The Baker's Daughter (21 page)

“Truffles?” Reba's mouth watered.

Reba's momma made white-cherry truffles every Christmas. It was a recipe passed down from her granny, who had won first prize in the Virginia State Fair baked goods, candy truffles division. The framed blue ribbon hung in the kitchen. As the story went, Granny never entered another cooking competition, claiming it was unfair to the amateur cooks. Reba's momma passed on the recipe to both her daughters, but when Reba took a stand for cows, she gave up the family tradition. Like everything else, she snuck one or two while everybody was distracted. Hidden in the pantry, she savored the chocolate cherry mouthfuls, though they were never as good alone.

“No—not so fancy. Foam kisses. They're like a Mallomar,” explained Jane. “Only Mom makes them with a springerle cookie base and a foamy meringue center, then she dunks the whole shebang in milk chocolate. Lord-dee-day!” She slapped her thigh. “They're my favorites, but we only make them in the cooler months 'cause this desert heat melts the meringue and chocolate.”

“Can I try one?” asked Reba. She rummaged in her purse for a dollar.

“Oh, honey, I wouldn't take a dime from you, but …” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “They got
milk
chocolate. Ain't that against your rules?”

Reba tapped the display glass with her fingernail. She didn't want to do it anymore. Couldn't she just be? Standing before the array of colorful confections, she took stock of all the butter and cheese and cream sweets she'd publicly rejected, only to eat later with a guilty conscience. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her. She was tall and sturdy with a strong, peachy pale face despite the arid sun. Her hair fell in dark, orderly waves down her back. It never did that in Virginia's humidity. She wasn't the overlooked, college tomboy anymore or the scared little girl in lopsided pigtails. She'd grown up and become someone. Reba Adams. When was she going to stop pretending to be what she wasn't?

“I've changed my mind.” She shrugged.

“Just like that!” Jane snapped her fingers. “Well, congratulations. I was wondering when you'd come to your senses. God gave us the creatures of the earth for a purpose. I don't believe in all that Hindu stuff—reincarnation and washing your face in cow piss.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Mom will be so happy. Now you can try all of her pudding-filled kreppels, butter breads, Black Forest cake, and … oh, gracious! The world's opened up.”

Reba winced a moment, feeling the lie exposed, even if nobody knew it. But then Jane gave her a foam kiss and took one herself.

“The way to eat it is to not pop it in all at once like some factory Milk Dud. These are special. You take a little bite in the side.” She bit slowly. “And … you see … the chocolate sticks to your teeth and the middle gushes out.” Her mouth was full, but she kept on talking. “And lastly is that cookie crunch.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Hmm … sweet Jesus.”

Reba did as instructed, biting into the rich chocolate foam and satisfying crunch. “Oh my, that's good.”

“Now, are you ready to eat these like a true German?” Jane winked, then ripped open the side of a brötchen, pulled out the soft middle, smooshed a kiss within and cut it in two. “We call it a
matschbrötchen
—a mud bread roll.”

They clinked halves as if they held champagne glasses and bit into the warm, sticky rolls at the same time. Reba couldn't remember the last time she tasted something so real.

The bakery was busier
than usual the next day. Sergio sat at his regular lunch place. Two women chatted over slices of cherry bundt cake; their three children played with dolls and racecars beneath the neighboring table. In the ordering line, an elderly gentleman squinted to read the pastry labels while a teenage girl wearing a
LATINAS DO IT BETTER
T-shirt texted on her cell phone.

“Mom, Reba's back!” Jane called to the kitchen. “Perfect timing! Mom's just put the loaves in the oven. For the next hour, she has no excuses. I wish I could visit, but like you see, we got us a full house.”

“No problem. I don't have much new to tell,” said Reba.

She'd spent three hours at the bakery the night before, staying long after Jane had turned over the Closed sign and returning home so intoxicated with laughter and sugar that she barely noticed Riki's absence. For the first time in a long while, she felt energized and worked late revising her résumé
and cover letter to send to a handful of magazines in California. By the time she lay down, the darkness was a friend not a foe. She wondered if this was how most people felt every day and night, and if so, she was envious.

“Do you have Mozart balls?” asked the old man in line. “I had the most delicious pistachio Mozart balls in Salzburg—you ladies from there?”

“Sorry, sir,” said Jane. “My mom is from Germany, not Austria. We don't make
Mozartkugel
, but I think you can buy them online.”

“All right, I guess I'll have a pretzel,” he conceded. “But you gals really should think about making Mozart balls. There's big money in them.”

“I'll pass your advice along to the head baker.” Jane pinched a pretzel with her tongs and placed it in a paper bag.

“Dank-a sh-ay-n,” said the man halfway out the door.

Reba grinned. “I'm sure Mozart would be thrilled to know he's German.”

“Most folks don't know the difference anyhow. I tell you—we Americans are something to behold.” She laughed. “I saw this little girl on the TV—a celebrity, Kelly-something-or-another—she didn't know that France was a country. Can you imagine! Child should have had her nose tied to a globe.”

Miss Latinas Do It Better put away her cell phone and stepped up to order.

