Baker's Apprentice Read online

  “Where’s her sister?”

  “She’s at the U. Still lives at home. I think she and Tyler are pretty close, but, you know, Tate has her own life.”

  “Isn’t she taking art classes?”

  “Tyler?” She shakes her head. “She dropped out last semester.”

  “So she’s not doing anything except working here?”

  Ellen laughs. “I suppose one could do worse.”

  “You know what I mean, just being a barista’s got to be sort of boring for someone who used to be an overachiever.”

  “Yeah, I know. Maybe that’s the problem. But she kept saying she hated doing the cakes. I had no idea she’d get so territorial about it.”

  I dunk my biscotti in the tiny cup and stir it around absently till the end dissolves into mushy crumbs. “You think she’ll come back?”

  She shrugs. “I hope so, but I really don’t know where her head is right now.”

  The Adler house on Phinney Ridge is a nondescript, pale blue craftsman bungalow. The front yard is essence of Pacific Rim, an obvious labor of love for somebody. Mostly evergreens, including some meticulously pruned and shaped cypress, a few rhododendron, and in isolated spots some bronze chrysanthemums poke their heads out. The overall effect is contemplative, like a Japanese temple garden.

  Whereas the music blasting out the open windows is anything but contemplative, the kind of heavy-metal stuff that Mac calls head-banging music. Not surprisingly no one answers when I ring the doorbell, so I follow a trail of gray stepping stones around to the backyard and peer through a knothole in the wooden gate. There’s a flagstone patio, a wooden chaise lounge with bright yellow cushions, a small, bathing-suited form stretched over it, rigid, like a sausage on a grill. Tyler.

  I can see even from here that, instead of relaxing in the warm autumn sun, her whole body is tensed, not so much getting a tan as daring the sun to burn her. At the sound of the gate, she sits up abruptly. When she sees me she lies back down.

  “What do you want?”

  “I just thought I’d come see how you were doing.”

  “Well, now that you’ve seen, you can leave the same way you got in.”

  I slide into a folding wooden patio chair. “George Kennedy, Riders of the Rio Grande?”

  She pushes up the giant black sunglasses that make her look like a blue-haired fly, and glares at me. “What?”

  “That line. It came from some cowboy movie.”

  “So what?”

  “Tyler, I want to ask you something.”

  “Let’s see. Would it have anything to do with Power Rangers?”

  “Well, you—”

  “I love the way everyone just assumes that it was me that talked to her.”

  “Was it?”

  “Why bother asking? You guys already made up your minds. Had to be me. My butt’s outta there.”

  “It’s only a suspension. Ellen didn’t fire you.”

  “Might as well have. She will next time.”

  “Is there going to be a next time?”

  She crosses her arms over her flat little chest.

  “Ellen and I both really want you to stay at the bakery—”

  “Then get rid of her.”

  “You know we can’t do that. We need a cake de—person.”

  “So what am I? Dog meat?”

  “No, and you do great cakes, but you kept saying you didn’t want—”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind. So get rid of her and I’ll do the cakes.”

  “We can’t fire her.”

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, she’s doing a good job.” I scoot to the edge of the chair. “Can’t you just verbalize what it is about her that upsets you?”

  “Verbalize? That is like so L.A.”

  I sigh. “You know what I mean. Tell me. You have to have a reason.”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “I need you to be a little more specific. If there’s an actual problem, we can work on it.”

  She sits up, crossing her legs Indian style, and turns to me. “Okay, fine. Here it is. She just walked in and took over, started bossing everybody around. Redecorating the place. She’s got this attitude. Like she’s too good to bus tables or do prep stuff. Miss Hot Shit Artiste cake designer, making more money than anyone—”

  “How do you know how much she makes? Did she tell you?”

  “No, but she said it was ‘substantial.’ A big, fat increase from Booker’s. I’ve been here for two years and I’m still slinging espresso. How come nobody offered me that job? I could’ve—”

  “Unless I’m hallucinating, I remember at least three occasions when Ellen asked you to do cakes, and you didn’t want—”

  “Well, duh. Not like that. Not when I was only getting paid to work the counter.”

  “You didn’t even ask. You knew we were interviewing. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good. You guys all think I’m an idiot just because I have blue hair and I’m not some little yuppie princess.”

  I shake my head and clamp my teeth firmly on my tongue. “You know that’s not true.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Look, can’t you see how insecure Maggie is? She needs to make herself feel important—”

  “Am I supposed to care about her psycho poop?”

  I watch the sun glint on the iridescent green head of a hummingbird delving into a pink trumpet-vine blossom. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Tate?”

  She looks straight ahead, then, “She’s in Montana.”

  “With your mom?”

  She barely nods.

  I nibble on a jagged cuticle. “When do you think she’ll be coming home?”

  “No idea.”

  I stand up. “Well, Tyler…I don’t know what else to say. Are you planning to come back?”

  A shrug.

  “Let me know, okay?”

  four

  Spring in the Northwest is practically indistinguishable from winter except that there are more flowers. Summer is moody and coy and not entirely certain if she wants to stay or go. Not to mention that all the tourists hit town en route to the islands or to Alaska on a big, white cruise ship. Winter is…well, winter.

