left him, he never publicly acknowledged paternity. Doral—Anne bounced from waitressing job to waitressing job. Then a year ago, Starbucks opened in our tiny little town, and Doral—Anne was hired as manager. From the way she acts, Starbucks has found the cure for cancer, AIDS and the common cold.
Speak of the devil. Doral—Anne appears in the doorway, broom in hand. Seeing me standing across the street, she shoves the broom behind her, the ropy muscles of her thin arms snaking and lean. “What’s up, Lang?” she calls, the edge in her voice carrying easily across the quiet street.
“Hi, Doral—Anne,” I answer. “How’s it going?” Then I bite my tongue, wishing I hadn’t asked.
“It’s great! Business is booming. I guess you know that, since so many of your customers come here now. Guess your fancy cooking school didn’t help so much after all. Welp, see ya!” She flips back her lank, overly long bangs and goes back inside.
Gritting my teeth, I chastise myself for giving her the opening. I need to get back to the bakery, anyway. My internal timer says there are only five minutes till perfection.
As always, the smell of bread comforts me, not that Doral—Anne did any real damage…she’s nasty, that’s all. The comforting murmur of the Black Widows communing with the dead floats into the kitchen, though I can’t make out actual words. I open the oven door. Ah. Five dozen loaves of Italian, baked to hot, golden perfection. “Hello, little ones,” I say. Flipping them off the sheets so they won’t overcook on the bottom, I leave them to cool, then head for the proofer, the glass warming cupboard where the loaves rise before going into the oven. This batch contains a dozen loaves of pumpernickel for a German restaurant in Providence, some sourdough for a fusion place, and three dozen loaves of French for the local customers who just love my bread (as well they should). I set the temperature a little higher, since our oven tends to lose oomph around this time of day, then take a warm loaf of Italian and just hold it, savoring the warmth, the rub of the cornmeal that coats the bottom, the crisp and flaky crust.
It occurs to me that I’m cradling the warm loaf as one would hold an infant. Really need to get cracking on that new husband.eCommitment has yielded nothing so far, so I may need to try another venue. But first, lunch. I’m starving.
Putting the loaf gently in the slicer, I press the button, still as charmed by the machine as I was as a child, then open the fridge to see what offerings it holds. Tuna salad, no celery…perfect. I pop two slices of the fresh bread into the toaster, then open a bottle of coffee milk and wait.
While I love the bakery and love working with my aunts, I can’t help wishing Bunny’s was different. More tables, more refined pastries than just danish and doughnuts. If we sold biscotti, for example. (“Biscotti? That’s Italian,” my aunts said the last time I broached the subject. “We’re not the Italians.”) If we sold cakes by the slice—not Rose’s wedding cakes, but the kind that people might actually like to eat. Coconut lime, for example. Sour cream pecan. Chocolate with mocha frosting and a hazelnut filling. If we sold coffee and cappuccino, even, heaven protect us, lattes.
“Lucy, honey, can you get Grinelda some more coffee?” Aunt Rose calls.
“Sure,” I answer. My toast is still browning. I grab the pot and sugar bowl and, heading into the front, note that my mother is wiping her eyes. “How’s Dad?” I can’t help asking.
“He thinks Emma is just beautiful,” Mom answers. “It’s amazing, Grinelda. You have such a gift.”
“Such a gift,” I murmur with a dubious glance at the gypsy, who is chewing on another cookie. An eleven—by—seventeen—inch piece of paper is taped to Bunny’s front door…the door through which Grinelda entered. Daisy Is A Grandmother!!! the sign says, right above the picture of my niece. Emma Jane Duvall, September 8, 7 lbs. 3 oz.
The readings are over. My aunts wander back to the kitchen to get a box for Grinelda’s loot as my mother fills the medium in on Corinne’s nursing issues. As I pour Grinelda some more coffee, she cuts her pale blue eyes to me.
“I have a message for you, too,” she says, a chunk of sugar cookie falling from her mouth onto her sequined lap.
“That’s okay, Grinelda. I’m fine,” I answer.
“He wants you to check the toast. Your husband.” She pops the fallen cookie bit back into her mouth and regards me impassively. My mother quivers with attention.
“Lucy! Your toast is about to burn back here, honey!” Iris calls.
Mom’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Oh. My. God!”
“Thanks, Iris,” I call.
“What else?” my mother breathes, reaching out to clutch Grinelda’s age—spotted hand.
“Check the toast. That’s his message,” she says, taking a slurp of coffee.
“Got it. Thanks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Jimmy! My sandwich would’ve been ruined without your divine intervention.”
“A cynic. That’s what she is,” Rose says, hurrying to pat Grinelda’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.” Rose looks outside. Across the street, the chrysanthemums planted around the statue of James Mackerly glow with good health. “Oh, my word,” she whispers. “Yellow flowers next to red! Oh, Larry!”
I RACE FOR SECOND, SLIDE AT THE LAST second, and bang! I’m in.
“Safe!” calls Sal, the umpire at second.
My teammates cheer. “Of course I’m safe, Ethan,” I say to my brother—in—law, who missed the tag. “You’re no match for my incredible speed.”
“Apparently not,” he murmurs, a smile curling up the corners of his mouth. Something tugs in my stomach, and I look over at third base. May need to steal that, too.
“Nice try, Ethan!” Ash calls from the stands.
“Thanks, Ash!” he says, tossing her a little salute. She blushes so fiercely we can practically feel the heat. Poor Ash…she really needs friends her own age.
Just about every able—bodied adult under the age of seventy plays on the Mackerly Softball League, and every one of the six downtown businesses sponsors a team. So does International Food Products, Ethan’s company, the team Bunny’s Bakery is playing tonight.
Not only am I the organizer of our little baseball club, spending hours and hours each winter on team assignments, scheduling, equipment maintenance and so on, but I’m one of the league’s best players, I’m proud to say. My batting average this year is .513. (Crazy, I know!). As pitcher, I lead the league in strikeouts, and I have more stolen bases than all my teammates combined. It’s fair to say I absolutely love playing softball.
Ellen Ripling is up and takes a strike. She hasn’t been on base since June 22, and given that it’s now mid—September, my hopes are not high that she’ll get me to third. However, it’s 4-1 Bunny’s, and it’s the bottom of the eighth. I watch and bide my time. Ball two. I glance at Ethan, who’s smart enough to stand close to the base in case I bolt. “How’s your new job?” I ask. Aside from a few chance meetings in the lobby of our building, Ethan and I haven’t really talked since he moved back to Mackerly permanently.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Lots of meetings.”
“You
