Friendship Bread (14 page)

It was enough to make Mark grimace, and he had a pretty tough constitution. Julia had laughed, tossing the burrito into the trash. She collapsed onto the bed, which, he noticed, was perfectly made. He flopped down next to her and slipped his hand under her shirt, feeling her flat stomach warm beneath his palm. “I’d like to find a way to repay you, but it might require messing up these nice hospital corners that you did.”

Julia had giggled, then stretched herself out on the bed, beckoning him. “Go for it,” she said. So he did.

Mark loves Julia’s body, the smattering of freckles across her nose, her fair skin that burns no matter how much sunblock she slathers on. He loves how she’s up for almost anything, how can she do whatever she sets her mind to. He remembers the year she wanted to go camping, when Josh was eight. She bought all the gear—the tent, the sleeping bags, air mattresses, a camping stove, folding table and chairs, a portable toilet, rain gear, fishing gear, a hammock. She had a full-on medical kit for any potential camping-related mishap for Josh or anyone else at the campsite. They had new backpacks, fancy waterproof flashlights, a crank radio.

Then Julia sprained her ankle. They’d been at the Johnson-Sauk Trail State Park for all of five minutes when Julia tripped over a tree root in the parking lot and went down. They went to the ER, got her ankle X-rayed and wrapped, then drove home. Mark went to the pharmacy for some prescription Tylenol and when he got back, Julia and Josh had somehow managed to pitch the tent in the backyard along with the rest of the gear. Julia stood over the cookstove cracking eggs into the cast-iron skillet while Josh swung in the hammock, happily reading a comic book.

He loves Julia, he loves Julia, he loves Julia
. Even with everything that’s happened—the closing off, the withdrawal, the distance—he loves Julia. But he’s coming to realize that he loves his life, too, and he’s ready to move forward, even if Julia is not.

The box sits in the center of his desk, a silent beacon.

Mark busies himself checking his voice mail, taking more time than is necessary to jot down the details of each message, listening to
a couple of them twice even though they’re of no consequence. He powers on his computer, waits to see if there are any important emails. There aren’t. When he finishes straightening his desk and shuffling plans around in his vertical filing cabinet, he finally turns his attention to the light blue box in front of him.

His name is written on the envelope in Vivian’s precise script. The notepaper is thick and crisp, embossed with her initials. A light fragrance tickles his nose and he recognizes her perfume.

Victor, Mark, and Vivian met with Bruno Lemelin shortly after the dinner at Roux, and then worked around the clock to get a proposal to him for his new restaurant concept in the city. He awarded them the project two days ago, and Mark has been on a high ever since. A frenzied high, because Lemelin is every bit the demanding client that Mark has heard about, with no sense of boundaries or office hours, calling Mark at any time during the day or night to add a comment or change his mind. Mark knows the next few months will be all late nights and caffeine, but he doesn’t mind—in fact, he welcomes it. It’s worth it. It could change a lot of things. It could change everything.

Despite his elation, he hasn’t said anything to Julia. She’s been out of the loop with the business since Josh’s death. Understandably so, of course—look how long it’s taken Mark to get back into the swing of things. Julia hasn’t lost her capability, but considers everything overwhelming or unnecessary. Julia will do the bare minimum if she can get away with it.

One of the grief counselors, a woman who wore Birkenstocks and flowing dresses, had gently suggested that maybe Julia wasn’t doing
more because she didn’t have to—Mark was stepping up before Julia had the chance. “If someone loses an arm, they feel helpless until they realize they can use their other arm,” the counselor had told him. Mark had just stared at her—he hated metaphors. “If left to her own devices, Julia might help herself,” the woman clarified.

Maybe, but “might” is not a powerful enough word for Mark. Julia might—but she also might not. It seemed like a small thing at first, something any loving husband would do to help his wife. Pick up the slack wherever he can, to try and make it all better.

But now Mark is wondering if maybe that hippie counselor was right, that he’s painted himself into a corner with no way out. It’s become their routine, their dynamic, and he wants to change it. But how?

