32. Alexandra
thirty-two
Despite our small argument last night—or is it because of it?—I still come downstairs shortly after four the next morning. Christopher isn’t in the bakery, and I feel a cold draft coming in from the kitchen. The side door is open, and the garden lights are on. “Daisy! Shoo!” Christopher shouts under his breath.
What is he d—?
Ohmygod. There’s a cow in the back garden. A big, black, cow. Staring Christopher down.
I slip on the boots I always leave by the door and wrap my arms around my chest against the cold. I take a tentative step out, careful to stay behind Christopher.
The cow shakes its head at me and exhales loudly, steam coming out of its nostrils. I stifle a yelp.
Christopher chuckles. “Babe, it’s Daisy.”
“Babe,” I snap back sarcastically, “we haven’t been properly introduced.”
Christopher looks back at me, an are-you-for-real look on his face. He reaches for my hand and pulls me into his side, a large grin on his face. “Alexandra, this is Daisy, the Kings’ one and only Angus. Daisy, this is Alexandra. My girl.”
His girl?All the air in my lungs wooshes out while my lady parts fire up. Up until now, I thought of myself as a progressive woman. The kind who doesn’t take kindly to being called a man’s girl.
I’m reconsidering.
“What’s an Angus?” I ask.
“It’s a breed of cow. They’re raised for their meat. Best steak you’ll ever have. Hunter’s take on Daisy’s escapes is that she resents the farm’s jerseys, who are raised for milk, while her kind are raised for meat. Headed for the slaughterhouse.”
“Awww! Poor baby,” I say and the huge, black animal tilts its head my way. “That’s so sad!”
“Babe. They gave her a name. She ain’t going to the slaughterhouse,” he says, kissing my hair.
“So what’s she doing in our garden?”
He gives me a squeeze at my involuntary use of the word our. “Having breakfast.”
“Wh—?”
He points to the potted snowdrops and crocuses I’d placed in the garden. Only the pots are left. The blooms are all gone.
“Daisy!” I huff.
“Okay,” he says, patting my ass as he turns us around. “You’ve met Daisy. Time to get to work.”
“Are you going to let Hunter know where she is? So he can pick her up?”
“Nah. There’s no picking up Daisy. She’ll find her way back. Surprised you haven’t met her already.”
“I’d heard of her. Never believed it till I saw her.”
“Believe everything you hear about Emerald Creek, beautiful. This place is fucking nuts in the best possible ways.”
We share a cup of coffee, and then Christopher gets his groove on and starts baking while I stay on the sidelines, refilling glasses of water and cups of coffee, taking photos and videos. Silently cheering him on.
At six, my formal workday starts. As I do nearly every day, I meet Isaac at the task board. He blows a low whistle. “Wow, that is really the fast track. You’re making puff pastry.” He gives me an encouraging slap on the back. “Good luck,” he says as Christopher walks in and starts to demonstrate how to make pate feuilletée, the famous flaky dough.
“Alexandra, everything clear?” Christopher’s voice startles me. I’ve been daydreaming about how he called me his girl. About our lovemaking last night. About our argument, also last night. I’ve been letting my mind wander to a lot of things except pate feuilletée.
My eyes jump to meet his. “I—I might need—Maybe Isaac can walk me through this, again?”
He shut his eyes briefly. “Scrap the puff pastry for today. Make three kilograms of brioche dough instead. I’ll swing by later to check on the yield and your shaping technique.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’ve never made brioche dough before, but he’s already gone, and my eyes fall on Kiara looking at me with undisguised amusement. “Why does the boss have his panties in a tizzy? What did you do to him?”
My mouth drops open as I look around to see if anyone heard us.
She laughs. “Bambi! What’s with the deer in headlights look?” She chuckles at her own joke.
“Christopher asked me to—” Shit. I do say his name a special way. She’s going to make fun of me again.
“What’d he ask you to do?” She rolls her eyes. “In the bakery.”
I huff. “Brioche dough. Three kilograms. Or was it five? Darn.”
“Three sounds right. You already did this on your own?”
I shake my head.
“Here are the proportions,” she says, handing me a laminated sheet she fishes from somewhere. “Make sure the milk is lukewarm, not hot. Anything else, you’ll have to ask Christopher,” she ends on a chuckle. “It’s pretty straightforward, but good luck anyway.”
I glance at the thing and get to work. It doesn’t sound too complicated. Once all my ingredients are in the giant mixing bowl that stands directly on the floor, I attach the correct hook (I think), set the machine at low speed, and the timer on thirty minutes. I look over it for a few beats, but nothing happens. I speed it up. Now we’re talking.
