How to Bake a Perfect Life Read online

  The sink stands by itself beneath a mirror with double lines drawn on the edges. No counter, but behind the tub is a built-in dresser with drawers that have crystal handles. Bottles of bubble bath and shampoo and hair stuff are all lined up on top of it. A wicker basket is filled with pins and clips and elastic bands, and beside it is a brush with thick tan bristles that are way too soft to do anything for Katie’s crazy hair. She checks it out anyway because the brush is so pretty, looking in the mirror, which she really tries to avoid whenever possible. There is a white patch beside her mouth and a zit coming on her chin, and the stupid brush just skates right over the top of her dry, curly, uncut hair. Ugly! Especially when she thinks of Ramona’s hair, which is long, long, and a glittery red. Like Rapunzel, maybe.

  She puts the brush away carefully and leaves the bathroom, looking for a trash can for her apple core. A hollowness goes with her. She’s bored now. There’s nothing to do. She’s already read her book six times and she doesn’t like computer games, and she can’t think about her dad until ten o’clock.

  She might as well go outside with Ramona.

  Ramona

  I’m out in my garden by five a.m., the loaves baked and cooling on the counter. The air is quite sharp so early, and I wear jeans and a sweater, my hair woven into a tight braid, hands in gloves to keep the grit out from under my nails. Sometimes I still have to scrub them like a surgeon when I come inside.

  The garden is at the rear of the backyard, filling the space that used to be an old garage. It was falling down when I moved in here eight years ago to live with my grandmother after my divorce. I had someone pull the brick walls down on two sides, leaving one wall with an empty window and another on the north end against the alley. He found some magic way to brace the walls so they are sound, and it looks beautiful like that, as if the earth is taking over, vines growing up the walls, roses twining around the window frame. The floor was dirt to start with, so that meant only digging it out, hauling in a load of topsoil, and then planting. A big project, but I needed something to keep me busy when I wasn’t baking.

  I’m kneeling in the dirt, carefully thinning nasturtiums, when Katie materializes at the edge of the plot. She’s wearing jeans that are too short and a ratty-looking brown sweater that’s much too big. Sunlight coaxes golden lights from the bends of her crazy ringlets.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  She yawns. “Hi.”

  “If you’re hungry, there’s cereal in the cupboard, or toast, of course.”

  “I had an apple.”

  In my peripheral vision I spy the bright blue eyes of Milo, who is stalking me. I grin and point at his tail swishing out of the shadows. I wiggle my fingers on the ground, and he rockets out of the plants, spats my hand with both paws like a boxer, and zooms away, diving into a honeysuckle bush. A squirrel leaps out of it and races down the fence line, chattering in alarm, and as if that is exactly the result he had intended, Milo saunters out and sits regally on the grass, all Siamese elegance, very black points and long nose and long limbs. The king of everything.

  “He’s really pretty,” Katie says. “I’ve never had a cat before.”

  “Have you had dogs?”

  “Only Merlin. How do you think Merlin and Milo will get along?”

  “No idea. We’ll just have to wait and see.” I am worried, but she doesn’t need to know that. I’ll enlist my brother’s help introducing the two animals. He’s done it often enough.

  “Do you want to help?” I ask. “I’m just pulling weeds.”

  “I guess.”

  The plants are still small and there isn’t much to do, but I wander through the rows plucking weeds, thinning the flowers and herbs, picking up sticks and scraps of paper the wind has blown in. An elm tree, ancient and enormous, shades the house and sheds twigs the way a woman sheds hair. Katie follows me, but I can see her heart isn’t in it.

  I want to talk to her about her dad. I look at the sky, gauging the time to be nearly six. “Let’s go out to breakfast. What do you say?”

  Her face flares with hope, then she tugs on her jeans. “Er, I don’t really have anything to dress up in.”

  “It’s casual, but that’s part of the plan. Sofia left me money to buy you clothes. It’s not a lot, but we can get you some summer clothes that fit. You must have been growing a lot the last few months.”

  She nods, tugging the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. “I can put on my shorts.”

  “Perfect. Let me change my clothes and wash my face. I’m starving.”

  The morning is so gorgeous it would be a shame to get in the car, so we walk the three blocks to the main tourist drag, and take seats on the patio of my favorite local café, Bon Ton’s. Katie asks for milk when I get coffee. She reads the menu with great concentration, her hand moving over her concave belly. “What are you having?” she asks.

  It occurs to me that, unlike me, she didn’t grow up in restaurants and might be afraid to spend too much. Nothing on this menu will break even my tiny budget. “The works. Eggs, pancakes, orange juice, all of it. Do you like bacon, sausage, any of that?”

  “Kind of. Bacon, especially.”

  “And are you a hash-browns-and-toast kind of person or a pancakes girl?”

  “Pancakes.”

  So we order a massive spread, and when it comes, Katie eats and eats and eats, until her tummy is a small round ball under her too-big shirt. She falls back and puts her hand over it. “That was so good.” She burps and slaps a hand over her mouth, laughing. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I sip my coffee, eyeing her long hands and feet. “You must be getting ready to shoot up.”

  “My mom says I might be six feet.”