Strangely enough it isn’t Julia’s reaction that Mark fears, but her lack of it. He can’t bear her possible apathy about the Lemelin news. He doesn’t want to think of what he might feel—or do—in the face of this indifference.

The box sits there, patient. Mark decides to open it.

The white satin ribbon falls away easily. He lifts the lid off the box and sees a soft pouch inside. He reaches inside the pouch and his fingers touch something cool, hard. He pulls out a stately sterling silver compass.

His initials are engraved on the inner lid. The rim of the compass is stamped with
925 T&CO 1837
. He doesn’t know the cost but it has to be worth a few hundred dollars. Either way it’s by far one of the most elegant and expensive gifts he’s ever received in his life. He wonders how Vivian had time to do this for him with everything else they have going on.

There’s a knock on his door and he gives a start. His secretary, fifty-four-year-old Dorothy Clements, sails in.

“Good morning,” she says briskly, her eyes trained on her notebook, not bothering to give him any eye contact. Dorothy is fixed in that way, always with her checklists, always wanting to make sure she doesn’t overlook a single thing. She makes it her business to know
everyone else’s business, which was invaluable when Mark was here in body but not spirit. She kept him in the loop, the real loop, of what was going on while he did little more than show up and sign paychecks.

It hasn’t escaped Mark’s attention that Dorothy has failed to comment on the gift on his desk, that she doesn’t show the least bit of interest in wanting to know more. “Victor called early this morning to say that things are going well and he sends his best. He also wants to know if you’ve had a chance to talk to Ted Morrow who’s heading up the development of that new housing project over in Edison. Says Ted gave a well-received presentation on green modular architecture that was posted on YouTube.”

Modular architecture? Please. Mark isn’t a snob, but at the same time he’s always craved to be a bit more cutting edge and modular/prefabricated housing somehow doesn’t fit the bill. But Bruno Lemelin’s project does.

Mark notices a smudge on the sterling silver surface of the compass. He uses the felted pouch to buff it clean, careful not to press too hard. “Okay, I’ll give him a call.”

“Victor says he’d talk to him but Ted wants to get in touch with you, hear your ideas.” Dorothy pretends to be writing something in her notebook as Mark admires the compass. “If you’re not going to follow up with Ted, you should tell Victor.”

“Uh-huh.” He gives a slight nod.

She clears her throat. “Because if you’re not going to, a courtesy heads-up would be nice.”

Mark looks up, annoyed. “Dorothy, I
am
going to follow up with Ted.”

She gives him a pointed look. “When? It’s been two weeks.”

“Well, it’s been a busy two weeks, in case you haven’t noticed.” He gives her a pointed look back, enjoying the banter. It used to be like this, didn’t it? He’s missed it. “Anyway, I want to talk to Victor first but I can’t get the whole time difference thing figured out.”

“Turkey is seven hours ahead.”

“Got it.”

Dorothy goes on to tell him a few more things, and suggests a simple office party tomorrow to celebrate the Lemelin deal—champagne, cake, movie tickets, that sort of thing. Mark agrees. It’s a great idea.

Dorothy lingers by the door. “Oh, and Vivian went home sick today. Stomach flu.” The look on her face is inscrutable. Or is Mark just reading into things?

She leaves and Mark is immediately on the phone, dialing Vivian’s number. She was a key team member in landing the Lemelin project, and it doesn’t make sense to have a party if she can’t be there to celebrate with them.

She answers her phone on the third ring, her voice drawn. “Hi,” she says weakly.

“Hi.” Mark clears his throat, his mind emptying of whatever it was he was supposed to say. “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly? Like hell. I must have caught a bug.”

“I’m sorry.” He’s genuinely sympathetic. Vivian seems so tough, it’s strange to hear her so down.

“It happens. I’ll get over it.”

She’s tough, just like he said.

“Can I get you anything?” The offer comes out before he has a chance to think twice and he’s relieved when she says no.

Then she asks, “Did you get my gift? I dropped it off late last night.”

