Baker's Apprentice Read online

  the baker's apprentice

  judith ryan hendricks

  For Jo-Ann, best Bad Girl

  Bread should be eaten

  with the eyes closed and the heart open.

  DANIEL WING AND ALAN SCOTT,

  The Bread Builders

  Contents

  Epigraph

  part one

  one

  Linda LaGardia is about the most annoying human being I’ve…

  two

  Mazurka Bars are, as Ellen likes to say, locally world…

  three

  Shortly after I arrived in Toulouse, Jean-Marc Guillaume asked me…

  four

  Spring in the Northwest is practically indistinguishable from winter except…

  five

  Unless you know someone who’s short-listed for the Nobel Peace…

  six

  In spite of the red-and-green intarsia sweater, or maybe because…

  seven

  Lit up in the dark, L.A. looks like the vast…

  eight

  A bad marriage is like the psycho killer in a…

  nine

  The silence between us fills up the week.

  part two

  ten

  Crosby, Stills and Nash are getting to the point where…

  eleven

  With Mac gone, days assume an orderly progression.

  twelve

  It’s early. The sun is low, the trees casting long…

  thirteen

  When I get to work, Tyler’s dancing around outside like…

  fourteen

  He likes going to Rhiannon’s in the morning when he’s…

  fifteen

  Just when you thought it was safe…

  sixteen

  June is spring, July is summer, August is fall. The…

  seventeen

  CM’s banging on the door. “Avon calling.”

  part three

  eighteen

  Now in the morning when we get home, instead of…

  nineteen

  It’s dark when I get home. There are no lights…

  twenty

  Christmas night.

  twenty-one

  At Harrington High School in 1972, there must have been…

  twenty-two

  I read the letter again, just to be sure I…

  twenty-three

  It's six A.M. on March 1, and we’re all waiting…

  twenty-four

  It's after eight o’clock when I step out the front…

  twenty-five

  The familiar brown boxes have sprung up in our living…

  twenty-six

  In the morning I lie in bed, wondering if Mac…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A bread baker’s life isn’t for everyone.

  First of all, it’s physically hard. These days the mixing and kneading are mostly done by machine. But at small artisan bakeries like ours, the loaves are still shaped by hand, and that takes a fair amount of muscle. Not to mention dragging fifty-pound sacks of flour, hefting the bowls of the big floor mixers, loading trays of wet dough into the oven, and unloading the finished bread.

  The hours can be off-putting, unless you’re a night owl to begin with. And even so, it’s not much fun having to leave for work just when a party’s getting cranked up or dragging yourself out of a nice, cozy bed occupied by a warm body that fits perfectly against your own.

  Then, of course, there’s the money. Or lack of it. Ingredients are cheap enough—flour, water, salt, yeast—but bread is labor intensive. And you can only charge so much for a loaf of bread, even if it does contain hazelnuts from Oregon or imported Kalamata olives. The bottom line is, you have to sell a lot of bread just to break even, and don’t even think about turning a profit unless you’re baking wholesale.

  At the Queen Street Bakery, we think of it as a loss leader. That, and as a service to our loyal customers, who seem to like picking up a loaf of bread at the same place where they have their morning coffee and scone, or their afternoon pastry. I think it’s that sweet little European fantasy of walking home from the neighborhood bakery clutching a still-warm loaf of bread.

  part one

  one

  Seattle, September 1989

  Linda LaGardia is about the most annoying human being I’ve ever met. Irascible, embittered, humorless, devoid of common courtesy—and that’s on a good day. Fortunately, she’s also totally lacking in imagination, one of those people who seems to go through life with her head down, watching her feet take each plodding step. Fortunately, because that means she’s generally too self-absorbed to really get in anyone’s way. Much as she can’t stand me, most of the time she simply acts like I don’t exist.

  All through our shift tonight, she’s been singing little tuneless songs under her breath, muttering to herself about her kids, Paige and Ed Jr., and her no-good scumbag of an ex-husband, Ed Sr., who’s been dead now for over six months.

  I’m standing, she’s sitting at the worktable shaping loaves of cheese bread and dropping them into oiled pans. “Yeah, I went to the doctor yesterday,” she says from out of the blue. Caught off guard, I can’t suppress a chuckle. It’s so totally out of character for her to start a conversation.

  “Somethin’ funny about that?”

  “Not about going to the doctor. I just think it’s funny that you want to talk to me about it. I’ve been working here for over a year now, and we’ve never had any kind of meaningful dialogue before. That I recall.”

  “That’s because you’re always runnin’ your mouth or playin’ that god-awful screechin’ music.”

  I close my eyes. “Oh, right. Now I remember.”

  “Last time he said my blood pressure’s too high.”

  “How high?”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “A hundred and eighty.”

  “Over what?”

  “What d’ya mean over what? A hundred-eighty’s what he said.”

