How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [66]
“Was it short?”
“It’s been everything. Long, short, in between. Super-professional. It’s like some big experiment in social adaptation.” The waitress brings my coffee. “When my daughter was small, I had so much to do that I cut it all off.”
“I like it long.”
“Yours was long once, too,” I comment.
“Yes. Back in the rebellious days.”
A pause falls. I stir sugar and milk into my coffee, wondering where to start, how to begin the reacquaintance. “So, how long have you been in the Springs?”
“Not very long—only a few weeks, actually. I flew here at Christmas, found the house, and started the renovations, then moved in about a month ago.”
“I’ve always liked that house, the garden,” I comment. “My sisters and I liked the balcony in the back. It must have a wonderful view.”
“It does. It was not in great shape when I found it, but the bones were good. I’ve been in the L.A. area for a long time, so I’m very happy to be back in Colorado.”
I nod, wondering if it would be too forward to ask if he is a musician. If he is not, perhaps it would be unkind. “What brought you back here?”
“Work. I’m the director for a children’s charity, Hearts Abound. Their headquarters are here.”
“I know it well. We have donation jars in the bakery.” I smile. “You’re the director?”
His smile is gentle, amused. “Yes.”
“Wow.” I widen my eyes. “Impressive.”
“How about you, Ramona? Is the bakery yours?”
I laugh, thinking of all the struggles we’ve been facing. “Yes. It was my grandmother’s house. She left it to me when she died six years ago, and I jumped at the chance to create the bakery.”
“The bread is terrific.”
“Thank you. Which one did you choose?”
“Cranberry walnut.”
“Ah. One of my favorites.” I lean forward. “But the girls will tell you I say that about all of them. The sourdoughs, the raisin bread, the oatmeal.”
It’s only then that I realize he’s looking at my mouth, my throat, and there is something in his face that touches me, like the flutter of bird wings. “Which is your true favorite?” he asks quietly. His voice moves down my neck like a whisper.
The atmosphere has shifted, the air growing taut between us. “I’m not sure.” I smile and give a tiny shrug, maybe flirting the slightest bit. “Depends on the day.”
He nods. Our eyes meet, lock. The waitress swings around with coffee, breaking the moment. I am relieved.
“Your daughter must be grown. What is she like?”
The dark cloud of her life moves through me, aches.
“I’m sorry,” Jonah says. “Is that a sore spot?”
“No, no. I’m sorry.” I shake my hair away from my face. “Sofia is a delight and a fantastic person. She’s pregnant with her first baby, so I’ll be a grandmother in a couple of months.”
He laughs. “You hardly look old enough to be a mother.”
“Oh, please. Thank you, but, believe me, I feel plenty old enough.” I fold a sugar packet into precise quarters. “The trouble is, she’s in Germany right now with her husband, who was wounded badly in Afghanistan. They’re waiting to stabilize him before they move him to San Antonio.”
“I’m sorry. That must be terrible.”
I’m about to make some comment that will excuse him from the burden of this darkness, but I find myself saying simply, “It is. And Katie, the girl you met, is his daughter. So she’s feeling it.”
“Burns?”
I nod.
“I hate this war. Is it all right to say that to you?”
I bow my head to hide the unexpected and intense emotions that rise at that statement. “I hate all of them.” I lift my head, sigh. “It used to be so much easier to make pronouncements, you know? It feels complicated now. I do wish we lived in a world that used some other method to solve problems—it’s so wasteful, on every level—but this is the world we live in.”
“Well said.” He inclines his head. “Now I find myself remembering the way you always said the most unexpected things.”
“Did I?”
“You must have an old soul.”
I snort, in a very old-soul way. “My family would disagree with you on that.”
His chuckle is warm. Inclusive, somehow. “They just don’t see you clearly. It’s