Mark’s eyes fall on the compass. The red-tipped orienting needle is over the E so Mark turns the compass until the needle lines up with the N. He tries to ignore the niggling memory of Julia learning to read a compass before that camping attempt a few years back. He couldn’t get her to stop saying “left” or “right,” which of course always changed depending on your location. Cardinal points, however—north, south, east, and west—are constant no matter what direction you face. “I did, and you shouldn’t have. It wasn’t necessary.”

“I know it wasn’t necessary, but I saw it and I instantly thought of you. It suits you, I think.”

He tries for a joke. “You mean in case I ever get lost in the wilderness?”

Vivian’s voice is strained but serious. “In case you ever need any direction.”

There’s an awkward silence. Mark hurries to fill the empty space. “So Dorothy and I were thinking about finding a good time to have a little champagne and cake with the team, hand out some movie tickets or something. But I want to wait until you’re feeling up to it and back at work.”

“That’s so sweet,” she says.

“Well, it’s true. I couldn’t have done it without you.” He needs to stop talking. Why did he say that?

“I’m hoping this is just a twenty-four-hour thing,” Vivian says. “Maybe plan it for the day after tomorrow, just in case?”

“The day after tomorrow.” He repeats the words slowly, writes them on a piece of paper. “Okay. Great. Take care and get some rest, Vivian.”

“Mark …” Vivian is sighing now, sounding so tired, sounding almost exactly like Julia used to. “There actually is something you can get me, since you offered.”

Damn
. He wants to hang up, and at the same time, he wants to know what she needs.

“Some sparkling water with lemon, maybe? Or a loaf of French bread? I’d love something simple to settle my stomach. I’d get it myself but I don’t trust myself to drive. If you can’t do it, I completely understand …”

Mark is trying to think of alternatives but nothing comes to mind. Fine. “No, no, it’s not a problem,” he assures her. He can grab what she needs, drop them off, and be back on the road in ten minutes or less. He won’t let himself be drawn into a conversation or get a tour of her place even though he’s admittedly curious. Where does a woman like Vivian live?

She gives him directions and he tells her he’ll stop by briefly after work. He emphasizes the word
briefly
.

“Of course,” Vivian says. “And if I’m resting, I may not come to the door. Is that all right? Just knock and if there’s no answer, you can leave it on my doorstep. I really appreciate this, Mark.”

They hang up and Mark lets out a sigh of relief, and then a chuckle. He’s acting like an idiot. Vivian isn’t interested in him—he’s too old for her, for starters, and he’s married. Vivian’s met Julia before, hasn’t she? He frowns, trying to remember. Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. Vivian is a professional, a single woman with the time and energy to build relationships with her peers and superiors. It’s why she’s so good at what she does, why their clients love her.

The phone starts ringing and an associate is waiting to talk to him. Mark gratefully turns his attention to his work, eager to get back into the rhythm of things, the rhythm of his life.

The kitchen is a mess. Flour is everywhere, the sink filled with pans needing to be washed. The air is warm and sweet. Four loaves of Amish Friendship Bread are cooling on the racks, and two more loaves are in the oven.

It’s chaotic, but wonderful.

Gracie is barefoot, and there are little footprints in the fine dusting of flour on the floor. She really wanted an apron like Julia’s, but Julia only has one and it’s far too big for Gracie. Instead, Julia fastens something together from a dishtowel and ribbon, with help from a stapler, a quick and easy solution that delights Gracie to no end. Julia even feels a little proud of herself.

The bags of starter are quickly starting to get ahead of them. Gracie brought another three bags to school last week, and this week planned on bringing more. But apparently some of the other children had the same idea. There are now over twenty bags of Amish Friendship Bread starter in the little Montessori schoolhouse. The other children were clearly instructed by their mothers
not
to bring home any more starter, so Gracie brought hers back, disappointed.

So now they’re baking.

Feeding four bags over the next week is going to result in sixteen
new bags. Julia’s made the executive decision to use what she can now to cut back on what will become an unwieldy amount of starter in the days to come. She’s reserved one bag because she’s grown quite fond of having the starter and a regular schedule for baking.

She’ll give a few loaves to Mark to share with the office, and she’ll pass some around to the neighbors. Next week they’ll be back down to their three bags of starter to gift to some lucky person, and things will be back to normal.