Friendship Bread (15 page)

Julia is trading recipes with Madeline, and Hannah is scouring the Internet for more variations. She talks on the phone with them daily, conversations Julia enjoys and even looks forward to. Yesterday Madeline suggested that the three women get together at least once every ten days, their visits corresponding with the days they’re due to split their starters and bake, which happens to be today. They’ll meet after the tea salon is closed. Mark has agreed to come home early and watch Gracie. And Julia is actually looking forward to going out.

The sun is streaming into the kitchen. Oh, she really doesn’t want to wash all these dishes! She’d rather do something else instead. She sees Gracie hopping from one foot to the other, and reaches over to turn on the radio.

An old Crosby, Stills and Nash song is playing and even though Gracie doesn’t know it, she starts dancing and waving her little arms in the air.

Julia laughs, watching her daughter. Gracie is trying to sing, making up words one beat behind the song, and Julia feels her heart swell almost to the point of aching. Still, she can’t stop laughing, can’t stop smiling. She feels happy.
Happy
. If she doesn’t think about anything else, just keeps her attention on this one flour-covered, “Too Much Love to Hide” moment, Julia is happy. She’s laughed with Gracie before, and lately with Hannah and Madeline, but there was always something tight about it. Clenched. Now Julia feels as if something has just cracked open.

She puts her arms up, too, and starts to dance.

• • •

Mark walks up the steps to Vivian’s apartment. It’s a nice condo in a development right outside of town, more urban and hip than the older family homes in Avalon. He has the bread and the Perrier, even though the woman in the store didn’t recommend carbonated drinks for someone with stomach flu. She suggested apple juice, so he got that. Then he remembered that Gracie had a bout of stomach flu last year. Bananas, applesauce, and saltine crackers were her best friend. He got those things as well.

He’s decided that he’s not going to knock on the door, but leave the bag on her doorstep and then give her a call to let her know it’s there. It’s stupid that he’s even doing this, but then he tells himself that if Victor were sick, he’d do the same thing. Dorothy, too. It’s really not that different.

The door opens just as he gets to the top of the stairs and there’s Vivian, modestly dressed in a silk bathrobe with unexpectedly endearing fuzzy slippers on her feet. Her hair is twisted up and clipped to the top of her head, casual and a little messy—even sick she still looks good. She does look pale, though, and despite the smile on her face, Mark can tell she feels lousy.

“I thought it might be you. Didn’t want you to escape without saying thanks.”

“Oh.” Mark isn’t sure if he should hand her the bag. It’s pretty heavy with all the drinks. “Should I put this somewhere?”

“Please.” Vivian steps aside, and Mark walks into her home.

He’s immediately struck by how clean and organized everything is. Just like Vivian. Her place is well decorated (no surprise there) and he can tell that every design decision has been well thought out. There’s a green chenille blanket on the couch where she was obviously lying, and he can see the imprint of her body against the cushions. He quickly looks away.

This is a huge contrast to his own home, which is scattered with Gracie’s toys and mismatched furniture in various stages of decline. The plan had always been to buy a new living room set and paint the walls, but for reasons that are now quite obvious, it never happened.

Mark knows his home is the antithesis of his career, which is all
about marrying beauty and function to create shelter. He knows there are jokes out there about what architects do—and don’t do—and while he doesn’t wear black turtlenecks and trendy glasses (he’s been gifted with 20/20 vision), he does consider himself the genuine article. He’s just forgotten this for the past few years.

He puts the bag of groceries on the granite countertop. He’s struck by her open-plan kitchen, which has classic shaker styling with a sleek minimalist twist. The walnut keeps it warm and homey but the stainless-steel appliances keep it state of the art. He lifts his head and finds himself staring at an elaborate branched pendant lamp hanging from the ceiling.

“It’s got twenty-four lights,” Vivian informs him, peeking into the bag and pulling out the bottle of Perrier. “I actually ordered it for the McAllister renovation, and Mrs. McAllister nixed it. I called the supplier, and he offered it to me at cost. Didn’t want to deal with restocking it.”

