3. Three
Three
LENA
Now, I take a breath. “I don’t know. He said it was no one, work-related, not to read into it.”
Her heavy sigh scratches through the phone. “Then, don’t. Lauren sounds like Lena. Ben works with a lot of people. He probably just had a brain fart. Besides, he’s obsessed with you and not the cheating type. I get the emergency wake-up call, but I’m sure it’s nothing. Trust me.”
Her response is stern and quick—exactly what I need.
Once, Dot, Cherry, and I made a promise over a dwindling Chardonnay box, and we’ve kept it like a blood pact.
Always tell each other the truth, even if it hurts to hear it.
That promise got us through Cherry’s divorce when she was too bitter to hear reason unless it came from us, Dot’s off-the-wall ideas when she was getting her business off the ground, and my pregnancy when I was perpetually hangry.
We rely on our friendship like the internet—it’s there for whatever we need, when we need it.
That understanding flows between us now. If Dot says it’s nothing, I should believe her. I take a deep breath, my nose filling with cinnamon and vanilla from the batter I’m mixing.
But my shoulders sink when she adds on a belabored, “But something’s wrong. Not cheating, but something.”
“He also said… he misses us.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Clattering ensues on her end. “Are you freaking out?”
“A little. Yes.”
“What’s the anxiety meter at right now?”
“Eh, six. Seven. Ish. I’m already late and so far behind.”
“Threat-level-midnight,” she says. “Take a breath, get to work, and I’ll be there shortly with reinforcements.”
“Not Cherry, right?” I ask, loving my friend but knowing I don’t need her men-only-think-with-their-penises lecture today.
“God no, she’d jump all over this like a drunk spring breaker on a mechanical bull. Just me. Hang in there, babe.”
We end the call, and I feel slightly better. But Ben’s words still haunt me as I make the coffee, preheat the ovens, and let Mr. Wickers in.
He bows his glossy bald head. “Morning, Lena. Ready for the day?”
“Is the day ready for me?” My usual reply sounds somewhat weaker today.
He inhales deeply and looks alarmed. “Nothing’s baking yet?”
“I’m getting there. Everything okay with you?”
“Fine and dandy. Saw your beau out there.” He motions toward the barn. “He’s as dependable as your mailman. No fuss. No muss.”
Mr. Wickers and Ben once bonded in relative silence over a stalled car in the parking lot. Ben had jumper cables. Mr. Wickers had WD-40 for the caked battery acid on the terminals. The rest is history.
“Yes, he’s a keeper,” I say with an uneasy chuckle.
“I’ll turn on the lights and check the bathrooms.”
He leaves me for his self-assigned tasks.
Soon, he’ll take his usual table—the two-top by the window—where he’ll tackle his crossword and wait patiently for coffee and a bran muffin.
He’s the only reason I make the bland things.
No one else buys them, but I don’t mind that or his arriving so early.
He’s become a welcome fixture around here.
I watch Ben’s shadow disappear into the house through the kitchen window.
Everything’s okay —it has to be. Still, a familiar undercurrent hums through me, tensing my shoulders and turning my stomach, so I engage the mantra that helped me fight anxiety while caring for Mom: make one thing better.
Focusing on what needs to get done will eventually lead me back to Ben.
He’s my end goal today. I’m determined to spend time together and talk like we used to.
Determined to find out more about Lauren, too, if only to satiate my anxiety bitches. She must be more than nothing to be on Ben’s mind.
I concentrate on the jobs at hand—cinnamon rolls, bagged lunches, and special orders.
I flip open my black, half-sized spiral notebook, similar to the one I used to keep track of Mom’s medications.
Loose pages fly to the floor. I scoop them up and turn to today’s list, scribbled in shorthand that only I understand.
Along with the usual, I have to make two bundt carrot cakes for the Thursday ladies’ Bible study and a dozen limoncello cupcakes with purple icing for Millie Lewis’s girls’ night—special request, extra boozy.
The papers flutter in my trembling hands. Nerves claw at my insides like skittish cats. Damn it—these are not the Ben aftershocks I wanted.
Upbeat piano melodies drift through the kitchen. Mr. Wickers must be in a good mood—he doesn’t play every day. But when he does, I usually move faster and smile more.
Not today.
Tessa, my baking assistant, arrives as the carrot cakes are baking and the cupcakes are about to go in. I start packing lunches.
“Am I on cookies again?” she asks dully, tying her apron.
“Would you rather make sandwiches?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll make cookies.”
