Chapter 42
SEPTEMBER 2022
PITTSBURGH
AGE: 36
HYPE YEAST OPENED FOR BUSINESS ON LABOR DAY. AND THE CITIZENS of Pittsburgh were eager to check out their city’s newest culinary offering. From the moment we opened, there was often a line out the door, which was pleasantly surprising. Hal and Brie were regulars—they still shunned gluten but enjoyed our matcha lattes—as did an assortment of other dog walkers, business executives, high-school kids, and carb-cravers of western Pennsylvania. My business was off to a great start.
We were a skeleton crew in the beginning. Geeta, who was living with me while writing her memoir, tentatively titled Crime, Punishment, and Relaxation, helped run the cash register and told anyone who would listen that she had named the bakery and designed our logo. With its simple geometric font, Hype Yeast looked like it had always existed in the world. Branding was always Geeta’s strong suit. The media was fascinated with her presence at this low-key establishment in the middle of this small city.
Despite her fame, she had shunned national outlets but gave an interview to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette stating that she was just the first example in my overarching mission of hiring formerly incarcerated women. As our sales increased, I doubled down and hired more women, offering them good pay and benefits. I was finally supporting women in a tangible way instead of organizing Father’s Day parade parties and convincing myself that these efforts would somehow narrow the gender gap.
Sophie was busy working two phones documenting our activities, since one of her main responsibilities was running all of the @hypeyeastbaked social media accounts. By the time we had been open a couple of weeks, we already had more than 1,500 followers, including a couple of assistant editors at food magazines. The Crave, my favorite foodie website, published a profile of me with the following headline: “Jenny Green Once Burned Down a Bakery. Now She Owns One.”
Ugly breads were our specialty. Sophie had done the research and identified the rising aesthetic of jolie laide—the French phrase describing an unconventionally attractive woman—baked goods. Our product was messy, imperfectly perfect. We weren’t a factory. We were artisanal, like the bakery I had nearly destroyed, except we were on fire in a different way. By our third Saturday in business, we’d sold out of everything but the buckwheat croissants by noon.
“I could have told you that would happen,” Geeta said after closing. She was reviewing a stack of credit card receipts.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I always forget how much the world hates buckwheat.”
I was wiping down the top of a marble table I’d salvaged from a yard sale, my arm moving in rhythm with the Counting Crows piping through our speaker system. Now that we were closed for business, my friends had allowed me to switch from the tasteful playlist that Sophie had made to all the bad rock ballads I missed singing with the Looney Tunes. (I hadn’t been to practice since I had returned from Santa Fe due to my busy work schedule, but fully intended to resume attending once things calmed down.)
Geeta balled up a damp dishrag and threw it at me. “That’s not what I meant, Jenny. I meant that I always knew you could do it. You just needed to believe in your own power.”
“Oh yeah—that,” I said with a laugh.
“I never said it was easy. But it was possible. And you did it.”
I cocked my head. “We did. And I’m still a work in progress.”
“Who isn’t?” Geeta asked.
She was right. Even Leigh, the most impenetrable member of our triad, had vulnerabilities to overcome. After her stay at a rehab center, she was working hard on her recovery as well as her comeback. She was making amends, part of which involved checking in on me on a regular basis. She was also putting in the hours in her studio, and had found an emerging art gallery to represent her. And she was painting landscapes again.
The one holdover was her Memo, the one thing she’d never let go of. And I didn’t begrudge her that. We were each doing our own thing, going our own ways, but friends. Imagine that! All those years, I’d told myself that Leigh had changed, as if that was a bad thing. Of course she’d changed. We’d all seen some wear and tear. Underneath the surface, she was still the charismatic painter and crew-team member I’d befriended our sophomore year. Leigh and I were back in touch—in a real way, one where I wasn’t just making excuses and keeping her at arm’s length because I was too jealous.
When Leigh came to Pittsburgh for a meeting she had with a big collector—Alice’s cousin, as it happened—she stopped by the bakery and offered her characteristically bold opinion: “Finally, Jenny, you are getting your act together. Promise me you’re going to do something about the lighting in this place, though.” A few days later she sent me an email with lighting recommendations at various price points. Thanks to Leigh, a bright red fixture now hung above the cash register.
As for Alice, she was busy crafting her own new identity following the dissolution of the Aurora Foundation. Despite her complaints about our incompetence, she was lost without my fundraising expertise or Sophie’s social-media savvy. Once she returned from her extended trip to Bali, Alice decided to invest in one of the foundation’s early grant recipients, an entrepreneur who wanted to save the planet by eliminating disposable baby wipes from the marketplace. According to the website for Tender Biddles, which made portable bidets for toddlers, Alice was a vice president.
Sophie and I were torn about whether we should personally invite Alice to our own new venture. Ultimately, we decided not to. She could find it on her own. Our days managing the many moods of Alice felt so long ago. I sighed in relief and grabbed another dish rag.
When I’d cleaned down all the tables, I took a seat on the reclaimed church bench that Sophie and I had sanded and refinished, and allowed myself to enjoy a milky iced coffee. I reached into the bookshelf containing a lending library for our customers and pulled out the first thing my fingers touched. I smiled when I saw what it was: Stacey Plunkett Gets a Life, the book that Gabe had lent to me that fateful night when I had just found out that I didn’t get the Memo.
