Becca's Best

Becca’s Best By Jessica Barksdale Inclan

Jessica Barksdale Inclán

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Becca’s Best

September 2-3, 2008 Days One and Two

Recipe: Nothing Yet Do I actually have to tell you how to make this?

I look up at my marketing professor, Dr. Conklin, who stands in front of me for a moment as he walks the aisles. He notices my gaze, and I look down fast when he notices. He’s got big brown eyes and a long hairy eyebrow, a forehead wrinkled in a reaction that can only mean something bad. I sneak a peak at him as he stares. He seems stuck in a movie role about a stereotyped professor, and in his delusion, thinks he still is that angry, young, slightly sexy man he was in the 1970’s, turtleneck, thick mustache, and tweed. His Dockers make shiff shiff sounds as he walks between us, his slightly frayed jacket flapping out as he moves. I know what he’s thinking. It’s not good. He adjusts his glasses, moves down the roll sheet with his eyes, walking between the rows of students. How could any thought he have of me be good? Clearly, I’m the oldest person in this class, a daytime graduate level course in market strategy. All the older students flock to the night classes because they have actual jobs and families and important things to do during the day. A life. Clearly,

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I don’t belong at all. Clearly, I have no life. I’ve quit the job I’ve had for five years in order to be here during the day. For almost a year, I pretended that I was scrimping and saving in order to have a few months’ worth of rent saved away while I began school. But I wasn’t going out to dinner or to the movies or taking trips anyway, so it was just about putting money in the bank. So I have nothing important to keep me away from this one o’clock class. I don’t even look like the other students, older, sort of dressed wrong, again, my denim skirt just flat out old. Old! The five years between us might as well be one hundred. I look like my mother, and, in fact, this is her skirt, something I took out of the bag she had set aside for Goodwill. As I dug through her cast offs, I found this long swath of faded denim and imagined some kind of big, golden grained field, a girl running through it, a man on the horizon calling to her, heading toward her. Knowing that wouldn’t happen, I at least thought that it would look good with a long white shirt. Wrong. But here I am, 27, ugly skirt and all, in a group of 22 year olds, all of whom just graduated with B.S. or B.A. degrees and are sitting in this stuffy classroom, the afternoon light shining in a hard slant, the room almost floating with September heat. “Diaz?” he calls. “Filippi? Graham?” Everyone answers as they are called, and I wait, anxious. Anxious about the roster. Am I on it or not? Did I register in time? Did I make the cut? I thought I had the letter of acceptance from the program in my bag. I do. I know it. I put it there this morning just before leaving the house and jumping on the N-Judah that would take me to San

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Francisco State. What will I do when I’m not on the roster? What is my problem? Why can’t I go anywhere and feel half as good as I do when I’m at home baking? I have skills, I have talents. I know I’m not as bad as I make myself out to be. But—but . . . .Should I sit tight until the end of class or run out? What is the best way? How will I explain my presence? “Muchmore?” he calls, and I breathe out, shake my head, unable to answer. “Rebecca Muchmore?” “Present,” I say. “Here. I’m here. Becca. I’m called Becca.” The class stops for a second, a few people turning to look at me, none of them smiling. “Is Muchmore your true moniker?” he asks. “Or some kind of surname affirmation? Some kind of desperate hope about the future to come? If anything in this strategy class sticks, it should be that ‘much more’ is what we aim for and ‘much more’ is what we don’t often receive. At least not without a lot of hard work.” I look down at my desk, touch the dirty veneer with my fingertips, years of business hopefuls’ pen marks lining the fake wood. This is the question I’ve been asked all my life, or at least the part of my life where I could respond. I could have gone on about the Muchmore surname, traced back to 12th Century Cornwall. But he isn’t really interested in my answer but with the giggles in the classroom at his so clever question and even cleverer answer. “It’s English,” I say, again, as I have so often, to so many people. “It’s—“ The professor adjusts his glasses again and then coughs. “Pratchard? Sims? Smith?”

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I exhale, sit back, feel the sweat under my arms. He can’t know how horrible it is to be named Muchmore and have ‘much less’ of what I want. I really don’t even know what I want and I know it isn’t very Zen of me, but what I imagine is much more than what I have. The 22 year olds smile, raise their hands, their piercings shining in the afternoon light. They sit back comfortably, their low rise jeans almost showing me more than I need or want to know. I avert my eyes from one guy’s parenthesis of crack. Two more years until I graduate. From this exact point, two more years. But now, all I want to do is go home. Now. Right now. Make some cookies. A big batch of snickerdoodles. Or brandy rings. Maybe bake a sugar loaf. Listen to Amy Winehouse sing about her life, which seems to be worse than mine even though she is talented, famous, skinny, and beautiful. Or I want to watch anything on television. Anything at all.

“Becca, you are killing me. You are always killing me. After all of these years, how I am still alive, I don’t know,” Dez says. I press my cell phone against my face as I mound the snickerdoodle dough in a glass bowl. Thirty minutes in the fridge to cool, and then I can roll the dough into balls ready for baking. A little sugar and cinnamon on the top and then heaven. But who will I give this batch to? I wonder. Who wants any more cookies? My downstairs neighbors are a bit skittish after the chocolate chipper explosion of last month.

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But what else was I supposed to do with eight dozen cookies? And certainly, no one is interested in the facts about baking cookies at home, putting up with my lecture as they chomp down on cookies. No, no one will want to come up and have a chat about even distribution of ingredient to create uniformity. None of my neighbors wants to hear about incorporating air cells into the batter, those delicate orbs of air protected by a network of egg and gluten. In fact, I can see them drifting off right now. Dez wouldn’t even want to know. “Becca!” Dez says. “Why do you call me if you aren’t going to listen?” I sigh. “You say the same thing every time.” I press the back of the spoon against the yellow dough, the mound perfectly smooth. Dez is my oldest and best friend. We became friends in fourth grade as we sat on a bench watching a kickball game, one neither of us was invited nor wanted to play in. I think I fell in love with her knees. They were skinny and smooth and butter brown next to my white, lumpy, loafy pudgy knees. But despite Desiree Lofton McGuire’s stunning knees (and just about everything else), Dez was about as popular as I was—meaning all we had from that day forward was each other. Without her, I wouldn’t have made it through all those years of firsts: first bra, first period, first boyfriend (hers, my first came along much, much later, the last month of ninth grade), first kiss. Then came the first first that was going to mark the end of our time living together in the same town: My parents’ divorce was the first and then hers. At the end of our ninth grade school year, she and her mother moved to Manhattan, an incident that scarred me for life, though I sometimes wonder if Dez was relieved to have a thousand miles between us. I’m still not sure how I made it through the empty

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friendship desert of tenth grade not to mention my “not” junior prom and then horrid senior ball, an event from which I returned home at 10 pm. Worse yet, Dez never moved back, still in Manhattan with her husband Nick Rowland and twin two-month-old baby girls. We’ve only seen each other nine times since she moved (the last time she saw me I was wearing a god awful burgundy bridesmaid dress that she picked out and for that she will owe me for life), but it doesn’t matter. We click. She knows me. I know her. I listened to her complain about dating, about dating Nick, about being engaged to Nick, and about being pregnant with Nick’s babies, about giving birth to what felt like twin whales. We take turns being crazy. What could be better or worse? “But what are you going to do? You are in school and hate it. You quit your job that took forever to find. You can’t make cookies your entire life.” Dez stops talking, and I can almost hear her roll her eyes. In the background, one of the babies is crying. “Why not? Why not cookies? What’s wrong with that kind of life?” “I know you can bake like nobody’s business, Bec, but who made a life based on cookies?” “Um, you know, Mrs. Fields. And what about that Famous Amos guy? Then there’s people who have baked their way to success. What about Paula Deen? You’ve seen her on TV, haven’t you? She started out making bagged sandwich lunches her boys delivered. And who is that other person. Who is she? Hmm—oh yes, I have it. Martha Stewart.” I smile, knowing that I’m winning this one. “Have you ever even watched the Food Network? Alton Brown? Bobby Flay? Sandra Lee? I mean, she makes a living using canned food and packaged lettuce in her recipes!”

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“Martha Stewart went to jail. And she’s creepy. I think she’s a robot. Aminatronic. Famous Amos went bankrupt, yes? But for real, Becca. I mean, real. You. What are you going to do?” I stop pressing the mound of dough and cover the bowl with Saran wrap. Turning toward the window, I look out toward the big Monterey pine tree slightly swaying in the San Francisco breeze. How could I sit in two more years of classrooms. I barely made it through my bachelor’s degree, hating all the business classes despite myself. Should I move home? I wonder. “You can’t move back home,” Dez says, reading my mind as usual. “God, Carla eats you alive. Like you are a cookie.” The second baby begins to wail, and I wonder if Dez can tell the difference between the two from their cries. To me, they sound like sirens, clarion calls of endless, relentless need. But Dez keeps talking. “Look, getting an MBA is a great idea. It’s smart. You can go work for a real business when you are done and meet some real people. You could work for a real food company. If you go off on some half baked—“ “Is that a pun?” I ask. “No pun intended. You know I don’t think like that. I’m being serious. If you think you can bake your way to a livelihood, well, I don’t know.” Dez knows about my cookies, my gingerbread loaf, my cranberry muffins. Pecan scones, buttermilk biscuits, whole wheat and sunflower seed bread. “It has been done,” I say, moving closer to the window pane, close enough that the tip of my nose touches the glass. “And all my life, people have been telling me I should

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bake for a living. I’m not pulling this out of a hat. This isn’t some new radical idea, or anything.” “Ha, ha,” she says. “This is all about Danny, isn’t it. If he hadn’t, well, listen. This is all about him. You were fine when you were with him.” I swallow, breathe in, wishing that the name Danny didn’t still make my heart do some potentially life threatening lambada in my chest. Danny and I met our senior year in college at State. There he was, standing on the MUNI platform, waiting for the NJudah. Dark curly hair, sweet, sexy face, backpack full of James Joyce novels and Heidegger treatises slung over his shoulder. He was smart and funny, and he had more on his mind than me, though it took me some time to figure that out. We had months of afternoons in his bed, tangled up in blankets and love. Who knew he was thinking about the deep, dark Congo as he caressed my back, stroked my thighs, called me his little sweetie? The Congo, not my skin. The Congo, not my other, better, best parts. The Congo. The Democratic Republic of Congo, to be exact, the very place he was right now with the Peace Corps building schools and hospitals. And yes, I can see why war, disease, and malnutrition are more important than my thighs. The fact that 5.4 million people have died in the Congo--the same number of people who live in Denmark--is a bit more important than my feelings. But it still hurt when he left. It still does. “If you call being completely insecure and nervous that a man is going to leave me for the Congo and then does, well then yeah, I was just dandy when I was with him,” I say, trying to find that light place in my voice.

