Bread Alone (45 page)

At this point, deflate the dough gently and let it “rest,” covered, for about 30 minutes to relax the gluten. Then, cut in two pieces, shape as for
baguettes,
and place on a heavily floured linen dish towel with folds between each loaf for support. Dust tops with flour, cover with damp towels, and proof (let them rise) for 1½ to 2 hours, or until they increase in size about 1½ times.

Preheat the oven to 450°F and put the teakettle on low about 45 minutes to I hour before baking. When the bread has risen, place the
baguettes
on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or covered with a thin layer of cornmeal. Make several diagonal slashes with a single-edged razor or serrated knife and shape dough into two circles, overlapping the ends and pinching them together. Remember, this is a rustic bread; the shape isn’t supposed to be perfect.

Adjust the oven rack so it is in the center, fill a heavy pan with boiling water from the teakettle, and set it on the lowest shelf or on the oven floor. Bake the bread for ten minutes at 450°F, then lower the temperature to 400°F and bake another 25 to 30 minutes, or until bread sounds hollow when bottom crust is thumped. Turn off the oven, prop the door open slightly, and let bread sit for another 5 minutes. Then remove and cool on racks. Do not cut or break bread until it has completely cooled.

The night is positively balmy, and I find my pace slowing, my thoughts focused on Gary. It wouldn’t kill me to go down there. It obviously means a lot to him. The thought of his note sends a pleasant little frisson of anticipation down my back, and my steps get faster. Yes, that part of it will be fine. Better than fine.

Everything’s always fine when he’s with me. When I’m looking at him, touching him. But when he leaves, that’s fine, too. I don’t miss him. It’s like he’s a convenience, like junk food. Satisfies the craving for something sweet, but without any lasting nutritional value. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? He’s a person, not a Snickers bar.

My oma never told me, “Wyn, good sex can make you stupid.”

It can get you into places where you wouldn’t normally go and probably shouldn’t be. Unfortunately, that’s one of those lessons you have to learn for yourself. Some people are so dense they have to learn it more than once.

Look at David and me. Yes, okay. He liked shopping and classical music. He could balance a checkbook with his eyes closed and he knew the perfect wine to complement mushroom risotto. He had a killer crosscourt backhand.

Of course all that helped. But mostly it was his cobalt-blue contact lenses. The contrast of his sun-bleached hair with his dark eyelashes. It was because he could tie a soda straw in a knot with his tongue, and when he kissed that little fuzzy place in the small of my back, I forgot my own name.

I don’t pretend to know what it was for him. He should have married someone like Kelley to begin with. Someone who not only understood what he was about, but shared the same passion. I blush to recall that night in L.A. when they’d just lost the Hathaway account and I showed up, determined to talk relationships. As much as I’d prefer to think otherwise, Kelley was the one he needed that night. She was the one who knew what had happened, what it meant, how he’d feel about it.

And now here’s Gary. Sweet Gary. Who thinks he wants to take care of me. Make me feel good. He wants me to meet his kids. He wants
to take up where David left off. A different route to the same destination Marin instead of Hancock Park. Same story different setting.

Same shit, different day.
Why did Erica have to go to law school? She was making decent money as a paralegal
She had it all, didn’t she? You can always find another job. You can always make bread at home. He wants me in his life. But it’s
his
life, not mine.

I picture CM, leaning across the table.
Does your life make you happy? Is this what you want to do?

The double wedding ring
couronne
is, in all modesty, a thing of beauty—two interlocking circles of crusty, golden bread. And it smells like heaven. If this doesn’t make CM call me, nothing will. The presentation is another matter. I don’t have a box big enough, so I wrap it carefully in a clean dish towel and carry it over to the bakery.

Ellen and Misha are up to their eyebrows in Mazurka Bars, but they stop to admire my handiwork.

“It’s sort of an engagement present for CM,” I say. “I need something to put it in.”

“You can use one of those display baskets if you promise to bring it back,” Ellen says.

I arrange the towel in the basket and nestle the bread in the center, covering the whole thing with plastic wrap, loosely, so the crust doesn’t soften. Then I pull out the plain white gift card that I bought and stare at it.

“Are you waiting for inspiration to strike?” Misha laughs.

“I just can’t decide what to say.”

“How about ‘Best wishes’ or something?”

Ellen shakes her head. “That sounds like something you’d write to someone you barely know. This is Wyn’s best friend.”

I feel a quick jab of guilt.

“Okay, how about ‘Happiness always’ or ‘To a terrific couple,’ or—” I write “To CM, Love, Wyn” in the middle of the card, then as an afterthought, I scrawl “and Neal” next to her name. We can talk about the happiness and the terrific-couple stuff when she calls me.

Neither of them is home anyway when I take the bread over there.
Maybe it’s best. I leave it with the building manager after making her promise to watch for them and deliver it the second they come home and not set it near any open windows or air vents in the interim. I walk home feeling vaguely depressed and anxious. Like I’ve just delivered my firstborn child into some dubious day care center.

Of course, Gary’s first question is, “Is there someone else?”

“No, there’s nobody else.”

“Wyn, I don’t understand. I thought we had something pretty special going on. Even if you want to call it just sex, where’s the harm in seeing if it turns into something more?” The man is a born negotiator.

“It wasn’t just sex. You were right. I was saying that to protect myself. The harm is that it’s not going to work and the longer we drag it out, the harder it gets to break up.”

“Why are you so sure it isn’t going to work—”

“Because I don’t want it to work.”

“But why?”

“Because we have different priorities. I’m not willing to give mine up again.”

“I’m not asking you to give up anything—”

“You don’t have to ask. It just happens. Like quicksand. I sink into your life and disappear without a trace.”

