Read Online Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks - Free Book Online

under the heartiness.
I gently replace the duck in his cradle.
Five minutes later, Dorian’s quacking his brains out, but I let the machine pick up. “Wyn, it’s me. Pick up if you’re there.” Pause. “For heaven’s sake, Wyn, stop acting like a child. I know you’re there.” Pause. “Kelley and I are just working on some client files. Pick up the phone.” Pause. “Shit.”
The line goes dead.
I think I’m going to cry. Then I picture David’s face if he could hear his call being announced by Dorian Duck, and I laugh first, then cry.
When CM comes through the door at about six-thirty, I’m working my way through a 1.5-liter bottle of Robert Mondavi cabernet. She throws her purse on the couch.
“And which occasion are we celebrating tonight?”
I hold my glass up to the chandelier and squint through the ruby light. “Chapter two. The phone call. In which our unsuspecting heroine calls the handsome prince at the castle, and the milkmaid answers the phone.”
“I see.” She purses her mouth. “And what did the milkmaid say?”
“Hello.”
“That’s all?”
I retrieve a glass from the cupboard and pour some wine for her, sloshing a little on the counter. “That was about all she had time for before the prince yanked the phone away and it crashed to the floor.”
She drinks some wine before taking her coat off and draping it over the nearest chair. “And what did he say?”
A rather drunken giggle bubbles out of me. “I didn’t talk to him.But he told Dorian they were working on some files. Wouldn’t you think an advertising prince could come up with a more original lie?”
She sighs. “Oh, Baby. I’m really sorry.” I think it’s the pity in her voice that undoes me.
Thursday morning my eyes are glued shut with dried tears. After I rip them open, I see that my tongue is still purple from the wine. Unfortunately, I remember most of the evening. Crying and laughing, drinking cabernet and something else when we ran out of that, walking to a diner because neither of us could drive, eating greasy hamburgers, arguing with some other drunk at the counter till the waitress told us to leave. Throwing up in the bushes on the way back. Poor CM had to get up and go to work today.
At least I had sense enough to put my dough in the fridge so it wouldn’t overrise and fall flat. I take it out and set it on the stove to come to room temperature while I shower and dress and clean the apartment for therapy.
By noon it’s workable, so, in David’s honor, I shape it into two of the oval loaves the French call bâtards. I give them a two-hour rise, spritz them with water for a crackly crust, and pop them into a 425°F oven for thirty minutes.
I’ve read somewhere that the smell of baking bread is a proven antidote to depression. It’s true. By the time my little bastards are cooling on the counter, I’m starting to revive. I feel good enough to take a walk. And I feel the need of something chocolate. I know the Queen Street Bakery closes at two so they can do wholesale baking, but I grab one of the warm loaves and put it in the bottom of a paper grocery bag to bribe my way in.
Instead of baking, Ellen and Diane are sitting at one of the tables, with coffee cups and stacks of paper. When I bang on the door, they look up and smile, but Ellen points at her watch. I unsheathe my secret weapon. I can tell they’re wavering. I hold it up to my face and inhale deeply, close my eyes, smile. In a second, Ellen’s unlocking the door.
“Where did that come from?” She sniffs appreciatively.
“CM’s kitchen.”
She touches it gently. “You made this? Ooh, it’s still warm.” I pull it back. “Not so fast. This isn’t a gift. It’s a barter. I need chocolate.”
Diane laughs, rocking back in her chair. “Have we got a deal for you.”
In less time than it takes to load a bread machine, I’m sitting at the table with them. They’ve ignored my suggestion that they let the bread cool completely before tearing into