Tessa wants to be a full-time baker when she graduates high school. She comes in every morning before school to help with the morning rush. She calls me her mentor, and I’ve taught her some basics. But there’s little time for proper instruction.
“I promise I’ll teach you something more intricate when things slow down. Macaroons, tiramisu, oh, mirror glazes.”
She smirks. “How about fancy sugar work? And a chocolate soufflé?”
“You got it,” I say, wondering if she’s watching too much of The Great British Baking Show. I can’t blame her—I adore that show, too.
Satisfied, she tackles the cookies.
The piano music comes to an abrupt, clattering halt—my signal that Trisha’s arrived. A sixty-year-old widow with tattoos, piercings, and a bohemian wardrobe, she catches everyone’s eye, especially Mr. Wickers’s. She flips her long gray braid to the side as she puts on her apron.
“Don’t stop on my account, Gus,” she says, and he hurries to pick up the song again.
Trisha sets up the dining room and serving area. Then, she helps me finish the sandwiches.
“You’re a little behind,” she says, “but we’ll get it done.”
By seven, the café bustles with locals. Trisha handles the front, along with May and June Taylor, sisters and retired teachers who took the job to stay busy and gossip.
But I need all the help I can get. Turns out, food service and farm work don’t top most people’s employment wish lists, especially since our rural location isn’t convenient to anything that might bring more employees my way, like neighborhoods and apartment buildings.
It’s all farms, woods, and swamps out here.
So, though I pay well, working here most likely means a long commute, and interviewees usually decide it’s too far to drive.
A hot pan of oatmeal raisin cookies clatters to the floor, face-down. I wince at the lost cookies and the angry red mark now stinging my arm.
“You okay?” Tessa asks.
Not okay. “Yeah, just another burn to add to my collection.” I hold up my right arm, covered in small scars from kitchen mishaps. “You better head to school.”
Tessa unties her apron but reluctantly looks at the tall metal rack of unfinished cupcakes, bundt cakes, Danishes, and cookies. “How will you get all this done?”
My it’ll-be-okay smile flashes automatically. “With my usual magic… by taking one thing at a time.”
“Mom!” Ruthie rushes into the kitchen, her rubber boots flapping together.
I take in her apple green dress, sensible pink cardigan, and shorts, visible only because her dress is tucked into them on the side.
I insist on under-dress shorts for playground time.
I crouch for a hug and fix her fashion faux pas.
She smells like syrup and feels like sunshine.
“Good morning, sweet girl.” I tug her sweater together. “Got your lunchbox and backpack?”
“Yes, Mom.” Her dainty hand extends for her usual drive-to-preschool treat—two oatmeal raisin cookies straight from the oven. My shoulders slump at the mess on the floor.
Tessa hands me a sleeve of cookies—two peanut butter delights pulled from the display case. “Let me know if you like these, Ruthie. Made them myself.”
Ruthie beams.
“Thanks, Tessa,” we say together.
I straighten Ruthie’s collar, pushing her long curls behind her shoulders. “Be a good girl. No taking over story time again. Okay?”
Her pout tells me this will be a challenge—she loves hijacking her teacher’s story time by reading the book herself more dramatically. Her classmates love it—her teacher, not so much. But she nods. “Okay, Mom.”
I glance over her shoulder, where Ben usually waits for a goodbye kiss. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the Jeep.”
I downplay a gasp at his newest slight. This hurts almost as much as hearing the name Lauren. That was an accident. This is totally on purpose. Why didn’t he say goodbye? He always says goodbye.
Ruthie’s expectant gaze brings another forced smile. “Oh, um, he doesn’t want you to be late. Love you. Tell Dad I love him. Have a good day.”
“You, too!” She skips out the back door, her boots slapping together.
On second thought, I follow her to confront Ben with, “What the hell?” before demanding his usual soft kiss and monotone, “See you later.”
But May yells through the serving window. “Lena, you mixed up Mr. Haywood’s ham and cheese with Reverend Jenner’s BLT.”
“We’re out of oatmeal raisin cookies,” June adds, gasping at the inner kitchen. “This place is a disaster! Did a tornado come through here?”
“It was a tornado out here, too,” May says. “I didn’t think we’d ever catch up with the morning rush. You had us scrambling, Lena. I don’t like to scramble.”
All I do is scramble. Through the small window, I see the Jeep pulling away.
“Hello? Earth to Lena?” May calls, snapping her fingers.
My automatic smile reappears, though their sisterly glares give off a creepy vibe, like the twins in The Shining . “Sorry. Running a little late this morning.”
June’s lips pinch. “Now, so is everyone else.”