4. Christopher
four
“Teeth, face, hands and nails.”
“I knooooow.”
“Lemme see?”
Skye grins and opens her mouth, then shows me her hands.
“Both sides.”
“Daddy! You saw me wash up.”
“What are we reading tonight?”
“Sophie’s new bedtime story!” she cries excitedly.
I pull a face, and Skye laughs. “I looooove Sophie’s stories!”
“I know, pumpkin. Her stories are something else.”
“Yes,” she nods frantically.
I take a deep breath and reach for the double-spaced, stapled booklet bearing the library’s stamp and Sophie’s name below the title, The Baker and The Princess.
Fuck me. What did she write this time? “Once upon a time…”
While I sift through the pages about a baker pulled from his village to bake bread for his king, my mind wanders back to dinner. I’m pacified by how Alexandra managed to bond with Skye already, yet worried at the same time.
I’m concerned Skye will get attached.
“I will only bake bread for Your Majesty if I can marry the princess.”
I’m starting to root for the baker in the story, but soon, my thoughts are overtaken by Alexandra. “Impale the baker! How dare he!?”
Did Sophie try to write the story of my life? The baker not good enough for the woman hits very close to home. Except I never loved Skye’s mother, even if my daughter is the best accident that ever happened to me.
“Oh, wait, he wants to marry the other princess? Good riddance, here you go!”
Nope, not my story. Not getting married and certainly not to a princess.
When I finish reading Sophie’s flowery prose, Skye says, “You see, Daddy, all bakers get married.”
This again.
“That baker got married only because he wanted to. And you can tell Caroline, he was the best baker in the country before he got married—that’s why the king wanted his bread.”
She has a big smile on her face. “That’s true.”
“I do not want or need to get married,” I say and boop her nose.
Her face gets serious. “Anyway, Alek-zandra said she won’t marry you.”
“What?”
“I asked her. She said no.” She smiles.
“You—Okay.” I chuckle. “That’s just as well, because like I said, I don’t want to marry her either. Or anyone.” How many times do I need to repeat this?
Skye feels threatened by women. She has this irrational fear that a stepmother will turn her into Cinderella or, worse, try and have her killed like Snow White. Fucking tales. I’ve talked about it with her therapist, and she says it’s to be expected. So, I suppose it’s good she’s verbalizing. Heck, more than just verbalizing.
I tuck her comforter tight under the mattress, just how she likes it. “You’re all I need in my life.”
Her eyes grow wide. “But someday my prince will come and what will you do? You’ll be all alone. I don’t want you to be alone, Daddy.”
Some dude taking my only daughter? Over my dead body. Still, I reassure her. “That’s in a very long time. And I won’t be alone. I’ll have Justin, and Aunt Gracie, and the whole village.”
“Sophie, Cassandra, Uncle Craig and Aunt Lynn, Miss Emma, Miss Henderson, Kiara, Willow, Autumn—” Skye is counting on her fingers. We’re going to be here all night.
“See? Lots of people. I’ll never be alone.”
“Second story, Daddy!”
“That’s right! I almost forgot.” She chooses a Christmas story we’ve read over and over again, and before I’m done, her breathing has steadied and her eyes are shut.
I know it’s the comfort of a familiar story that lulls her, so I keep going until I whisper, “The end.”
And then she flits her eyes open and wraps me in a tight hug.
“Who do you want tonight?” I ask and go through the list of her stuffed animal family.
“The whole family, Daddy. They all need me.”
I stack the stuffed animals above her pillow. “Don’t you keep my little princess awake, you rascals!” I growl.
That always sends Skye giggling. She ties her little hands around my neck again and holds me tighter than usual. “I love you, Daddy.”
I pull her close to me, inhaling her baby soap scent. She’s who gives me strength, day in, day out. How is it that she’s already thought about moving out? I don’t want her to grow up. “I love you too. Sleep tight.”
“And don’t let the bed… bugs… bite.”
I kiss her forehead, my heart swelling at the improvements in her speech.
I switch on her turtle night-light before turning off the other lights in her room, and glance at her while I pull the door halfway closed behind me. My heart fills my chest almost painfully.
My daughter is everything I live for. To say that I love her doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s my life, my blood, my heart, so small and fragile. I’m terrified every day and every night that something might happen to her while I’m not around to protect her.
