How to Bake a Perfect Life Read online

  “Okay.”

  I’m frantically wondering as she trails behind me into the upstairs bathroom if there are any pads or only tampons, which would not be the easiest thing for a girl to manage her first time. There are a few supplies in the bathroom, though, and I show her how to use them, then leave her to it. Merlin waits with me. When Katie comes out with clean clothes and an abashed look on her face, I smile.

  “Congratulations,” I say, as my mother said to me. “I have friends who took their daughters to lunch to celebrate this, but I’m guessing you might be more in the category of let’s-keep-it-between-ourselves. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, and I see the wonder in her eyes. “I’m surprised, that’s all, but I guess that makes sense with how I’ve been feeling lately.”

  “How is that?”

  “Grumpy sometimes, for no reason.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, that would be the feeling. Sometimes. Not always. I have to get some work done this afternoon, but you’ll need some better supplies. What if I call Lily and all of us go out to a nice little supper somewhere? Would you like that?”

  Her smile is both shy and winning, and it catches me at the base of my throat. “Can we maybe go to Nosh? Grandma—I mean Lily—took me there for lunch one day.”

  “That’s perfect!”

  “I’ll be upstairs,” she says, and dances away. Merlin stays in the kitchen, staring at me, as if I need to know something.

  “What?” I rub the top of my belly, aware that the sense of doom is still there.

  He shifts, foot to foot, the old kung fu master waiting for me to decipher his brain beam.

  I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  And there on the table is a letter addressed to Lacey Wilson, Katie’s mother. It’s wrong, I know it is, but I open the envelope and read the letter, then fold it up and put it back exactly where it was. If that deadbeat female was anywhere in my realm, I’d strangle her to death right this minute.

  And yet what can I do? Leaving the letter in plain sight on the table, I rub Merlin’s head. “Thanks. Go take care of her. I have to get to work.”

  As I come around the corner of the stairs, into the bakery, Jimmy gives me a weird look and cuts her eyes behind her. “There’s a health inspector here. He’s coming to look at the work the pipe guys did.”

  “Good.” It has taken much longer than it should have, but I would never say that. I walk forward to greet him. He’s a balding man in his fifties, with the harsh mouth so many bureaucrats sport. “Hello.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Ramona Gallagher, the owner.”

  His grip is limp and unfriendly, and I’m suddenly worried. They do sometimes show up to surprise you, to keep things on the up and up, and I’ve had inspections plenty of times. But there’s something sour about him. A no-carb person, I’m betting, one who would find croissants a sin against the belly. “I’ll just have a look around.”

  “Okay. We’ll get to work.” I give Jimmy a meaningful nod and take my clipboard into the storeroom to check off supplies. I’m wondering where the dog and the cat might be; they rarely come in, but they have been known to slip by the doors. I once found Milo crouched under the dishwasher, a dead mouse at his feet. When I came into the kitchen, he sauntered away, plainly pleased with himself.

  For obvious reasons, animals and professional kitchens don’t mix.

  I take a breath, write down an order number. He’s here to check the pipe work. I’ve kept up with everything I am supposed to do, and we’ve had inspectors all along the way; there is nothing wrong with my kitchen. I would put money on it.

  He combs through the front and then comes into the kitchen, X-ing things off on a big sheet. I’ve finished the orders and have begun to assemble the next day’s menus when he returns to the room, a grim look on his face.

  “I’m sorry, but I have found a problem. You want to come with me, ma’am?” He looks genuinely apologetic. “Your hot-water heater is leaking through the top.”

  “What? That’s impossible. It’s only a couple of years old.”

  “It looks like it might have been damaged at some point. There’s a lot of evidence of water leaking over a long period. Mold, some other issues.” He shakes his head. “It’s a miracle it hasn’t stopped functioning completely.”

  “How long can you give me to fix it?”

  Again he looks regretful. “I’m sorry, Ms. Gallagher, but I’m going to have to ask you to close until this situation is resolved. It’s too dangerous to run it the way it is, and you can’t be open without hot water.”

