Friendship Bread (30 page)

“Then I think you’ve found your vice. Let’s order room service and I’ll watch a movie while your bath sommelier gets you set up.”

“A movie?” Hannah asks, looking worried. “Are you sure? We could probably get you a massage or a pedicure …”

Julia shakes her head, her hand already on the remote. Julia wouldn’t mind a massage or pedicure, but she hasn’t seen a movie in years. Not in a movie theater, not on TV, not anywhere. It’s a secret, guilty pleasure; one she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let herself have back home. She’ll choose a comedy, something funny, because she’s still not ready for any serious drama—she’s had enough of that. And if she’s not tired after one movie, she’ll watch another one. “Honestly? I can’t think of anything more perfect.”

“Hey, Double A! Are you finally going to join us or what?” There are three guys on bikes waiting for him in the parking lot, revving their engines, chrome pipes crackling.

A.A. shakes his head like he does every Saturday when he closes shop. “Nah, you go on.” They heckle him a bit, poking fun until they get bored. Then they give him a farewell nod and roar out of the parking lot, earning a flood of disapproving stares from pedestrians walking around the tiny Avalon strip mall.

It’s true that the guys do look like thugs with bandannas wrapped around their heads, a couple of tats, and the requisite black leather outlaw gear, but A.A. knows better. One guy, Bill, is an accountant. Another owns a pool-cleaning business. Another is a trust fund baby who got turned on to bikes by his ex-wife, a former exotic dancer. These guys can’t tell a camshaft from a brake pad, but who is A.A. to judge? There aren’t a lot of die-hard bikers in Avalon, so A.A.’s grateful
for the guys going through a midlife crisis—it keeps his business afloat. More power to ’em.

A.A.’s best friend is Isaac, who goes by the nickname Iz. Iz built his own custom chopper with a shovelhead engine, and it’s a work of art. Iz is one of those genius types, a mathematician and overall cool guy, the only fly in the ointment being that Iz still lives with his eighty-eight-year-old mother. Iz is a purist and can’t stand the guys that ride the imported sports bikes.

“They do those damn stunts on the interstate,” Iz complains. “They actually pop wheelies! And then they wave and expect me to wave back. It’s embarrassing.”

A.A. is more sympathetic. “Aw, come on. A lot of us started out riding metrics. Not everyone can afford a Harley.”

“It’s not just that. It’s the kids on these bikes these days. They think they know everything. But they don’t respect the road, and they don’t respect the bike.” Iz shakes his head in disgust, clearly put out. A.A. realizes with a chuckle that they’re right up there with the old guys in the Caddys and the ladies in the boat-size Buicks, complaining about all the young whippersnappers and their bad manners.

At fifty-eight, A.A.’s straw-colored hair has turned an early gray. He keeps it tied back in a ponytail, which keeps it out of his face and basically makes his life a heck of a lot easier. He’s been letting his mustache and beard grow out and doesn’t mind that he looks bushy and a bit unkempt. He likes his “uniform”: T-shirts and his black leather jacket studded with all his Harley badges and pins. He’s a big guy, almost 6′2″, broad-shouldered, a Scot on steroids. He’s not on steroids, of course, he just has good genes, but he hears the guys whispering. He couldn’t care less. He was raised by his grandmother from the age of five; she taught A.A. a thing or two, sometimes the hard way.

“Aye, you can’t worry about what other people think,” she’d declare, smacking her wooden spoon on the counter of the small house they shared. “They’re all idiots, and if you spend your life trying to get into somebody else’s head then you’re an idiot, too.” Then she’d tug on his ear until he’d yell, just to make sure he got the point.

So even though he looks like a walking cliché, A.A. is a man comfortable in his own skin. Let people say what they will.

It’s six o’clock, and A.A. is ready to go home. He’s not much for drinking or staying up late in bars, and he’s lived on his own long enough to have developed some rituals he doesn’t like interrupted. For example, on Sunday nights he does the books for the shop, which gives him a clear picture of what he needs to make in the upcoming week.