  Fall is definitely the best season—golden days and blue skies, warm afternoons and cool nights and the smell of wood smoke. And fall in Seattle with Mac—it doesn’t get any closer to perfection, at least not in this lifetime. Before I even notice it, I forget all the weirdness and my misgivings and I’m walking around in that haze of stunned gratitude and self-absorption that envelops you when you’re absolutely crackers over someone.

  We do all the same things we did last year, but the world seems to be playing in Technicolor instead of black and white. When he touches my arm to point out a golden eagle at Discovery Park, I shudder lightly with desire. Long walks along the waterfront—yes, it rains and we get soaked, but so what? We go home and warm up in bed. Bargain movie matinees, cheapie concerts and films at the University of Washington, cruising used-book bookstores.

  We hit every ice-cream place in town, conducting our own taste tests. We jog along the waterfront. We ride the ferries to Bainbridge, Vashon, Bremerton. The destination never matters; the object is simply to be on the water.

  Sometimes we take long drives while I give him shit about emissions standards for trucks. In spite of pollution guilt, I secretly love riding in the Elky. No matter where we go, somebody wants to strike up a conversation about it, what year it is, whether it’s a 454 or Turbo Jet 400. Mac isn’t really a gearhead, though. His feelings about vehicles are limited to a certain loyalty to the Elky, almost the way he might feel about an old, favorite horse.

  At Snoqualmie Falls early one Sunday morning, we stand silent on the observation deck watching the water plunge over the cliff and thunder into the gorge below. We splurge on overpriced pancakes in the rustic
-chic Salish Lodge, and sit there for an hour after we’re through, arguing about the Mariners and the Dodgers. We hike the trails on the flanks of Mount Rainier to stare at the changing leaves, wander mutely through the green cathedrals of rain forest on the Olympic Peninsula.

  We eat hamburgers on the deck at Green Lake Jake’s, watching the skaters and cyclists and families with kids and dogs congregate around Green Lake in the cool, sunny afternoons. Sometimes there’s a steel-drum band playing over by the bathhouse and it feels like we’re on vacation. We hold hands and stare at each other and drink beer and it’s almost possible to forget that winter’s early darkness is coming on.

  Because the bakery doesn’t sell bread on Sunday or Monday, I’m off on Saturday and Sunday nights. I go to Bailey’s, hang out there reading books and drinking wine. Then, after closing, sometimes Kenny’s wife, Roz, comes over, sometimes CM shows up, and we all go out for pizza or Thai food or Chinese noodles at one or the other of the late-night places.

  Mac and Kenny know most of the other bartenders, so they always send us a bottle of wine or comp a round of drinks, and we eat great food and laugh and talk until they throw us out. Then I go home with Mac and we make love, or sometimes, if we’re too tired, we just fall asleep spooned up together. When I open my eyes in the gray half-light, we’re already a tangle of arms and legs and soft, faded blankets.

  CM finally says, “Why don’t you just give him a key?,” so I do, and when she’s out of town, he stays at our place, going to sleep after I leave for work at eleven. In the morning when I get home, he might be drinking coffee by the window or propped up in bed reading. Or he might be asleep, only waking up when I come in. I undress, slip under the comforter next to him, and the bed is warm from his heat and it smells of him, like the woods, and the very first touch of his skin on mine steals my breath away, like jumping into icy water.

  He always holds me till I fall asleep, and he leaves so quietly that I never know. I just wake up at three and he’s gone. I like that—not having to watch him leave.

  When Linda announces her retirement, it’s cause for ecstatic rejoicing at the Queen Street Bakery. However, even before the exclamations of glee fade into silence, Ellen and I look at each other and tacitly acknowledge that whatever personal feelings we may have about her, the fact is, she’s a warm body. One who knows how to make bread. One who hasn’t missed but about a half dozen shifts in the last twenty years. One who’s going to have to be replaced.

  “Are we going to have a retirement party?”

  It’s four P.M. and the bakery is officially closed, the shades on the front windows and doors pulled down. I’m sitting cross-legged on top of one of the café tables while Ellen tallies up the day’s receipts.

  “I don’t see how we can get out of it,” she says. “We have to at least offer. She’s been here so long.”

  “Good luck getting anyone to come.”

  “We’ll have it right after her shift, so the morning people will be here. It doesn’t need to be elaborate, just some soft drinks, coffee, tea, a cake.”

  “I can’t picture her retired. She won’t have anybody to harass. What’s she going to do?”

  “She told me she was going to go stay with her sister for a while.”

  “She has a sister?”

  “Somewhere in Idaho. Sandpoint or something.”

  “How nice. Maybe she’ll meet an attractive bull moose and set up housekeeping.”

  Ellen guffaws in spite of herself. “Meanwhile…” She tips back the dregs of her last espresso. “I guess we need to get an ad ready for the Sunday classifieds. I think the deadline is Thursday morning at ten.”

  “When’s her last day?”

  “Two weeks from yesterday, whatever that is.”

