How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [58]
Car tires crunched on the gravel drive. I walked to the edge of the corn rows to see who it was, expecting Nancy, who had become one of Poppy’s best friends.
It wasn’t Nancy. It was Jonah, in his old Mercedes. He got out, his hair falling free over his shoulders. Everything in me went still, as if every cell was holding its breath. I hadn’t seen him at all since the day we ate pie together, and I knew that was by design.
“Hello,” he said, tucking his shirt into the back of his jeans as he came toward me.
“Hi.”
“I hear you had a baby girl.”
“She’s so beautiful. You should come in and see her.”
“I came to see you,” he said, and gestured toward the path between the corn and tomatoes. “Can we walk a little?”
“Yeah. Yes.” I felt dizzy with the smell of him, the nearness. We had not walked side by side like this before, and I was aware of his legs, and the swing of his arm so close to mine, and the sound of his low whistle.
Midway into the garden, he stopped and turned to look at me. “I came to tell you that I’m going back east. It’s time to stop wallowing and get on with things; I found a teacher I think can help me.”
A sharpness of tears pricked my eyelids and I forced myself to say, “Oh! Um, when do you leave?”
“Now,” he said, and smiled down at me kindly. “I’m on my way out of town, and I couldn’t leave without telling you how much—” He stopped and looked off into the sunset-mottled sky. His hair caught that red light, and I ached to touch it. He put his hands on his waist, looked back to me. “How much you helped me.”
“I did?” On one hip I held the basket of vegetables, and the free hand fluttered up to my throat. “Me?”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the house, which was hidden from me by the corn, and took a step closer. “You.” He took my hand and lifted it to his chest, pressing my palm into his breast. “Meeting you changed my life, Ramona. I thought you should know that.”
“How?” I whispered, but I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to hear him, my heart was pounding so loud.
“A hundred ways,” he said, “but mainly by showing up.”
“You helped me,” I said. “I think you are—”
He shook his head and lifted his other hand to my face. “I’m too old for you.”
His palm was warm, and I could smell his skin, which made all the words fly out of my head. I could only stand there, looking up at him. Waiting.
“I wish I wasn’t,” he said, then he put a thumb under my chin, lifted my face, bent down. His full lips touched mine, just lightly. It was almost reverent, the way he kissed me, and I felt it right in my heart. My eyes filled with tears as I kissed him back.
After a moment, he turned his head a little and kissed me more deeply. I could feel his fingers against the lobe of my left ear, and his lips were full and soft, and his tongue was hot and close. Beneath my hand, his heart was pounding as hard as mine was. It went on and on in the sunset-washed light, in that time between day and evening.
At last he raised his head. His hand stayed where it was, and he looked right into my deepest soul with those gold eyes. “Take care, Ramona.”
“Can’t you write to me or something?” I said, my heart suddenly torn in two pieces. “I’ll miss you!”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” he said, and I could feel his genuine regret.
His hand slipped from my face, and he lifted my hand from his chest, putting it on my own chest. “So long, Ramona.”
“So long,” I said, dizzy with all of it. I stood there until he climbed into the car, until I could no longer see the taillights in the dusk.
STEP THREE
“Breadmaking is one of those almost hypnotic businesses, like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you filled with one of the world’s sweetest smells … there is no chiropractic treatment … no hour