How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [74]
But there is also something not quite so obvious that gives off an aura of elegance. Wealth. Perhaps it is his well-cut hair or some scent he wears. I can’t decide.
At the foot of the steps to the porch, I halt. “Hello,” I say, and touch my diaphragm. “I’m sorry, but Katie wasn’t able to come. I hope that doesn’t put you out.”
For one long second I am afraid he’s going to call dinner off. There’s a wall that comes up, chills the air. He doesn’t speak immediately.
I lift a hand. “I can see this is not a good thing. Sorry. I just didn’t have a phone number for you.” I’m backing away. “We can reschedule.”
He steps down to grab my waving hand. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Please stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He lets go of my hand. “Come in. Please.”
Giving him the wine and bread, I say, “If you put that in the oven, it will be warm for dinner.”
“Thank you.” He lifts the loaf to his nose and sniffs. “Mmm. That’s nice, isn’t it?”
I smile, a little of my nervousness bleeding away. He holds out a hand and I reach for it, letting him pull me up the steps. “Thank you for coming, Ramona.”
“You’re welcome.”
He opens a white-painted screen door and gestures me inside. The house is an updated 1920s bungalow, and within it’s been very carefully renovated, with polished hardwood floors and a wall or two removed to give a sense of more space. “Oh, it’s lovely!” I exclaim. “My sister and I always wanted to see inside. Have you changed it a lot?”
“Yes.” He opens a bottle of wine that’s sitting on the counter. “It’s a quirky place, as you see. It needed to be opened up, but I kept the general feeling.”
“It’s hard when you have an old place, balancing grace and convenience.” I trail my hand over the walls, touch a cabinet, put my hand flat on the counter. It’s uncluttered to the point of spare, with no plants in the windows or statues sitting on the low tables. Art with a South American feel graces the walls. “Have you been to Peru?”
“I lived in Argentina for a few years.” He puts the bread in the oven and stirs a pot on the stove. “After I left New York.” He pours wine into oversize glasses and gestures toward the dish of cheese and fig preserves ready to carry out. “Will you take that?”
Finally, I notice there is music playing quietly. Spanish guitar. “ ‘Asturias,’ ” I say, and smile.
“Yes.” He inclines his head. Lifts one shoulder, and I understand that he is every bit as nervous as I am. “Let’s go out on the porch, shall we?”
The air is as soft as down against my skin as I sit. He puts the dish of fig preserves on a small table between us and holds up his glass. “To old friends,” he says.
“To old friends.” Our eyes meet over the wine, and I’m suddenly filled with a wild sense of happiness. I laugh. “How wonderful, Jonah! Cheers.”
His eyes crinkle. “It is wonderful.” He takes a stick of cheese and dips it into the dish of preserves. “Try this,” he says, offering it to me with his left hand, the one with the damaged fingers. I take it, touching his hand lightly.
“Mmm. This would be very nice with Bridget’s sourdough.”
“I love that you became a baker. You fell in love with bread so much that summer.”
“Poppy was a good teacher. And it was magical, you know?” I shake my head. “It’s funny how you can get so off track.”
“I ate nearly the whole loaf of bread you sent home with me.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.” I feel a little shy. “How about you, Jonah? Did you learn to play the guitar with your other hand?”
“I did,” he says. “Alas, I could never capture the same … gift, though. That’s why I ended up traveling. In Argentina, I fell in with some composers, and that’s where I stayed for a long while.” He smiles, dipping the cheese. “There was a woman, of course.”
“Of course.” I smile. “Did she break your heart?”
His mouth tilts sideways as he meets my gaze. “I’m afraid it was the other way around. In the end, I didn’t want to stay there, and she wouldn’t leave her family to