Friendship Bread (36 page)

“I can come, too, right?” Livvy had asked, a bit anxious that she might be left out. After all, this had originally been her idea.

“Of course!” Julia put her arm around Livvy’s shoulder, gave her sister a happy squeeze. She had looked Livvy in the eye, her voice lowered just out of earshot from Josh. “Thank you, Livvy.” The look on her face was full of gratitude.

Livvy had flushed with joy from the compliment, of knowing that she had done something good, something right. But then life got busy and Livvy had to get a job, and they never had a chance to do another trip.

Livvy stares at the bag, wondering what Julia could possibly have inside and why she’s still dragging it around. The old Julia would have donated it ages ago. “Do you want me to talk to Edie some more about the article?” Livvy asks, turning her attention back to the matter at hand.

“What? Oh, I don’t care.” Julia rubs at a smudge on the edge of Livvy’s desk. She gives a halfhearted shrug. “It’s not a big deal. Turns out it’s been a lot of fun doing it. Who knew?”

“Yeah.” Livvy thinks about what Edie told her earlier about her sister starting this whole thing by herself. She’s sure Julia wouldn’t do such a thing and yet, seeing Julia and her ridiculous tote bag, Livvy finds herself wavering in uncertainty. “Julia, do you think it’s weird that you were the first person in Avalon to do this whole Amish Friendship Bread thing?”

Julia seems surprised by the question. “No. How could I be the first person?”

“Well, no one else seemed to have it before you.”

“Well, obviously somebody did, because they gave it to me. That’s the whole point of the bread—it just keeps getting passed around.”

Livvy presses, unconvinced. “But don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Why is it strange? Whoever gave it to me was just trying to be nice.”

“But
who
gave it to you?” Livvy knows she should probably let it go, but she can’t. She wants to know. “Has anybody said anything? You know, like ‘Hey, did you get the friendship bread I left on the porch?’ ”

Julia stiffens, frowning. “No.”

“How come? I mean, aren’t you the least bit curious? I would be. I’d be asking everyone. I’d want to know. Don’t you want to know? Did you try asking around?”

Julia picks up her bag and hefts it on her shoulder. She looks at her sister, and the openness that was there when Julia first walked into her office is gone. “No, I didn’t ask around, because it doesn’t matter.
It’s not news, Livvy
. It’s just friendship bread. And you can tell your reporter friend that.”

Livvy’s mouth falls open. “I’m just saying that it doesn’t make sense.” It sounds lame, flimsy, even to her own ears.

Julia walks quickly to the door. She pauses, then says quietly, “You should know better than anyone that I’ve given up trying to make sense of things.”

Livvy wishes she hadn’t said anything. Julia’s right—it
is
just bread. “Julia, wait! I’m sorry.”

Julia turns for a moment and for an instant her face is filled with regret. “I know. Me, too.” Then she walks out of Livvy’s office.

Madeline is making a peach cobbler and tucking pats of butter into the mixture. She sprinkles brown sugar on top and then promptly covers it with foil and slides it into the oven.

“So thirty-five minutes?” Connie’s hand is on the timer, a funny little chicken timer that Madeline picked up at a garage sale.

Madeline nods. “We’ll peel the foil off after twenty.” She begins to wipe down the counters.

“I can do that, Madeline.” Connie sets the timer and puts it down, then takes the rag from Madeline. She scrubs the counter quickly and efficiently, scooping crumbs into the palm of her hand. She dumps them into the sink and rinses the rag with soap, then hangs it on the rack to air dry. “What else do you need me to do before we open?” She’s bright-eyed and full of energy, and Madeline envies her.

It’s funny, because Madeline never craved youth the way some women did. In California she saw it a lot. Up north, where people did yoga, pilates, hiking, kayaking, anything and everything to keep their bodies fit and trim, and then down south, where plastic surgery took care of unsightly cellulite and flabby underarms with the swipe of a knife. She doesn’t mind the gray or the wrinkles, not even her failing eyesight. But it’s the energy that she misses, the seemingly boundless well that young people take for granted. By the time you come to appreciate it, your time has passed and you’re sitting at the kitchen table watching somebody less than half your age do all the work.

