The Baker's Daughter (35 page)

She didn't like taking orders and carrying trays of hamburgers, fried potatoes, mac and cheese, and other dishes labeled “Home Favorites,” but she did enjoy the time in the kitchen. After hours, Robby taught her more English than all the lines of
Libeled Lady
, and how to cook American food. In exchange, she taught him German recipes.

Robby's first lesson was American apple pie, which was basically Papa's
versunkener apfelkuchen
, give or take an ingredient. She showed him how to make
bienenstich
, bee sting honey cake. He said he'd never tasted anything like it, and Elsie was glad for that. Next, Toll House cookies. Robby argued that they weren't the same because they used military-issued chocolate instead of his favorite Nestlé chocolate. The cookies weren't anything special, in Elsie's opinion. Sugar dough with chocolate bits thrown in haphazardly. Too sweet for her palate.

So the days went: early mornings in the bakery and long nights in the R&R kitchen. She liked spending time with Robby, and it hadn't taken long for their butter and sugar to come together outside the mixing bowl.

The chocolate cakes were baked and cooled. Elsie cut each through the diameter. “Kirschwasser.” She dosed the four moons with cherry liquor.

“This stuff might as well be German holy water.” Robby put his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. Her arms and knees went weak, and she let the bottle glug into the soft center.

Before the wars, the Lutheran Church proclaimed sex outside of marriage as sin. Virgins were championed in life and fables; girls of lesser reputation were shamed and ridiculed; children born out of wedlock were shunned as bastards. But all that had changed. Hazel was regarded as a Nazi broodmare; commended, revered, and now, simply ignored as an unsightly
artifact of war. Sure, everyone in Germany had regrets; acts no man could right or cleric forgive. Piety was out of fashion, and Elsie had quickly learned that her youth and beauty would either be put to others' devices or her own. Never again would she be powerless. What she did with Robby had nothing to do with him and everything to do with herself.

She set down the Kirschwasser bottle. “You will ruin the kuchen,” she warned, then grabbed Robby by the shoulders and yanked him closer.

“What's the next step?” he whispered under her grip.

“Fill layers mit creme,” Elsie commanded and nodded to the bowl of whipped white.

“And then?” He ran his fingers across her collarbone.

Her cheeks were hot, her dress too tight. “Icing.”

“And then?” He undid the buttons of her bodice.

She could breathe so much better with the front of the dress open, the cool air on her bare skin. The heat of her cheeks rushed down her center like molten chocolate, satisfying her hunger without restraint.

“Schokolade und …” He kissed the ridge above her breasts. Her skin goose-bumped. “Cherries.”

She shoved the bowl and cakes aside as Robby lifted her onto the counter.

“H
appy birthday, dear Elsie. Happy birthday to you,” they sang.

Elsie sat at the café table, face aglow in the candlelight of the largest cake Jane could manage to bake secretly.

Reba and Riki came together. They'd reconciled since Jane's wedding day but had decided to take things slow. He stayed in his apartment downtown, but Reba no longer had to guess in which building he lived. She went there often, bringing dishes she'd cooked at home, and they finally ate together.

Jane and Elsie were giving her a crash course in Baking 101. Her cinnamon sugar kreppels were a hit. Riki said they reminded him of
churros
his father used to buy him from street vendors in Juárez. Reba's farmer's bread was less successful. The yeast hadn't bloomed, and it came out as hard and flat as cardboard. Riki commended her effort and said they could pretend it was a large, rectangular tortilla. They'd laughed and eaten the bread with homemade salsa and
queso fresco
. Reba hadn't felt so light in all her life.

Elsie blew out her candles and the room went dark. “I'm happy to have made it this far!”

Sergio flicked on the lights while Jane cut the cake in thick squares.

“I made one of your favorites, Mom—spiced crumb cake.”

“Spiced crumb cake?” asked Reba. “My granny used to make this. Is it German?”

“No.” Elsie passed them all forks. “I learned the recipe from a friend, a chef from North Carolina. He was stationed in Garmisch after the war.”

“You never told me that,” said Jane. “I figured it was an adaptation of a German cake.” She took a bite.

“Proof—even at my age, I still have secrets.” Elsie scooped a heap of caramelized topping into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Delicious. I could not have made it better.” She winked at Jane and took another forkful.

Jane smiled. Sergio kissed her cheek.

“So you bake German and American recipes—ever considered learning Mexican? You'd make a profit round these parts,” said Riki.

Sergio nodded in agreement.

Jane wagged a finger. “You can get flan or
tres leches
on every corner of town, but ain't nobody's got authentic German bread. That's what makes us unique. We've cornered the market.”

“Actually, I would like to learn,” said Elsie.