“I’m sleeping, Daddy. You can go now.”
When I get back downstairs, Alexandra is wiping the table. The dishes are all done and put away, expect for our two glasses and what’s left of the wine.
I’ve never had a woman alone here, and I know I shouldn’t think about Alexandra like that, but I can’t help it. It feels too intimate, and I wish I hadn’t prompted her to stay up and wait for me. “You must be tired,” I try.
“No, I’m great!” she says as she hangs the dishtowel neatly on a bar handle. She plops her fists on her hips. “You wanted to ask me questions?” Her lips seal together in a thin, forced smile. Her breathing is uneven.
Shit.
She’s totally freaked out.
I rub the back of my neck. “Look, I’m sorry if Skye drilled you with questions.”
Her face softens and she brushes off my concern with a wave. “She’s the cutest. You must be so proud of her.”
“I try my best. I guess…” I gather my thoughts and pick up the bottle, a question in my eyes.
“Yeah, please,” she says and plops in her chair. She looks wound up.
I pour the wine. “I guess I’ve been trying to get her to open up about anything that bothers her, and it’s working a little too well.”
Alexandra chuckles, visibly relaxing. “I think it’s great. At least she’s clear about what’s on her mind. Let’s hope she stays that way growing up.”
“Yeah, she’s got time to figure out filters and shit.”
“Screw filters,” she says, and I nearly spill the wine, laughing.
“Screw filters,” I answer as we clink our glasses.
We let a few moments pass in silence, and it’s both awkward and so peaceful.
“So. Why do you want to become a baker?” I finally ask, breaking the spell.
She tucks her feet sideways under her thighs on the chair. “I work for Red Barn Baking. You heard of them?”
Fuck. Why am I surprised. They’re tied to the foundation that gave me my grant. Doesn’t mean I like them. “Tastes like shit, looks like cardboard. Yeah, I heard of them. Soulless big corp. Didn’t know they were interested in baking.” Now why would a girl like her work for these assholes?
Her eyes widen, and a small smile forms on her lips. “Screw filters, right?”
Forget her looks. I like her attitude. Damn. “What did you do there?” I don’t mention rumor has it the founder was from Vermont. Speak of a travesty.
“Well, I’m in digital marketing? That’s my thing. So, yeah. Here I am!” Her eyebrows wiggle, and she drops her gaze to her wine.
Marketing? What the fuck? “Did you ever work in their labs. In production.” Not sure that would be a good thing, frankly. I’d rather start from scratch, not have to deal with bad habits.
She hesitates, then says, “No, they wanted me to come here to have some experience with that.”
Again—what the fuck? Although, these guys can’t bake, so… “Figures.”
“I—I’m confused…” She frowns briefly. The thin crease that forms between her brows stays, a scar of her emotions.
“I asked you why you wanted to become a baker,” I say.
She bats her eyelashes. Not in a way that wants to be cute. More like she’s trying to get rid of something that’s bothering her.
“I have to become a baker in order to keep my job at Red Barn,” she says. “And they said I have to complete my apprenticeship here. With you. They need me to pass the French baking exam. They told you that, right?”
She seems like a smart girl. So why does she put up with shit like that? “That sounds right,” I say. “They treat their employees like shit, just like their customers.”
Her eyes widen for a beat and her cheeks color. “Wait—what did they tell you about me?”
Theydidn’t tell me anything. The foundation that gave me my grant said I needed to take in an apprentice, and so I did. I didn’t ask anything about the apprentice.
“Nothing,” I say. I stand and look out the window, my back to Alexandra. Even if I don’t have any reason to question her honesty, something’s off. City girls who work in marketing aren’t the bread and butter of baking apprenticeships. Unless, that is, they’ve decided to turn their life around and pursue some lifelong calling. Not the case here, from the looks of it.
My brain needs something neutral to focus on. Something that’s not the hot new apprentice with questionable motives to be here.
Justin’s pub shines across The Green. Although it’s been pitch dark outside for a while now, it’s still fairly early, and occasionally the door to the pub opens to let a couple or a group in or out, spilling light on the sidewalk. And if you know what you’re listening for, you can hear accents of music too. Up on the hill, lights from farmhouses twinkle. A car’s headlights gently swerve in the darkness. It’s simple, and peaceful.
