6. Roderick
RODERICK
Kieran Shipley. All these years later, I finally know his name. We weren’t in the same class at school. We never spoke. But of course I remember him. Who could forget?
At eighteen, I thought of myself as a wild man and a party animal. I wasn’t afraid of anything. My plan was to become a famous guitar player and screw the world’s most attractive men after each concert.
Sexual encounters beneath the bleachers were my idea of a raucous good time. And if a younger guy wanted to watch, the more the merrier.
From the look on his face, though, Kieran Shipley doesn’t share my fond memories. He has daggers in his eyes as he turns back to his work.
So this is a setback. Twenty-six-year-old me needs a job. Badly. I wonder if Kieran is going to screw this up for me. He’s a Shipley, too, like Audrey.
“Can we call you after we get a chance to sort ourselves out?” Zara asks. “Audrey and I need to huddle up and figure out if we’re ready to hire a full-timer.”
“Of course!” I say, snapping out of my funk. “You have my résumé, with the references on the back. Just holler if you have any questions.”
I shake everyone’s hand, except for Kieran’s. He’s too busy scrubbing a pan like he’s trying to teach it a lesson.
Then I get back into my car and continue my job search.
At seven o’clock that evening, my unemployed butt is running a quick three miles on the treadmill at the gym. I’ve had no calls from Zara, or from anyone else.
I spent the afternoon trying to put in applications at bakeries and restaurants around the area. I visited Price Chopper and also the Colebury Diner. Nobody needs a baker.
That’s the curse of a small town—a tiny labor market.
I suppose I could go back to Nashville. My boss would take me back. But Nashville isn’t really my home. It was Brian Aimsley’s. And since I never want to see him again, I can’t make myself go back.
The treadmill keeps me at a steady pace, and my feet slap against the belt as I try to burn off another wave of fear and anger. For the last three years I gave my whole soul to Brian. The more I think about it, the worse I feel.
Our Nashville friends were really his friends. Our social life happened on his schedule. He’s a musician who frequently tours, so I’d stack up my work hours for the times when he was gone, making myself available when he was home.
I was so accommodating. And he gave so little back.
There’s sweat dripping off my body now, so I hit the stop button and slow my paces.
When I step off the treadmill, the floor does that thing where it feels like I’m still in motion.
Teetering, I grab my phone and peek at the messages, because hope springs eternal.
And—boom! There’s a text from an unknown 802 number.
Roderick—can you come to the Busy Bean tomorrow morning at seven? We discussed it and we want to do a trial period. If tomorrow is bad, let us know when you can come. —Zara.
Hot damn. I didn’t think I’d get this chance.
But I sure am happy about it. Tomorrow at seven I’ll bring out my A-game in the kitchen.
I will bake perfect bagels. I will dazzle with pizzas and pastries.
I will scrub the floor if they ask me to.
And I will charm the heck out of them while I’m doing it.
And somehow I’ll make friends with Kieran Shipley. Not that it will be easy. If only I hadn’t said, “Who’s the Peeping Tom?” I hadn’t been referring to high school—my word choice was just a shitty coincidence. He must know that, right?
The only things I know about him are that he’s smoking hot and he used to enjoy watching me blow another guy under the bleachers. I spotted him that first time, and then he kept coming back.
Maybe he’s in the closet and thinks I’m going to out him. But Kieran has nothing to fear from me. Unless he’s afraid of excellent bagels.
That night—after another shower at the gym, and a takeout sandwich—I park my car behind a yarn shop that’s on a curve in the road. The parking spot isn’t visible from neighboring properties, and the sign in the window says they open tomorrow at ten a.m.
I still don’t feel safe. Once again I spend the night squirming around in the passenger seat, waiting for a psycho to bash in my windshield with an ax and murder me. Anxious thoughts chase through my brain at dizzying speed.
On the plus side, it’s no problem showing up for work before dawn. I can’t wait to get out of this car. At six a.m. I’m brushing my teeth with bottled water and tidying up my hair with a wet comb. By six thirty, I’m rolling into the Busy Bean parking lot.