  “I believe it.” Oscar is well over that. Thinking of him puts a knot in my chest. I am going to have to tell her about him. First, though, shopping. The child desperately needs a few things.

  We get the car and head over to Target, which opens early, and pick up a small assortment of shorts and T-shirts, a pair of jeans and a sweater for evenings.

  I’m discreetly assessing where she is in puberty. Soft golden hair under her arms, a little fur on her lower legs. She’s wearing a basic training bra and it’s doing the trick, so we get a couple more. A part of me shudders away from the idea of her growing breasts in that cesspool where she lived before—all the predators and dangers.

  Thank God her mother was arrested. I hope that someday Katie is relieved, too.

  When we finish at the store, I drive to a local park and get out, buying us both root beers at a stand. We amble over to a park bench and sit down. “My brother will be bringing Merlin in a couple of hours, and I’m personally going to need a nap before that, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  Her knuckles go white around the can. “Is my dad dead? Is that why you’re being so nice to me this morning?”

  “No! Oh, no, honey.” I capture her other hand, clasp it between mine. “I would never do that, keep something so important from you.”

  Her eyes are exactly the same color as the Afghan girl in the famous photo, that green of new leaves. She searches my face suspiciously and frowns, tugging her hand out of my grip. “What, then?”

  “It is about your dad. Sofia called last night, and he is injured badly. He has some pretty serious burns, and”—I can’t seem to help taking in a breath—“he’s lost most of his right leg.”

  “But he’s alive.”

  “Yes,” I say, and repeat it so she’s sure. “He’s alive. Sofia said he’s in a coma, but that can be a good thing when someone has been so badly injured. It gives the body a chance to heal.”

  She stares at me for a long time, then asks, “Is his face burned?”

  “I don’t know, Katie.” This is the second time she has asked this. “We can find out.”

  Tears well in her eyes, and her mouth pulls down at the corners. “When can I talk to him, do you think?”

  “Probably not for a while, but you can email him,
and you can email Sofia, too, and she’ll keep you posted. Does that help?”

  “Yeah.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes. “Can we go home now? I want to be there when Merlin gets there, so he won’t be scared.”

  It’s my habit to nap in the early afternoon, to make up for rising so early, and by the time I make it to my bed this afternoon, diving into the piles of pillows and covers, I’m wiped out. Milo hears the bedsprings and leaps up to keep me company. I’m out in three seconds. The ding of a text arriving on my phone awakens me. It’s Ryan.

  Have dog. You are in so much trouble.

  I text back:

  What does that mean?

  He’s adorable and completely untrained.

  You’ll help me, right? You’re good with dogs.

  I’ll do my best. Be there in 20.

  I run upstairs and knock on Katie’s door. She’s not there, and I find her in the kitchen, on the computer. When I arrive, she whirls. Guiltily. “What?”

  Must remember to put the safeguards on the computer. Her innocence is probably fairly tattered given her history, but I can do my best. “Merlin is on his way. I want to shut Milo in upstairs, so let’s get things ready for him.”

  When we get downstairs, the man who has been working on my broken pipe is about to knock on the door. “Hello, Ms. Gallagher. We’re finished. You want to come take a look?”

  “Wonderful.” I follow Henry out. The yard is back to itself, with fresh sod covering the new gashes in the landscaping. “We couldn’t do anything about the flowers,” he says, “but I figured you’d want to take care of that yourself.”

  “Thank you. It looks great.” Too great. I don’t even want to know how much this costs. “Do you want to come in? I have to get my credit card.”

  “No, no. Cat took care of it. No big deal.”

  I blink. Two days and a crew of three is a big deal. “I can’t let you do that. Please.” I can’t believe Cat paid. “Come inside. I need to pay for this myself.”

  “You have to take that up with Mr. Spinuzzi.” He holds up both hands and backs away. “It was my pleasure, Miss. You take care now.”

  Damn it! I borrowed money from him eight months ago when the banks turned me down, and since then he’s swooped in like this twice more. He’s got to stop.

  I need to stop talking to him about anything concerning the bakery, but it’s hard. He’s been my mentor and guide from the start.

  At any rate, it isn’t the fault of the plumber. I put my hands in prayer position and bow my head. “Thank you, Henry.”

  When he drives away, I turn to find Katie standing on the porch, fingering the lilacs in their vases. Such a somber child! “What are these?”

  “Lilacs. My grandmother’s favorite flower.” I gesture with wide arms. “This used to be her house, when I was your age. She left it to me when she died.”

  “Why you?”

  The answer is full of layers, and I say only, “That’s a complicated story. Mostly because I was divorced and moved in with her when she got dementia.” I smile and tell her a secret. “But it’s probably because I was her favorite.”

  She bends her head into the blossoms. “My grandma was mean to me. She didn’t like my mom at all, either.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “And it wasn’t because of drugs. She just didn’t like her from the beginning.”

  “Unfortunately, it happens all the time.” Joining her on the porch, I ask, “Do you want to sweep all this mud off while I make a new sign?”