  “Doesn’t give us much time.”

  “You know…” She looks at me speculatively. “We don’t have tons of cash right now. It would be really nice if we could save some of the money that would normally go to Linda’s salary. How would you feel about taking on an apprentice? Can you teach somebody and make bread, too?”

  “I guess. Worst-case scenario is if it doesn’t work, we find somebody with experience.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Tyler it’s okay with you.”

  I do a double take. “What?”

  Ellen looks embarrassed and pleading at the same time. “She wants to try it. She actually came to me and asked if she could learn ‘the bread thing.’”

  I close my eyes.

  “You don’t have to agree.” She sighs. “But it would be the perfect solution.”

  “I don’t know, Ellen. Bread making is—”

  “I mean, it gets her out of direct conflict with Maggie. She already works here, so she knows how we operate and where everything is…”

  “I’m afraid she’ll get bored.”

  “She’s already bored. She needs something new to distract her.”

  “It’s hard work, and doesn’t she like to do the club scene at night?”

  “I think she really looks up to you.”

  “That’s because I’m eight inches taller than she is.”

  “No, really, she does. Can’t you just give her a try? If we don’t do something, I don’t think she’ll be with us much longer.”

  While the idea of an apprentice was one thing, the reality is something else. I’ve never actually had an assistant before. As for training, well, I did teach high school, but that was my job. I wasn’t trying to do a job plus on the side teach somebody else how to do it. Now I have to take the time to explain things and answer questions for Tyler, who has no experience with bread and clearly has other things on her mind. Every time I look up, she’s either staring off into space, probably spinning baroque revenge fantasies about Maggie, or she’s gazing at me with this wide-eyed, what-do-we-do-now eagerness. It’s hard to say which is more irritating. She’s also decided it’s cool to call me “boss” and nothing I say will dissuade her.

  One night in her second week on the job, she comes in right behind me and goes straight to the bathroom. At first I’m too busy getting dough out of the cooler to think about it, but after a few minutes I realize she’s still in there. I go out and knock on the door.

  “Tyler? You okay?”

  “Be right there, Boss.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Nope.”

  Then my nose catches the distinctively cloying smell of marijuana. “Tyler, open the door, right now.” I hear the toilet flush and then the faucet running.

  She opens the door, but avoids looking at me.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I threw it away.” Her voice is squeaky, like a cartoon mouse. “I didn’t take any. Not even one little toke. Want to smell my breath?”

  “Not particularly.”

  She mumbles a half-assed apology, runs a nervous hand through the blue spikes.

  “I don’t care what you do on your own time, but we’re not paying you to get high and stare into the ozone. How do you expect to learn anything about making bread when you’re stoned? Not to mention the fact that we’re working with hot ovens and sharp knives. It’s dangerous.”

  Her mouth draws into a thin, tight line. “I said I’m sorry. What else d’you want me to do—put a broom up my ass and sweep the floor?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek while I fantasize about swatting her skinny butt with the wooden bread peel. “I didn’t ask for you, you know. I wanted to hire a professional. You’re the one who said you wanted to learn to bake bread. Or was that a lie, too?”

  She’s staring down, seemingly fascinated by her black Doc Martens. A shiny round spot appears on one of the toes. Then one on the floor. It takes me a few seconds to realize that they’re tears.

  “Tyler…” I stop short of apologizing, but I feel like a monster. God, why can’t I just work alone? “Tell me one thing, okay? What do you want?”

  She swipes a hand across her eyes and chokes out, “What?”


  “I want you to tell me what you’d like to do. Do you want to work at the bakery at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know it’s not easy being on the night shift, it sort of puts a crimp in your social life—”

  She makes a funny little sputtering noise. “What social life?”

  “Would you rather work days?” I know I’m a terrible person, but I’m hoping she says yes.

  “No.” She swallows a couple of times, and finally looks directly at me. “I want to make bread. Like you.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “Then we’re going to have to come to an understanding of how things are going to be. I can’t work with someone I have to baby-sit.”

  She slinks behind me, back to the work area.

  “Here.” I hand her the dough-encrusted hook from the floor mixer. “Clean that off—”

  “I’m sick of cleaning shit off,” she says. “I want to make bread. I’m not stupid. How would you like to make espresso and put muffins on plates for eight hours a day? Just give me a chance. Let me do something besides clean the frigging dough hook and measure the flour. A monkey could do that.”

  “You probably don’t want to hear this, but when I was your age, I worked in a boulangerie one summer, and you know what they let me do? Wash the equipment. Weigh ingredients. Put the bread out on the shelves. And watch the bakers. Towards the end I got a bucket of dough to practice kneading and shaping, and then Jean-Marc would bake my loaves off and point out to me all the ways they were inferior. The whole summer I was there, I never laid a finger on any dough that was destined to be sold as bread.”

  For a minute she’s quiet. “So you mean I can’t do anything but watch you for three months?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you still have to do your part of the prep and cleanup. And you have to do what I ask you to do.” I attempt a persuasive smile. “Me boss, you apprentice.”

  She looks at the ceiling. “Does that mean I have to laugh at your jokes?”