  I close my eyes. Swear.

  He gives me a sheet of paper with the order and his telephone number. “Call me here, and I’ll make a point to get right back and clear you to open.”

  “Thanks.” I promise myself that I am not going to cry in front of my own employees.

  Who are grouped in an apprehensive little knot, facing me, as he leaves. Jimmy looks sick, and so do the dishwasher and apprentices. “What do we do?”

  “Fix it. I’m sorry, you guys, but there won’t be any work until they let me open again. I’m guessing at least a couple of days. Maybe more.”

  Heather gets tears in her eyes and wipes them away with a corner of her apron. “This makes me so mad! I wanted to buy the good bag of fireworks this year.”

  I can’t bear for them to be cheated. “I’ll give you half pay. I wish it could be more.”

  Heather blinks. “Really? Even though you won’t be open?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m cool,” says Roberto, the dish kid. “I’ll just go chill with my girl until next week.”

  I put them to work shutting everything down for a few days, and I head into my small office overlooking the backyard to make phone calls. Katie and Merlin and Milo are out there, moving through the vegetable garden. It’s hot this afternoon, and if I were her, I’d be upstairs under a fan; instead, she’s walking through the rows, pinching blossoms from tomatoes and squashes into a basket, talking aloud to Merlin, who walks beside her, his long pink tongue hanging out.

  With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the less-thrilling task inside my office. I’m trying not to panic, which won’t help any of us, but this is a huge blow. Lost wages, lost income, huge outflow of cash. I need advice.

  The first person I call is my brother Ryan, but he has no ideas. “Call Dad.”

  The last time I asked my father for advice, he said I should have thought of how hard it was going to be before I opened a restaurant to compete with him. Which is how he sees the bakery: in competition with the Gallagher Group restaurants.

  And yet I’d rather call him than Cat, who is probably angry with me. I haven’t taken any of his calls or even listened to the messages he has been leaving.

  Gnawing my lip, I juggle the two possibilities and wonder if my sister is right that I use people.

  Steph. Steph will know what I should do.

  I punch in her number before I can chicken out, and she answers on the second ring. By the background noise of radio and horns, I can tell she’s in the car, which explains why she answered so readily. “Stephanie Gallagher speaking.”

  “Hi, Steph, it’s Ramona.”

  “Ramona?”

  “Yeah. I need advice on how to get my hot water fixed as fast as possible.”

  She’s silent. Then, “Why not ask your sweetie?”

  “Because, as I told you, he isn’t my ‘sweetie’ at all, and I’ve been trying hard to set boundaries between us. Unfortunately, I now have a huge problem and I need some advice. He’s been my go-to guy. I’d rather ask other people.”

  “You’re kind of putting me on the spot.”

  “How?” My mouth goes tight, and I think of the inspector’s pinched face. Deliberately, I move my lips around, making them soft again. “Come on, Stephanie. We have to get over this.”

  A horn honks loudly and she swears. “Look, I’m in Denver and the traffic is really heavy.
I have to go.”

  “Steph! Please, I’ll do whatever—”

  She hangs up on me. For a moment I’m so breathlessly angry with her that I want to fling the phone across the room. Instead, I take a breath and dial my father’s telephone number.

  He answers, “Hello. This is James Gallagher.”

  I start to speak, but his message goes on. “I’m in a meeting for the rest of the day, but if you leave your name and telephone number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my assistant, Stephanie Gallagher, at 555-6820.”

  I punch the off button and look out the window. Merlin is dancing around the grass as if there is a person playing tug-of-war with him. Katie is sitting on the bench, talking to him. Curved up against her is Milo. Traitor, I think.

  There’s nothing to do but call Cat.

  Turnabout is fair play: He doesn’t answer my call.

  No help for it—I’m going to have to go see him in person, and right away. As I walk through the bakery, Jimmy holds up two jars of starter. “You want me to put everything in the walk-in?”