Jane's cake crumbled off her fork.

Elsie shrugged. “Why not? You are never too old for learning a new trick. It will not be as good as my neighbor Maria Sanchez, but I don't expect to open a Mexican bakery.” She turned to Riki. “Do you know how to bake?”

Riki swallowed hard. “Not really. My recipe repertoire consists of one:
pan de muertos
. The bread of the dead. I used to help my mom make it for el Día de Los Muertos.”

“The bread of the dead.” Elsie enunciated each word. “How appropriate!” She laughed alone.

“Don't be morbid,” said Jane.

“Ach was! It is my eightieth birthday. I've lived long enough to know you can't take your own mortality so seriously. We have a saying in Germany: Alles grau in grau malen. Don't paint everything black. We have no right to when others have had it far worse.”

Reba gave Jane a consoling smile.

“The bread is actually a reaffirmation of life,” explained Riki. “Mexicans see death entirely different than folks in Western culture. We celebrate death and life as a continuum, a coexistence of sorts. We even eulogize it as an elegant woman.”

“Catrina—Lady of the Dead,” said Sergio. “A beautiful, fleshless woman with a flowered hat.” He grinned; cinnamon sugar stuck to his lower lip.

Jane brushed it away with her thumb. “Isn't that uplifting.”

Elsie ignored her. “I love flowered hats. After the war ended, I went to a
strassenfest
in Munich and wore a hat with red geraniums. I've not thought about that summer in many years.” She patted Riki's arm. “This Lady of the Dead sounds like my kind of woman. You'll show me how to make the dead bread. That can be your birthday gift. Jane and Reba will learn too.”

“Us?” Jane looked to Reba.

Elsie nodded. “You must teach your children their culture. German and Mexican. Same for you, Reba.”

Reba choked on her mouthful of spongy spice.

Riki smiled. “Deal.”

“Prost!” Elsie lifted her glass of
apfelsaftschorle
, half apple juice and half mineral water. “To new friends and family! And, God willing, another year in this crazy world.”

A slow tune
came on the car radio. Reba and Riki parked in front of Reba's condo on Franklin Ridge. She couldn't put off telling him about San Francisco any longer.

Leigh had called and left a message while Reba was at the bakery celebrating Jane and Sergio's nuptials. The job was hers. She'd gone numb when she heard the news. Too much happiness packed into one day: seeing Riki, Jane and Sergio's marriage, and then her dream job. It was everything she'd wanted. So why did she still feel like the sun had been eclipsed? She remembered Deedee's words,
Be happy, Reba. Promise me you'll let yourself
.

Reba returned Leigh's call, accepted the job, and asked for the latest possible start date. Leigh hadn't budged much. “First Monday in February,” she'd said. Reba gave the
Sun City
editorial staff notice and put the condo on the market with a local realtor. She boxed up what she could and offered the rest to her neighbors, paid the utilities through the month, canceled her subscription to
El Paso Times
, and emptied the cupboards. She'd told almost everyone about her impending departure except Riki. Things had been going so well. She didn't want to burst the bubble.

Writing the date atop Elsie's birthday card, she realized she'd have to start the drive to California by the weekend. Elsie's birthday party wasn't the appropriate moment to break the news to him; however, now didn't feel right either. This was her chance at big-time journalism. She had to make
him understand and had just gotten up the nerve to speak when he turned down the radio.

“Can you imagine being eighty years old?” He scratched his five o'clock shadow. “She's seen so much.”

Reba nodded, deciphering how she could segue to San Francisco. “A real adventurer. Not afraid of the unknown.” It was the best she could come up with.

Riki nodded.

“What I mean is—all her life, she went for it, whatever that ‘it' was.”

He cocked his head.

She was spiraling and needed to get to a definitive point. “It's inspirational. Makes you want to—to take the bull by the horns, you know?”

The radio played a low jingle through the pause in conversation.

Finally, Reba blurted out, “Riki,
San Francisco Monthly
offered me an editorial position. It's a top-notch magazine. A dream job! I start right away.”

She stared hard at the neon lights of the radio station: 93.1. The car idled loudly. She didn't dare face him.

“You're going?” he asked.

“It's what I've always wanted.”

“Uh-huh.” The car heater whizzed and popped. “San Francisco. You'll be on the water.”

Reba nodded. “The bay. You could come.” It was a weak offer, but she wanted him to know she'd considered.

He breathed in deep and held it. “My life is here. I can't pick up and leave.” He blew out the air. “I'm happy for you, Reba. Really I am.” He put his hand on hers.

She turned and saw that he meant it. His eyes were soft and painfully earnest, and instead of feeling relief, the sadness within welled up.