How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [107]
Sitting on the bench in the shade, I comb out my hair and let it dry in the air, which makes it smell like fresh laundry. The garden is faintly wilting in the heat of the day, and somewhere behind me a lone cricket is singing. Everything else is on siesta. As I should be. I lean back and put my head against the tree behind me, closing my eyes for a minute. Just a minute.
Merlin woofs softly and I imagine he’s talking to someone, but I’m far enough gone that my brain spins out a funny little dream. My grandmother sits beside me on the bench, smelling of talcum powder and freshly ground coffee, which she loved with an unholy passion. “He’s a good dog.”
“Yes. He takes good care of all of us. Old soul.”
“He is that.” A breeze ruffles her short white hair, then she turns and puts her hand on mine. “You need to call Sofia. Right now.”
I jolt upright, having almost fallen sideways. Merlin lifts his head and solemnly waves his tail. Blinking, trying to clear the fuzziness from my brain, I think I can still smell that lingering scent of talc and coffee beans. I rub my face vigorously, pick up my phone, and check the time. It’s four, making it five in San Antonio. Sofia will probably be at dinner.
Still. While I am not as superstitious as some people in my family, getting a direct edict from a dream is not something I can ignore. Especially with that lingering sense of doom in my belly. Taking a long cold drink of tea to clear my head, I punch the shortcut that dials her cell phone.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, her voice says, “Hi, it’s Sofia. Leave a message or send me a text.”
“It’s your mother. Give me a call, okay?”
To be doubly sure, I also text her:
Thinking about you is everything okay?
To my surprise, the phone dings quickly.
Not a good time to talk crazy day. Oscar is not good. Will call in my morning. Too tired to talk right now.
What does that mean, crazy day? I text back:
Is the baby okay?
False labor today. Braxton Hicks. But we are fine. Fine. Don’t worry.
My phone trills, the actual ringer, and it’s the repairman. “Meet you in front,” I say, then text to Sofia:
Okay. Anytime. Any hour. I’m here. I love you.
As predicted, the heater has to be ordered, and although they’re hoping for delivery tomorrow, it will probably not be here until Monday.
It’s what I’ve been expecting, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. I nod, valiantly trying to be an adult businesswoman and not burst into tears. What would Cat do? I ask myself, and it gives me the courage to cross my arms over my chest and say, “This water heater is only a few years old. What happened?”
He frowns. “It looks like it might have been damaged when it was installed, honestly. See this?” He points out the rusted wound. “That’s been coming apart for a long time.”
“So, workmanship, then?”
He nods. “Considering how much this is going to cost you, I’d sure talk to a lawyer about getting some of it back. Not that it’ll help today.”
“Right. Thanks.” I hold out a hand and he shakes it firmly.
“I’ll call you as soon as they call me.”
As I’m writing out the bad news on the sign in front, Katie walks up. My mouth drops open. “You cut your hair!”
“Do you like it?” Shyly, she swings her head, and her hair, a tumble of loose, healthy curls, swings around her neck. The colors of caramel and toast and some brighter streaks of lemon from her days in the garden are shiny, laced throughout.
Impossible not to reach out and put my hands in it. “Wow, Katie, it looks terrific. Can I take a picture to upload to Sofia and your dad?”
She poses, inclining her head and smiling directly at me. I snap a couple of shots with the phone and tuck it in my pocket. “Lily will be thrilled.”
And when she arrives to drive us over to the restaurant, she makes as much of a fuss as I did. Katie is wearing a lime-green tank and jeans, with pretty sandals on her feet, and with the haircut and her height, she looks about sixteen. Still coltish and gamine with that angled face