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“He was great,” Dez says, having met Danny during a trip out to the West Coast. He’d been at his best the night he and I and Dez and Nick when to dinner at Perbacco. He was so smart, charming, polite, funny. And now gone. “I think I deserve someone who actually wants to be me. Who might have actually invited me to go to the Congo with him. I’ve long desired to be Congolese,” I say. “Becca, be serious—Oh, shit, I have to go. The natives are restless. No pun intended.” “Trust me, none taken.” “Nut. I’ll call later, okay?” “Okay,” I say, but Dez has already hung up. Or not really hung up but put down the phone, and for a little while, I listen to her cooing to one of the babies, either Madison or Mackenzie or both. Just from her sound, I know that Dez is a good mother, everything about her reassuring, the hmm from all the way across the country making me want to weep. Sighing, I fold my phone closed and think about the snickerdoodle dough in the fridge. I can almost see how the flour and sugar and butter are knitting together, forming the flakey consistency that will bake up into mouthfuls of delicate taste. Baking has always made sense to me, but my mother Carla never thought it was important except at Christmas time. “Are you going to make grandmother’s sugar cookies?” she would ask. “And Mexican wedding cakes? What about that walnut loaf?” From the time my mother okayed me for solo flights in the kitchen, I was the go-to Thanksgiving pumpkin pie girl, the Fourth of July apple pie person, the Bûche de Noël

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roller par excellence at Christmas. I can even make peeps, those marshmallow chicks for Easter. Whatever holiday you have on tap, I can bake for it. And more than being something I had to do, it was something I wanted to do. I guess because with baking, there are immediate results. You mix things together and, if you do it correctly, something really great comes of it. Something people want and then want even more of. Something that makes people happy. Something that makes me happy. Shrugging, I put the cookie dough in the fridge and wipe my hands on my apron. I realize I’m still wearing the ugly denim skirt, the blue edge of it showing under the apron. I hate the blue color, the old looking hemline. I hate my clogs and my tights. But what does this denim skirt really mean? What does it mean that I would actually take a skirt out of my mother’s giveaway bag and take it home, wear it to my first day of my MBA program? Is it some sick Psycho kind of thing? I’m like Anthony Perkins dressing up as his mother? Am I stuck as a child? Trying to invoke my mother’s energy? No matter what the answer, it can’t be good. The skirt is definitely a symbol, but I’m not sure what it says about me, so as I look up, catching my reflection in the kitchen window, I decide to change. Really, change.

“You cannot really be thinking about doing this!” my mother says. “I don’t understand why you quit that perfectly reasonable job at Grommer’s in the first place. But at least you were going back to finish your education.”

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“Mom, I sat in a small office working the books for five years. It’s a miracle I don’t have a hunchback. It was an okay job, but I might have killed myself after another year. Hari kari with a letter opener.” What I want to say is, “If I’d stayed and done that, then who would you bitch at?” but I don’t. I sigh, look around the kitchen.

The snickerdoodles are already baked and put into

plastic bags and frozen for some event or another. I had one and a half glasses of wine before I called my mother, and now I can see that I will have to finish the second glass just to get through this conversation. “So you don’t want to go back to Grommer’s. And you don’t want to go to school. You want what?” she says, her voice raising even higher. “Start up,” I say. I cough, sip wine, cough some more. “To buy a better mixer. One of those commercial kinds. Packaging. I have to make business cards. Probably get a license or two. Register with the city. Get bonded. Undergo some kind of bureaucratic thing. Buy insurance. Maybe have a full body scan. Hopefully no body cavity search. I don’t know, but you know what I mean.” “I certainly do not know what you mean about anything. I don’t know word one about this at all. You are going to pass out food in buildings?” “It’s not like I’m giving out rations, Mom. It would be a business. Professional. Sort of a dessert business. I’m thinking I will call it The Salubrious Palate.” My mother lets out a sound that might be a sigh but is really an admonition. “What in heavens does that mean? And before you go off on some vocabulary whim, can’t we discuss why you would throw away a perfectly good MBA for cookies? This is really all about Da--”

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“Mom,” I say, hoping to stop her. One Danny conversation a day is one too many. But I don’t have to say more than that. She quiets, the sound of the television in the background almost loud enough for me to follow the plot. How to explain it to her? There’s no way I can tell my mother about the feeling I had yesterday in the classroom. I don’t want to tell her that I swiped her skirt for one, and the sort of fear/loneliness/anxiety thing that gripped me as Professor Conklin read the roster is nothing she wants to hear. Trust me. I know this. My mother doesn’t do extreme emotions. And any emotion that is extreme is quickly converted into a desire to clean closets or go to Macy’s for the spectacular one day sale. I’ve only seen her cry about three times in my entire life and those moments passed so quickly, I didn’t even have time to pass her a tissue. “You know how I love to bake, Mom. I know you don’t think it’s worthwhile, but I do,” I say, taking the last sip of my wine. “I need to try this before I get my MBA.” “You’ll never go back,” she says. I can hear the television blast wide open into full drama in the background, the grieved lull of Tivoed soap opera voices in my ear. My mouth opens to argue. I know what to say. All I have to do is give her a time frame, tell her I will do this for four months, and if it’s a total joke, I’ll enroll in the spring semester. I could even tell her that I’d go to school and give this business thing a go at the same time, but I can’t. My mouth won’t move to form anything. So I say nothing, knowing that nothing has always been better for my mother than something that sounds wrong. “What about Becca’s Best?” she says finally. “The Salubrious Palate indeed.”

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“How much will you need? “ she says without waiting for me to comment. “I’ll wire it in.”

I woke up early and spent 6.5 hours downtown. First I applied for a business permit and then went to the Department of Public Health to apply for a permit to operate. Then I took the bus over to CoCo’s Cookware and Wholesale Supply and bought a Kitchen Aid Mixer that looks like it could mix up asphalt. I bought cookies cutters and scone pans and a rolling pin that would subdue any mugger. I hauled the load back to my apartment on the bus and then headed back out to the bank to set up a business account with the money that my mom had indeed wired the night before. When I got home, I got online and dropped out of all my classes, starting first with the strategy class. Click! Out of there. Goodbye Mr. Tweed Jerk-Wad Docker Pants. Then I called Admissions and was able to get a refund for all my fees and put my MBA on hold for one semester. I had four months to do something with Becca’s Best. Four months to prove to my mother that I can make a go of it. Four months to prove it to myself that I don’t need an MBA or a Danny to be happy. Now, I’m out again, this time at Macy’s in Stonestown. I’ve paid for my purchases and am walking out into the evening light with my bag full of pants that actually fit me. Two blouses, three t-shirts. A pair of cute but trendy flats, good shoes for pushing a cart around office building floors.

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The sky is gray, turning to black. Venus hangs on the edge of the horizon like a broken promise. When I get home, I’m going to start planning out the businesses to call. Luckily, Dez has left a message, leaving me a number of a San Francisco colleague of Nick’s. “For god’s sake call him first. He’ll say yes, I know it,” she said, the peaceful sound of no babies in the background. “Good luck.” I have good luck and a new mixer. I have five thousand dollars from my mother in my bank account. I have my grandmother’s recipes and something I can barely recognize floating in my chest. The last time I felt it was back when I first met Danny, back when I thought things might be possible between us. I think it’s hope. For a second, I am almost happy. Maybe I am happy. I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve had enough happiness to know what it feels like. But I’m tired and full of ideas and plans. And tomorrow I start baking.

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September 4, 2008 Day Three

Recipe: Sand Tarts, Cookies of the Desert of the Heart

Sand tarts are deceptive. They lie. They look like sweetness but are arid at first, your mouth biting down on powder and sugar and air. Then wait a moment—maybe longer. Finally, the nuttiness comes through and then, next, the sweetness. Drink with milk. You’ll need it. But once you understand this climate, you won’t be able to stop. The white ring of powdered sugar will be your downfall. Everyone will know your secret.