“Ah. So you got into the business so you could design your house on the sly?”

“I won’t lie. Home accents and fixtures are to me what shoes are to other women.” Vivian gets two glasses. “What about Julia? Is she a shoe person?” She pours some Perrier into the glasses and offers one to him.

Vivian was hired a couple of years after Josh’s death, and he knows she’s heard the story from someone in the office. He’s never discussed it with anyone from work save Dorothy and Victor, and he doesn’t want to start now. Somehow Vivian’s seemingly innocent question about Julia puts him on the defensive. And then he remembers—he was supposed to be home early to watch Gracie so Julia can go out. He was shocked at the request and readily agreed, not even bothering to ask where she would be going. And now he’s late.

Mark declines the drink. “Thanks, but I have to go. Feel better soon, okay? And thank you again for the gift. It was really generous and you didn’t have to do that.” The words spill out quickly as he makes his way to the front door.

“I know, you already said that,” Vivian says in a teasing voice, following
him. “I wanted to do it, okay?” She tilts her head and gives him a smile, resting a hand on his arm.

Mark feels a jolt of adrenaline shoot through his body. He turns quickly so that her hand slips off without it seeming like an intentional thing, and edges closer to the door. Why did he come in? He wishes he hadn’t come in. “Okay. I’m just saying it wasn’t necessary. It was really thoughtful and it means a lot that you were thinking of me and …”

“God!” Vivian gives a small laugh, shaking her head in charmed disbelief. “It’s not an engagement ring, Mark—it’s just a compass, okay? We don’t have to talk about this anymore. But, for the record,
again
, you are welcome.”

He gives her a sheepish look, embarrassed over his behavior. “Okay.” He pulls open the front door.

Vivian hits the side of her head with the palm of her hand. “I almost forgot. I have season tickets for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Do you want to catch a performance sometime? I get access to all their post-concert receptions …”

“Vivian.” Any fogginess he’s had before suddenly clears up. He feels oddly grateful that she’s done this, because now he can set the record straight. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I think you’re terrific and an asset to G&E, but it’s not appropriate for me to be doing things with you outside of the office. My wife …”

“Your wife doesn’t care.” Vivian says this evenly, her eyes trained on his.

He’s shocked by her boldness. “My wife
does
care,” Mark says vehemently. He leaves, not bothering to close the door on his way out.

“You’re late.” Julia is angry, her anxiety for the past hour giving way to fury. “I told you I had somewhere to be at five o’clock. It’s almost six.” She rummages in her bag, looking for something.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Mark looks guilty as she checks the time again, frustrated.

“God! I was all ready to go and now … where are my keys? Have you seen my keys?” She just had them but now she can’t find them.
Julia dumps the contents of her bag onto the hallway table. Her eyes search through miscellaneous pens, mints, scraps of paper, loose change, wet wipes, tampons, Band-Aids, rubber bands, sunglasses, a stray earring, ChapStick, wallet, stamps, safety pins, a couple of hair ties, a roll of Scotch tape, ibuprofen.

“You could have called to remind me,” Mark says lamely. He pushes aside earplugs and a packet of garden seeds in a feeble attempt to help.

Julia’s mouth opens and closes but she doesn’t say anything, not trusting herself to speak. All the good feelings from her day have evaporated. Julia just wants to leave, to get out of this house that has held her prisoner for five years. She never felt that way before, but suddenly staying home is making her crazy.

“Here they are.” She holds up a ring of keys and shoves everything back into her bag. She hefts it onto her shoulder and lets out a breath, willing herself to calm down. She still has a couple hours ahead of her with Madeline and Hannah—it will be okay. The anger drains from her body, leaving her empty and feeling rotten for yelling at Mark. “Sorry. I was just … well, I’m sorry. For overreacting.” She shakes her head. Mark does a lot for her, she knows this and feels equal parts guilt and shame. It’s this constant reminder that makes it so hard for her to stay in the house, to see him so apologetic.

