Chapter 11 #2
I had no doubt he’d be on the phone with one of my grandpapa’s old buddies before we’d made it to the street. People talked about old women gossiping, but in my experience, it was the men you needed to watch out for. They were the ones who got up in everyone’s business. They just hid it better.
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“brEAD NEXT?” I hadn’t expected Ford’s cooking lesson to include a shopping trip to procure ingredients.
In hindsight, I probably should have. He hadn’t done anything the way I’d expected him to.
I wasn’t complaining. Meeting Antoine and listening to him go back and forth with Ford had been fun, and the mortadella was amazing.
Luscious was one of those overused words, but it applied to the savory bologna with its jewels of shaved, melt-in-your-mouth fat.
I wanted to know more—wanted the tale of how Ford and the old man met and what Ford was like as a boy. I’d ask Ford himself when I had a chance and maybe pay Antoine a visit myself another time for some soppressata and stories.
“Jacques makes the best bread for both muffuletta and po’ boys. Light as air and perfectly crisp crust.” Ford took my hand, twining our fingers together as if it were the most natural thing in the world and everything was easy for him.
When he’d taken my hand in the deli, I’d had to ignore the spike in my pulse.
Handholding with a man I’d been naked with wasn’t supposed to make my pulse jump, but it did with Ford.
Which could be the man or it could simply be that I didn’t have a lot of experience mixing physical intimacy with the casual affection that in this case somehow managed to feel more intimate than the sweaty naked bits.
Something I had absolutely no intention of looking too closely at.
Ford led us a couple of blocks down Decatur before turning onto a side street that quickly morphed into an alley.
We stopped in front of a nondescript metal door that looked like the perfect place to orchestrate a literal back alley drug deal.
Ford knocked and a middle-aged man with arms as thick as my thighs opened the door.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt before reaching out to grab Ford’s hand.
“Hey, man. Whatcha been doin’?” He clapped a big hand on Ford’s shoulder and particles of flour spun in the air behind them as the two men beamed at each other.
“More of the same.” Ford stepped out of the other man’s grip to turn to me. “Jacques, this is Charlotte. Jacques makes some of the best bread in the city.”
“Some of the best bread in the city. Pfft.” The man made a noise in the back of his throat before shifting his attention to me. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte.”
I took his offered hand and watched as his fingers swallowed mine. If kneading bread gave you those kind of forearms, it was a miracle bread-baking workouts hadn’t become a thing, like goat yoga but with carbs. Seriously.
“Nice to meet you too.”
Even standing in the doorway, my eyes had begun to adjust to the dimly lit interior.
I could make out rolling racks filled with dozens and dozens of torpedo-shaped rolls, the kind normally used for po’ boys.
I breathed in the toasted yeasty smell and had a sudden urge to eat fried oyster po’ boys. With Ford.
“What can I get for you guys?”
As far as I could tell, we were nowhere near anything resembling a retail establishment, but that didn’t seem to matter to either man.
“We’re making muffuletta...” said Ford.
“And where else would you come for bread,” Jacques finished. “I’ve got some beautiful full-size seeded rounds fresh from the oven. How many would you like?”
“Can we get four? The leftovers are fantastic toasted with salted butter,” he said, turning his attention from Jacques to me.
I had no doubt anything that came out of this delicious-smelling place would be more than fantastic. I was also going to have to add extra time on the treadmill—something I tried to avoid—for all the carbs in my immediate future.
“Sure.” Jacques disappeared and returned a few moments later carrying a stack of shallow round rolls as big as large salad plates. He tucked them into a paper sack and handed the bag to me.
“God, I hope this is calories by the gram,” I said, weighing the bag with my hands. “These don’t weigh a thing.”
“I like this one,” he said. “She can come back without you. You knock on my door when you need bread.” He smiled at me, and I felt Ford move closer to my side, his hand on my back taking on an almost proprietary feel.
“Why did you have to go and do that? We both know how good your bread is. I was counting on being Charlotte’s supplier. The keys to the kingdom. What does she need me for if she can come direct to the source?”
“Man, if you can’t figure that out on your own, you don’t deserve her. Come see me whenever you want, beautiful. For bread or anything else.”
“Stand down, asshole,” said Ford.