  “Leave the rye and malt. I’m still feeding it. The rest … yeah. Put it away.”

  In the muffled quiet, I wonder if this is it. If this is the thing that will bring me to my knees. It’s Thursday. There is a very minute chance someone will have this hot-water heater in stock nearby and can install it tomorrow, but I’ve spent my life in restaurants, and I know I’m telling myself a big fat lie. It will be Monday. Maybe Tuesday.

  My stomach aches. No revenue coming in on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Maybe even Tuesday?

  I have no idea how we are going to survive.

  Going to the back porch, I call through the screen, “Katie, I have to run some errands. Do you want to go or stay?”

  She walks toward the window. Merlin has given up and is lying in the shade. “Are we going out to dinner later?”

  I forgot, in all the madness, to call my mother. “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll stay here, then.”

  Leaving her in the yard, I don’t even bother with changing anything except my shoes. I trade clogs for a pair of sandals and head out wearing printed cotton chef’s pants and a pale lavender chef’s coat. If I hurry, I can catch Cat while he’s reconciling the books for the day. In the car, I punch in my mother’s number and ask her if she can meet us at Nosh for dinner, to celebrate the whole advent of womanhood. She’s very excited and we make plans to meet there at five-thirty.

  I glance at the clock. It’s only one-thirty. I might be able to squeeze in a nap at some point if I can get this all in motion in time.

  Oh. But I don’t need a nap, do I? Since I won’t be opening in the morning. Damn it.

  Cat is always doing the books at this time of day, and I find him in the corner booth at his restaurant. A couple of guys are standing around, waiting for orders, and he scribbles something, hands it over, and one scurries off. He doesn’t look well. His face is drawn and waxy, his hair a bit too long. Has he been eating? Sometimes he forgets. If there is no woman in his life, he sometimes drinks too much, forgets to take care of himself properly.

  When he catches sight of me in the shadows, one dark eyebrow lifts. He waves away the guy who has been waiting and says to me, “What are you doing here?”

  “I need advice.”

  For a minute, he only looks at me. He shakes his head. Gestures. “Come talk to me.”

  When I stand at the side of the table, he looks at my attire and says, “It must be big if you came out without changing.”

  “Hot-water heater rusted out. I’ve got to get it replaced as fast as possible.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  I lift my hands, show my palms. “No money, no phone calls, just advice. Who would you call and what would you do?”

  “I’d kick some asses is what I’d do.” He growls and throws a pencil down on the table. “That hot-water heater is only a couple of years old.”

  The first ripple of hope touches me. Maybe there will at least be a way to recoup the lost revenue. Eventually. “That doesn’t actually help me today.”

  He nods. “Let’s go to my office, see what we can do.”

  “You don’t need to make the calls and I don’t need any help financially.” I say it again so it sinks in. “I really need to do this myself. So if you could just give me advice and maybe the best people to call, I would appreciate it.”

  He inclines his head. “Okay. I still need to go to the office to get the names you need. Is that all right with you?”

  I relent, smiling. “Yes.”

  “Come on, then. You want Parker to pour you some wine or something?”

  “No, I’m fine.” It occurs to me that I’ve missed him. We spent a lot of time together, and now I haven’t seen him at all for weeks. I miss my friend. “How are you, Cat?”

  He steps behind his desk and looks at me. “I had a touch of food poisoning a few days ago. I know you were worrying when you came in. You get this little wrinkle on the side of your mouth.”

  “You don’t look well,” I return honestly. “Sure it was food poisoning?”

  He shrugs, flips through a Rolodex, and writes some names and numbers down. He hands the paper over to me. “You sure you don’t want me to call somebody?”

  “Yes.” I smile. “But thank you. You have been so good to me.” I lower my gaze, nod almost imperceptibly.

  He points to the paper. “You let me know if you have any trouble, all right?” He winks. “I know people.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and give him a hug.