  She nods. I give her the broom and go inside to fetch the markers we use to announce specials on a big black board. Using neon pink and green, I carefully write Open Saturday morning, 6 a.m.! and, below that, Thanks for your patience. Straightening, I narrow my eyes. “Something should be on special,” I say aloud. “To make up for the trouble.”

  Katie looks at me but offers nothing.

  “What’s your favorite bakery item?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Raisin bread, I think. I make a fantastic raisin bread, with orange-soaked raisins.” I clap the lid on the marker. “That’ll do it.” Suddenly it seems there is a lot to do by tomorrow morning—all the upheavals have knocked me out of my routines.

  My brother’s blue truck pulls into the narrow driveway, and I can see the dog through the passenger window, sitting in the seat like a human. Katie yelps, “Merlin!” She drops the broom and runs off the porch to greet him, yanking open the door before the vehicle is barely stopped.

  He leaps out, making a howling, talky sound of greeting, and Katie falls on her knees. When he licks her face, she flings her arms around his Creamsicle neck.

  And sobs.

  Merlin tolerates it for about twenty seconds—licking her ear, wiggling forward—and then my brother comes around the truck and grabs the leash. “There’s a busy street only one block away, Katie,” he says, more harshly than is required. “You’ve got to be really careful not to let him run.”

  “Ryan.” I frown, using a hand gesture to bring it down a notch. He has no children of his own—a confirmed bachelor—so of course he knows exactly how to raise them. “Give her a minute.”

  “The way to take care of a dog is to be the master,” he says. At least he squats and gives Katie, who’s looking at him with a pale, chastened, smitten face, the leash. “He needs you to be the boss. All the time, very consistently. Do you know what that means?”

  “Regular,” she says.

  “Good.” He stands. “I’ve gotta open the pub, but I’ll be back to help you train him. Three things to remember: Never let him sleep on your bed. Never give him human food unless he does something to earn it, and never, ever from the table or while you are eating. And third, give him lots of attention. He’s a dog who likes it.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  He bends to scratch Merlin’s chest and comes up the stairs to me, handing over a sheaf of paperwork, presumably the dog’s shot records. At least that much is done. “Keep him fenced, or he’s going to take off. I would suggest you get some identification on him right away.”

  “Will do.” I hug him. “Thanks, Ryan. I know you’ve got a lot going on, too.” He has to fire a bartender at The Banshee, the pub he runs for the family. My father desperately wanted him to call it Gallagher’s, but Ryan stood his ground. “Can I make you some dinner this week?”

  “Sure. Monday would be good.”

  “Monday it is.”

  He turns to go and spies the fresh sod. “Damn.” He gives me a sharp look. “That had to cost a pretty penny. Or did your mentor take care of you, as always?”

  “I probably deserve that,” I say. “But just because Dad hates him doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

  “Ah, so he did pay?” He sounds incredulous. “Mr. Mafia. Must be nice.”

  I scowl. “He paid the guy before I knew he’d done it. I’m not going to let it stand. Too many strings.”

  “Should have thought of that.”

  Mostly, Ryan and I get along pretty well, but this is a sore spot. He would love to be independent of the family clutch, but chose to stay with the umbrella of the Gallagher Group restaurants. “I raised the money for this bakery myself. I put together the business plan and made it work. You guys always underestimate my brains, which is why I left the Gallagher Group in the first place.”

  “Yeah, because Grandma gave you the house.”

  “I got a little luck after a bunch of bad luck. It happens.” I glance toward Katie, her back long and stiff. “Let’s not do this right now.”

  “Whatever.” He turns away, heads down the steps.

  It makes me furious. “What exactly would you like me to do?” I ask in a quiet voice. “Fall on my face so everyone can say they were right about me?”

  He only glances over his shoulder. “Nobody wants to see you fall on your face.” A sudden flash of humor, the same thing that always saves our tense arguments, comes to the rescue. “Well, maybe Step
hanie does.”

  My sister, who runs the family steakhouse with my father and has not spoken to me since I adopted Cat as my mentor. “And Dad.”

  “No. He loves you. He just hates Cat.”

  “Then he should have thought of that when he decided to keep Dane.” My philandering ex-husband, who worked for the Gallagher Group until recently.

  “You gotta get over that.” Ryan chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s been what—eight years?”

  “I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, my family chose my ex-husband over me.”

  He mimes crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his lower lip, then stomps his foot, in case I didn’t get it.

  I wave him off, smiling. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I’ll be back later.”

  Katie moves Merlin away from the truck and comes up the steps, dragging the dog behind her. “I’ve got to get to work,” I say. “Let’s check the backyard for escape routes, and you can play with him out there.”

  We make a bed of old blankets on the sunporch in Katie’s room, and she agrees to keep the door closed at night and to leash Merlin if he needs to go outside. The pair head into the backyard, Katie with a book, Merlin snuffling the perimeter like a soldier.

  A soldier. Before I head into the bakery kitchen, I stop at the computer upstairs and send a quick email to Sofia:

  Katie is fine. Dog is here. Any news? How are you holding up? Be sure to EAT! Love, Mom

  And then at last I escape into the kitchen, where the scent of yeast can help me forget, at least for a little while, that my daughter is in the first real trouble of her life and there is almost nothing I can do to help her.