Friendship Bread (31 page)

“Don’t use your fingers,” Mark tells her. He starts to pick out the grapes for Gracie, one by one, aware that Julia has turned to look at him.

“When did Gracie see Livvy?” The edge is back in Julia’s voice.

Mark clears his throat, doesn’t look at her. “Yesterday. We ran into Livvy at the grocery store then something came up with work and she offered to watch Gracie for a few hours …”

“You left her with Livvy?” Julia gets up and scoops up her daughter just as she’s about to reach for another grape. “Without even checking with me? Without asking me?” She chokes out the last question before storming out of the kitchen.

Gracie is startled, casting an alarmed look at Mark. He hurries after them. Julia is taking the stairs two at a time.

“Julia, it was an emergency,” he says. “There wasn’t enough time and I didn’t know where you were.
We almost lost a major client
. Not that it would matter to you, but this is a big opportunity for me. For us. We’ll get our pick of projects after this, we won’t have to work so hard or scramble for jobs. It’ll give me more time with Gracie and to help out more around the house …”

“Why? Because I can’t do it?” Julia spits out the words as she kicks open Gracie’s door. The door hits the wall and bounces back,
scaring Gracie and making her cry. “Because I’m such an incompetent mother, a lousy housewife?”

“I never said that. We shouldn’t talk about this now …”

“Well, when, Mark? When is it ever a good time? It’s never a good time for you or for me. You complain that we never talk, so let’s talk!” Her anger scares him. Julia sits down on the edge of the bed and holds Gracie, bouncing her in her lap.

Mark tries to reach for his daughter, who’s bawling now, but Julia bats his hand away, glaring at him. “Leave,” she says.

Mark has had enough. “The hell I will.” He’s not going to leave Gracie and he’s not going to let Julia dictate the terms of their relationship anymore. Come what may, he’s had enough.

Maybe because it’s late, or maybe it’s because kids shut down in moments of distress, but Gracie soon falls asleep in Julia’s lap, still sniffling, her cheeks wet. Julia holds her a few minutes longer, then gently eases her into the bed and pulls the covers over her.

She brushes past Mark on her way out. He closes Gracie’s door with a click, then follows Julia into the kitchen where she’s taken out a roll of tinfoil and has begun to cover the bowl of fruit.

“How could you, Mark?” Julia rips the foil against the serrated edge of the box. It makes a violent, angry sound.

Mark is fed up with Julia’s crazy emotions, with this wild roller-coaster ride. “How could I what? I left Gracie with your sister for a few hours. She had a great time. They both did! What’s wrong with that?”

Julia gestures to the class roster on the fridge. “She could have gone with anyone on this list, Mark!”

“No, she couldn’t, because I didn’t have the list with me when I was in the store, and Livvy was right there.”

“Livvy? Come on, Mark!”

“Julia, I wasn’t worried about Gracie or Livvy. On the contrary, I was worried about
you
, about what you would say, how
you
would react!”

“Obviously not that worried, seeing how you did it anyway.” She
opens the fridge and shoves the bowl inside. She slams the fridge door so hard the whole thing shakes.

Mark and Julia stand in the kitchen, the air charged and dangerously electric. Mark realizes that they’re at an impasse, that they may never get past this, and he can’t do this anymore.

It’s not even a matter of whether or not he wants to—he just can’t. He slides onto the stool, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He feels completely sapped of energy, completely drained. “What do you want me to do, Julia? I’m doing the best I can. I’m sorry that it’s not good enough.” It comes to him that it will never be good enough. Ever. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.

Julia leans against the refrigerator door, closes her eyes. There’s a long pause. Then she asks, quietly, “How was she?”

“What?” Mark looks up, resigned. “Oh, fine. She didn’t want to come home, she was having such a good time. I think they went out of their way to make sure it was fun for her …”

“No,” Julia says. “I mean Livvy. How was she?”

“Oh.” Mark sighs. “She looked good. Older.”

“Wiser?” Julia can’t resist. It slips out, and with it, a smile.

Mark gives a sad chuckle. “More tired. I think they’re having financial troubles.”

Julia looks perturbed. “What do you mean?”

“At the grocery store Livvy had a small accordion file stuffed with coupons. And a shopping list.”

