The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy Read Free Book Online

relaxed his fists. “The party’s at three.”
    â€œIt’ll be ready.”
    â€œThank you so much. I really appreciate this,” the man said. He turned to leave. Jane stopped him.
    â€œWhat’s your son’s name?”
    â€œGabriel—Gabe.”
    â€œWe’ll put it on the cake.”
    â€œMy wife would like that. Him too. Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means.” He left, the wind banging the door behind.
    â€œNow that’s love.”Jane laughed. “Man’s all aflutter trying to help his missus pull off a nice party for their kid.” She scribbled the name on a sheet of paper. “I’ve never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.”
    Reba had always imagined love as wild and untamed. True love was a passionate flame that burned bright until it was snuffed out. It didn’t flicker and dim, weakened by the banalities of daily life. Reba thought about how she and Riki acted these days, every word so carefully chosen, so frustratingly polite, like actors with scripted lines. She tucked the necklace and ring back into her blouse.
    â€œNow that we got this order, I’m not sure Mom’s going to be able to talk today. Could you come back?”
    When she’d walked through the door, Reba had the goal of getting all she needed in one trip, but now, after being there only an hour, she didn’t mind returning. Actually, she thought it’d be kind of nice.
    â€œYes, of course. I’ll bring my camera next time. The magazine will send a photographer, but I’d like to take some photos myself, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    The neat stacks and colorful sweets in the display case would make a pretty shot. Her mouth watered.
    â€œCan do! Here.” Jane opened the back of the case. “You waited so long. Take something. Mom always says you’re never lonely with a strudel.” She picked up a slice oozing cream cheese icing.
    â€œNo, I can’t,” Reba said appreciatively. “I don’t eat dairy.”
    Jane stopped. “Oh, you poor thing. Don’t they have medication for that?” She realigned the slice in its row.
    Reba shook her head. “I’m not lactose intolerant. I can eat dairy. I just don’t. I was involved with PETA in college—animal rights, milk sucks, and all that.”
    Jane raised both eyebrows high. “Milk sucks?”
    â€œIt was a PETA campaign,” explained Reba.
    â€œOh.” Jane pursed her lips together. “Well then, how about lebkuchen? They’re Mom’s specialty. She uses almond oil. No butter. That’s the family secret. You got to promise not to tell.”
    Jane obviously wouldn’t let her leave without something, so Reba agreed. “I promise.”

    That night
, Reba sat alone at her kitchen table nibbling on the edge of the lebkuchen. Decorated with almond slices fanned like flower petals, the squares were almost too pretty to eat; but it’d been a long day and she had no remaining self-restraint. The rich molasses and dry cinnamon stuck in her throat, so she poured a small tumbler of skim milk, froth bubbling on the surface and coating the glass pearly white.
    When she’d first gotten home, she’d set the German bakery box on the kitchen counter, committed not to eat any, but she was unable to throw the cookies away. The sweet smell permeated the kitchen, the den, up the condo’s stairs to their room where she sat in bed transcribing notes. Finally, after the sun melted into the desert and the autumn moon rose orange like a Nilla wafer, she gave in to the loneliness, came down, and found solace in the sugary snack.
    She wondered if she ought to leave a cookie for Riki, but then he’d ask about her day and she hadn’t the energy to explain how she’d talked to Jane for an hour without getting a