In the law office of Eric Wallace, Associate at Winston, Janszen, and Le Guin, I try to look professional even in my trendy flats; I try to look like I know what I’m doing. The only place I really know what I’m doing is in the kitchen, so as I stare at Eric, I imagine my brand new Kitchen Aid mixer on his desk. The flour and sugar containers are where his computer is. Wooden spoons are in his pen holder. Measuring cups line the entire edge of his desk. I squint and try to see him in an apron. “So you know Nick,” Eric says, sitting back in his chair. “I—“

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“Great guy,” Eric says. “Kind of a wild man. Back in the day, let me tell you. No one can drink like Nick Rowland. No one ever came close.” I want to plug my ears and sing Lalalalala as he talks. Nick can only be Nick, Dez’s dear husband, father to Mackenzie and Marley, hard worker, good provider. Not a beer swilling frat boy hanging his bare ass out a window and screaming obscenities at the sorority girls walking on the sidewalk below. “We are very close,” I say, knowing that Nick is the only reason I might get this gig. “Good friends. He thought that this business arrangement might be a, um, kind of winwin situation for the both of us.” Eric stares at me, adjusts his apron. “You push a food cart.” “It’s all home made,” I say. “Delfina’s does our lunch service.” I see him fiddling with the Kitchen Aid, turning it on and off, on and off. “This isn’t lunch. Or breakfast. It’s a treat. A lovely, um, snack. Dessert.” “Delfina’s has some desserts,” Eric says. He’s bored, I can tell, moving on to the wooden spoons, picking one up and slapping his palm, hard. “They have amazing references. Not to mention corned beef sandwiches.” “I could come twice a day. Before lunch and in the afternoon. When people need a pick me up. When people need . . . “ and I pause, thinking about my grandmother’s sugar cookies, the tender, flakey, buttery slide of one into my mouth. “Something absolutely tasty just to get them through the day. Think about—think about a sugar cookie. So moist and yet flakey, a little crispy on the bottom, barely brown. Or a brownie made with bittersweet chocolate and pecans and cream. A scone full of ripe blueberries to go with a

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freshly brewed cup of coffee. A rum cake that I swear should be illegal. Cinnamon strudel with sugar frosting. Pecan pie . . . .” I trail off, my heart pounding in my chest because I can see what’s going on. I had him at flakey. Eric’s eyes are glistening, his mouth open slightly. He might even be panting. At that point, I pull out my secret weapon. From a bag, I produce two huge snickerdoodles, both dusted with cinnamon, shiny with sugar. I hold them toward him half covered in a napkin, cookies light with air, heavy with butter. Eric stares at them, and I nod encouragingly. He takes them from me and pulls one fully from the napkin. He bites down, closes his eyes. I know what he’s tasting, too. The melding of the flour and the butter, the chewy lightness, the crunch of sugar, the zing of cinnamon. “Wow,” he says, swallowing and then taking another bite, talking with a slightly full mouth. “Everything you do this good?” “Yes,” I say. “Maybe even better.” And I know this is true. I don’t bake anything that tastes bad. This is what I can do best in the world. What Eric holds now is my prime achievement. It might be small, but at least I know what it is. He finishes cookie number one and starts in on cookie number two. “You’d come twice a day?” I nod. “We can see how it goes. But everything will be home made.” He sits up. “You are licensed? We don’t need some kind of scandal with the food. You know, beriberi or whatever that disease is. We have enough problems in this office

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right now, what with Jenn—what I mean is is that this office needs peace. Tasty peace. No illegal anything and no food poisoning. We have no time to get sick.” “I will have my license registered by next week, business permit in hand. I have a permit to operate from Public Health. I’m going to get bonded and insured. It’s all above board, really. I’m official and everything.” Eric nods. “Nothing cute on your cart. No cow bells or Christmas lights. No little bobble head leprechauns. No reggae music. Just the food. And nothing that isn’t dessert or a breakfast treat kind of thing. I don’t want Delfina’s to get wind of this.” He has no idea that I would stay silent for a year to get this job. “All right.” Eric sits back in his chair, folds his arms. “Okay then. We’ll do invoices. You keep track. People can pay by the week or something. No cash exchange. We can set it up with the business office, okay? Talk to the girl out front. What’s-her-name.” Okay? Okay?! I want to fly around the office in a spiral. I want to call my mother and tell her that she was wrong, wrong, wrong. But since I can do neither of these things —both completely impossible--I don’t. So instead, I nod, smile, think of pie.

“So you’ll like start next Monday?” the girl behind the reception desk asks. “That’s the plan,” I say. “I’m waiting on my permits and I have to get all my supplies.” I stop talking. I shouldn’t be telling anyone about the fact that I’m not a completely viable company right now. She doesn’t need to know that I don’t own a cart or bags or

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napkins or cute little baskets to put my food into. Whatever would the strategy professor at State think? No wonder I was doomed in the MBA program. I look at the girls’ name plate on the front of her desk. Sasha. She looks like a Sasha, dark and thin, slightly bubble eyes that are remarkably beautiful. If I had bubble eyes, they’d just be bubble eyes. In fact, I don’t think I could get away with anything that wasn’t sort of normal. I don’t have enough strength of character. My face and body are both completely average. Well proportioned, but just sort of there, unremarkable, okay. Throw anything interesting onto me and I’d be Quasimodo. Behind her, a guy about twenty-four sits, watching Sasha as she talks to me. He’s not tall, not short, not good looking, really, but not ugly. His hair isn’t blonde or brown, sort of in between. I look at the name plate on his desk: Chad. I don’t need to look at any more to see the love story not being played out here. Chad adores Sasha who can’t even see him for the trees. He’s as relevant to her as the filing cabinets against the wall. I try to catch his eye in order to introduce myself, but he’s mesmerized, stuck on Sasha as she talks to me. “So is it like Monday?” Sasha asks again. “Right,” I say. “I’ll be here Monday at 10.” “Okay, well, then, like, here’s your card key. Let’s you in, like, the front door downstairs and like the front door here. The swipe thing. On your way out, you have to go downstairs to security to get your picture taken. From the guy named Chester. I think they like take your fingerprints now, too. I don’t know. I’ve been here a while.” Sasha flicks her hair behind her shoulder, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that her boss doesn’t even know who she is. “And I need you to fill out this form and this.”

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She puts two forms on the counter and a pen. “It’s like legal stuff. About letting you in here at all. People in offices aren’t like always normal, you know. Really weird stuff happens all the time.” “Okay,” I say, looking at the papers in front of me. “And here is a list of who works here. How many and stuff.” Sasha pushes another piece of paper at me. I glance at it and then have an idea. “Do you have a lunch order form?” I ask. “Something from a regular week. It might help me get an idea of what people like, even if it isn’t dessert. You know, do they like savory or sweet.” “Hmmm . . . Oh, like, yeah,” Sasha says, standing up and rummaging through a file. She pulls out a piece of paper, Xeroxes it, and then hands it to me. “Like some people eat crap, like, all the time.” Just as she says that, from down the hall comes some kind of yell, a curse, a slapping crack of words. We both look toward the sound and then back at each other. “See what I mean?” she whispers. “This place is so totally not normal. It’s insane.” “Completely,” I say, taking the forms and a clipboard over to the reception seating area. I sit down, cross my legs, and start filling out the forms. It’s pretty much like an application, and I’ve filled out too many of them since I graduated from college. It took a long time to get the job at Grommer’s, so I’m a pro at all my dates and jobs and references, numbers and names in my head like a mantra.

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“You are out of your mind,” a woman says, her voice a ringing bell up and down the hallway. “You know shit about shit. I have no idea how they even let you in the front door.” I jerk up my head, stare at Sasha, whose bubble eyes are even more bubbly than before. “Oh, god,” she says. “It’s Jennifer.” “Who?” “Jennifer Regan,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. Another yell pounds down the hallway. Sasha seems to freeze, and then she mouths at me, her red lips wide, “I’m getting out of here,” and then scoots out and away from behind her counter, edging down the other hallway, and a second or two later, I hear a door close. Chad looks up at me for the first time, blinks, tries to smile, and then follows Sasha down the hall, hopefully going into the men’s bathroom and not the women’s. I stop writing, waiting for whomever it is to emerge from her cave. I’m oddly excited, feeling protected because I don’t work here and thrilled to see someone who would make such a racket. A person who thinks she can get away with it. A person who just lets people have it, saying what everyone is thinking and no one else says, her voice an axe cracking the silence wide open. Blinking, breathing slightly, I wait, and then I hear the thin, powerful clomp clomp clomp of someone walking fast and furious in high heels. What will she look like? I wonder. Some amazingly beautiful woman, her gleaming black hair piled on her head, her clacking red nails, her perfectly made up face. She’ll have on some kind of suit—a

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famous designer—maybe in red. Or peacock blue. Or midnight black. She’ll be dangerous and exquisite, her energy a wave of irritation and excitement. Here she comes, this maven of mouth, this competent, irksome lawyer, steaming down the hallway, and she’s . . . she’s . . . “What are you staring at?” she asks. “Where’s Sasha? What in the hell is going on here today?” She is standing in front of me, her arms akimbo, her wide brown eyes taking me in with no other word but disdain. Nothing about me pleases her at all and this is not hard to figure out because as she looks me over from my new flats to new blouse, her left eyebrow raises, a smirk blooms on her perfectly painted lips. Her sleek blonde hair is swept up and pinned to the back of her head, but she’s not tall and skinny and elegant and gorgeous but instead, average height, well proportioned, nicely made up, and pretty—if she didn’t look like she was going to explode at any moment. Her brown eyes are dark with a fury so intense, I wish I had a force field to protect myself from her death ray. “Um,” I say. “Sasha went—“ “It’s all fine and good for Sasha to run and hide, but we need someone out front to take care of—whatever you are. You aren’t applying here are you? And for what? File clerk?” Why, I wonder, aren’t science fiction movies true? I mean, here’s where I need to disapperate or beam away or fling myself into another galaxy. It seems ludicrous that that I can’t leave this situation. The snow globe I need now is entitled The Invisible Girl, Nothing Here But Snow. My heart pounds, my hands sweat.