  “Blood pressure is usually two numbers, like one-eighty over one-ten or something like that.”

  “Ahh, who knows. He was throwin’ all kinds of numbers around.” A few minutes later she says, “He wants me to take some tests.”

  “What kind?” I keep my eyes on the bread in front of me.

  “Stress test or somethin’.” She detaches the dough hook from one of the Hobarts, carries it to the sink, then hesitates, lost in some internal debate. She turns on the water, then abruptly turns it off. “I don’t guess you’d know what it is?”

  The tone of voice is so unlike her that I turn around. “What what is?”

  “Stress test,” she mumbles. She scrubs the dough hook furiously.

  “Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

  “’Course he didn’t tell me. They never tell ya nothin’ if they can help it.”

  “They just hook you up to these electrodes—”

  “Electr—?” She makes a little sputter of alarm. “Does it shock ya?”

  “No, no. It doesn’t hurt. You just walk on this treadmill and they read your heart rate. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I figured as much.” She sniffs, embarrassed. “I gotta be there early. Guess you’ll have to handle cleanup yourself. Too bad.”

  I reach over and turn up the boom box with my knuckles.

  At five-thirty A.M. the sun is a faint pinkish glow filtered through fog. Linda’s out front, loading banana-cinnamon-swirl bread onto the rack behind the register. The street is still quiet enough that I hear the engine before I see the headlights. The sound is unmistakab
le, as individual as a fingerprint. A truck. A 1971 Chevy El Camino in need of a tune-up. Mac.

  My heart and my stomach decide to switch places.

  I turn, just in time to see the Elky roll up in front of the bakery, unsavory looking as ever, its paint oxidized to a soft ivory that suggests that once upon a time it was white. Only the newly painted right-rear fender gleams like an anchorman’s smile.

  I thought he wouldn’t be back till the end of the month. I thought…well, I thought a lot of things. Two weeks ago in the San Juan Islands, we wrecked a perfectly good friendship by making love for the first time. I sort of thought he’d call me, but he hasn’t. Is he sorry it happened? Am I? What should I say? Should I run out and throw myself on him? Should I be cool? Let him know he can’t take anything for granted? Act like it never happened?

  I push my hair back and take a deep breath. Be casual. Hi. How are you? I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Then I remember that my hands are covered with wet dough. I wipe them on the towel that hangs from my apron strings and force myself to walk slowly around the end of the counter and out the door. He’s on the curb, reaching inside the truck for something, and when he hears the door, he turns around. Before I have a chance to launch my carefully noncommittal greeting, he picks me up in his arms and crushes me against him till I can’t breathe and don’t particularly care to.

  After we’ve tried kissing from a number of different angles, he sets me down on the sidewalk. I rearrange my apron and my bunched-up T-shirt, and he laughs as he extricates a few little globs of dough from my hair.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back till…later.” I wish I didn’t sound so breathless.

  The look he turns on me makes my knees feel jointed at the back, like flamingo legs. “I couldn’t wait that long,” he says. “What time are you off?”

  “Seven, but—”

  “I’ll be back then.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Kenny said I could stay with him for a few days till I find a place. I’m going to drop my stuff off there.” He leans over to kiss me again. “And take a cold shower.”

  Gone again.

  Linda rolls her eyes ceilingward when I come back inside, rubbing my bare arms from the chilly mist.

  “Looks like one divorce didn’t learn you nothin’.”

  “Teach,” I say absently. “It didn’t teach me anything.”

  I wander back to the work area, drawn by the warmth of the ovens, the perfume of roasting grains hanging in the air like incense. I pull open the heavy door to the top deck. One sheet pan with six loaves of lemon-poppy-seed tea bread is all that remains of our night’s work. They’re not quite done. I set the timer for five minutes and consider the possibility of truth in what I’ve just said.

  It’s not too late to bail. I could plead temporary insanity, say I’ve reconsidered, and that maybe taking our friendship to the next level wasn’t such a great idea after all. But then I think about all the time we spent together last year. Listening to music and trolling for treasure in used-book stores, me dragging him to old movies. How he took me to the hospital in the middle of the April Fool’s Day blizzard when I had appendicitis, read to me from Gatsby while I recuperated. I think about that night on the ferryboat, standing next to him at the rail while he pointed out the Big Dipper and Boötes, Polaris, and Arcturus, and how I felt when he said he was going up to Orcas for the summer.

  Nope. It may be insanity, but I’m afraid it’s not temporary.

  Ellen shows up just before six and dives into her morning routine with frightening efficiency, turning on the espresso machine, unlocking the register and counting the cash into the till, wiping down the counters and cleaning the glass cases. She puts a saucer of milk out in the alley for whatever cats happen past, and a big bowl of water out front for customers’ dogs. She takes a plastic baggie full of goldfish crackers out of her oversized purse and puts it next to the register in case the guy with the parrot comes by this morning.