On Monday nights he does his laundry. He irons his pants and boxer shorts. Don’t ask him why, but there’s something about neatly pressed pants that he loves.

On Tuesdays he does his grocery shopping for the week.

Wednesday nights he does takeout and watches documentaries on PBS. He loves biographies and anything that has to do with war veterans. Once a month he’ll rent a movie and watch that instead.

Thursday evenings are reserved for any repairs on his house or the two rental properties he owns on Madison and LeBell.

On Fridays he’ll hang out with Iz, have dinner and maybe shoot some pool. He’ll head home and get himself a good night’s sleep because the next morning, rain or shine, he likes to ride.

There’s one more thing A.A. does without exception. He does it every Saturday evening, starting at 7:00
P.M
., and he loves it almost as much as he loves his bikes.

He bakes.

He knows the recipe for Granny’s shortbread by heart (the key being real butter and brown—not white—sugar), and can turn out Eccles cakes, empire biscuits, scones, and Struan Bread without a thought. He’s not intimidated by complicated recipes and doesn’t mind investing the time to learn new techniques.

But today A.A. is experimenting, in the mood for something different. He got a bag of Amish Friendship Bread starter from his dentist and has already modified the recipe to include a symphony of dried fruit and nuts. Lately he’s been trying to come up with heart-healthy recipes, so he’s reduced the amount of oil and is using applesauce
instead. He’s going to use egg substitute in lieu of whole eggs and will skip the pudding mix altogether, trying a bit of ricotta and yogurt cheese instead.

He divvies up the starter per the instructions, figuring he’ll give a bag to Iz, Bill, and the pool-cleaning guy. The divorced guy still can’t cook for himself and A.A. doesn’t want him tossing this in the trash.

He dusts two loaf pans with cinnamon, a touch of vanilla sugar, a pinch of nutmeg. He turns on the radio and whistles to “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple. If he had time for another hobby, he would learn the guitar. Maybe next year.

A.A. pours the batter into the pans, careful to scrape out every last bit with a rubber spatula. If it turns out okay, he’ll take a loaf to the senior recreation center tomorrow during his lunch break. He goes there every week and they’ve come to expect a visit from him and some home-baked goods, as well. He’ll have a cup of coffee and ask people about their week, help with any heavy lifting or whatever else might need to be done. If he has time he’ll jump in for a quick game of cards or backgammon, maybe hold the yarn for Mrs. Pickering’s knitting. And of course he can’t leave without seeing the latest round of grandchildren pictures tucked in wallets and hanging from key chains.

He does the dishes while the bread bakes, his small kitchen quickly filling with the sweet smell of dried apricots and toasted pecans. The bread still has another thirty minutes to go before it’s ready, so A.A. cranks up the music then settles into Granny’s old wooden rocking chair with the latest issue of
Biker
magazine.

“Mama!” Gracie launches out of Mark’s arms and into Julia’s the minute she walks through the door. It’s Sunday evening and Gracie is already in pj’s, her hair damp from her bath. “I missed you!”

“I missed you, too.” Julia picks up Gracie, balancing her on her hip for a moment. She is surprised at how much she missed her girl. When did Gracie get so heavy?

Mark stands in the hallway, keeping his distance. Julia feels the guilt rushing back and then tells herself to stop. She’s tired of the guilt.

“Hey,” she says. She runs her hand through Gracie’s hair, delighted when Gracie lets out a giggle. She smiles.

“Hey.” Mark finally steps forward, gives her a careful peck on the cheek. An unexpected thrill runs through her at the touch of his lips, and she blushes. Mark doesn’t notice but reaches for her bags. “Let me get that.”

“Thanks.” She gives him a grateful smile and it seems to unnerve him.

His voice is guarded as he asks, “Are you hungry?”

Julia tries to mask her disappointment. He doesn’t ask where she’s been, doesn’t press for details, and she wishes he would. She knows it’s a lot to ask given the way things have been—the way she has been. It feels like an impossible thing but she wants it nonetheless. She wants him to ask and she wants to tell him how she feels. About everything.