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“Not to work here really,” I say, my voice low because that’s the only volume where I feel I can keep it from shaking. “To serve food here.” She rears back, her face hard and irritated, one perfectly shod foot in front, one behind, as if she wants to head bunt me. I can see her take in a deep breath, her breasts pert and happily placed in some kind of acrobatic bra. “We have food. We don’t—“ Sasha has crept back down the hall and in the second where she tries to turn tail and run to the bathroom, this woman sees her from the one giant eye that must hide out at the back of her head. I wonder where she keeps her gigantic claw, the one that rips people’s heads off. “Sasha! I need you to get that agency on the line and find me another temp. Now. The one they sent today is completely incompetent. An idiot. You tell them that, too, all right?” Sasha, pale, bubble eyes at bubble alert, goes back to her desk with a nod, picks up her phone. I think I’m saved. Crisis over. But then the woman turns back to me, her arms still on her hips. “If I were you,” she says, “I would wear something a little more professional in this office. We are used to a much higher standard than a get up from Target.” “Eric—“ I begin. “Eric is a dick,” she says, loudly. “And if he’s the one who hired you, trust me, I won’t be eating any of your food.” And with that, the woman turned and walked back down the hall she sprang from, a tiger back in her cage.

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Breathing in once, twice, I look up at Sasha who shakes her head. I start to say something, but Sasha puts one long finger to her lips and shakes her head again. I nod, realizing that to say anything else would probably only bring that thing back down the hall, its eye wild, its claw extended. At least, I know where to not roll my cart when I start here on Monday. Looking back at the forms, I reason that no matter what office I start in, there will be someone like this. If I did what I wanted to right now— which was to run to the elevators, go home, and whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies and eat all the dough in front of Sleepless in Seattle—I’d never start this business at all. I’d end up back at Grommer’s. I’d end up living with my mother. Yes, this woman is bad. Horrid. But there are people like her everywhere. Maybe there isn’t a bitch to her high degree—but someone close. I have to start somewhere and somewhere is here. Making sure one last time that Jennifer is gone, I go back to filling out my forms.

“Whoa,” the guy in security says as I walk up to the desk. As I stare at him, I see that he wishes he could take back his horse lingo. “Whoa what?” I smile, cock my head, and wait. He seems relieved, looking up at me slightly puzzled but smiling as well. “It’s just,” he begins, seeming to search for each and every word. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you like this.”

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“The good news for you is that you’ve never seen me like anything before. But I’m hoping to change that.” For a moment, I feel professionally proud, as if my snickerdoodle reputation has preceded me. The man takes off his hat, scratches the back of his head. “I’m not quite getting you.” “I’m here for my picture.” I hold out my blank card key. “I guess it’s like the inquisition to get in here. I think I’m lucky to have made it in here alive.” The man—his name is Chester, I can see now, his brass name tag glinting under the florescent light—takes my card key, stares at it for a moment, and looks up at me again. “Did you lose your old one? You know you need the form—“ “I’ve never had one before. I just actually walked into this building today for the first time. Some other guy,” I wave my hand toward the desk in the middle of the room. “Let me in. I went to see Eric Wallace at Winston, Janszen, and LeGuin. Now I’m going to be coming back twice a day. Without this key, I’m doomed.” Chester sits back in his chair and stares at me, hard. “I don’t know what you are playing at, but it’s not good for my headache.” For a second, I don’t understand how I got this far today only to be stumped by Chester, the security guard. I convinced a lawyer of all people to let me bring baked goods into his office twice a day to sell. To actually sell my creations. I lived through the flight of the virago in the office. And now Chester is giving me a hard time. “Chester,” I say, slumping, putting a hand on his desk. “Can I call you that?” He shrugs, twirls my card key in his hand, shakes his head slightly.

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“Chester, I’m new here. My name is Becca Muchmore. Sasha upstairs sent me down here to get my picture taken so I can come back on Monday and start working. I’ve never had a key before. You and I have never met before.” Chester’s face screws up tight, as if he’s trying to use his forehead to take off jar lids. “Becca?” “Becca,” I say. I dig for my wallet out of my purse, opening it on his desk. Receipts and dollar bills fly out, but I find my wallet and hold it out to him. Chester takes it, looking at me the whole time before glancing down. “Rebecca,” he says. “Right. But I go by Becca. You know. A nickname.” “That’s pretty weird,” he says. “What is weird?” I really want to know. “You and she could be twins. Dead ringers. In fact, I am not convinced at all young lady that you aren’t trying to fool me. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I didn’t fall off of some turnip truck.” I am stumped and worse, I feel tears. Yes, there they are, right under my eyes, in my cheeks, ready to move up and spill out. I’m tired. I’m just exhausted suddenly, and I slump into the chair near Chester’s desk and put my head in my hands. “Now wait. Just wait a minute. No, hold on there. No need to cry.” I hold up a hand, wanting a moment to stop. I learned how to stop tears on a dime from living with my mother. Breathe, think of something neutral. A file cabinet. A park bench. A Labrador retriever. Breathe again. Schoolroom clocks. Orange juice in cans. Microwave ovens.

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There. All done. This is a sad snow globe scenario, one entitled Insane Story in the Security Office. I won’t want to put it on my dresser or ever shake the sparkling snow again. “I’m not crying,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I just don’t understand.” “You and me both, honey.” Chester hands me a tissue. “And I will admit to being wrong about now, but until this second, I would have sworn you were Jennifer Regan, pro-nounced Ree-gan, as she always reminds me.” My body jolts. I turn to Chester, my mouth open, but no words come out. “From upstairs? The woman upstairs?” “Yes, Ma’am, the same as.” “She and I look the same?” Chester snorts. “You don’t just look the same, you are the same.” “But she’s—“ “Um-hum,” he says. “Talking to her is like being sucked up by an asshole with teeth.” Blinking, I stare at him, trying to erase that image from my mind before it settles in and stays. It’s not easy. I breathe. I want to ask him some question, but then suddenly, Chester doesn’t seem to find the fact I have an evil doppelganger interesting at all. He’s not interested in twins separated at birth or the magic of biological impossibilities. He’s done with that nonsense. He’s pulling out his digital camera from a drawer, whistling as he turns it on, the camera making a little beeping noise. “We gonna take this or what?” he asks, pointing the camera at me. I blink, watching him. “But she’s nothing like me. She’s—“

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“Yeah,” Chester nods. “A royal bitch. You two aren’t the same that way. I’m talking outsides. But my mistake. My bad, okay? Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to upset you, but you gave me a fright. I thought I was dealing with some kind of sick trick on her part. We all still think that she flattened someone’s tires—“ “What?” I ask. “Oh, her former boss. He’s gone, too. She moves in and pushes people out of the nest, like some big assed bird. Anyway, let’s take this though so I can go on break.” “Big ass?” I say, almost wanting to turn around and look at my backside. “If we are the same? I mean, is it that big?” “Oh, come on now. Just an expression. Now let’s get the lead out.” Nodding, I stand up, put down my purse, and walk to the two black footprints next to the white wall. I’m trying to pay attention to Chester’s photographic commands, but all I can see is Jennifer Regan standing above me, her hands on her hips, her eyes burning with moral indignation. How could I ever be mistaken for her? “This is the only photo you are going to get,” Chester says. “So why don’t you smile?” Chester’s right. Why don’t I smile? Mistaken identity is nothing to worry about, and I know that he’s wrong. He needs an eye appointment. Lasix surgery. Something. So I push Jennifer Regan out of my mind. I forget about her eyes and words and anger. Who cares that Chester made a mistake? I don’t. For all I know, he has some condition with his eyes or his brain, for that matter. So what? I have a job that I’m going to like. This office might lead to another office. I could hire a couple of people

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eventually. Maybe even rent a kitchen space somewhere. Word of mouth might make me happy. “That’s better,” Chester says. “We are almost there.” He’s right. Almost there. I stare into the camera and smile.

“You got it? You got it!” Dez says, too loudly it seems because then she starts to whisper. “Tell me everything. I mean everything. How much are they going to pay you? When do you start?” I’m sitting on my couch, pulling at a loose thread on one of my Guatemalan pillows. I shrug to no one and then answer. “Monday. Assuming I can get my act together.” Dez doesn’t say anything for a second, and I realize my mistake. “What is it now?” she asks. Standing, I wrap a blanket around my shoulders. It might be late summer, but the air is full of fog and cold. “Something really weird happened,” I say. “When I was in the off—“ “Did Eric Wallace do something to you? I swear, I am going to kick his ass. He was at the wedding, you know. You probably don’t remember because you were too busy helping people clean up. But he got drunk and started throwing the silver coated Jordan almonds around the dance floor. My aunt Karen almost broke her back because of him.” “No,” I say. “He was actually great. Really. So nice. You have to thank Nick for me.”

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“You promise me it wasn’t Eric?” she asks. “Nick tells me stories about those days. Apparently Eric was quite the party animal.” I listen to Dez, realizing that Eric and Nick must tell stories about themselves, using the other as the lead. Dez does not need to know about Nick and the sorority sisters on the sidewalk. “I promise,” I say. “Eric was really a true gentleman. He loved my snickerdoodles.” “Then what is it, Becca? What is bothering you now?” It’s the now that gets me. Now. There must have been a hundred moments like this for Dez to say “now” like that. So I have to make this good and clear. I have to make it not a now at all. “There’s a woman in the office that looks just like me,” I say. “So much that the security guard didn’t want to take my picture for my card key.” “What?” “Right. When I walked downstairs to have my picture taken, he started asking me all these very strange questions. Turns out, I’m a dead ringer for this crazy person.” Dez is silent, and I can almost see her biting her lip. “Dez?” “Yeah.” “What?” I hear her breathe in and prepare to launch. “I can’t figure out why this is actually such a big deal. You got the job. You start Monday. You have preparations to make. Why let something like this derail you. So someone looks like you. Big deal.”

