The Baker's Daughter (38 page)

Deedee,

When we skipped around to the Mamas and the Papas, I never imagined the flowers in my hair would be
drowned
by the rain. Obviously, they were smoking something floral because this place is not the promised summer love-in.

I already wrote you about work. It is what it is. The stories make me yawn. You can only read so many essays on the week's newest Bordeaux before you want to crack a bottle over your head. B.O.R.I.N.G. At the very least, you'd think they'd send the magazine some samples. Maybe the reporters are drinking it all before it gets to me. Being an editor is a completely different animal from feature writing. You should see my desk—it's a paper monsoon! It matches the weather and my mood.

And no, I haven't forgotten. I'm checking my calendar for a weekend to fly home, but it isn't looking good. I have next-to-no vacation allowance, and it takes almost a full day's travel to get to the East Coast. I'm trying to find a long weekend when I can dovetail my vacation onto the end of a magazine holiday, but I've already been tasked with being the editor on call for the
Memorial Day events. Maybe I could fly home for the 4th of July, but didn't you say Momma's going up to see the Capitol fireworks with the Junior League? Let me know so I don't waste energy planning.

Riki's doing fine, I guess. I called him last week, but he was in the middle of something at the station. He sounded preoccupied. I don't know what's been going on with him or us this past month. All I know is that he feels … distant. Did I make the wrong decision, D? I ask myself that at least three times a day, like meals.

That's the cruddy view from the Pacific coast this week. How's the world facing the Atlantic? Miss you.

Love, Reba

At dusk
, Reba watched a ship come into harbor. The raging nimbus clouds had abated and the temperature was mild enough to sit outside on her balcony; however, a ghoulish fog rose from underfoot, climbing higher and higher until it blocked the sun and moon entirely.

Reba hadn't gone with so little sunshine since Virginia, where she'd felt the urge to cry every January to April. In college, Sasha had asked if she had SAD, seasonal affective disorder. Reba thought it some kind of gibe until she took Psychology 101 and her professor devoted a whole lecture day to its symptoms and treatment. Too closely resembling her daddy's depression, she'd denied any association and kept her tears at bay when Sasha was around. With an average of 302 sunny days a year, El Paso had been unknowingly therapeutic.

Now, she felt the familiar ache times ten. Her lips trembled; her eyes burned to expel the weighty sadness that filled her like the rain in her balcony's empty flowerpots. She couldn't blame the weather entirely. The feeling remained even when the California sun twinkled on the bay and the sky above Crissy Field was painted true blue. Then, it seemed even worse, and a tear or two would make its way out.

In the harbor below, the ship seemed no bigger than a toy boat, a winding streak of charcoal-colored waves in its wake. A man stood on the empty deck, a miniature tin soldier with a splinter of wood between him and the deep ocean. His small size made Reba feel small too.

The magazine was bigger than she'd expected—so many bylines, deadlines, and word counts, she barely saw the same people twice in the coffee room. Unlike at
Sun City
,
San Francisco Monthly
expected her to work exclusively
from the office, never at home. She spent many long nights eating kung pao shrimp at her cubicle desk, the sour smell of garlic the only thing permeating the gray fabric walls. She didn't know which was worse: alone in her office or alone in her apartment. Sitting at home watching
Sex and the City
reruns was a blatant reminder that there was no sex in her city, no glamorous life of martinis and columnist fame. The tragedy was that she didn't particularly long for it. Instead, she daydreamed of Riki, Elsie, and Jane. She had talked briefly with Jane a few weeks before and felt a surge of nostalgia at the sound of pans banging in the background.

Riki had been increasingly reserved in their sparse phone conversations. His e-mails were nonexistent. Since March she'd felt the distance pushing them further and further from the course she had hoped to set. She wanted to ask if he was seeing someone else, but was afraid of the answer. Everyone seemed to have moved on but her. It was ironic. She'd finally reached her big city dreams and felt more stunted than ever.

The ship blew its horn, long and mournful. Reba wished she could join its cry, and she might have if a sudden burst of yips hadn't sounded from the adjoining balcony. Tethered to the neighbor's wrought-iron café table was a black Chihuahua.

“I hear you, fella,” said Reba.

The dog's triangular ears perked in her direction. She stepped forward and it leaped at her, the leash choking every other bark.