“Let’s see.” Madeline has to force herself to think hard. In a way, she misses the early months when business was slow. She had plenty of time to relax and think, even read. She’d cook at her leisure and could afford to give generous portions. Now, they risk running out of food by the end of the day. She gave Connie a raise and brought her on full-time and they’ve been talking about hiring someone to help
Madeline in the kitchen. “I know we’re running out of eggs so we should probably call Ollie and see if he can bring up a couple of flats. If not we’ll need to buy from the store. The herb garden out back needs to be weeded …”

“I did that yesterday. I ran out there during my break and got most of it done.”

“Connie,” Madeline reprimands her even though she’s secretly pleased—she loves Connie’s initiative and gumption. “Please tell me next time. You should relax during your break. You do so much as it is.”

“I don’t mind, Madeline. Really.” Connie is eager to please. “What else?”

Madeline flicks on the light for the walk-in pantry and browses the shelves. “It looks like we definitely need to do a run to the store. I’m low on canola oil and applesauce. There are also two packages in the foyer that need to be dropped off at the post office. They’re already sealed and addressed.”

“Oil and applesauce. Eggs if Ollie’s out.” Connie takes out a small notebook from her back pocket and turns to a fresh page. She insists on keeping the shopping list in a notebook so they can better track their food costs. She’s also been testing several accounting software packages and is trying to convince Madeline to invest in one that will process their credit card slips as well, but Madeline’s not sure it’s worth the trouble. “And I already dropped those packages off yesterday on my way home from work.”

Madeline beams as she brings out a large bag of dark chocolate chips. “You must be some kind of mind reader. Thank you, Connie.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and I mailed your letter, too.”

Madeline is pulling open the bag and it gives easily, sending a shower of chips over the kitchen floor. “What letter?”

Connie is already on her knees, cleaning up. “The letter sitting on the table in the sitting room. It was next to the old Victorian writing box that Mrs. Ramirez was looking at yesterday. She says if you ever want to sell it, she’ll buy it.”

Madeline feels her body temperature plummet, like the time
she was taking a shower at that earthy retreat in Bolinas and the hot water got turned off. “Was it addressed to Benjamin Dunn?”

“I don’t know. I think so. In Pennsylvania?”

Madeline stumbles for the closest chair and sinks into it, then puts her face in her hands. Her heart is pounding in her chest.

“Was I not supposed to … did I do something wrong?” Connie dumps the chips into the trash and hurries to Madeline’s side. “I’m such an idiot! I totally should have asked you first. I thought you had left it there by mistake …”

Madeline has a pretty good idea of what happened. She’d been keeping the letter in the walnut writing box all this time, and the increased traffic in the sitting room had gone right over her head. She hadn’t thought to take the letter out and put it somewhere safe. Mrs. Ramirez must have taken it out as she looked through the box.

Connie is still berating herself, and Madeline puts a hand on her arm to stop her. “Connie, it’s all right. I should have moved it from the sitting room. I just didn’t think.”

“Is it going to be a problem? Because I can take full responsibility for this, Madeline. I’ll tell them it was my fault.” Connie’s trying not to cry. Madeline is filled with compassion for this sweet girl, this young woman.

She smoothes Connie’s choppy hair. She’d look so pretty if she got a good haircut, maybe changed her wardrobe or put on a little makeup. They don’t talk about Connie’s family much—Madeline can tell it’s a sensitive subject and she’s following Connie’s lead. She sees Connie working hard to make something of herself, anxious to look forward instead of back. Perhaps she should do the same. “It’s nobody’s fault,” Madeline assures her.

So the letter is finally on its way to Ben. This should be interesting. Madeline no longer feels panic, but a little flutter of hope. Maybe he’ll call. Maybe they can meet up somewhere, like Chicago or Philadelphia. She’ll fly out to see him if necessary. If he needs help, she wants to give it. Maybe he’ll want to come to Avalon and see the tea salon. She doubts he drinks tea, but that’s okay. There are other places they can go, too.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do, Madeline? I won’t do anything else without checking with you first.” Connie looks miserable. “I’m such a dummy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Madeline tells her. “On the contrary, I think you’re one of the smartest girls I know. And between the two of us, I’d put my money on you. Now I’m going to make some double chocolate chip cookies. Want to help? Good. Then help me up.”