Before I could decide whether to re-shelve the book or crack it open, I heard the jingle of the bell affixed to the door.
“We’re clo—” I started, pointing to the sign that stated that fact in no ambiguous terms. But when I saw who had come to check out the bakery I felt the blood rush to my face. It was as if I’d summoned Gabe by touching his book. There he was, accompanied by Ramona. She was dressed in purple leggings with stars and an I Heart Tacos T-shirt. I cringed, half expecting them to be struck by lightning or get sucked into the oven. But they remained intact.
“Really?” Gabe sounded more amused than defeated. “We’re just blowing it left and right today, aren’t we kiddo?” He squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “We just showed up for a birthday party a week too early,” he blurted to me. I remembered how much I loved his random declarations.
“At least you didn’t miss it,” I said.
“And now we’re barging in on you,” Gabe said.
“It’s okay. What can we get for you?” Geeta asked. Then she gave me a funny look and motioned to her cheek. I quickly wiped away a crumb on my face.
“Your timing is perfect, really,” I said, still in disbelief that this was happening. “There’s no line anymore.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” Gabe asked.
“Maybe?” I said. No matter how much I’d thought about him, I still hadn’t seen him since my return from Santa Fe. “I have a familiar face.” I could feel my heart rate quickening. I had to look away.
I turned to Ramona and smiled. “Hi,” I said. “We don’t have much left, but would you like a buckwheat croissant? They might not look perfect, but there are gobs of honey inside.”
“Sounds delicious,” her father said.
“Thank you.” Ramona seemed shy, and sweet too. I’d heard so much about her, and seen her across park paths and Los Angeles traffic, but this was our first actual meeting.
“I’m Jenny,” I said, handing her the treat. “And let me guess your name.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Are you... Raven?” The girl took a bite and shook her head. I waved my fingers as if I was feeling the vibes of the universe. “I think it starts with R.”
“Very good,” Gabe said.
“Rapun—Never mind, that’s not it... Rebecca, no that’s not it either. Is it... Ramona?”
Gabe looked at me with astonishment. Geeta and Sophie were staring at me too.
“Well done. And I’m Gabe,” he said.
“I’m Jenny,” I told him.
“Right. You mentioned. And I read about you. We’ve been wanting to come here for a while to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Do you two live around here?” I asked.
Gabe shook his head. “It’s a bit of a hike. Ramona’s mom is traveling with her husband this weekend, so I thought I’d do something exotic, take the kid to a new neighborhood. I love all forms of bread.”
I could barely concentrate beyond one word. Did he say husband?
“They’re in Iceland,” Ramona said, her lips covered in flaky crumbs. “They have unicorns there.”
“Lucky them. I don’t have unicorns here, but I have something else you might like,” I said, proffering the paperback that I’d promised to hand over to Ramona once-upon-a-pub outing.
“Stacey Plunkett Gets a Life,” Gabe said, tilting his head to study the cover. “‘A powerful tale of personal awakening—with a side of crinkle-cut fries.’” I could tell that something was happening inside of him, a blast of déjà vu tugging at him. “Thanks so much. We have a little collection of old paperbacks at home.”
“It’s a lesser-known classic,” I said. “A friend once gave it to me and now I’m paying it forward.”
“Well, thank you,” Gabe said, taking the book and smiling. “We’ll let you know how it was. We’ll be back.”
When the door jingled shut, Sophie looked up from her phone. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Yeah,” Geeta said. “What’s the deal? I could practically hear your ovaries singing.”
I considered this for a second. I’d had enough intervention with my ovaries, but my heart was bursting—and not only for Gabe. Seeing Ramona again had pricked me with a sense of possibility. I wanted to get to know this quirky kid, be there for her. I was getting ahead of myself, but I couldn’t deny that I’d felt a strange connection.
Maybe it had something to do with the renewed warmth I’d been feeling for my own mother. She was back to her old loving self, sending me novelty pajama sets she found at Target and calling me, not with an agenda, but because she just wanted to chitchat with her daughter. I needed to let go of the past and meet my mom where she was. I was trying, and it was making a difference. My mom had recently told me she’d been feeling blue. She never used to open up to me like that.
“Shhh,” Sophie hissed, plastering on a smile. The door was opening again, and Gabe took a step toward me. I looked into his blue eyes and felt my heart bump.
“Listen, Jenny?” he said. “I just took a bite of Ramona’s croissant and... I wanted to offer my compliments to the chef.”
“Compliments are warmly accepted,” I said.
“And... I should probably figure out a way to email you or something but...” He stood before me, ready to take his shot. “Would you possibly want to get a drink sometime?”
I could feel the smile stretching across my face. “A drink?”
Gabe took half a step back. I glanced through the window at the girl waiting outside. Ramona and I exchanged a secret smile before I looked back up at her father. “Or not!” he said awkwardly.
“No, no,” I replied, “a drink sounds great.”
“Really?” He appeared to be confused as to what to say next. Maybe he wasn’t expecting a yes. “There’s this place I know that’s sort of cheesy but it’s also kind of fun—”
“Desmond’s Tavern?” I jumped in.
Gabe’s face lit up. “You know it?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to go back.”