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I stand up, walk to the window. “She’s a bitch. I mean, I saw her lose it in the office. Yelling, kicking people out, ordering people around. Even Eric mentioned her during my interview. It’s as if she’s some kind of tropical storm. A Cyclone. A Hurricane.” “You met her? Does she look like you to you?” Dez asks. Outside, the fog pushes the sky around with grey fists. I run a finger down the window glass, feeling the slick smooth coldness of the day on my fingertip. “I didn’t see it,” I admit, thinking about Jennifer’s scary eyes. “Not at all.” “What does she look like?” “She’s blonde. About my height. Brown eyes. Average in a lot of ways. Pretty, though, I guess. She’s was so angry it was hard to tell.” Again, Dez is silent. “What?” I say. “She does sound like you. I mean, the basics.” “You think I’m average?” I ask, laughing. I walk away from the window and move into the kitchen. I need to start baking. I need to go and get a cart. I have things to do. “You are anything but average. In fact, you are amazing, and would be divine if you’d give yourself the chance,” Dez says. For the second time today, I feel like crying. Dez has my back, always has, even when no one would pick us for kickball. When neither of us were invited to Bonnie Randall’s birthday party in fifth grade. When both of us stood in the corner of the cafeteria, neither of us asked to dance one single dance, seventh grade clearly a failure. I kind of whimper and wipe my nose.

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“I’m not sure why you are letting this bother you. Who cares? Move on! You need to let this go and focus on what is true. You have a job. Something you want. You may as well go for it.” Smiling, I lean against the kitchen counter, blinking against a sudden and then gone shaft of light penetrating the fog. Dez is right, as usual. “Probably some therapist would say I’m using this incident as a way out of doing anything.” “Smart therapist,” she says. “Maybe you should go to her more often.” “Ha, ha,” I say, and then after a moment, “Thanks Dez. Thanks for everything.” “Don’t thank me. And just enjoy this, Becca. This is great. This is the best thing that’s happened to you in a long time. Since, Da—Listen, forget about the security guard and that crazy woman who may or may not look like you and do what you do best.” We hang up and I turn not toward the window and the possible sunlight but the kitchen, my new office, the place where I bake, the place where I can finally do my best.

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September 5, 2008 Day Four

Recipe: Honey Nuts

Honey Nuts are the tiddlywinks of cookies, the bottle caps of snacks, the slender orbs of confection. There is no goo, no smacking, no melted chocolate. But what they are is tasty, nutty and crunchy. You can take them anywhere in a bag or pocket and pop them in your mouth without anyone knowing. Great for boring meetings or long family dinners where the meals always suck.

According to experts, everything is freezable. They say that with the perfect container, any baked good but a meringue will keep for months in a reliable, consistent temperature-controlled freezer. But I beg to differ. Sure some cookies are easy to freeze. No harm comes to them during the process because they contain little moisture or fat. It’s best not to freeze cakes or of cookies full of chocolate, even though I have been known to go through a dozen of frozen to partially defrosted cookies while watching a movie. Sand tarts are likely freezing candidates. Some sugar cookies. But even these cookies must be carefully attended to, allowed to cool completely, and layered carefully in the storage containers lest they clump together in great gooey, frozen chunks. And for

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goodness sake, don’t frost anything until you are ready to serve it. There’s just about nothing worse than freezer-burned frosting. Nothing really stopped my mother from freezing food. Take honey nuts, for instance. When I was little, my mother kept great Tupperware tubs of them in the freezer in the garage, bringing them out for holidays and dinner parties. I can still hear the thwap of the cold tub as it hit the counter. I have a feeling she might have a tub or two in there still, even though she hasn’t made them for years. The dough is difficult to stir, sticky and hard with two cups of honey. I mean, you engage your biceps. I don’t have much in the way of biceps, so I called my neighbor from downstairs, and now Salvatore Souza is telling me about his weekend and stirring in the last of the flour into the dough with a wooden spoon. Sal works as a part-time cabbie, a doorman at a South of Market hotel, and a bouncer at a bar in the Tenderloin. How he manages to do all of this and still be home so much is a mystery I don’t want to solve. He is also the de facto superintendent of the building, able to deal with heaters and dishwashers and clogged toilets. Everyone likes Sal, inviting him to birthdays and quincineras and bar mitzvahs. And now he’s looking at me as he whips up the bowl of sand tart dough, his muscles flexing. I try not to stare at his bicep, but it’s actually quite amazing, a perfect physiology example, something for a classroom: the ideal muscle. “She was all about the no,” he says, smiling, showing me his very white teeth, one ever-so-slightly chipped. He’s told me he won’t get it fixed because he it drives women wild, and I haven’t asked him how a chipped tooth does that. I haven’t asked him what one does with a chipped tooth to make women go wild. He pushes his dark black hair back with one hand. “The big no.”

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A puff of flour shoots up and over his head. The dough is sticky with honey and sugar, glutinous and nutty. After Sal finishes, I will have to roll the blob out to the thinnest thin possible and cut the cookies out with a donut hole cutter. “What did you want her to do?” I am sitting on the counter, watching him. “I mean, what did she say no to?” He smiles, raises his eyebrows. “You really want to know that, Becca?” I breathe in, realizing I might just have asked him to discuss a sex act or at least something leading up to one. “No. I meant—I meant where did you go?” “Drive down to the beach. Watch the, you know, sunrise.” Sal stirs the dough, smiles, and I wonder why the woman was all about the big no. Sal is sexy, dark haired, dark eyed, thin, and pleasant, and he smells of something green, tea or juniper or rosemary. He drives a gleaming white 1972 Cutlass Supreme, his pride and joy, and even if he had bad breath and a pompadour, sitting with him in the car might be worth it. He stirs, looks up, smiles at me again, and I almost back up. I couldn’t sit in a car too long with him myself. Maybe I’m scared of his chipped tooth and his tight, firm muscles, and slicked back hair. He’s like an interactive 50’s movie, James Dean with a little Dean Martin on the side. He’s a bad boy, the boy who rolls in and rolls out, not leaving a trace of himself once he’s gone. I’ve never seen him with a woman more than once, a woman in the foyer downstairs, leaning against him as he gets his mail. A woman outside on the street, standing next to Sal as he unlocks the passenger’s side door on the Cutlass. A woman sitting on the stairs, her nylons snagged, her mascara smeared from crying, the smell of something green all around her.

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No, Sal is a here today kind of guy, a guy who doesn’t know how to say the word tomorrow. Sal stops, breathes. “What are you going to do with all of this glop?” “It’s cookie dough, Sal.” “So you are going to do what now with it? Make a model home? Form it into bread baskets?” “Bake some cookies. Bake them all.” “And put them where? Your freezer looks about as big as mine, and the rest of the neighbors have a cookie moratorium going on. There’s a sign in the lobby. Your picture in a big red circle with a line going through it. There’s a cookie sniffing dog down there. A neighborhood watch kind of thing.” He winks, smiles, and I think maybe I’m wrong about him. I’d make sure to sit on my side of the car, though, a bread basket between us. I could sit in the car but nothing else. Maybe a beer as the sun comes up. “There you go,” he says, stepping away from the bowl and spoon the way he might from a ticking bomb. “All done.” He pushes his hands through his hair, a little flour aging him a few years, and I squint for a second, seeing him as a distinguished 48-year-old. “Doll,” he says. “Wake up.” I scoot off the counter. “Thank you so much. I should have started this in my new mixer. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t realize—“ “That you need to start pumping some iron!” Sal flexes his arm, his bicep seeming to crawl up to his shoulder like a small mammal. “Work those muscles.” “Sal,” I ask, without knowing why I’m going to ask him this. “Do you—am I . . .?”

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“Crazy?” he says. “Absolutely.” “No, listen.” I can feel my face flume with flush. “Am I a person you see a lot of? A type. Sort of a mold of a person. The kind you’ve seen before? A common variety human?” To his credit, Sal doesn’t laugh. Instead, he cocks his head and stares at me. “I know what you mean, doll. My friend Ray has a theory of the 27 molds.” “Huh?” Sal leans against the counter and folds his arms in front of him, raises an eyebrow, nods. “Ray says this. When humans got created however that happened, there were only 27 molds. You know, face types. Bodies, too. So you can see a Chinese you and an Eskimo you. And you. The same. Nose, eyes, posture. Doesn’t matter where you are, there you are.” As I stare at Sal, I realize he’s right. I mean, I don’t know about 27 molds, but the idea makes sense, in a strange, clearly bar-talk kind of way. Shaking my head, I say, “Yeah, I understand. But what I’m asking is have you seen me around? Me that’s not me.” He smiles, and I breathe in his greenness. He nods again. “Becca, there’s no one like you, cookie woman. Never seen you before. Won’t see you anywhere but here.” I sigh, shake my head, almost laugh. That’s true about everyone, I think, except the part about cookies. I smile at Sal. “Thanks, Sal. I mean, for everything.”