  When I return, Katie has left a note on the table that she’s gone to the store. It makes my heart hurt to think of her writing a money order to send to her mother, but this is something I have to let her work out on her own.

  In the meantime, I call the numbers Cat gave me and arrange for someone to come in and look at the problem. He promises to be here in an hour, which isn’t going to leave a lot of time to get ready for dinner. Realizing that I’m still wearing my work clothes, I jump in the shower—which is served by a regular household water heater upstairs—wash my hair, and shave my legs in some kind of nod toward the big day. Leaving my hair rolled up in a towel, I put on a workaday sundress and some flip-flops, pour a glass of iced tea, and whistle for Merlin to follow me out into the backyard. He trots along happily. “Why didn’t Katie take you with her?”

  He looks up, woofs softly, and I nod as if I understand. “I’m so glad you showed up to take care of her.”

  Sitting on the bench in the shade, I comb out my hair and let it dry in the air, which makes it smell like fresh laundry. The garden is faintly wilting in the heat of the day, and somewhere behind me a lone cricket is singing. Everything else is on siesta. As I should be. I lean back and put my head against the tree behind me, closing my eyes for a minute. Just a minute.

  Merlin woofs softly and I imagine he’s talking to someone, but I’m far enough gone that my brain spins out a funny little dream. My grandmother sits beside me on the bench, smelling of talcum powder and freshly ground coffee, which she loved with an unholy passion. “He’s a good dog.”

  “Yes. He takes good care of all of us. Old soul.”

  “He is that.” A breeze ruffles her short white hair, then she turns and puts her hand on mine. “You need to call Sofia. Right now.”

  I jolt upright, having almost fallen sideways. Merlin lifts his head and solemnly waves his tail. Blinking, trying to clear the fuzziness from my brain, I think I can still smell that lingering scent of talc and coffee beans. I rub my face vigorously, pick up my phone, and check the time. It’s four, making it five in San Antonio. Sofia will probably be at dinner.

  Still. While I am not as superstitious as some people in my family, getting a direct edict from a dream is not something I can ignore. Especially with that lingering sense of doom in my belly. Taking a long cold drink of tea to clear my head, I punch the shortcut that dials her cell phone.<
br />
  She doesn’t answer. Instead, her voice says, “Hi, it’s Sofia. Leave a message or send me a text.”

  “It’s your mother. Give me a call, okay?”

  To be doubly sure, I also text her:

  Thinking about you is everything okay?

  To my surprise, the phone dings quickly.

  Not a good time to talk crazy day. Oscar is not good. Will call in my morning. Too tired to talk right now.

  What does that mean, crazy day? I text back:

  Is the baby okay?

  False labor today. Braxton Hicks. But we are fine. Fine. Don’t worry.

  My phone trills, the actual ringer, and it’s the repairman. “Meet you in front,” I say, then text to Sofia:

  Okay. Anytime. Any hour. I’m here. I love you.

  As predicted, the heater has to be ordered, and although they’re hoping for delivery tomorrow, it will probably not be here until Monday.

  It’s what I’ve been expecting, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. I nod, valiantly trying to be an adult businesswoman and not burst into tears. What would Cat do? I ask myself, and it gives me the courage to cross my arms over my chest and say, “This water heater is only a few years old. What happened?”

  He frowns. “It looks like it might have been damaged when it was installed, honestly. See this?” He points out the rusted wound. “That’s been coming apart for a long time.”

  “So, workmanship, then?”

  He nods. “Considering how much this is going to cost you, I’d sure talk to a lawyer about getting some of it back. Not that it’ll help today.”

  “Right. Thanks.” I hold out a hand and he shakes it firmly.

  “I’ll call you as soon as they call me.”

  As I’m writing out the bad news on the sign in front, Katie walks up. My mouth drops open. “You cut your hair!”

  “Do you like it?” Shyly, she swings her head, and her hair, a tumble of loose, healthy curls, swings around her neck. The colors of caramel and toast and some brighter streaks of lemon from her days in the garden are shiny, laced throughout.