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

word on record. Inevitably, he’d want to know what they’d talked about, and she refused to open Pandora’s box. But she couldn’t seem to get Jane and the bakery out of her mind, or mouth.
    She dipped the last square in the milk, popped it in, and chewed. Out of sight, out of mind—wasn’t that the mantra? She gulped the milk and rinsed the glass, leaving no evidence.
    It all started as such a small lie: pretending she didn’t eat dairy. Now, she’d been doing it so long, she didn’t know how to stop.
    It began in college. Reba’s roommate, Sasha Rose, the daughter of expatriates in Singapore, was a petite girl, passionate about two things: veganism and Italian art. She didn’t take part in the midnight pepperoni pizza binges or the all-you-can-eat chicken wing buffets. Instead, she nibbled dainty bowls of pebbled edamame and ruby organic figs while studying Botticelli and Titian.
    On family weekend their freshman year, Sasha’s parents had flown in from overseas. Her mother looked like her twin with silver-streaked hair and a distinctive British accent.
    â€œHow I’ve missed you, darling,” she cooed, and she held Sasha so close and true that Reba had to look away. It pinched her chest.
    Sasha’s father, originally from Tallahassee, was tall and tanned with an infectious smile and a happy spirit. His charisma radiated like the Floridian sun. Sasha had flown from her mother’s arms to his, and Reba had watched Mrs. Rose for the smallest flash of jealousy, fear, or resentment; but the reflection of Sasha in her father’s embrace only seemed to make her glow.
    â€œReba, you’re coming with us to dinner!” Mr. Rose had insisted; but when he put a gentle hand to Reba’s back, she’d flinched so noticeably that he’d made the addendum, “Of course if you have other plans, we totally understand.”
    She hadn’t, but the moment was marred by a discomfort she feared would persist throughout the meal.
    â€œI have a test on Monday,” she’d lied, and by the way his smile softened at the corners, he knew it.
    Reba’s momma and sister, Deedee, hadn’t come that weekend—schedule conflicts. Momma had a Junior League reception. Deedee was busy with graduate courses. Initially, Reba had been thankful, but seeing Sasha with her perfect parents, she felt an aching desire for kin—for Momma, Deedee, even Daddy. It was a hopeless longing.
    â€œGood luck studying,” said Mr. Rose. With his girls on either arm, the trio had strolled out.
    Closing the door behind them, Reba caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror nailed to the back. The image seemed in such stark juxtaposition to the pretty Roses that she immediately threw on a hooded sweatshirt and burrowed in the blankets of her dorm bunk like a rock vole.
    She’d always been melancholic and unsatisfied with nearly everything about herself. Thick in places that should have been thin, flat chested and too tall, she’d never fit in with the high school cheerleaders and Glee Clubbers—the little sisters of her sister’s friends. At sixteen, when herdaddy died, she pulled away completely and spent her lunches and afterschool hours in the journalism room over quiet newspaper spreads and silent photographs.
    During Reba’s first semester in college, Deedee suggested she take up a self-improvement activity: yoga, dance, swimming, art. Make a new beginning, she’d said. Reba profiled the university boxing club instead, lacing on a pair of gloves and sparring with a trainer. Everyone on campus knew her from the photographs in the
Daily Cavalier
: her lips bulging on the mouth guard; fuzzy, dark hair matted beneath the headgear; gloves up and ready. They thought she was an anomaly coming from the Adams family. Daughter of a commemorated Vietnam veteran and great-granddaughter to one of Richmond’s largest ironworks owners. Deedee had been a