and then he readies himself and leaps. It’s so cute it makes her laugh even now. He turns in a circle on the bed, putting his spine to her and his head down on her pillow so she can put her arms around him. He’s warm and soft and smells of starlight. Katie presses her tummy into his back and strokes one velvety ear, trying not to think about her cramps.

When they got back from dinner, Katie had gone upstairs, feeling a tangle of completely unfamiliar and unpleasant emotions. Lily had just blown her off, and it stung, and although she got it—she wasn’t stupid!—she felt as if nobody ever put her first. Her dad always had the Army. Her mom always wanted her drugs. Ramona and Lily have Sofia and the new baby to worry about.

Hugging her dog, crying like a little kid, Katie wonders if anyone will ever put her first.

Ramona

  J
onah and I lie entangled, talking, for hours. Few things in my life have ever been what I imagined, but this comes close. We talk, and talk, and talk. He tells me about his years of restless travel, through South America and the East, and the woman he thought he would marry in Argentina. He speaks fluent Spanish, and to my delight he murmurs it against my ear, whispering in that beautiful tongue. I tell him about running restaurants and the pleasure I find in bread, the earthy depth of it. Few things make me feel as joyful as the sight of a loaf of golden bread coming out of the oven, the smell filling the air with a peace unlike any other.

We also talk about little things. Like movies and how airplanes stay in the sky and whether toenails should be painted. After a while we make love again, moving more slowly this time, examining each other more closely. Just before we fall asleep in each other’s arms, he says, “This is serious, Ramona. You know that, don’t you?”

I think of us as old people on a porch. I reach for his hand, place it over my heart. “This makes me so happy it scares me to death.”

He kisses my forehead fiercely. “Maybe we could just be happy. Things are not always doomed, you know.”

I laugh softly. “I forget that sometimes.”

Nestling closer, I will myself to accept happiness. No drama, no disaster, no big fights, simply fitting together, like puzzle pieces.

I don’t know what time it is when the ringing of the phone jolts me from sleep. Bolting upright, I grab it off the nightstand and croak, “Hello?”

“Were you sleeping, Mom? I’m so sorry. Usually you’re up by now.”

“It’s a long story. Let me grab my robe and I can talk.” I mouth “Sofia” to Jonah and wave him down to sleep. Feeling slightly self-conscious—but not as much as I might have imagined—I pad across the room and grab my robe, then slip out of the room and into the kitchen. “Sorry, honey.” My voice is craggy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

“You were whispering. Do you have someone there? Is it the sweater guy?”

“Sofia! No!” Then I realize it’s silly to lie. “Um. Yes.”

“Mom!” Her voice is genuinely excited. “You’re so cute! You have to tell me all about him.”

“I promise I will. But not, uh, right now.”

“Why aren’t you baking yet? It’s four.”

“Had to close for a couple days,” I say as lightly as I can. “Hot-water issues. That’s enough about me. Tell me how you are, what’s going on. How’s Oscar? How are the Braxton Hicks?”

“Oh, Mom,” she says, letting go. “This is so hard.” And then I do the part of mom work that is easy: I listen while she pours out her story. She’s terrified and lost and hopeful and in love with her broken husband. She’s worried about her baby and about Katie and about being alone during the birth.

At least I can offer some good news. “I know you didn’t want Poppy and Nancy, but what about having Gram come to stay with you? She really wants to be there, hold your hand.”

“I wish it could be you.”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve tried to work that out, but it just isn’t possible. Not if I’m going to have a livelihood.”

“I know. I do know, honestly. And it would be great to have Gram. I need somebody. I’m really lonely.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could spare you all of this.”