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“My pleasure, doll. Let me know if there is something else I can do for you. Your wish is my command.” He salutes me and walks toward the front door, carrying the bag of snickerdoodles I offered him as incentive before he started stirring. “Just keep me posted on this cookie biz you got going on. I may quit my jobs and sign on. I could drive, deliver, push the cart in the office and scope out the scene. Everything I’m doing now has been great training for the cookie delivery service.” “Okay, Sal,” I say, closing the door behind him. I shake my head, imagining the horror on Jennifer Regan’s face should Sal walk by her office, saying, “Doll, how ‘bout a sand tart. A tart for a tart.” How akimbo would her arms go at that point? Would she be able to take on Sal with her thunderous yell? But then I stop breathing for a second. Sal is right. What was I thinking? Where am I going to keep all these cookies? Walking to the fridge, I open the freezer door and stare at my frozen dinners in their neat boxes and the two trays of half filled ice cube trays. There’s not even enough room in there for a hamburger patty. Sighing, I know what I will have to do, where I will have to go. I don’t have any other option. But only until things start moving. Until I really get this business going. Maybe I could buy my own freezer and put it in the apartment building garage. Get a lock. But until then, I have no choice. I don’t know anyone else with a big enough freezer to hold all that I will need for the coming weeks. I have to bake and freeze the things I can because every day, I’m going to have to bake scones and cakes and maybe pies.

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So there you have it. I’m going to beg Sal to let me borrow his prize, his treasure, and hope that he won’t ask to go along. If he doesn’t let me, I’m going to have to take a bus, BART, and a cab, traveling 20 miles while carrying bags of cookies. I ‘m going to have to go to my mother’s.

My mother sits on the couch, waves to me as I walk in. I see her in profile, her short gray hair, her glasses on her nose. She’s wrapped a fluffy white blanket around herself and there is a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. I clomp in with my two paper bags, but she stays riveted to the television. “Hold on—hold on,” she says. “He’s going to tell her about the baby. And the anesthesia. And the brain tumor. Maybe even about the alien abduction.” “You could press pause, Mom,” I say. “Shhh.” She waves her hand at me, and I keep walking down the hall, through the kitchen, and out to the garage. There by the door is her old Sears freezer, the one I spent a lot of time in front of during my childhood, the door open, the cool air pushing past me as I stared at the possibilities. What treasures were always there! Coffee cans full of coconut cookies made from coconut my grandparents picked from their palm tree, Tupperware containers packed with stuffed date, oatmeal, persimmon, and toffee crunch cookies. Carefully wrapped tinfoil packages of brownies, apple sauce cake, and gingerbread. Gingersnaps, peanut butter cookies, pecan sandies. Poppyseed muffins, cranberry nutbread, zucchini bread, fudge.

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When I think of my mother and dessert, I forget a lot of stuff. I forget how she doesn’t seem to pay attention to me much or wishes I would do something else with my life. I forget how I don’t seem to measure up in her eyes, not performing like her friends’ kids. I don’t have an internship with Smith Barney or haven’t been accepted to medical school or produced two adorable children. My hair isn’t cut well and I don’t have the right clothes. Most of the time, 20 miles isn’t enough space between us. But when I think of my mother in the kitchen, I breathe in chocolate. I breathe in cinnamon and sugar. There she is standing behind the counter, holding out a spoon full of chocolate chip cookie door or an egg beater dripping with cake batter. There she is frosting an angel food cake with barely sweetened whipped cream, letting me use my finger to clean the bowl. It is a miracle I didn’t end up weighing 300 pounds or developing an eating disorder. But I think the deal is this. In our small family, dessert is part of life. It isn’t really an excuse to go insane, chomping through sugar for relief of pain (though I have been guilty of this). It is, instead, the crunchy or chewy end to a meal. It is the treat in the bag lunch. It is a “little something,” as my mom says, before bed. A soporific with a glass of milk and a good book. A delicacy after a post-prandial stroll. I pull open the freezer, and as I imagine, there are tubs of taste treats lined up, but not as many as there used to be when I lived at home and there are two whole free shelves. Putting the bags down, I start taking out my own Tupperware tubs, all carefully marked: sand tarts, honey nuts, snickerdoodles. My master plan is to stock up here, and make weekly visits to the freezer until I can figure out something smarter than driving 20 miles over a bridge and through a tunnel to get my stock.

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Someday, I think, I will have my own freezer in my own place of business, a business I will build up myself. I’ll have my own house. My own person who lives with me in my own house. Maybe a few small people will join us there after a few years. I just have to figure out how to arrange it, that’s all. That’s all. No problem.

“So tell me about this business opportunity,” my mother says, when I sit down on the couch with her. “What does it involve and how will you be compensated.” I grab a handful of popcorn and put some of it in my mouth. The television is on mute, but the characters continued their sad machinations even in the silence. My mother continues. “I hope you have all the proper paperwork. Licenses and such.” I swallow, wonder how long I can go without answering her. “Becca!” “Mom, it’s going to be fine. I have everything in order. The baking is well underway. I have a stockpile going in your freezer, more planned out for this weekend. A major bake on Sunday night, probably an all nighter. I’m legal and bonded and above board. I’ve been given the security pass and a parking sticker.” My mother shakes her head, turns to me. “Is this where you thought your college degree would take you? Selling cookies in offices?” As always, I feel pummeled by her comments. Over the years, I’ve talked to school counselors, therapists, and strangers on buses and airplanes and even once a river raft about how to deflect her pulsars of pain. But though I can seem to stay detached or see

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her as a wounded child or remember that her criticisms are about her, I take everything one-hundred percent personally. It’s all, as they say, about me. “Mom,” I say, changing the subject. “I had a weird experience at the office I’m going to start at.” “I can only imagine.” I forge on. “There’s a woman there who looks exactly like me. Enough so that the security guard thought I was trying to pull something over on him. I had to show him my driver’s license in order for him to believe me. He barely gave me a card key. He said almost unspeakable things about her.” My mother turns to me, blinks, the unspeakable part obviously reminding her of her soap operas. “Who was this person? The one who looks like you?” “She’s horrible. She’s a witch. I don’t really see the resemblance, but apparently, it’s true.” “What does she do?” my mother asks. “She’s a lawyer. Apparently, she’s good enough to not get fired even though she’s so awful to everyone at work. But I guess we look like we were separated at birth.” My mom seemed to consider this. “Maybe there was something they didn’t tell me at the hospital when you were born.” “Do you think?” I ask. “Was there something they kept hidden?” There it is, I think. The true story of my life. The good me got away. My mother hid the truth all these years. Maybe my father raised my sister, keeping my existence a

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secret, just like in that Disney movie about the twins separated at birth. Finally, my life would make sense. “Yes, it was the fact they could tell you weren’t going to go to graduate school.” My mother scoops up some popcorn, her red nails clicking on the steel bowl. “That’s something you can see right away.” “You didn’t go to grad school,” I say. “I didn’t have your aptitude for math,” she says, chewing. “You could have been anything you wanted to be.” “You could have gone to cooking school. You could have been a chef instead of a secretary. You could have run a restaurant. Run a bakery. Instead, you married Dad and then he left.” Instantly, I am ashamed, even though it’s true about the cooking school. It’s true she could have gone on to a career in the restaurant business instead of working temp jobs all these years. She taught me everything I know about baking and cooking and what I know isn’t even half of what she can do. Right now, she could be the wise mentoring pastry chef at a Michelin Guide rated restaurant. But the Dad part wasn’t her fault. Dad was a man who heard the freeway even in his sleep, and one day he got in his car to find out where it would take him. “Mom,” I say, but she stands and folds the blanket. “I’m sorry.” “Rebecca,” she says, her face tightening to hold back tears. “You can do so much more than you do. You could have gone into any field. You could have the life you want, but instead you live in a frightful apartment, barely getting by, mixing up cookies

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in order to pass the time. You had to borrow money just to get this ramshackle business started.” She places the blanket on the back of the couch and picks up the popcorn bowl, staring down at me, her eyes wide and serious. “I may not have done all that I could have, but do you think I want you to go through any of what I did? It’s not what a mother wants. All parents want more for their children. More than they had.” With that, she walks away, into the kitchen, and I hear the tap running, the splash of it filling the bowl. I breathe in and turn to the silent television, the characters going through their painful and dramatic lives, everything absolutely horrible. He says, she says, they run away, fall in love, fall out of love, get divorced, start over. He makes a million, she spends it. She inherits a fortune, he steals it. They have four children, two not his. They buy a house, he burns it down. One of the children is a drug addict. Another a rich commodities broker. Another is a boy who is really a girl. They are abducted by aliens for three years and come back to take over the town’s political scene. She flies to Aruba, the plane crashes. On and on and on. I want to go into the kitchen to try to make my mother feel better, but I can’t. She won’t feel better until I’m not who I am any more. She won’t be happy until I’ve made something of myself. I know I can’t do it her way, but I can do it in the way I know how. Quietly, I pick up my purse and my keys, and I leave my mother’s house, walk out into the night. Sal’s Cutlass gleams silver in the moonlight. I wonder what story arc I’m in, wonder what will happen next.

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September 7,8, 9 2008 Day Six, Seven, Eight

Recipe: Pecan Sandies, the Getting Close Cookie

Like the sand tart, the pecan sandy relies on nuts for taste. Nuts and fat. But don’t think of it that way. Think of the fine sugary taste leading to the tangy meaty pecan flavor. Bite, chew, savor, enjoy. The problem is that these cookies lead to further cookie abuse. The pecans remind you of brownies, brownies remind you of melted chocolate, and from there it’s a downhill slide to chocolate cake and chocolate mousse. So be careful, restrict yourself. If you eat too many, call a friend. Get some help.