Mark looks surprised, a strange look on his face. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have been late.”

This just makes her feel worse. She can tell that Mark wants to talk more, that somehow this is a segue into a conversation that may be long overdue, but Julia just wants to get going. “Gracie is already bathed.”

Now her husband looks genuinely baffled. True, she probably wouldn’t have done it if Gracie hadn’t been covered with flour and melted chocolate chips, but it was just easier to put her in the tub and get her cleaned up. Gracie smelled so sweet afterward that Julia sat her in her lap and inhaled her.

Now Gracie is watching a video while Mark follows Julia to the door. “So where are you going?”

Julia ignores the question. She doesn’t want to have to explain herself, explain these women. Not yet. “There are a couple of loaves of Amish Friendship Bread for you to take into the office. And there’s one that’s already sliced if you want to have some with Gracie before she goes to bed. Just make sure she brushes her teeth again.”

“Oh. Okay. That was nice of you.” Mark’s politeness throws her off and there is a moment of extreme unease as they stare at each other, standing only inches away. Mark has a hopeful look in his eyes and Julia knows his body language, knows he just might kiss her. But why? They haven’t had sex in a long time—maybe twice in the past five years. They don’t even kiss on the lips anymore. Sure enough, Mark moves toward her but Julia steps back, her heart racing as she feels for the door.

She escapes just as he’s reaching for her and feels nothing but relief as she hurries down the walk toward her car. When she pulls out of the driveway, she sees his shadow in the doorway, watching her.

Hannah is looking forward to seeing Madeline and Julia again. In fact, it’s all she’s been thinking about since the last time they got together ten days ago. It’s the one thing that keeps her grounded, keeps her from obsessing about Philippe and her disintegrating marriage.

Last week Philippe had called and left a message on the machine, saying he wanted to talk about their bank accounts. When Hannah finally found the courage to call him back, a woman answered the phone.

“Who is this?” Hannah had blurted out. There was a muffled silence and then a dial tone.

Hannah had called back, incensed. This time Philippe picked up.

“Hannah!” he’d exclaimed, as if he were happy to hear from her. “How are you?”

She hung up, fuming, tears of disbelief stinging her eyes. When her computer dinged to let her know that she had a new email, Hannah unplugged it from the wall and went into the kitchen.

The kitchen has become her safe haven. It’s not large, which may be why she likes it—there’s no room to get lost and everything is practically within arm’s reach. In Chicago their tiny apartment had an unusually large professional kitchen—the previous owner was a chef—but neither she nor Philippe spent much time there other than to use the microwave. Hannah always felt intimidated by the stainless-steel Sub-Zero, the oversized burners on the Wolf stovetop. In Avalon, the kitchen feels welcoming and unassuming, a place where Hannah can linger as she heats up a pot of tomato soup or makes herself a sandwich.

With the exception of when she was hurt, Hannah’s ritual has always been to play her cello first thing in the morning. But when things started to fall apart with Philippe, Hannah found herself less and less interested in going into the music room to play. She stays in the kitchen, familiarizing herself with every appliance, every spice jar, every utensil. She knows where everything is and can now say, unequivocally, that this kitchen is
hers
.

The best thing was this morning, when she woke up and her thoughts went to Philippe for only a moment before she remembered that this was the day she’d be trying Madeline’s recipe for Amish Friendship Bread brownies. She headed straight to the kitchen in her pajamas, washed her hands, and got to work.

Unlike ten days ago, Hannah now has an inkling of what she’s doing. That’s always the benefit of doing something repetitively—it’s inevitable that you’ll get better at it. Some of the best musicians are the ones with moderate talent who practice incessantly while others who are truly gifted squander their talent by being lazy and ultimately go nowhere. Hannah knows better than anybody that practice makes perfect, and she needs to remember that the same rule applies in the kitchen, too.