How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [4]
One of the women sees them and gives me a hug. “We will, I promise. She’ll call you as soon as she can.”
I want to be as sturdy as my daughter, so I turn and head to my car. Sofia’s voice calls out, “Mom!”
When I turn, she kisses her fingers and flings it toward me. “I love you!”
I return the kiss and head home, trying to focus on all the things I need to do to get the house ready for Katie’s arrival tomorrow. The room needs to be aired, the bed made—if I wash the sheets tonight, I can hang them out to dry first thing in the morning. It’s such a homey, welcoming smell.
But when I pull up in front of the old house that contains my bakery and the two-story apartment above, there is a lake in the front yard.
Not a puddle. Not a sprinkler left on. This is a pool of water that engulfs the lawn, covers the sidewalk, and pours over the ancient concrete curb into the gutter. “What the hell?”
My phone is out of my pocket and in my hand before I’ve fully formed a question. I dial my mentor. A deep, heavily Italian–Brooklyn-accented voice answers. “Ramona,” Cat says. “Is Sofia gone?”
“She is, but that’s not why I’m calling. I have a swimming pool in my front yard. Something broke, obviously. Who do I call?”
“Let me get right back to you.”
I hang up and stand in the gloaming with my hands on my hips and a strangling mix of terror and grief in my throat. There is absolutely not a dime left for another old-house disaster.
Swearing under my breath, I walk around the edges of the pond to get to the walk at the side of the house. How will I even be able to open the store in the morning?
Cat calls right back. “My guy Henry is coming over to see what’s happened. I’ve got a little issue here at the restaurant, but I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
“The phone call is enough, Cat.” I’ve been trying to establish some boundaries with him. “I can manage from here.”
“I’m not questioning your ability to manage, tesòro mìo. You’ve had a bad day. Won’t be so bad to have a friend to lean on.”
I have a headache behind my left eye and no energy to argue. “I’ll be here.”
• • •
Henry arrives in fifteen minutes and pronounces the problem a broken water pipe from the street to the house. I’ve had trouble with these old pipes in the past—they’re clay and the tree roots infiltrate them every spring—but I’ve never had an actual break.
Naturally it’s going to cost several thousand dollars to fix, and of course there is no choice but to say yes. It will eat up every last bit of the credit remaining on my last card, and as I’m standing there in the dark, alone, it seems to me that maybe this bakery dream of mine might be dead. I started with a solid plan, a business and marketing degree, and plenty of cash flow, but the economy and the credit crunch are crippling me.
“Can you get the water out of there tonight?” I ask the plumber.
He shakes his head. “Sorry. But we’ll get you fixed up in no time. I know it looks bad, but it’s really just a matter of digging up the bad pipe and replacing it with new. It’ll be good as new by tomorrow afternoon.”
“All right. Thanks.”
As he heads for his truck, a blue SUV pulls up and a tall lean man gets out. The streetlight shines on his mostly silver hair. He stops to shake Henry’s hand, claps him on the back. They exchange a few words in the language of men.
Cat Spinuzzi is close to seventy, though he lies and says he’s sixty, and he’s vigorous enough to get away with it. He’d never go running like a lot of men in town, but he stays fit with hard rounds of racquetball every week and daily reps of sit-ups and push-ups. As he comes forward, I can smell his cologne, as spicy as a Moroccan market, wafting ahead of him. “He says it’s not a big deal. You’ll be open again in a couple of days, no problem.”
I nod. Two days of lost receipts, plus this no-doubt-enormous bill, is going to take me precariously close to the edge.
“Let’s talk,” he says, nudging me toward the side yard. “Make me an espresso, Ramona. Do you have any of those little croissants I