Page 14 of Every Good Thing
She shakes her head. “I’ll make cookies.”
Tessa wants to be a full-time baker when she graduates high school. She comes in every morning before school to help with the morning rush. She calls me her mentor, and I’ve taught her some basics. But there’s little time for proper instruction.
“I promise I’ll teach you something more intricate when things slow down. Macaroons, tiramisu, oh, mirror glazes.”
She smirks. “How about fancy sugar work? And a chocolate soufflé?”
“You got it,” I say, wondering if she’s watching too much of The Great British Baking Show. I can’t blame her—I adore that show, too.
Satisfied, she tackles the cookies.
The piano music comes to an abrupt, clattering halt—my signal that Trisha’s arrived. A sixty-year-old widow with tattoos, piercings, and a bohemian wardrobe, she catches everyone’s eye, especially Mr. Wickers’s. She flips her long gray braid to the side as she puts on her apron.
“Don’t stop on my account, Gus,” she says, and he hurries to pick up the song again.
Trisha sets up the dining room and serving area. Then, she helps me finish the sandwiches.
“You’re a little behind,” she says, “but we’ll get it done.”
By seven, the café bustles with locals. Trisha handles the front, along with May and June Taylor, sisters and retired teachers who took the job to stay busy and gossip.
But I need all the help I can get. Turns out, food service and farm work don’t top most people’s employment wish lists, especially since our rural location isn’t convenient to anything that might bring more employees my way, like neighborhoods and apartment buildings. It’s all farms, woods, and swamps out here. So, though I pay well, working here most likely means a long commute, and interviewees usually decide it’s too far to drive.
A hot pan of oatmeal raisin cookies clatters to the floor, face-down. I wince at the lost cookies and the angry red mark now stinging my arm.
“You okay?” Tessa asks.
Not okay. “Yeah, just another burn to add to my collection.” I hold up my right arm, covered in small scars from kitchen mishaps. “You better head to school.”
Tessa unties her apron but reluctantly looks at the tall metal rack of unfinished cupcakes, bundt cakes, Danishes, and cookies. “How will you get all this done?”
My it’ll-be-okay smile flashes automatically. “With my usual magic… by taking one thing at a time.”
“Mom!” Ruthie rushes into the kitchen, her rubber boots flapping together. I take in her apple green dress, sensible pink cardigan, and shorts, visible only because her dress is tucked into them on the side. I insist on under-dress shorts for playground time. I crouch for a hug and fix her fashion faux pas. She smells like syrup and feels like sunshine.
“Good morning, sweet girl.” I tug her sweater together. “Got your lunchbox and backpack?”
“Yes, Mom.” Her dainty hand extends for her usual drive-to-preschool treat—two oatmeal raisin cookies straight from the oven. My shoulders slump at the mess on the floor.
Tessa hands me a sleeve of cookies—two peanut butter delights pulled from the display case. “Let me know if you like these, Ruthie. Made them myself.”
Ruthie beams.
“Thanks, Tessa,” we say together.
I straighten Ruthie’s collar, pushing her long curls behind her shoulders. “Be a good girl. No taking over story time again. Okay?”
Her pout tells me this will be a challenge—she loves hijacking her teacher’s story time by reading the book herself more dramatically. Her classmates love it—her teacher, not so much. But she nods. “Okay, Mom.”
I glance over her shoulder, where Ben usually waits for a goodbye kiss. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the Jeep.”
I downplay a gasp at his newest slight. This hurts almost as much as hearing the name Lauren. That was an accident. This is totally on purpose. Why didn’t he say goodbye? He always says goodbye.
Ruthie’s expectant gaze brings another forced smile. “Oh, um, he doesn’t want you to be late. Love you. Tell Dad I love him. Have a good day.”
“You, too!” She skips out the back door, her boots slapping together.
