Read Online How to Bake a Perfect Life by Barbara O'Neal - Free Book Online

with them in the middle of the night. We use a rotating system, using jars of aqua and clear glass, so that some sponges are resting while others are growing. When Cat helped me plan the kitchen, I designed a storage area specifically for this purpose.
    The smell of yeast and vinegar rises as I stir flour into each of four jars with a heavy rubber spatula. Like all mothers, the sponges are unique in texture and flavor. The rye starter is powerfully, almost painfully sour, dark and thick and bubbly. I use it to make authentic German breads, for which I have an established contingent of German shoppers, mostly women who came to the city as service brides—some as long ago as WorldWar II, others as recently as six months. They’re particular but friendly and gratifyingly loyal when they are pleased.
    I do this work every afternoon, because I have a very small staff. One baker and two apprentices come in at two a.m., five mornings a week. Each afternoon I set things up for them, making lists and deciding upon loaves for the next day.
    With my hands—at last—in dough, tension flows out of my neck, drips benignly to the floor. Thoughts, images, memories swirl without weight. I think of Sofia’s baby growing in her belly, and of Katie’s long hands, and of my mother’s reference to the summer I was fifteen, and of the broken pipe in the front yard, and of learning to bake with my aunt Poppy that fateful summer when bread saved my life. I wonder what passion lies sleeping in Katie’s breast.
    Finally, the things that really do need my attention surface clearly. Cleanly. When the rustica loaves are ready to rest, I set them aside and wash my hands, then carry my phone upstairs and call Cat.
    He answers with a smile in his voice. “Ramona! How did the work turn out?”
    “It’s great, Cat. But you cannot pay for it.”
    “Oh, come now. It’s nothing. I know you’ll repay me. The summer is shaping up to be a busy one, and I know you can’t get another bank loan yet.”
    His voice is persuasive. As I think of my maxed-out credit cards, I’m desperately tempted to accept his offer, but even the thought makes me hate myself. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to take care of this myself.”
    “Your pride is doing you no favors. We both know how close to the edge you are.”
    “You’re the one who always tells me that it takes time for a business to get on its feet.”
    “That’s true. You’ve had a lot of challenges the past year with the building, Ramona. Let me help you, just this once.”
    “It’s not just this once, Cat. I owe you thousands and I need to pay you back, not borrow more!”
    “ Tesòro mìo , you don’t have this money.” He sighs. “I wish you would simply marry me. I could take care of you.”
    For a long moment, I stand in the middle of my living room, looking down to the view of ancient sidewalks. It feels as if someone has slammed a bat into my temple. “Do you hear yourself, Cat?”
    “You know that’s what I want. What I have wanted all along.”
    “All along? From the start, when I came to you for help?”
    A slight hesitation. “No, no.”
    But in that pause, I hear the truth. He’s like the rest of them—my family, my ex-husband—patting me on the head, never seeing that I do have the brains and business sense to make a go of this. “Did you ever believe in me at all, Cat?”
    “I believe in you completely, Ramona.”
    I’m shaking my head. “I’ll send you a check. Don’t come by here anymore.”
    “Ramona, you’re upset. Don’t be rash.”
    “I’m not kidding, Cat. Do not come here. Don’t call me.”
    I hang up the phone and stand in the middle of the room. My sinuses hurt. My chest is burning. I’m blinking back tears of—what? Betrayal? Loss? Anger?
    All of the above.
    From behind me, Katie says, “Ramona, me and Merlin are going upstairs, okay?”
    I whirl, dashing tears off my face. The dog is sitting politely next to her, his dark eyes somehow wise.