“Hush now. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Riki had brought home a lost Chihuahua when they first moved in together. He named it Nacho and bought a minisombrero for it to wear. He would have kept it had the owners not come a week later. At the time, Reba had been up against deadline and was annoyed by both Riki and the puppy-pawed visitor prancing about their kitchen. But Riki had loved the idea of raising a pet together. She smiled at the memory, though it stung of so many regrets.

She went inside and retrieved the leftover Chinese takeout. “You like shrimp?” She held up a curly tail.

The dog sat on its haunches and cocked its head to the side. “Good boy,” said Reba, tossing the shrimp over the six-inch balcony divide. He caught it midair.

Reba took another saucy shrimp and popped it in her own mouth. “You know,” she mumbled, “I just came from your neck of the woods. Have you ever been to Chihuahua?”

Suddenly conscious that she was conversing with a dog, she leaned over
the railing to make sure the neighbors weren't sitting in their living room getting a good laugh at her expense. The lights were off, the door securely closed.

The dog stood up on its hind feet and overlapped his paws; a practiced trait, she could tell.

“Very nice!” Reba threw him another shrimp, and the dog eagerly noshed on the reward. “You got a name?” She searched his collar for a tag but found none.

“That's all right. How about a nickname?” She pulled another shrimp from the container, deep in thought. He didn't look like a Rover or Max.

The dog stood on his hind legs again, pencil tail thwacking the wooden balcony.

She held up the food. “Shrimp?”

He excitedly bobbed his paws like panning for gold.

“Hey—that's not a bad idea. What do you say, Shrimp.” It seemed to fit. She threw the tail to him and licked hoisin from her fingers.

Docking, the ship blew its horn again, but the sound seemed to echo less than before. The sailor on the deck was gone.

“Do you like kreppels?” Reba asked. “Some people say they're kind of like churros. Maybe I'll make us a batch.”

Shrimp licked his chops and let his tongue loll out in something like a smile.

Reba,

Forget the flowers, you sound like a drowned cat! I hate hearing you so gloom and doom. It's not healthy. Get your head out of the puddle. Remember what I said: Look up, kitty, or you'll miss the rainbow! I wish for a second you could see the Reba I see. You're a fighter, strong and determined. I've always admired that about you. Don't let yourself crumble from within.

Yes, Momma is going with the Richmond Junior League to Washington, D.C., for Independence Day. The ladies are honoring Vietnam Vets with red, white, and blue garlands made out
of recycled clothing. (Don't ask me—it was some big “material drive” for our “brave men in uniform” a month back. They've been channeling Betsy Ross ever since.) So it's no use you flying in. She won't want to talk anything but apple pies and John Philip Sousa then. There's no other time this summer you could come? How about in the fall—Labor Day or Columbus Day? Try, Reba. Please.

I'm sorry to hear that you and Riki are in
another
rough patch. Long-distance relationships are difficult. Not that I know, but none of my girlfriends have been able to keep them up. I'm rooting for this Riki, though. If you and he make it work, an introduction is long overdue. Yet another reason to get on a plane. This is your big sister speaking: no more excuses. Bring Riki home with you. Maybe you need to get away together. We can make the weekend one big therapy session.;)

Smile, baby sis. Whether we're standing on the shores of the Pacific or the Atlantic, the water is the same.

Love you, Deedee

E
lsie balanced heavy plates of meatloaf on the serving tray. Following the departure of the Ninth Air Force squadron, the R&R Center was notably quiet. Robby declared the kitchen crew on a minihiatus and announced “Mom's Meatloaf Special” as the set menu. Late the previous evening, they'd mixed, baked, and frozen over two dozen meaty bricks in preparation. The gigantic bowl of ground beef had nearly sent Elsie running for the toilet, but she wouldn't risk vomiting Mutti's tea.

For the past week, Mutti had brewed batches each morning and bound the herbs in petite cheesecloth sachets for Elsie to take to work in the evenings. Purple puffs of pennyroyal and leafy cohosh hung from the kitchen window to dry. Papa had nearly made himself a cup, mistaking the pennyroyal for lavender, so Mutti tied the stems with red yarn as an indicator.

This was Elsie's fifth and final day on the tincture. So far, the tea seemed to do little more than give her a yellow complexion and full bladder.

“Last order up for Table 2!” called the line cook. He handed Elsie a plate slathered in extra ketchup and wilted onions, and she hoisted the loaded tray onto her shoulder.

Five soldiers drank frothy steins at the table. Hungry eyes brightened with her approach, but before she reached them, something between her
ribs and pelvis spasmed, then knotted hard. She doubled over. The plates slid forward to a crash.