She wants to tell him that she had a good time in Chicago, that she watched three movies in a row and
laughed
. Hysterically for the last two—either the movies got better or it just became easier—and then she fell asleep in the early hours of the morning with a smile on her face.

What caught her by surprise was the unexpected desire for Mark to be with her. She had been relishing her independence, this sliver of life that didn’t include her husband, and all she could think about was that she wished he were there, too.

He would have liked the movies. One was a romantic comedy with Jennifer Connelly, one of Mark’s favorite actresses on whom he harbors a boylike crush. Another was a silly film with Will Ferrell, completely ridiculous but with just the right amount of funny to keep her giggling. The last one Julia doesn’t even remember since she started nodding off, but every time she opened her eyes she found something to laugh about. It was with Ben Stiller or Jim Carrey or maybe both, and there was a funny love interest, Drew Barrymore perhaps. They bumbled their way through the movie, one mishap after another, so desperate to protect their own hearts from breaking that they put off their happiness until the very end.

And that’s when it hits her. She doesn’t want to wait until the end to see if she can find happiness again. Not only that, but she wants to find it with Mark.

“I saw a funny movie,” Julia blurts out, catching Mark off guard. “At the hotel. The Fairmont. I went with Hannah, the cellist. Her treat, though I offered to pay. Her husband plays in the symphony but they may be splitting up since he’s seeing the violist …”

Mark is nodding, taking this all in, trying to process it at the same time. Julia was in the city, too?

“She spoiled me,” Julia says almost shyly. “I didn’t mean for her to.”

“You deserve it,” Mark says and he means it. Julia deserves someone to spoil her, to take care of her. He wishes he could do a better job of it, frankly. He leads her into the kitchen where a large bowl of cut fruit is waiting.

Green grapes, red grapes, honeydew, cantaloupe, apples, bananas, orange sections. Julia used to love fruit salad—for both of her pregnancies it was all she would eat.

“Oh!” she says, surprised.

“It was our project for the day,” Mark explains, glad to see she likes it. He scoops out a bowl for her, but not for Gracie who has already had two bowls and just brushed her teeth. Gracie reaches for a green grape and pops it in her mouth anyway. Oh well.

“Did you have a good time?” Gracie asks her mother. She’s brimming with excitement, much too wound up to go to bed even though it’s late. “I had a great time!”

“You did? What did you do?” Julia eats a spoonful of fruit. She looks genuinely interested and it makes Mark’s heart ache with happiness to see Julia so engaged with Gracie and, at the same time, so relaxed around him. He always suspected that Julia came to life when she was alone with Gracie, but whenever they were all together it was always more stilted, more reserved. But now, for whatever reason, Julia has let down her guard and they are all here together, in this moment, happy. Mark doesn’t want it to end.

“We made a birdhouse for Troy.” Gracie is glowing. “He loves it, he’s so happy! And we made paper dolls. I only colored princess gowns. I brought them home so you could see.”

“Brought them home from where?” Julia asks. She looks at Mark, a smile still on her face.

Mark is perched on the stool next to her, his own bowl of fruit in front of him, untouched. He shifts uncomfortably, wishing he’d stepped in earlier to steer the conversation to something else but it’s
too late. He thought he’d have more time to come up with an explanation about yesterday, hadn’t expected Gracie would bring it up so quickly. He’s helpless as Gracie talks on, filled with dread for what’s to come.

Gracie is happily crunching on an apple slice. “From Aunt Livvy’s and Uncle Tom’s. Did you know they used to have a dog? Patches. They had to give him away but they have pictures everywhere. Aunt Livvy really misses him.”

There’s a still silence in the room. “Patch,” Julia says slowly. The smile falls from her face. “The dog’s name was Patch.”

“Oh. Well, Aunt Livvy’s going to paint one of her bedrooms,” Gracie continues. “She says I can help. We’re going to stencil.” She pushes through the fruit in the bowl, reaching for another grape.