The peeing in the corner, antler rubbing routine would have left me cold, if it wasn’t so obvious there was real affection between the men.
Ford reached for his wallet and got waved away for the second time that day.
“Your money’s no good here. But the next time you come, you can bring me a bottle of those bitters you’re so proud of.” He gripped Ford’s shoulder again before retreating deeper into the room. “Take your bread and your beautiful woman and leave me to my ovens. It was good to meet you, Charlotte.”
“You too,” I said, clutching the bread like a well-earned treasure. This whole trip to gather ingredients had started to take on something of the feel of a quest. With the meats, cheese, and bread procured, I couldn’t imagine what was left.
“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” asked Ford as if he’d just discovered something about himself.
“Isn’t that kind of the point? We’re making muffuletta, remember.
” I shifted the bag of almost weightless bread to my other arm and didn’t fight it when Ford took my hand.
I liked the way it felt to walk with our fingers twined together.
The way we moved down the alley to the street as one entity instead of two separate people.
I didn’t love what any of that said about me or what we were doing together, but I was more than comfortable shoving that aside to look at later. Or never.
“I don’t want to wait that long.”
Which begged the question, exactly how long did it take to make sandwiches and how many steps must I be overlooking?
“Come on. I know a place.”
“Of course you do,” I said as he steered us down another out-of-the-way side street.
He stopped in front of a small storefront, pausing with his hand on the door. “I know it’s going to be difficult, but I need you to try not to be jealous.”
“Oh please.” I rolled my eyes for good measure. “If this bread tastes as good as it smells, I have every intention of throwing you over for Jacques as soon as the last crumb is gone.”
“That’s my girl.”
He pushed open the door, and I breathed in the slightly burnt smell of caramelized sugar. And ignored the way my pulse kicked up at the my girl comment. It had been a long damn time since I’d been a girl and almost as long since anyone had called me his.
“Hey, Miss Flora,” called Ford, following me into the small shop.
A small round woman with dark skin and kind eyes perched on a stool behind a tidy glass display case filled with every variety and configuration of pralines and pecan turtles I could imagine.
“Child! Where’ve you been? It’s been an age and a half since you’ve come to see me. Come on in here.”
She opened her arms and Ford stepped around the counter to let the woman fold him into a hug. I was a little jealous—not of the woman and Ford—but of the warmth in her greeting. Something about the almost maternal way she spoke to him gave me a twinge of homesickness.
“Who did you bring to meet me?” she said, coming up for air and turning her attention to me.
“Miss Flora, I’d like you to meet Charlotte. We’re having a bit of an adventure today, and I couldn’t let it end without some of your pralines.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Flora.” I offered the older woman my hand, but she hopped off her stool without taking it, moving Ford out of the way so she could pull me in for a hug.
She smelled like sugar and spice and toasted pecans, and the feeling of homesickness grew and abated the longer the hug lasted.
Hugging strangers was another thing to add to the odd things that happened with Ford, but it wasn’t one I could regret.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Charlotte. Ford doesn’t come to see me as often as he should, and he’s never brought anyone to meet me. You must be special to him.”
Ford looked uncomfortable, and I opened my mouth to protest, not sure how to distill our relationship, such as it was, into something I’d be okay describing to the other woman. Ford spoke before I could find the words.
“She is, Miss Flora. Very special to me.”
As he spoke, any uncertainty he seemed to be feeling earlier vanished while mine grew. I didn’t know what Ford and I were to each other. That he thought I was special wasn’t unwelcome, but it was one more confusing thing to add to the day.
“Could you hook us up with a big bag of pralines? Charlotte is about to perish.”
“You’re the one who’s too hungry to wait for lunch.” I rolled my eyes and the woman behind the counter laughed.
“Just like a man, trying to shift the blame somewhere else.” Her words carried a bite but there was no malice or bitterness in her expression.
It might be hard to stay bitter surrounded by all the toasted sugary goodness, but I had a feeling it had more to do with the woman than the candy. She radiated warmth.
She grabbed a palm-sized waxed paper bag from under the counter and filled it so full of pralines, there was no way to fold the bag closed.
“I’m going to give these to you,” she said, handing me the bag. “I’ve got more faith in your ability to share than his.”