How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [120]
“I’m not going.” But she does fling her legs off the bed and put on her flip-flops. “We’ll go read outside.”
“Don’t forget the bug spray.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. West Nile virus.”
As I escape into the dusty gold air of late afternoon, I am not unhappy to be leaving her to her sulk. It occurs to me that nearly everything in my life is teetering on the edge of disaster, but I’m also happy. How is it possible that things can be so beautiful and so awful, so rewarding and so exhausting, all at once?
As I walk down the narrow sidewalk, passing tiny front gardens planted with flowers I can’t name, it seems easy to count my blessings. I’m relieved beyond measure that my mother is on her way to San Antonio, is in fact probably there. I’m relieved that if I had to have a big problem with the water heater, it came this weekend instead of two weekends from now when there is a festival. I’m glad for the good weather and my hair and living in such a beautiful place.
Any second now I’m going to burst into song. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.
As I round the corner to Jonah’s house, the reason for my happiness is standing in his yard, watering the flower beds with a sprinkler hose. He’s tall and fit, his muscled runner’s legs showing beneath long khaki shorts. Something about his ankles is sexy, and it makes me smile.
And maybe it’s unfeminist of me to be so pleased by a man’s company, to find happiness in falling in love, but there is no denying the reality. I am thrilled to see him, every single time. “Hello, gorgeous,” I say, coming up the walk to stand beside him. “What are those flowers?”
“The purple ones are phlox. I wouldn’t choose them myself, but the garden here is old, and I like the way it all works together.” He gestures toward a climbing pink rose, which is blooming in a profuse cascade above a bank of something blue, and a line of yellow flowers below that. “Somebody really loved this place and spent a lot of time on it. I like to honor that.”
“It is beautiful. I have sometimes wondered why you chose this place, in particular.”
“Aside from the fact that it was obviously fated, you mean?”
I smile up at him. “Well, it is modest, and you could have probably chosen anything in town. There are some spectacular places around the city.”
He moves the spray over the blossoms, back and forth, back and forth. “There are. I looked at some of them.” There is something still in him when he says, “How much does one person need, really? This is plenty.”
“Can I kiss you for that, please?”
“You can kiss me whenever you like.” He points the sprinkler in the opposite direction from us and I lean in, standing on my toes to press my mouth to his. His hand wraps around my waist and hauls me close. “Mmm,” he says, smacking his lips. “One of my favorite things. Kisses from Ramona.”
I let him go and follow him across the lawn to turn off the water. It’s a thick, established bluegrass, and it gives off coolness that brushes my ankles. Over the top of the house, the mountains draw a zigzaggy dark line against a sky made of pale lemon clouds and layers of airy blue meringue.
“Listen,” I say.
He turns. Cocks his head.
The world is very still. Far away, a child calls. A bird is singing in the foliage. Water drips from leaves to the ground. “Could you write music from that?”
“Oh, yes. With you at the center. Could you bake bread from it?”
My mind springs toward ingredients—lemons and honey and almonds. “Yes.”
“Let’s call it a challenge, then, shall we? I’ll make music. You make bread.”
And they all lived happily ever after, I think, smiling. “Deal.”
In my pocket, my phone rings.
Mom?” Sofia’s voice is thin and wavery.
I give Jonah a glance of alarm and lift a finger, turning my back and walking toward the edge of the property. “What is it?”
“Oh, my God, Mom,” she wails, and begins to sob. She says a jumble of words, but they’re unintelligible, and my panic is threatening to close my throat.
“Honey, slow down. Breathe. I can’t understand