Bread Alone (11 page)

When the customer finally left, Jean-Marc embraced Sylvie and shook my hand solemnly. His eyes were so dark I couldn’t tell pupil from iris.
“Bienvenue à Toulouse, Mademoiselle Morrison.
You are ready to learn much, work hard, n’
est-ce pas?”

By the time I met Jean-Marc Guillaume, he was in his thirties, and totally obsessed with bread. He’d been through the arduous
Compagnon Boulanger du Devoir,
the traditional apprenticeship program for French bread bakers. Beginning at age fifteen, he’d worked for seven years in different towns and
départements
of France learning to make the different regional breads in every type of establishment, from a tiny shop in a remote village of the Camargue where a lone baker tended a wood-burning brick oven, to a huge Parisian
boulangerie
with molders and
proofing cabinets and stainless steel ovens watched over by numerous apprentices and
maîtres.
While doing this, he was also required to attend regular school classes one week a month. Sylvie bragged that only a small percentage of those who began the program ever finished. Apparently, to his mother’s consternation, he had yet to show any inclination to marry; his only outside interest seemed to be the Toulouse rugby team, the Stade.

When I finally laid my head on my soft, square pillow that first night, my dreams were full of a French film CM and I saw once, called
La Femme du Boulanger—The Baker’s Wife.

My mother staggers in, loaded down with grocery bags, just as I’m dumping bread dough out of the KitchenAid onto the counter, sending up a little cloud of flour. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I thought you might like to have a little
pain ordinaire
for dinner.”

“That would be lovely.” She beams at me. “Does that mean you’ll be here?”

“Yes, I’ll be here.”

“Where did you go this morning? To work out?”

I sigh. “Actually, I went over to talk to David. Since he hadn’t called.”

A slight frown drives her perfectly shaped eyebrows together. “And?”

I don’t look at her. “He wasn’t there. Already left for work, I guess.”

I’m making a half-hearted attempt at presentability when the doorbell rings at seven o’clock.

I finish smoothing foundation over my nose, pick up the tube of concealer and start to dab it under my eyes. Ridiculous. What difference does it make whether I look polished and pulled together, or like the business end of a wet mop? I dust on some finishing powder, a bit of
blush. I dip the end of my little finger into the pot of clear lip gloss and give my mouth a quick pass. Then I scoop all the bottles and tubes and brushes and boxes into the top drawer and shove it closed.

I step into black rayon slacks and pull on a red knit shirt. The red makes my skin look pale, or maybe it’s the bathroom light. David liked me in tailored clothes. Clean lines. Ralph Lauren for casual, Anne Klein for daytime business, Armani for evening. I don’t remember what I liked me in.

My mother and the Graebels are sitting in the den and I know they’re talking about me because conversation dies when I come bounding in. Georgia gets up to kiss me and Tim hands me a glass of red wine.

“Wyn, the house smells divine,” Georgia says. She’s about the closest thing my mother has to a hippie-chick friend. She’s skinny and still wears her long hair in a braid hanging down her back, even though it’s liberally laced with gray. She’s never discovered makeup, except for pink lipstick, and she wears full skirts that hit her about the ankles. She’s always seemed kind of cheerfully out of it, as if she were perpetually stoned. “Your mom told us you made bread this afternoon. I’m so excited. I love French bread.”

Tim says, “You get prettier every time I see you.” He was a corporate attorney at Andersen Development where my father was finance VP, and I grew up with his and Georgia’s two kids. I remember him as being kind of nerdy, the type who probably carried a briefcase in high school. But then he started dabbling in commercial real estate, retired at forty five, and took up competitive sailing. Now he’s silver-haired, tan year-round, and suddenly women seem to find him very attractive. I’d feel sorry for Georgia, but I don’t think she’s ever noticed. To her, he’s probably still the sweet, geeky guy she fell in love with.

“It’s great to see both of you.”

When my mother goes to check on the
coq au vin,
Georgia turns to me. “We’re so sorry to hear about you and David.”

I have to remind myself to breathe. “Thanks. I was kind of sorry to hear about it myself.”

“I hope he’s being reasonable,” Tim says.

Georgia frowns at him. “Tim, for heaven’s sake …” She pushes some magazines aside, sets her wineglass on the coffee table.

“I just mean, if you need an attorney or any financial advice, I know a lot of good people.”

“I think I’m set, thanks.”

“Do you have any plans?” Georgia asks.

“Nothing concrete.” It gets really quiet. I can hear the two cocker spaniels next door going nuts over some imaginary intruder.

“If there’s anything we can do …” she says.

“I appreciate it. I guess it’s just one of those things you have to wade through.” Finally, my mother calls us to the dining room.

My mother tells the Graebels all about her new job. Georgia talks about her work at Project Literacy. Tim regales us with stories of breaking in his new crew in time for the Trans Pac Race. I nod and smile a lot. We eat
coq au vin
with parsleyed new potatoes, followed by salad and cheese.

“Jo, I always forget how French you like to do everything,” Georgia says with a giggle. “I was thinking you forgot the salad, but we’re doing it the continental way.” I can hardly look up from my plate, but my mother laughs without a trace of embarrassment.

Back to the den with the rest of the wine. I take charge of the music while they reminisce about old times and gossip about people they know. Inevitably, Tim and Georgia start waxing nostalgic and talking about my father.

“Do you think he would’ve stayed with Andersen?” Georgia asks my mother.

She smiles wistfully. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“I think he would’ve gone on his own, don’t you, Wynter?” Tim looks directly into my eyes, and it’s disconcerting.

I shrug and look away. “It’s hard to know what someone would do. People change, I guess.”

