A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Read Free Book Online

of the truck and slams them onto the table. He stares at me and raises an eyebrow. “These crates aren’t going to unload themselves, sweetheart. Let’s go .”
    I rush to the back of the truck and toss my purse inside. Grabbing a handle for support, I lift myself into the back of the truck, where the warm, sweet smells of freshly baked baguettes and pumpkin muffins waft past my nose. It’s how I imagine heaven must smell, the perfume of yeasty bread and cinnamon-laced muffins filling the air as little angels float by on pillows made of billowy croissants.
    Rick bangs on the floor of the truck with his hand. “Jesus—are you deaf or something? Move!”
    On the other hand, perhaps this is hell.
    I grab a crate of cranberry-walnut bread, and my knees nearly buckle under the weight of the glossy oval loaves.
    â€œWow, these are heavy,” I say.
    Rick reaches for the crate. “Hand them over.”
    Rick and I start an assembly line: I grab a crate and hand it down to him, and he lugs it over to the table beneath the tent before coming back for another. Once I’ve unloaded all the crates from the truck, I start on the baskets and wooden cartons we’ll use to display the bread and pastries. The baskets come in all shapes and sizes—round, square, shallow, deep—and I am 100 percent certain I will fill them in a manner that is not to Rick’s liking.
    â€œDo you think you’ll get a lot of customers today?” I ask, though immediately after I do, I realize this is a stupid question Rick will not enjoy.
    He narrows his eyes. “What do you think?”
    â€œMaybe people will want to get out of the house. There’s a lot of cabin fever going around. And it’s the last Saturday before Christmas.”
    â€œMaybe,” he says, loading a stack of chocolate chip cookies into a square wicker basket. “Hey, what are you doing over there? Never line up the chocolate croissants like that. You want a total mess?”
    â€œSorry.”
    He growls and shakes his fists at the heavens. “I swear, one of these days . . .”
    I’m not really sure what that’s supposed to mean, but Rick, I am learning, is not a man one questions. He talks and sings to himself. He fake punches the air. He laughs at nothing in particular. Rick, I am learning, is completely certifiable.
    â€œOkay, here’s the deal,” he says. “Cookies, muffins, and croissants are two dollars. Cupcakes are three dollars. Scones are a buck. Plain loaves are six dollars, ones with fruit or nuts are eight dollars, and that big one over there is sixteen for the whole thing, eight for half, and four for a quarter. Brioche is eight bucks. You can do half loaves of everything but the baguettes. And don’t come asking me every five seconds about the price on this or that. Otherwise I might as well work the stand myself. Got it?”
    I clear my throat. “I think so. Sure.”
    â€œGood. Now stop staring at those muffins like they’re gonna unload themselves and get them in the fucking basket. I’m running out of patience.”
    That makes two of us.

CHAPTER 7
    One thing becomes clear very quickly: I am not good at this. I can spend hours reading and writing about pastries and bread, and I am happy to eat significant quantities of both, but when it comes to selling them, I am completely out of my element.
    â€œDon’t just stand there,” Rick mutters under his breath. “Offer samples. Get the bags ready. Do something. ”
    The problem is, there isn’t much to do. When the bell rings at nine, the market is nearly empty. The customers milling along the sidewalk are diehards who come to this market every weekend and know what they want. No amount of smiling or cajoling from me is going to make them want to buy a lemon ginger scone, unless they wanted one already. This, combined with the numbness of my toes, makes me seriously question my