“A shopping list?” Julia almost looks amused. They both know this isn’t the Livvy they used to know and yet she’s the same person Mark remembers. “Maybe she’s just more organized,” Julia suggests.

He doesn’t know and at the moment he really doesn’t care. “Maybe.”

Julia sits down next to him and they sit side by side for a long time. Finally Julia asks, “Are you unhappy, Mark? I wouldn’t blame you if you are.”

Mark doesn’t know what to say at first. He has moments of happiness and moments of unhappiness. But most of the time he’s in that gray area in between. Happily discontent? Unhappily content? Instead
he says, “I just know that I love you, and it hurts me to see you hurting and not being able to do anything about it.” His voice breaks.

Julia reaches over and touches his hand. Mark holds his breath, resists the desire to take her hand in his, to run his fingers over hers. Sometimes it’s just better to wait.

Julia turns Mark’s hand so his palm is facing up, tracing the lines like a palm reader. He remembers their honeymoon, when all they could afford was four days in California, in Santa Cruz. There was a palm reader on the boardwalk, and she charged ten dollars to read their palms. He doesn’t remember what she said, he was too busy gazing at his new wife, but he remembers the lines. There are four.

The head line. The life line. The fate line. The heart line.

Now he folds his fingers, holding Julia’s hand in his own. She doesn’t jerk away, but instead places her other hand on top, and Mark does the same. They stay this way for a long time.

Madeline frowns as she looks through her tea inventory. She needs to order some more Darjeeling and English Breakfast. She is going to add a Rooibos tea from South Africa, a red bush tea that is caffeine free but has more antioxidants than green tea and a sweet, nutty flavor. She’s almost out of jasmine and probably has two weeks’ worth of Earl Gray, one of her most popular items. She’s also low on her tisanes like chamomile and peppermint.

Madeline is and always has been a big believer in the healing power of tea. She knows there are die-hard coffee drinkers out there, and while she doesn’t mind a cup of coffee herself every now and then, there is something special about a good pot of tea. Brewing it properly requires a tiny bit of technique, patience, and an appreciation for subtlety. Madeline thinks of the Japanese tea ceremony she witnessed in Saratoga. It was one of the loveliest things she’d ever seen, the precision, the deliberateness, the inner quiet. She knows that tea has been revered around the world, that it’s more than just a simple beverage. There are all sorts of customs surrounding tea, books full of tea etiquette that span the globe, not merely reserved for one
culture or economic demographic. It seems that each culture has found a way to make tea its own. She loves that.

Madeline resumes checking her inventory. Last on the list is her house blend, a fragrant combination made predominantly of lemon peel and rosehips. That’s her special tea ritual, she supposes, the gathering and mixing of her own blends in the quiet hours of the day when she’s not cooking. She’s thought of offering a class on making your own herbal infusions to help encourage more bulk sales, but that’s just one more thing to add to her growing list of good intentions.

The bell rings over the door and Madeline glances up. It’s not quite seven in the morning. She unlocks the door and turns the sign about half an hour before she’s officially open, knowing that a few customers have to grab their tea and scones to go before a long commute. She knows them all by name and has come to think of them as her children, even the grown men who have families of their own. She’s delusional, she knows. She’s just projecting her own wishful thinking onto the town of Avalon. She tucks a pen behind her ear and pushes her notebook to the side.

A girl in her twenties walks in tentatively, her arms filled with several small boxes. Her hair is dyed black and spiked with gel. “Are you the Amish Friendship Bread lady?”

Lord, Madeline prays that doesn’t become her nickname. It’s right up there with Crazy Lady, Pigeon Feeding Lady, Cat Lady, and all the rest. “You can call me Madeline,” she says.

The girl drops the boxes onto a table with a heavy thump. Madeline counts six boxes in total. “My name’s Connie,” the girl says. “I used to work at the Avalon Wash and Dry. A lot of my customers were doing this bread and it kind of grew into all this”—she waves at the boxes—“and I can’t keep this there anymore. I tried the library, but they won’t take it. I wanted to put it someplace where people could come and look up a recipe or find an answer to a question, you know?”

