How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [79]
Her mouth goes hard. I hate to say bitter, but that’s how she seems lately, all tight and vinegary and hard. I wonder what happened to her. What has gone wrong in her life to make her such a hard-ass? “See how you do that? Even Sofia and Oscar’s tragedy is all about Ramona.”
The barb, curved like a scimitar, curls right through my heart. “Score, Steph,” I say, and carry the jar to the dishwasher. “Anything else you want to rub into my wounds? Maybe we could get to the part where I’m a loser with men.”
“Oh, stop!”
Merlin trots into the kitchen urgently and rushes over to me, licking my hand. He sits on my foot and woofs softly at Stephanie. The gesture is so loyal and kind it brings tears to my eyes, and I bow my head to hide them. “Thanks, Merlin.”
It calms Stephanie, too. “Look, I didn’t come over here to yell at you. It just—” She shakes her head. “It just seems like you never think about anybody but yourself. Didn’t you realize that it might really upset Mom and Dad for you to have a relationship with Cat Spinuzzi?”
I close my eyes and sigh. Merlin leaning on my leg seems to bring some centering magic. “It’s over. It has been for a long time. And I didn’t plan it. It just happened. Hasn’t anything ever swept you away? Ever?”
“No.” She meets my eyes, and we both know what she’s thinking: It ruined your life, and I’ll never let it ruin mine.
What I want to say is that I miss her. Not this priggish, judgmental bitch, but the other side of her. The one who makes me laugh so hard I can’t talk. The one who will tell me when I should get rid of an ugly blouse. The one who walked ten billion miles with me when we were children and spun a hundred thousand fantasies.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say. “If you want to come sit on the porch and have a croissant, I’ll talk. But I’m not going to fight.”
For a long minute she stares across the space of the stainless-steel counter, and I think she might relent. Then she turns and stomps out of my kitchen.
Lost to me, still.
And I am feeling like maybe the most flawed human on the planet, riddled with as many holes as a wormy apple. It is a feeling I have known intimately at various times in my life, but I realize it’s been mostly missing since I opened the bakery, even if my family has me on the outside.
I truly miss Sofia. Her company, her commentary on the world, her face.
The only thing I can possibly do is bake, but Merlin isn’t allowed in the bakery kitchen, so I whistle for him to come upstairs with me, and I pull out ordinary amounts of flour and yeast and water and salt. The eternal, essential ingredients for bread.
“Whatcha doing?” Katie asks, wandering in from the living room. She has her finger in a book and that sleepy look that comes from reading all day. It’s one of the things we have in common, and I gave her permission to go to the library as often as she likes. Her taste runs counter to the vampires and werewolves that are so popular right now, to sweet books set in sweeter times, like Anne of Green Gables and historical novels from the seventies. I’m sure her real life has been full enough of bloodsuckers and men turned to slobbering dogs.
“I think I’m going to make some cookies,” I say. “Want to help?”
“Yes! I love cookies.”
“Let’s see what we have. Chocolate chips, oatmeal, butterscotch?”
“Can we do all of them together?”
Laughter breaks through my self-pity. “Definitely.”
The tourist season is upon us at last, crowds of families trundling into town in their RVs and sedans and rent-a-cars. The motels are full, the streets busy. Over the past week we sold virtually everything we baked, and no matter