“If they know Germany's in Europe, they get an A for effort. Can I help you, hon?” Jane asked the girl.

“Uh, yeah, I'd like some cheese bread.” She popped her gum. “To go, please.”

“Easy does it.” Jane swiveled her tongs like a six-shooter.

Reba went to a free table across from Sergio. She felt the inkling to say hello but sat with her back to him instead, precluding any awkward contact.

“Here again you are.” Elsie's voice boomed through the bakery. Even the three children beneath the table paused in their make-believe to look up, then resumed running over their dollies with speedsters.

Elsie wore a brown, fringed skirt with a cobalt V-neck; her hair was swept back in a matching striped handkerchief. A flattering color, Reba thought.

“Jane said you came here yesterday.” She took a seat. Her freshly washed hands were dewy and smelled of floral soap. “I was at the doctor's—nothing of importance.”

“The slap-n-pap?” Reba's cheeks flushed hot as soon as the last syllable left her lips.

Elsie laughed. “You have it! Jane told you our little code, I suppose.”

Reba looked round to make sure neither the children nor their mothers
heard. The ladies continued to move their hands in casual conversation; the children slid across the tiles on their kneecaps.

“But you are not here to talk about all the cookies you and Jane wolfed down either, correct?” Elsie lifted an eyebrow.

“They were awfully good.” Reba smiled. “I came about the story.”

Reba's deadline was past, and her editor had insisted that the article be on her desk by morning; otherwise, the local publishing press wouldn't have time to run it in the holiday issue. Reba had a mission to complete; as long as her mind was focused on that goal, she could forget about Riki and everything else. She needed one good quote pertaining to Christmas in Germany and could already hear what she wanted said:
Christmas is a wonderful time; we have many German traditions that we continue wherever we are
. BAM—that'd be it. One unambiguous statement that did not involve Nazis. She took out her steno and pen.

“You see, I didn't do my job last time,” Reba explained. “What I mean is, I didn't ask the questions I need for the article. I need to know about Christmas, about the holidays, about how you celebrated with family and friends.”

Elsie tipped her chin up and squinted at Reba.

The two mothers beside them discussed hyperactivity, debating if it was a symptom of attention deficit disorder or the effects of chocolate and Coca-Cola.

Reba tapped her pen and waited for an answer.

“To tell you honestly, I cannot remember what we did before the wars. I was very young when the führer came to power and by the time he was gone, it was a new Germany. We had to reinvent ourselves, our traditions, our families. It was not the same. As I've told you, those years were … traumatic.” Elsie shrugged. “Even the happy moments are clouded by pain. So you see, I cannot tell you about celebrating with family and friends without betraying.”

Reba shook her head. “Betraying whom?”

“Myself. It would be a lie—a made-up story of what I thought you wanted to hear. Oh, we danced and sang to oompah music, toasted with beer steins, marked the birth of Christ, and waited for Saint Nikolaus to come to our snowy Alpine lodges. Is this what you want me to say?”

Yes, yes, it was. Reba pinched the bridge of her nose.

Elsie shrugged. “I am sorry. Those are not my memories.”

“Then what are your memories? Give me the truth,” begged Reba.

Elsie sucked her top lip then began, “In Germany, I remember
Christmases without a lot of food, my father trying to run our bakery on a cup of sugar a week. Cold Christmases. So cold a person could freeze to death. Drunk soldiers in wool uniforms. Dirty boot prints in the snow. Families unable to see each other and secrets that had nothing to do with Saint Nikolaus or reindeer or magic …”

“W
ake up, Tobias, wake up.” Elsie tapped the wallboard lightly but with urgency.

Tobias pushed the plank open, crawled out with a yawn, and extended his legs long on her bedroom floor. The wall cavity was just large enough for a small boy to sit and lie comfortably with bent knees, but she knew there was nothing so freeing as stretching your fingers and toes as far as they could reach. She tried to give him the opportunity to do so as often as was prudent and possible.

Her parents had left for Steinhöring five days before, and Elsie was grateful for their short absence. It gave her reprieve from worrying over every bump and creak. That past Sunday, she'd even been so bold as to put Tobias to work in the early morning hours. He was surprisingly skilled at pretzel making, knowing exactly how to roll and twist the dough for perfect knots.

Elsie huffed and puffed against the cold while Tobias slipped into an old pair of wool stockings that came up midthigh. He pulled a slouchy knitted nightcap over his head and reminded her of the costumed
Fastnacht
parades of her childhood. She couldn't help but smile despite the sunrise headache in her temples.

“Come on, little one.” She patted him on his cap. “I've already lit the
oven. We're out of brötchen. There aren't even any stale ones to bulk up the bin, so I have to bake an extra batch this morning, which leaves you in charge of the pretzels,” she explained.

Being the youngest in the family, she'd never been given an exorbitant amount of responsibility in the actual baking process—until now. With the business and Tobias in her keep, she felt older and wiser, and she liked it.

“I know it's
ungodly
early, but that's the life of a baker and those who live with them.” She sighed. “Maybe when you grow up, you could be a singing baker.” She winked at him. “I bet you'd bring in double what we do for sweet rolls and a song.”