“Is it such a terrible life?”

“Not at all. It’s just not the life I want.”

“I swear, I don’t understand. If there’s nobody else, why can’t you just be with me until—”

“Until you can change my mind? That’s what would happen, I know. Because I’m weak and because I really like you. You’re very sweet—”

“Geez, the kiss of death.”

“No, it’s not, believe me. Sweet men are a rare and precious commodity. It would be easy to fall right in step with you. And it’s just not where I’m headed.”

He sighs again. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t. And it’s next to impossible to explain. You’re going to have to trust me.” “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” I bite my lip. “It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. We just want different things.”

“Wyn, you sound so confused. Why don’t we talk next week?”

It’s my turn to sigh. “What part of this is giving you trouble?”

I’m not feeling so resolutely, unwaveringly positive that he couldn’t change my mind. Maybe if he said, “I love you and we can work around whatever you want to do.” Or even if he said, “You know, I don’t like being jerked around.” But what he says is, “Katie and Andrew are going to be really disappointed.”

“Gary, I’m going to hang up now. Take care of yourself.”

I send the ticket back. He calls every night for a week, but I don’t answer the phone. Every time the machine picks up, he says, “Wyn, I just want to talk to you. Please pick up if you’re there.” He sounds so miserable that a couple of times I almost do. But the elation of making it this far always gives me the strength to pick up a book instead of the phone.

The calls get farther apart and later at night. The messages on the machine start to include things like he just wants to say hi, see how I’m doing, but I don’t call him back. When he calls the bakery, Linda’s only too happy to tell him that I’m not available.

Voices wake me. Raucous male laughter. I roll over. One-thirty, Saturday afternoon. I sit up and pull on my sweatpants. I can’t see anything through the peephole, so I open the door. A tall, skinny guy wearing a backward baseball cap is standing at the corner of the big house, yelling to a guy on the roof.

I step outside. “Do you mind? I’m trying to sleep.” That old Hancock Park voice still comes in handy once in a while.

He wheels around, stares at me. “Who are you?”

“I’m the tenant, and I’m trying to sleep. Who are you?”

He walks toward me offering what I’m sure he hopes is a charming smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know there was a tenant.” He holds out a card. “Marty Crowley, Arvis Brothers Construction.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Putting together an estimate for a Mr. Keeler. I believe he owns the property.”

“Yes. Well … I’d appreciate it if you put your estimate together without shouting. I work nights and I’m trying to sleep.”

“We’ll be as quiet as we can. Like I said, we didn’t know anyone lived here.”

I go back to bed, but I know I’m not getting any more sleep today. When they’ve left, I get up and pull on some shorts and a rugby shirt, take a glass of apple juice out on the porch. The air is soft and heavy with sunlight. I’ve been meaning to buy a couple of those white plastic chairs that you see everywhere, but not having chairs hasn’t stopped me from spending time out here. In fact, there’s something kind of down-home about sitting on the front steps.

All that’s about to change.

I suppose I need to think about getting some white paint. A lot of white paint, probably. It’s going to take at least two coats to cover up the color on the walls. Maybe some evening when Mr. Keeler’s guests are sitting in front of the woodstove enjoying a glass of wine, my yellow paint will surface through the white overcoat like Lillian Hellman’s pentimento.

I’ll be leaving Doug behind, too. My little Douglas fir. He’s grown nearly a foot since I planted him there. I hope Keeler doesn’t rip him out. They do that here. Trees are so ubiquitous and in your face that people don’t appreciate them. God forbid one should be situated in a slightly inconvenient position, maybe casting some shade on your porch. They bring in Paul Bunyan and clear-cut the place.

I reach over and absently pinch a spent bloom off the ivy geranium. My herbs are showing modest growth, but I know they’re just
revving their engines till they get a few good days of full sun before they pop the clutch and take off. I pull a leaf off the lemon balm and crumple it under my nose. It smells like the lemon-drop candies my oma loved.

Doug’s not the only one who’s rooted here. I feel more at home in this funky little place after eight months than I did in the house where David and I lived for seven years. Maybe because the rest of my life has undergone a seismic shift equivalent to an 8.9 on the Richter scale. So far, I’ve lost David. CM. Gary. Mac. My house is next. What else could possibly happen?

My oma used to say it was tempting fate to ask questions like that.

The new bartender’s name is Shawn. He looks like a very young Kenny—short and squared off, hair the color of wet sand, pretty blue eyes. He has an engaging crooked grin and the kind of swaggering macho that young guys usually affect when they’re scared shitless. He calls all the women “babe” or “sweetheart” no matter how old they are, and his musical knowledge could be held comfortably in a teaspoon with room left over for sugar.

That’s one reason why I don’t go to Bailey’s much anymore.

Kenny’s eyebrows lift when he sees me; a huge grin splits his face. “Hey, lady, where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

I return the smile. “How’s everything?”

He looks down the bar, moving only his eyes, to where Shawn is trying his damnedest to dazzle two very young-looking women. “Well, it ain’t what it used to be, that’s all I’ll say about that. What are you drinking? It’s on the house.”

I laugh. “In that case, I’ll have a glass of your finest red bordeaux.”

He sets a glass down on a napkin. “Château Bathtub for mademoiselle.” He scoops out a dish of peanuts for me. I crack one open and pitch the shell at him. He bats it away.

“Have you talked to Mac?” I keep my voice casual and pay closer attention to the peanut I’m working on.

“Couple of days ago. Thursday, I think. He said to say hi. Told him I would if you ever showed your face again.” He takes wineglasses out of a washer tray and hangs them by their stems in a rack behind the bar.