“Glenn couldn’t have changed that much. He was a risk taker at heart. He used to say that the most dangerous thing in the world was too much safety.” He leans back in the leather chair that was my father’s favorite, clasps his hands behind his silvery head. “One thing’s for sure, he’d be very proud of you, Wyn.”

That’s when I go out to the kitchen to take care of dessert and coffee.

I’m standing there watching the coffee drip into the pot when Tim announces cheerfully that he’s come to be my assistant. He pushes up the sleeves of his yellow cotton sweater.

While I pour half-and-half in the pitcher, he gets the cups and saucers down from the cupboard. He puts it all on a tray, carries it into the dining room. I cut the
tarte tatin
that my mother labored over and dollop
crème fraîche
on each piece.

“I’ve always been pretty handy in the kitchen,” he says, reappearing. “Do you remember?”

“I remember you as the charcoal king,” I tell him.

He laughs with exaggerated heartiness and then he says, “Wynter, I can’t believe you’re all grown up. I still think of you running around our yard with Jim and Terry like a bunch of little Indians.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re not looking. Little Indians grow up.”

“But they don’t all grow up as lovely as you.” “Thanks.” I take a step toward the dining room.

“Wynter.” I look at him. “I know this is a difficult time for you. I’m sure you’re lonely. I just want you to know that if you ever need anything. A friend. Or advice, or anything at all, I hope you won’t hesitate to call me.” Not
us. Me.
He holds out his card. “I have a little office at Marina del Rey. You can usually reach me there.”

I want to tear it into shreds and stuff it down his throat. “Thanks, Tim. But I’m sure my mom has your home phone.”

Tuesday morning, my mother’s upset because I eat only one piece of French toast. We’re sitting in the kitchen with sun streaming in
through the double windows over the sink. A chorus of lawn mowers and leaf blowers is getting started outside. There’s a dusting of gold pollen on the table from the pink and yellow zinnias in the white porcelain vase.

“You’re not going to catch one of those eating disorders, are you?”

“Mother, you don’t catch an eating disorder.”

“I know, but I mean, it’s a psychological thing from being upset. It’s a control issue, and I know you must be feeling very out of control right now.”

“I’m not feeling out of control, I’m feeling fat. I’ve got a long way to go before anorexia sets in.”

She reaches over to push some hair off my face. “Don’t frown, Wynter. It wrinkles your forehead. You’re certainly not fat. You look wonderful. Tim was mentioning last night how pretty you are.”

I set down my fork. “Tim Graebel is a son of a bitch.”

“Wynter, what is the matter with you?”

“He was hitting on me out in the kitchen while his sweet little wife was sitting in there drinking coffee, totally unsuspecting.”

My mother laughs.

“He was,” I insist. “You should have heard him, telling me he knew how lonely I must be. What a
difficult
time this was for me. How I should call him if I needed a friend.”

She laughs again. “Ah, yes. The old I’ll-help-you-in-the-kitchen routine. What’s so funny is that they all think they’ve invented it.”

I stare at her. “You mean you know? You knew?”

“Wyn, I’ve been single for fifteen years. Quite an amazing number of friends’ husbands have tried that one on me. Including Tim. Make no mistake, Georgia’s not so unsuspecting.”

“What did you do?”

“I laughed at him. I laugh at all of them.” “What does she do?”

“She ignores it, of course.”

I shake my head. “Why do women put up with that bullshit?” “You know, your language has gotten quite vulgar.”

“I can’t believe this. You’re more upset about me using a four-letter word than you are about your friend’s husband making a pass at me. And you.” I wad up my napkin, toss it on the table.

She takes a sip of her coffee and sets the cup back in the saucer with a delicate clink. “Men can’t help themselves, dear. It’s up to women to maintain the standards.”

“Standards aren’t gender specific.”

She picks up my napkin, smoothes out the wrinkles, folds it into a neat triangle. “Wyn, I agree completely. But men really are the weaker sex; they need guidance. And women have either forgotten their moral authority or they’ve become afraid to use it.”

“Mother, please.”

“All right, I won’t bore you with facts. Your mind is obviously closed.” I get up and carry my plate to the sink, rinse it, and load it into the dishwasher while my mother sips her coffee and smiles into the sunlight.

After my mother has gone off to snatch order from the jaws of chaos at Prentiss Culver Wednesday morning, I call Elizabeth Gooden’s office and leave a message with her answering service. Then I sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a cream-cheese-smeared bagel, a notebook, and a pen.

Now I begin to grasp the full scope of my ignorance. For starters, I have no idea what David’s compensation agreement with JMP is. Hey, I just spend it. I know last year he made over $400,000, but I don’t know whether that includes his bonus, stock options, the Mercedes lease, the club membership, or if all that’s on top of the $400,000.

I don’t know what kind of IRA or pension plan he has, although I’m sure there’s something. I know our joint bank account number and how much we usually have in it at any given time. And there’s my bank account for household stuff and walking-around money. But for all I know, he could have other accounts. I don’t know diddly about investments, although I do know our broker. We have a ski condo in Aspen, but that makes me wonder if he’s ever bought other property without
my knowledge. I know he has insurance, but I can’t remember who wrote the policy.

Elizabeth’s office is in a small, Spanish-style building on Ventura Boulevard, in Studio City. The sign on the door says “Gooden, Hedwick, Attorneys-at-Law,” and the office behind it is comfortable, not overly luxe. The Shaker-style couch and chairs are upholstered in blue and white, mid-price reproduction, probably Ethan Allen or something. No endangered mahogany, no glass and chrome.

The only other client in the office is a very pretty, very young Asian woman with red, swollen eyes who sits clutching a handkerchief and staring at the closed door across from her chair. I’ve barely touched down on the couch and opened a magazine when the receptionist calls my name and motions for me to follow her down the hall.