I’m so early that I have to tap on the kitchen window to let Audrey know that I’m here. She opens the door with, “Morning, sunshine. There’s no coffee yet, but we can fix that soon.”
“I’d be happy to make it,” I offer. Although I haven’t eaten much these past few days, and my stomach is too empty for coffee.
Being broke is the worst. I just need a little bit of luck to come my way before I can stop feeling like a homeless loser.
“Grab an apron,” Audrey says, pointing to the clean ones on a hook. “I’m making biscotti.”
“How can I help?”
“Sliver these almonds?” She tosses me a bag.
“No problem.” I wash my hands and get to work.
We work together for a while in companionable silence. We finish the biscotti and then move on to two kinds of muffins—corn and pear ginger. “The pears are from Zara’s family’s orchard,” she says. “We use local food as often as we can.”
“Is there locally grown flour?”
She shakes her head. “Not often. But we can use local butter and milk, and fruit, obviously. My husband’s family has a big apple orchard, so I make a lot of tarts.”
My stomach rumbles loudly, and Audrey laughs. “Somebody likes apple tarts.”
“Love them,” I say mildly. My poverty is not her problem, and complaining about my hunger doesn’t make me a better job prospect. “I remember the Shipley orchard. They used to hire teenagers in the fall. And there were bonfire parties.”
“We still have those parties. There’s one in a couple weeks. But the youngest Shipleys are out of high school.”
“Cool. Hey, can I ask a favor? My sourdough starter needs feeding, and I didn’t have time this morning. Could I feed it a cup of your flour?”
“Of course! Show me your ways.”
“Awesome. One sec.” I dash out to my car to get the jar, leaving my crusty measuring cup behind.
Even if I can’t feed myself very well right now, I’ve still fed my sourdough starter every night and every morning.
I’m using a five-pound bag of the cheapest white flour from the store, but I won’t let him die.
“So let’s see how you do this,” Audrey says when I return.
I set the jar down on the counter and screw off the top. “Audrey, I’d like to introduce you to William Butler Yeast.”
She snorts. “You named your starter?”
“Everybody names his starter. What did they teach you in cooking school?”
She watches with a smile while I remove two thirds of the stringy, bubbly batter from the jar.
A sourdough starter is just three things: flour, water, and the millions of natural yeasts living in the mixture.
Every day you have to remove two thirds of its bulk and then replace it with fresh flour and water, so that the yeasts have enough to eat.
“Don’t you have to weigh it?” Audrey asks. “I thought there was some precision involved.”
“You’re supposed to,” I admit. “But I’ve kept William in this jar for so long that I can just eyeball it now.
” The discarded starter goes into a metal mixing bowl that I’ve grabbed off a shelf.
Then, into William’s jar, I add a half cup of water and nearly a cup of flour.
I stir the sticky mass together with a wooden spoon and close the jar again.
“So that’s how the magic happens?” She lifts the mixing bowl and takes a sniff. “I’m getting… bananas. And a whiff of alcohol.”
“Right, I smell that banana ester, too. And alcohol is a byproduct. I let it go a little too long between feedings.” That’s what living in your car will do for you. “So there’s extra alcohol present. William eats twice a day to stay at peak performance.”
“Can we make something with this?” she asks.
“Sure!” This is just what I need—to put my hands in some dough and make the kitchen smell like fresh bread.
When I’m baking in a warm kitchen, that’s when I know everything is okay.
“Do you have any yeast, though? If we wanted to do a bread that’s entirely leavened by sourdough, it won’t be ready until evening.
When I’m making a strict sourdough, I start it the night before. ”
“Probably?” Audrey goes to the refrigerator and roots around. “I have this. I don’t know if it’s your brand.” She hands me a package of Red Star.
“Perfect. Let’s make some pretzels.” I open the yeast and sprinkle about a teaspoon over my sourdough starter. “All we need is flour and water and maybe a dollop of honey or some sugar.”
“Not a problem,” Audrey says. “Let’s see your magic.”
If I had magic, I wouldn’t be broke right now. But did I mention that I’m a natural showman? “Get ready to be dazzled, Audrey. We’re eating well this morning.” I dip the metal scoop into the flour and get started on a batch of pretzels.