It’s the best place on earth.
“Where do you work? Offices?” I ask.
“Y-yeah.”
“Where?”
“Midtown.”
“That’s—Manhattan? High rise? You have a view on other buildings? What does it smell like?” I can’t begin to imagine it.
“Thirty-second floor. No view. No smell.”
“That’s gotta be the worst. So, let me get this straight,” I say, turning back toward her. She sits up and nods like she knows where I’m going with this. Like she’s been through the same thought process and empathizes with me.
“You’re here to learn enough of baking so you can pass an exam, so that you can then sit in an office and help make an industrial bakery that poisons people, millions more dollars?”
Yeah, she’s just as puzzled as I am.
Just not angry about it.
“You could put it that way, I guess?” She squirms in her chair. “Although the poisoning part?” She scrunches up her nose, purses her full, rosy lips. “Debatable?”
And in that moment, I want to debate it with her. Make her understand what baking is about. What food is about.
I also want to kiss away her worry frown.
“So, explain it to me. What is it that you do, daily.” I lean against the kitchen counter, towering over her, but from a safe distance.
She starts explaining the stuff she does, and every now and then throws some jargon, but not in an arrogant manner. More in the way of people who’re really good at their job. Breathe it. Her hands get animated and tell half of the story. Her eyes squint.
Her lips take all sorts of interesting shapes.
I’m not listening to what she says, but I’m totally digging the passion she has.
What am I going to do with her?
“I guess they wanted me to experience the real thing,” she says as a manner of conclusion.
My gaze flicks back to her eyes. There’s a quick recognition on her end that she caught me ogling her mouth. “So they sent you here?”
“You’re supposed to be the best baker in the country. Right?” She does a quick scan of my body, and I hope that glint is not what I think it is, because if she’s attracted to me the way I’m attracted to her… well, hell.
That can’t happen.
Her cheeks are rosy, but I’ll chalk that up to the wine.
“What made you want to become a baker?” she asks, surprising me. I haven’t been asked this in a long while. Me being a baker is part of my identity, and on a typical day, no one questions your identity.
I take my seat back at the table. “At first, I was looking for a way out.”
“Out? From where?” she presses.
The wine feels good down my throat and in my veins. “Home.”
She nods. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“That bad?”
“In hindsight? Nah. But for an angry teenager, pretty fucking bad. At least in my mind.”
She stays quiet, giving me space to say more or nothing at all. “Then, I realized how food brings people together. And how bread transcends that experience. How by the simple act of making bread with my hands every day, I was making my life better. And the life of all who I shared my bread with.”
My mind goes back to my apprenticeship, which I had all but fled to, and the values I’d discovered there. “After my apprenticeship in France, I stayed with family in Emerald Creek, worked here and there, and had the opportunity to get this space.” I skip the part where that was made possible because of a grant I received from a foundation tied to Red Barn Baking. I’m not proud of the fact that the grant money comes from industrial baking. I always thought they’d helped me out because the founder was from Vermont, supposedly even from Emerald Creek, and maybe that was their way of making some things right in this world.
But mainly, I can’t ever have my apprentice know that in order for me to keep the grant, she must pass the French baking exam. I can’t put that kind of pressure on Alexandra—on anyone. It wouldn’t be fair. My finances shouldn’t be the apprentice’s problem. An apprenticeship is about discovering a trade, an art, and oneself. It’s not a financial transaction. And the apprentice should always feel free to walk away if they discover this is not their path. If she knew what’s a stake for me, she’d lose her freedom to leave.
I don’t believe in tying people down.
We polished the bottle and our glasses are empty. And although I want this evening to drag on, it’s not the right thing to do. There’s also the matter of me having just a few hours of sleep ahead of me.
I stand and she follows suit. “Let’s make a baker out of you, Pierce. And I’ll be damned if you spend one day in a fucking office.”
“Mm,” she says, doubtful.
“Mark my words.” I smile. “Not a day in a fucking office.” This time I chuckle to myself. There’s something about this girl. I don’t know what it is yet, but she doesn’t belong in a cage in a city. “You’ll have the day off tomorrow. Get settled in. Grace will show you around.”