Madeline is intrigued. She pulls one of the boxes toward her and motions for the girl to have a seat. She removes the lid and gives a whistle at the cards stuffed inside. She pulls one out for a tropical
variation with pineapple and coconut. A quick peek into the other boxes reveals more of the same—recipes and tips, all neatly organized. To say she’s impressed would be putting it mildly—Madeline knows it takes a certain kind of mind to pull this off. “Did you do this?”

The girl nods. “So can you take them? I’d keep them in my apartment but that’d kind of be weird and my landlord would complain if people were coming and going. He still hasn’t fixed my bathroom sink—I have to use the kitchen sink whenever I brush my teeth.” Her eyes glance behind her, into the entryway. “But it’d be nice here. It might even help with business, get more people into your place. I mean, not that you need any help.” A look of worry crosses Connie’s face, as if she might have offended Madeline somehow.

It takes a lot to offend Madeline these days, and she gives Connie a reassuring smile. “I can use all the help I can get.”

“So would that be okay?”

Madeline doesn’t see why not. There’s plenty of room in this house for a few boxes. “Sure. You can put them out in the foyer, or maybe over in the sitting room across the hall. No one uses that room much, and people can sit if they’d like to.”

Connie reaches into her bag and pulls out a stack of brand-new index cards and pens. “I brought these. In case people wanted to copy down recipes or something.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”

Connie just shrugs. “Do you want me to put everything in the other room?”

Madeline nods with a smile and Connie quickly picks up everything and heads for the sitting room. When she returns a few minutes later, she’s holding a dust rag in her hand.

“I found this near a lamp,” she tells Madeline. “It looked like you were in the middle of dusting the room, so I just finished up for you.”

Madeline doesn’t even remember dusting the sitting room. Last week, maybe. “Oh, thank you. I can take that.”

“I can put it in the laundry room for you. Or I can rinse it for you by hand.”

“What? Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Madeline takes the rag. Despite Connie’s edgy appearance, Madeline’s taken by her thoughtfulness, her politeness. “You’re very sweet, though.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Connie looks around the parlor, as if for the first time. “This is a nice place you’ve got. You serve tea here?”

“And breakfast and lunch. Baked goods throughout the day.” Madeline gestures to the loaves of Amish Friendship Bread cooling on her counter. “You can have a loaf, if you’d like.” Her starter was starting to get out of hand so she baked several bags at once.

Connie immediately brightens. “Thanks. I’ve kind of gotten used to eating it for breakfast but I haven’t had one in a while.” She takes her time choosing a loaf. “This one looks good.”

Madeline peers over at it. “That’s an apple cinnamon raisin.”

Connie gives a happy sniff. “Yum. Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

The bell over the door tinkles and several women walk in. “I’m
starving
,” one of them says to no one in particular. One of her friends nods in agreement.

“Oh dear,” Madeline says, suddenly flustered. She can’t believe she’s so unprepared for the day again. It’s been like this a lot lately, her daily tasks creeping up on her so quickly that she can’t really afford to take a moment off lest she forget something. She goes through her must-do checklist aloud as it helps her remember what needs to be done, counting the items off on her fingers. “I have to get the hot water on and put a Shepherd’s pie into the oven. And I need to scoop out the butter for the tables and fill the water pitchers …” She frowns, debating what to do first.

“Do you need help? I’m not doing anything today.” Connie wrinkles her nose. “I’m actually looking for a job. But I’d be happy to help you, for free.” She holds up the loaf and smiles. “Well, not exactly for free since you gave me this, but it would be like an exchange.”

An exchange. It’s a lovely idea, very Californian, and Madeline certainly needs the help. Connie seems qualified enough, and spirited, too, which Madeline likes. But she should probably do a proper interview, request a résumé, check references, that sort of thing. Of
course the big question would be when? She doesn’t even have time to put an ad in the paper.

She stops herself—what a thought!
This is Avalon
, for goodness’ sake. Plus there’s the fact that Madeline already likes this girl, who seems if anything to be overqualified for this job. Madeline recognizes competence beneath the black T-shirt, blue jeans, and dirty sneakers.

“Let’s do a trial,” Madeline suggests, thinking quickly as she gestures for the customers to seat themselves. “Today and tomorrow. Six hours each day, plus thirty minutes for lunch. I’ll pay you twelve dollars an hour plus a bag full of whatever is left over. If you get any tips, you can keep them. What do you say?”