  By the time she’s done, the espresso machine is blowing steam and she fills both brew baskets and punches the buttons for two long doubles. She taps her foot to make it brew faster as the aromatic dark liquid streams into the two majolica cups. When the machine clicks off, she hands me one, and takes a slow, breathy sip from the other—her first of about five for the day.

  She sniffs the rising steam. “Have you thought of any questions for Maggie?”

  I give her a blank stare. “Who?”

  “Maggie Stanopolis. Our job applicant. She’s coming in at eight. Did you forget?”

  “Yes. Oh, damn. Ellen, could you…I mean, would you mind if—I sort of made plans for this morning…”

  One dark eyebrow rises questioningly. “Plans?”

  My face heats up. “Mac’s in town. He’s picking me up at seven.”

  “I don’t suppose we should let something as frivolous as a job interview interfere with your love life.”

  I smile weakly.

  “You’ll have to talk to her at some point. I’m not going to hire her without you meeting her.” She sweeps her wispy black bangs away from her eyes.

  “Why not? You know a lot more about whether she’s qualified than I do.”

  “Bakery policy. You’re a partner now; you need to get a handle on the administrative side of things. Besides, it’s not just her qualifications. We know she can do cakes or she wouldn’t have lasted two years at Booker’s. I think it’s important to get a feel for someone.”

  “Exactly what I’m hoping to do.”

  “Not him.” She tosses a wet towel at me. “I’ll be interested to see what she can do. I’ve always thought of Booker’s as sort of a factory.”

  “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “They do a lot of kiddie cakes—template things like Mickey Mouse and Roger Rabbit and Smurfs. Shotgun cakes—”

  “What?”

  “Wedding cakes in a hurry.” She sighs. “Oh, don’t look so pitiful. I’ll call her and tell her we have to push it back an hour—”

  “One hour?”

  “What were you planning—a marathon orgy? One hour. I’ll talk to her first, at nine, then you can meet her at ten.”

  Mac insists on breakfast at Steve’s Broiler, a Greek dive downtown with feta cheese omelets that would make your old Greek granny rise up from the grave.

  “We can’t just barge in on CM,” he says, tucking me under his arm in our huge semicircular booth.

  I lean my head on his shoulder, feeling his hair, still damp from the shower, cool against my cheek. “We’re not barging. I called her and told her. Besides, I thought you couldn’t wait.”

  “I couldn’t wait two more weeks.” He nibbles my ear. “I can wait an hour. As long as I get to sit next to you and look at you. And think about all the things I’m going to do to you in about”—he checks his watch—“fifty-eight minutes and thirteen seconds.”

  I sit back and study his face for a minute, the high cheekbones, the wide-set gray eyes that can look green in a certain light, the little amber flecks in the irises. It’s a serious face, transformed by his unexpectedly sweet smile.

  “You could have called,” I say finally.

  He considers this. “I just decided to come yesterday. I closed up the cottage, packed the truck, and left. Caught the last ferry out last night—”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Okay.” He looks innocent. “What did you mean?”

  “I meant afterward. I didn’t know what to think.”

  “About what?”

  “‘About what?’” I can’t hide my annoyance. “What do you think? About us. About what happened—”

  “I didn’t have a phone—”

  “They have pay phones in town, don’t they? It’s not exactly the Arctic Circle. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know how you felt…”

  His expression softens and he looks straight into my eyes. “You didn’t?”

  I look through the s
ervice window into the kitchen where dark, hairy guys are flinging pans and flipping hotcakes and talking loudly in Greek.

  He waits till I look back at him to say, “You really don’t know how I feel?”

  “Well…”

  “I thought I was pretty transparent.” He reaches over to smooth some hair off my face, and his hand lingers on my cheek. Just as he leans toward me, the waiter materializes, sets two thick, white plates down in front of us. The omelets are so big, they hang over the sides, brown and crisp around the edges, molten cheese oozing out.

  He kisses me anyway. “I guess I should have called, but…” He picks up his fork. “It all felt so right. I guess I assumed you felt the same.” He cuts into the omelet with the side of his fork. “Did I assume too much?”

  How do men do this? They don’t tell you a damned thing, and then they make you feel silly and guilty for questioning them.

  “Of course not. But it’s kind of a strange time for me.”

  He looks at me expectantly. “So the divorce hasn’t gone through yet?”

  I shake my head. “Soon. When I talked to my lawyer, she was expecting to get an agreement from David’s lawyer any second.” Just the thought of my ex-husband pending is like a wet towel in the face, so I change channels. “Have you heard from your agent?”

  Mac laughs. “He’s not my agent yet. He hasn’t read the manuscript—in fact, he probably doesn’t even have it. I just mailed it Tuesday. I figure I have to give it five working days—”

  “Why didn’t you FedEx it?”