While the dough kneads, I clean my workstation then decide it’s time to go for a coffee break. On my way out, I check on the dough. It’s nice and bubbly, almost to the surface of the bowl.
Wow. Really proud of myself, now.
I’m not yet halfway through my coffee when I hear shrieking coming from the bakehouse. “Oh my god! What’s going on?” Uninterested in other people’s drama, I close my eyes and enjoy a few moments of bliss.
“Alex! Alex!”
I guess they need my help. It’s good to feel useful, I realize. There’s a problem in the bakehouse, and they’re counting on me as well to help. My spirits up, I down the rest of my coffee and head back to the bakehouse.
Kiara and Willow are standing a few feet back from the mixing bowl, mouths wide open, hands on their hips. Isaac is scratching his head, looking at me with what looks like pity.
A bubbly, grayish liquid pours from the mixing bowl to the ground and seems to crawl everywhere. It’s thick yet nimble, like a creature from outer space.
“What the f—” Christopher booms as he enters from the bakery. “Somebody stop the fucking thing!”
Willow backs up two steps as the alien-like mixture reaches for her feet. Kiara follows suit. They both look at me. I scurry and lean over to hit the stop button, but I can’t reach it, so I step bravely into the muck. As I’m about to reach the control panel, I lose my footing and slip. I try to hold on to the edge of the overflowing bowl, but my hand slips, and I land hard on the floor.
Sharp pain sears through me, then embarrassment, as I try and fail to get up, my limbs uncooperative, my feet slipping through the yucky, thick liquid. My left arm is instantly numb, and I feel like a cartoon character as I see stars dance around me.
“Are you okay?” Willow says, her eyes wide on me, teetering between concern and amusement.
Am I okay?I’m broke, I lost my job, I lost my apartment, I lost the joke of a family I had, I’m sitting in a pool of sticky muck that smells like warm beer, and I can’t move my left arm.
And the man who’s making me reconsider everything I thought I knew about men acted like a jerk after making crazy love to me yesterday. Granted, he apologized, and we made up.
And then this morning, he introduced me as his girl. Okay, to a cow. But still.
All this is A. Lot.
My body starts to tremble, my chin wobbles, and tears stream down my cheeks as I look at the mess I am. I try pushing on my feet, but they just slip miserably on the floor.
Willow bravely steps in the muck, reaches under my arms, and tries to pull me out. But she ends up falling over me, and insanity takes over as I laugh uncontrollably.
She’s clutching at me, trying to pull me to dry ground, but as my hysteria takes over me, she pauses and says, “Are you laughing or are you crying?”
“I don’t knooooow,” I wail softly.
“Holy fucking shit, Bambi, you’re a mess.”
“Everyone back to work,” Christopher’s voice booms. Willow crawls back to dry ground, Isaac moves away, but Kiara stays put, hands on her hips.
I’m pulled by two muscular arms and slide onto a hard chest against my back. Christopher’s voice vibrates against my ear. “Are you okay?” My knees buckle, and as he strengthens his grasp against me, I wince at the sharp pain awakening my arm. “Where does it hurt?”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You got the proportions wrong,” he says. “I should have stayed with you, that’s what happened. Now, tell me where it hurts.” He doesn’t wait for my answer, just narrows his gaze on my hand hugging my elbow.
“It’s fine,” I say and flinch as he gently removes my hand.
He slips my apron above my head then unbuttons the long-sleeved chef’s shirt I wear on top of my T-shirt and slides it off. I draw a sharp breath as he cups my elbow.
“Can you bend it?” he asks softly, and for a moment, I’m lost in his gentleness, and I forget I’m hurting. “Can you?” he insists, worry creasing his eyebrows.
I bend it slowly and nod. The pain is so acute, it radiates to my leg, and I teeter.
“Sit down,” he says. “Someone get me some Arnica gel,” he barks, louder. “Should be in the kitchen. Second drawer below the microwave.” He holds my hand in his. “And a glass of water.”
Willow scurries to the kitchen, and when she comes back with the required items, Kiara wiggles her eyebrows playfully while Christopher applies the gel himself.
I roll my eyes and look away from her, focusing instead on how Christopher is taking gentle care of me.
After we’ve determined nothing’s broken, I’m dismissed for the day and instructed to rest my elbow.