“The theory of women is this,” Sal says, his voice deep and clear. It’s late, almost midnight, and the industrial sound of my new Kitchen Aid mixer alerted him that I was still awake. He pounded on my door, a bottle Sangiovese in his hand. So here he is, sitting at my kitchen table, measuring flour for my cranberry scone recipe, which is next in line after the angel food cake. We haven’t opened the wine, and I know that if I take one sip, I’ll fall asleep. And in my sleep, I’d still be trying to make cookies. I’d still be sifting flour, my hands unable to stop doing what I’ve been doing all weekend. “What is your theory of women?” I yell over the mixer. I’ve just finished adding the egg whites to the angel food cake batter, watching the whipped whites fold in.

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“So,” he says. “Goes like this.” I stare at the batter, ready to turn it off lest it spill over the sides. But it all stays in the deep steel bowl. “Tell me.” Sal nods, looks at me. “You can’t beat ‘em. You can’t join ‘em. So you might as well enjoy ‘em.” Laughing, I turn off the mixer. For a second, all I can hear is the knife scraping the one cup measure Sal is holding. Plop, he drops the flour into the bowl and puts down the cup. “What do ya think?” “I’m not sure it lists all the options,” I say. I tilt the bowl and pour and then scrape the smooth white wave of batter into the tin. I think about the woman on the staircase crying. Did Sal enjoy her? Why couldn’t he join her? “Let me see. Let’s use you for instance,” Sal says, measuring out another cup. “So I can’t beat you. I can’t make better cookies than you or horn in on your biz, even though I am desperately trying to. And I can barely join you—it takes wine for you to let me in the door. And then all you let me do is measure out flour or mix something too hard for you.” With both hands, I lift up the cake pan an inch off the counter and then let it fall, making sure the batter has settled, forcing out the air bubbles. “Then you have beaten me. You are stronger. Your theory is wrong.” “No, no, no. That’s not part of the theory. Strength is genetic, biological. It’s like that whole male/female thing. I can’t help it my biceps are stronger than yours. So pay

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attention. Focus, please. I can’t one up you on anything, but—and this is purely speculative—I can enjoy you, if you know what I am saying.” The oven is ready, and I open the door, gently slide in the pan, and then close the door. Standing straight, I put my hands on my back and survey the kitchen. Sal is helping me with the last double batch of scones. I have the cookies ready to go. The angel food cake is all but there. Tomorrow, I’m going to get up at five am and make coffee cake and blueberry muffins. “I don’t think I’m that enjoyable, speculatively or not,” I say, looking around the kitchen for available space on which to let things cool. I can always use the table, the ironing board. It will fit. I turn to Sal. “All I’m about these days is baking.” I slump into one of my cheap wooden kitchen chairs. “It’s all a matter of perspective, doll,” he says. “And an unproven theory at that. Why don’t we give it a run? Why don’t we go—“ “Sal,” I say, trying to back away from the conversation I think we are starting to have. Sal keeps smiling, and I realize that he wasn’t just about to ask me out. He was kidding with me, the woman upstairs, the woman who has no life but baking. “The flour?” Sal looks at the flour and away from me. Something in him dims for a second, but then he’s back, his chipped tooth visible in his smile. “There you go. 5 cups flour. Ready for your approval.”

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“Thanks, Sal,” I say. But I don’t move toward the bowl. I will, I know that. I’ll measure out the baking powder and baking soda. I’ll cut up the butter into small pieces, but right now, I can’t do anything. “So you like my theory?” he asks. He picks up the bottle of wine and unscrews the top, not a good sign. “Glasses?” I nod to the cabinet over his head and he stands and takes two off the shelf, holding up my Ikea $1.29 a glass glasses. “The finest crystal, I see.” “Only the best for me,” I say. I take the proffered wine and sip. Maybe I’m doomed to fall into an agitated sleep, but the bad wine tastes sharp and peppery on my tongue, cutting through the flour and sugar in the air. Sal sits by me, smelling like green, his breath spicy. “My theory of men,” I say, “is this.” “Yeah?” Sal smiles. “Go on.” “You can’t find them. You can’t see them. You may as well pretend they aren’t there.” Sal stares, sits back in his seat, gulps his wine. He blinks, and if I weren’t so tired, I ask him what he was trying to see. Or what he sees when he looks at me. I realize that Sal is the only person I spend time with these days. I spend more time with Sal that I do with friends or my mother. But I can’t say this, or anything, and I take another sip of wine. He pushes his hair back and then leans forward on his elbows. As he does, I notice his small heart tattoo on his forearm. The heart is small and red and there is some kind of

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writing under it. Who inspired that, I wonder. Maybe it was his one true love, the woman he tried to join, the woman he managed to enjoy. Sal moves his arm, leans forward. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m here. No one else. You can see me. At least, you seem to be able to, talking and all to me. And you aren’t pretending I’m not here. But if you are, you are doing a hell of a job hiding it.” Smiling, I shrug and then sip my wine. Sal seemed to muse as well, and I thought of Danny, somewhere in the Congo. When he first left, I would think about flying to the Congo to find him, showing up in his apartment or tent or hut, pushing into his room and his bed. In this dream (and it was my fantasy, so it always worked out), he pulled me into his arms and vowed to never leave me again. He promised, my Danny boy, that he would stay by my side for the rest of time. But the weeks of his absence slipped into months and then years. My fantasy never played out, not even close. He never came home for a visit—at least not that I knew about. But for a few months, he wrote letters; then he moved on to postcards. Last year, I received a Christmas card, Danny telling me he’d married a Dutch woman, someone he’d met while building an elementary school. And just like that, he disappeared. I will never see him again. And I try really hard to pretend Danny doesn’t exist. Maybe the problem is that I’ve pretended that I don’t exist, too, pushing myself into the corners of my life, working in an upstairs’ office on the books, never meeting anyone new. Not until I went to Eric Wallace’s office, not until I met Sasha and Chad and Jennifer, the woman who looks like me. Not until I met Chester, who wanted to run

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away from me because I looked like Jennifer. But no more. I’m going to go in and sell my cakes and cookies, everything so sweet, so wonderful, so amazing— “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Sal is saying. I jerk forward, spill a little of my wine. “What?” “You got a cake in the oven. You got scones to make, you know?” Standing, I put my hands on my hips. “Okay. All right.” I hand Sal the scone recipe and the measuring spoons. “Get cracking, buddy.” “Yes, sir,” he says, his smile full of a joke he hasn’t cracked yet. “No problem.”

The good news is that I gave away my mother’s denim skirt to the free clothes box on Fell Street. The bad news is that after Jennifer Regan’s scathing fashion report on my recent purchases, I’m not sure what to wear to the office. I have nothing better to wear. I may as well show up naked for as much good as my clothes did me. It’s seven-thirty in the morning, and I’m standing in front of my mirror in my bra and underwear, both sadly in need of replacements. The snow globe for the morning is entitled She Never Thought Anyone Would Look Under Her Dress. Or Thank God No One Ever Did. In the kitchen, all my goods are packed up and ready to go, cookies and muffins and cake and scones in airtight tubs. My little checkered tablecloth and baskets are ready to look cute and charming on the cart. I’m replete with napkins and plastic forks and knives in case there are any careful people who actually cut their pastries. The office has coffee supplied all day long, so I don’t have to worry about cups or spoons. My cart is

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downstairs, and thank god Sal has offered to drive me to the office in his Cutlass. Like the lack of a freezer, my lack of a car is pretty clear, too. I, as they say, have issues. My phone rings, and I pick it up as I stare at my loose-strapped bra. “What are you wearing?” Dez asks. “You don’t want to know,” I say. “Still no new bra, huh?” “Don’t ask.” I poke at the shirts on my bed, spreading them around as if the “real” true shirt I’m supposed to wear will appear. “What I won’t ask about is your underwear.” “I don’t know what to wear,” I say, ignoring her prescience. “I look like an idiot.” “Black,” Dez says. “Black shirt, black pants. An apron. You do have one of those, right? A red one. A blue one. Nothing with a design.” An apron. Duh. “It will make you look professional. Like you just popped out of the kitchen, and I have to say you are one of the few people I know who actually looks good in one.” “I look good in a kitchen?” I ask. Dez sighs, the sound a poof in my ear. “An apron. And a kitchen. The good news for you is that you look good in both.” During my visit to New York before Dez’s wedding, I cooked for her and Nick one night, borrowing her crisp white apron, sadly realizing that it likely was newer than the dress I was wearing.

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“Okay,” I say, finding a long sleeved black t-shirt in the pile. I walk over to the closet and pull out my black jeans. “And flat shoes. Loafers. What do you have?” “No Birkenstocks, huh?” “God! They scream loose attitude toward hygiene. A Berkeley motif. Hairy armpits. No deodorant.” “Flats. Black flats,” I say, pulling out some ballerina type shoes with a bit more sole. “Perfect.” I can almost see Dez’s smile. “I wish,” I say. “If only.” “Get dressed,” Dez says. “Drink some coffee. Try to believe that it’s going to be all right.” How could anything ever be all right, I think. After knowing me for so long, how could Dez even suggest that? “Becca,” she says. “All right,” I say. I hang up the phone and look at myself one more time in the mirror. I don’t see who I want to see. I’m not the girl yet in the smart black outfit and the red apron, the one who smiles and hands out magnificent muffins. I wish I could look at the mirror and already see her there, successful after a hard day’s work. But nothing will ever happen unless I get dressed. Nothing will happen unless Sal gets me to the office building at ten, broken down, ramshakely Cutlass or no. I get dressed all in black. I don’t look at the mirror again.

