Chapter 9 Beyond the Rosciano Gates #2
The files are all there, exactly as I left them. Floor plans for a small shop. Lists of equipment I'd need. Supplier contacts for flour and sugar and almonds. Financial projections that I worked on late at night when Leon was traveling, adding and subtracting numbers until they almost made sense.
I showed him these plans once, pulling up the folder while he stood behind me at the desk in our bedroom. He reminded me I didn't need to work.
When I tried to explain why I wanted to, he said we could talk after the reception, after things settled down. We never did.
I scroll through the files, letting myself imagine again.
A little shop on a corner somewhere, with tables by the window where people could sit and eat. Almond biscuits and orange cakes and the family recipes copied into my notebook.
omething that would be mine, built with my own hands, not dependent on anyone else's approval or permission.
I still have some of the savings I brought into the marriage, though I've been sending money to my parents each month for the farm.
I would have to work out what I could afford.
Perhaps a shop is too much to start with.
A few orders, a market table, something I could build from: those are possibilities I can at least look at.
The thought feels dangerous and exciting and terrifying all at once.
"What are you looking at?"
My mother appears in the doorway of the guest room, a cup of tea in her hand.
"Just some plans I've been working on." I turn the laptop so she can see the screen. "For a bakeshop. Someday."
She comes to sit on the edge of the bed, peering at the floor plan I've sketched out. "This is detailed. You've been thinking about this for a while."
"Years. Since before I got married." I point to the corner of the layout. "That's where the display cases would go. And here's the kitchen in the back, big enough to do real production but small enough that I could manage it myself at first."
"What would you sell?"
"Almond things, mostly. The biscuits from Grandma's recipe.
Orange cakes. Maybe some bread, though that's harder to do on a small scale.
" I pull up another file. "I've been working on the numbers.
It wouldn't make me rich, but it could be sustainable.
If I found the right location, the right prices. "
My mother is quiet for a moment, studying the screen. "I didn't know you'd worked out so much."
"I kept most of it to myself. I showed Leon once. And he said we'd talk about it later." I close the laptop. "Later never came."
"It could come now."
I look at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you're here. You're figuring out what you want. If this is part of it, maybe it's time to stop calling it 'someday' and start calling it 'soon.'"
"It's not that simple. I'm in the middle of... everything. The separation, the uncertainty. I don't even know where I'm going to be living in a month."
"You could live here." She says it simply, like it's obvious. "We have space. It's not fancy, but it's yours if you want it. And the town isn't far. You could find a spot for a shop, something small to start."
I feel tears prick at my eyes. "Mama."
"I'm not pushing. I'm just saying. Whatever you decide about Leon, about your marriage, you have options. You don't have to go back to that house if you don't want to."
"I know." I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Thank you. For saying that. For all of this."
She reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "Drink your tea before it gets cold. And get some sleep. You look exhausted."
After she leaves, I sit in the dark with the laptop closed on my knees, thinking about options and possibilities and the small person growing inside me who will eventually need to know where home is.
Later that evening, after my mother has finished the dishes and my father has gone to check on the goats one last time, I pull out my recipe notebook and set it on the kitchen table.
"I want to try something," I say. "A small batch. Just to see how your oven runs."
My mother looks at the notebook, then at me. "The almond biscuits?"
"If we have enough almonds."
"We have almonds coming out of our ears." She's already moving toward the pantry. "Your father will be thrilled someone's using them for something other than sorting practice."
I open the notebook to the page I know by heart, my own handwriting cramped in the margins where I've adjusted the measurements over the years.
The original proportions came from my grandmother, passed to my mother, passed to me, but the notes are mine.
A little less sugar. Longer resting time.
The trick with the egg whites that makes them lighter.
We work side by side in the small kitchen, measuring and mixing.
The rhythm is familiar even if the space isn't. My mother's bowls are different sizes than the ones at the estate, her wooden spoon worn smooth in different places, but the dough comes together the same way it always does, pale and fragrant with almond.
"Your oven runs hot," I say, peering at the temperature dial. "Or the dial lies. One of the two."
"The dial definitely lies. Knock ten degrees off whatever it says and add two minutes. Or five. It depends on its mood."
I shape the crescents smaller than usual, a test batch that won't waste ingredients if something goes wrong. They go onto a baking sheet that's seen better decades, and I slide them into the oven with a silent prayer.
Eight minutes in, the smell starts to change.
"That's browning faster than it should." I grab a towel and open the oven door. The edges of the crescents closest to the back are already turning dark gold while the ones in front are still pale.
"Rotate the pan," my mother says. "And move it down a rack. That back corner has been plotting against me for years."
I make the adjustments quickly, losing a little heat but saving the batch. When they finally come out, the crescents are uneven but recognizable. The darkest ones are a bit too crisp. The others are exactly right.