But, before that, I get to summarize my mistake to the whole team, because “We all learn from our mistakes, and we can also try and learn from the mistakes of others.” (Barf).
Turns out, I misread the instructions and swapped the quantity of flour and the quantity of yeast. Oops. And the decision to speed up the process just made it worse. And, here, we get a lesson from the master on how important time is. Not as in, Let’s not waste it, but as in, Let’s use as much of it as we can.
Certainly not something I would have heard in New York, and that’s exactly the point he’s trying to make.
My elbow bandaged, I plop myself on the couch in the den and start sorting through all the photos I took in the bakery. Just because I’m off baking duty, doesn’t mean I won’t earn my keep. So, I get to work on what I do best.
On what I love.
Showcasing other people.
It’s easy when you’re dealing with a passionate individual like Christopher, who knows to surround himself with genuine people who clearly love what they’re doing.
I open my laptop and organize the photos I took in categories—People, Process, Products, and Place. I don’t need much time to decide on the color palette I want for the brand. I’ll follow the down-to-earth, authentic feels of the browns and golden hues of the breads. Simple painted pottery and plaid stadium blankets will complete the look.
I’ll keep it real by incorporating photos I took at Justin’s of Christopher’s slices of country breads and rye rolls in wicker baskets or directly on wooden boards, nudged between a cut of Ballyhoo cheese and a chunk of Bayley Hazen blue.
A picnic basket for a prop would be awesome. There’s still snow on the ground, although we’re moving fast into mud season. I’ll take photos in the green lush fields once the snow is entirely melted.
I get to work, sorting, cropping, retouching, applying filters to get the effect I want.
At noon, my eyes are tired, and I welcome the lunch break.
“So, you don’t have social media accounts,” I say to Christopher when there’s a lull in the conversation, which has been mainly between Willow and Isaac, since Kiara left before lunch.
He grunts, a raised eyebrow the only effort he’s going to put into the conversation. So what, I translate.
I’m not going to ask why not, because that would corner me exactly where I don’t want to be: arguing why he would need an online presence. “Would you mind having some?”
“Couldn’t care less.”
I clear my throat. “Does that mean you’d be okay having a social media presence?”
“Depends.”
“If you didn’t need to do anything? And it would bring you business?”
“Depends.”
It’s annoying how I can interpret exactly what he means. He’s concerned about the content and the image he’ll be projecting. He might act as if he doesn’t care what people think about him, but I’m ready to bet he can’t afford that luxury, yet. And he might act like he doesn’t know squat about social media, but that’s just alpha posturing. He has a kid who will be a tween in a few short years. He knows.
“If it was on brand?”
He doesn’t grace my buzzword with an answer. Points for him.
I let it go and spend the afternoon continuing to work on my pet project. The only work that actually makes me happy and doesn’t feel like work at all.
“Skye, come here,” I say. “I want to know what you think.”
We just finished dinner, and I want to kiss the feet of the man who can cook a clam chowder and shepherd’s pie and bring me a glass of wine all at once. But I can’t kiss him—not right now—so I decide to woo him with a creation of my own. And, given the cold reception I got earlier, I’m coming up with a little scheming.
I didn’t know I was the scheming kind. Note to self: Men might bring misery; they also make women scheme.
This apprenticeship is turning out highly instructional.
Skye stands from the floor where she’s been coloring and tucks herself against me, my laptop on both our knees. Christopher is flipping through TV channels, ignoring me.
Step One.
“So beautiful!” Skye exclaims as I scroll slowly through a mock-up feed I created. The photos that Skye finds so beautiful are breads and confections in different arrangements. In a wicker basket, on a china plate, on a wooden chopping board, on a silver tray. No matter the backdrop, the star is the bread. The bread always generates the emotion.
“I love it,” Skye says, her little hands clasping at her heart.
Step Two.
“The… Wright… Ba… Ke… Ry,” Skye spells out. “The Wright Bakery!” She shoots a huge grin at me and wiggles her feet in happiness after she’s deciphered the elements of a logo. I feel, rather than see, Christopher glancing at us. I lock my eyes on the screen and keep scrolling.
Step Three.
“It’s Daddy! And Willow! And Kiara! And Isaac! And Daddy again!” Christopher wiggles in his chair but stays put. “Daddy, come seeeeeee!” Skye calls out to her father. “Is that me?” she asks, pointing to a child’s fingers tearing apart a cinnamon bun.
“Yes, that is you,” I answer.
“Daddy come seeeeeee!” she cries louder.
He stands.
Step Four.
“What the actual fuck.”