Oma Frank does not believe that things happen for a reason. There’s good luck, there’s bad luck, and there’s not a whole lot in between.

Her husband, Norman, is the exact opposite. A retired schoolteacher, Norman believes that every action and reaction is purposeful. The two of them would debate over dinner, comparing stories and bits of gossip from the day.

Oma: “Poor Maureen Nyer just lost her job at the hair salon. I tell you, this economy is putting good people out of work, and we’re going to pay for it as a country. It’s a tragedy.”

Norman: “Didn’t Maureen want to quit that job? I recall her wanting to spend more time on her crochet work. You said she makes some of the best afghans and baby bibs in the county. At least now she’ll have time to get some projects done, maybe even sell them for some good money. Lucky woman!”

Or,

Oma: “They’re going to have to pull out all of Mr. Gilbert’s teeth. He has periodontal disease something awful. Dr. Tindell had me deliver the bad news. Poor man was almost in tears.”

Norman: “That is a shame. Hopefully they’ll be able to fit him with some dentures that will be comfortable in his mouth, maybe give his gums a chance to heal. We all need healthy gums. Good thing Dr. Tindell caught it when he did!”

It usually went like this. Oma didn’t mind so much, and it was part of what kept their marriage lively. This year they’ll be married forty-five years. Now that’s good luck.

But as Oma stares at the fifth bag of starter dropped off by some well-intentioned neighbor, all she can think is this:

What lousy, bad luck.

Norman, of course, is delighted. “More Amish Friendship Bread!” he crows. He loves it, especially the coffee cake variation Oma does with a streusel topping and cream cheese spread.

Oma takes the bags, marches into the house, and throws them in the freezer. She slams the door closed. “Norman, I am not baking any more!”

“Aw, come on Oma,” her husband tries to coax. “You make the best Amish Friendship Bread I’ve ever tasted. And I’m not just saying that.” Norman catches his wife in a hug. “It’s almost as delicious as you.” He nuzzles her neck.

Oma loves that Norman is still so amorous with her, but she will never admit it. “Norman Frank, you stop that!” She pretends to struggle to break free. She finally jerks the freezer door open to salvage one chilly starter. “Fine. I’ll make one bag: two loaves.”

“Two?” Norman looks disappointed. “It’ll be gone by this weekend. Can’t you make extra?”

“Norman Frank …” Her voice carries a hint of warning.

“Two would be wonderful, dear.” Norman flicks on the television to catch the morning news.

Oma gives the bag a squeeze before putting it on the spare cutting board on her counter. “You know there’s rumors that this all started with that woman whose son was killed by the bees.”

Norman cranes his neck to look at her. “The Evarts boy?”

“Yes. That’s what they’re saying. All roads lead back to her it seems. I have a mind to take these bags and leave them on her doorstep!” She’d heard that people were doing that and while Oma doesn’t approve, she can certainly see a certain satisfaction in it.

Norman turns off the television and leans back heavily in his chair. He’ll never forget that day. “It wasn’t bees,” he says.

Oma is checking her pantry and writing up a shopping list. “What?”

“It wasn’t bees. It was a wasp. A yellow jacket.” He had been driving by when he saw the boy buckle on the front lawn. The wasp had been gone by the time he reached him. The boy couldn’t speak, and no one knew what was wrong until his aunt came out of the house. If they’d known earlier, maybe it would have worked out differently.

Norman shakes his head and sighs.

Oma notices her husband’s somber demeanor. “It is a shame,” she says quietly. “He was ten, right?”

Norman nods. They don’t have children of their own—something to do with Oma’s ovaries—but the Evarts boy looked just like the sort of grandson he’d like to have. He had stared at the boy’s picture at the memorial service, so different from the boy lying at his feet. He had felt helpless, wishing he had been there a moment earlier, and at the same time, not knowing what else he could have done.

Oma looks at her list. More flour, more sugar, more cream cheese. She could probably stand to have another jar of cinnamon, too. She turns to look back at Norman, who looks sad. And old. Oma doesn’t see her husband like that, doesn’t see herself that way, but right now that’s exactly how he looks.

Old.

Oma knows that the death of the Evarts boy five years ago shook Norman up good. But still he held tight to his belief that, somehow, a divine reason would be revealed.