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“The main problem with San Francisco is transportation,” Sal tells me as we travel slowly up Market Street. Sal may be slightly dangerous, sexy, dark, and tote around a secret weapon in the form of a chipped tooth, but he drives like a great-grandmother. Maybe the reason women don’t want to drive to the beach with him is because they know the trip might take what’s left of their dating years. But despite my nerves and desire to get there, Sal’s voice and the rumble of the Cutlass lull me like a swing. “Doll,” Sal says. “These problems are important. The main problem—“ “I thought the main problem was the homeless situation,” I say. “Or the pigeons.” “Transportation,” Sal says, ignoring me. “There aren’t enough damn cabs in this city. Trust me. On that I am clear. And the subway? Ha. BART isn’t like the subway in New York.” “Thank god,” I say. When Dez took me on the subway in Manhattan, I held my breath the entire time. At least BART looks cleaner, the trains newer, more modern. And it’s so expensive, the homeless take MUNI instead. “It doesn’t take us where we need to go. North Beach? Na. Golden Gate Park? No thanks. All the cabs are downtown. So then you rely on your buses. And we don’t even want to talk about that.” But Sal keeps talking about the buses, and I look out the window at the almost ten a.m. morning crowd on the street. Something feels wrong in my jaw, and the inside of my chest feels like fire. I alternately want to throw up or eat all the cookies in the tubs.

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Maybe I should just go home. Maybe I should go back to school. I’ve only missed a week, and it’s possible they didn’t get my letter placing my acceptance on hold. Aside from missing the chance to ding me on my last name, Professor Conklin likely didn’t even realize I’d been gone. Maybe I should just give it up and go live with my mother and watch soap operas. “And the cable cars? Maybe one line is of use. They are just for the tourists. Don’t even get me started on MUNI and the breakdown of services.” Sal pulls up in front of the building at the corner of Market and 2nd, which is right across from the BART station. Sal glares at the entrance, mutters something under his breath. The Cutlass grumbles. “Thanks, Sal,” I say as I open the passenger door. “I really appreciate the ride.” I step out and start pulling out my wares. Sal turns on his hazard lights and gets out of the car, opening the trunk and pulling out my cart. As he lifts, I realize I’m looking for his heart tattoo, but it’s covered up by his sleeve. “Make sure you find a place for this,” Sal says. “Some utility closet in there. Probably ruin some executive’s lunch time bang, but you can’t schlep it down here every day.” “I will,” I say. I load up the cart, carefully placing the baked goods in the shelf on the bottom. I hitch the bag up on my shoulder and turn back to Sal. “You’ve been a lifesaver,” I say, knowing that I mean it. I wouldn’t have gotten through to this very moment if Sal hadn’t helped me. I never expected help and he gave it, without asking for anything in return.

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“Look, Cookie Girl,” he says. “I was telling you the flat out truth when I said I’d jump the bar ship and join up with your cookie biz, once you go big time. So consider this time put in, okay?” Sal gives me the thumbs up and gets back into the Cutlass. He drives away, and I wave, wishing that he’d come back and offer to go in with me. Of course, that would be counterproductive to my need to sell things, what with his dangerous tooth and slicked back hair. Grabbing the cart’s handle, I push toward the front door, my card key dangling around my neck, my name in big black letters, the bar code right above it. This time, Chester would recognize me for who I am. Cookie Girl, of Becca’s Best.

“I am so like starving,” Sasha says. After checking in quickly with Eric, pushing my cart into the work room and organizing why wares suggestively (scones artfully tipping out of a wicker basket, cookies a tumble of taste in a bowl), I stop at Sasha’s desk for my first sale of the day. When I read through the lunch orders, I saw that Sasha always orders a fruit salad, so I suggest the cranberry scone or the blueberry muffin. She takes one of each. She turns quickly, glances at Chad and waves him over to the cart. I’ve never been one for church or devotional worship, but the word supplicant fills my mind as he approaches her. “Snap out of it,” I want to say, but instead I hand him a cranberry scone, his thanks almost a whisper.

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“Grow some balls,” I want to tell him, but I suppose that advice is advice I should take myself now and again, so I leave Chad alone. Sasha makes a slightly groaning moan, and I don’t look at Chad, knowing that he has likely swooned on his desk from the ecstasy of her noises. “Don’t even tell me about the calories,” Sasha says after she swallows the first bite. I mark down her and Chad’s purchases on my pad and then look up. “I’m telling you,” I say. “No calories at all.” Sasha bites into the scone, closes her eyes, chews. “Oh, my god. How can that be true?” She takes another bite. “That is so delicious.” “Sasha, you know I’m lying,” I say, looking down the hall toward Jennifer Regan’s office. From her lunch order history, I know Jennifer likes nuts. Pecans on her salad. Peanuts on her pad Thai. Honey Nuts are the answer to her issues. Sand tarts. Pecan Sandies. “You know there are calories in everything except water.” “I don’t like care,” Sasha says. Her eyes are closed, her mouth moving, chewing the scone. “This is like totally worth a few more squats at the gym.” I shake my head, rearrange my already perfectly arranged baked goods. Sasha has the annoying, perfect body of someone who won’t have to do squats until she’s 80. And that’s a good thing, because she’s now onto the blueberry muffin, the sweetness surrounding us as she eats. As I check the napkin supply one last time, I can’t see how Jennifer Regan wouldn’t just love my cookies. She may be mean, a harridan, a virago, a horrible, dark, smelly

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place with teeth. But she has to like cookies. I push the cart toward the hallway that leads to her office. “Don’t!” Sasha says. “Go this way.” She points down the hall opposite toward Eric’s office. “Go that way. Go any way but—but . . .” Her mouth is still full of muffin, but her bubble eyes are filled with fear. “But there.” If going to my marketing class taught me anything, it was that you had to have a strategy. If living with my mother taught me anything, it was that you had to have a plan. If working with Sal showed me one clear thing, it was that there was a theory for everything. “Huh?” Sasha says, as if she hears me thinking. “I’m going in,” I say. My heart pounds, my head throbs. I push my cart slowly away from Sasha’s desk toward the hallway. At the first open doorway, I stop, and a man with slightly messy graying hair looks up from his desk, black rimmed glasses rest on his nose. He seems distracted, slightly confused, but the collects himself, smoothes his hair down. “Food,” he says, standing up and walking toward me. His suit pants are so expensive, he seems to glide on silk, the wind whisking around him as he moves. His black leather shoes are well shined, look brand new, and don’t make a sound on the carpet. “Yes,” I say, almost all of my attention on the office two doors away. I imagine that if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll hear her thinking her angry thoughts. “My name is Becca, and this is your potential mid-morning snack.” I smile, look up, the man grins.

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“Snack, huh? You or the muffin?” Blinking, I realize that I’m either being flirted with or sexually harassed. “Definitely the muffins. Much fresher,” I say. Something is rustling somewhere, but I’m so distracted, I push the baskets of baked goods together, trying to sell by organization alone. “Brad,” the man says, picking up a napkin and a blueberry muffin. “I’m Brad. And you know what I really like, Becca?” “What?” I answer, hoping that his conversation will stay firmly rooted in baked goods. And even with that worry, the jungle drum beat of Jennifer Regan pounds in my head. “Muffins with substance. You know, as if it were really food.” Nodding, I know what he means. Now that I have a moment where my brain is working, I realize he’s the man who orders a pastrami sandwich almost every day. When he doesn’t order pastrami, it’s salami or corned beef. So he wants a muffin with backbone. Not like a dessert but like breakfast or lunch. My mother used to make a bacon and cheese muffin that was amazing, so I put it on my mental list, knowing I will have to stop at Whole Foods on the way home. “Okay,” I say. “I think I have the exact thing for you. It might be a day or two, but for now, you will love these.” I hand him the biggest, best, most lightly browned blueberry muffin on the stack, so fresh, the blueberries are still slightly warm. “Excellent,” Brad says. He turns back to his desk, and I notice that his shirt is untucked from his pants, a sort of balloon of cotton poking through his red suspenders. One shoe is untied.

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Brad bites into his muffin, looks down at his desk, and I start to push my cart away. “I’ll be back this afternoon with dessert,” I say, moving on down the hall, my breath in my throat. The door to the next office is closed. I think about knocking, but that would be rude. There is probably something very important going on in there—a deposition, a signing of a will, a divorce decree being delivered. And knocking would be just a way to keep me from my mission. I get closer and closer, farther and farther down the hall, and then my cart is dead center in a stream of the light pouring into the hallway from Jennifer’s open office door. And then my body is there, too. I stand in front of Jennifer’s office, my mouth open slightly, my palms sweaty. She’s there. She’s there. I’m going to see myself and have to fight her. I push my cart, my knuckles white, hold my breath as if under water, but—but she’s not there. No Jennifer at all. But the room isn’t empty. A man in a pale blue shirt the color of morning sky is sitting in a chair in front of her desk, and he slowly turns toward me, looking up from an open folder on his lap. As he looks at me, I feel a book opening up inside my chest, the first line of which would read, “She saw him, for the first time, in the office of the woman who hated everyone. He was beautiful. And she knew right then that she would never have him . . .” The man puts his reading material on the desk and stands up, all long, strong body in a beautiful suit, more beautiful than Brad’s. The silk as silent as sleep. As this man comes toward me, he doesn’t just glide, he floats, and if it makes any sense, his floating was strong.

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“Hi,” he says, his blue eyes the color of some ocean I will never be able to afford to go to. His hair is dark, straight, perfectly cut. I want to cup his smooth yet masculine jaw line in some kind of clichéd romance novel line. I want to say things that I never say like aquiline, masculine, haunting, thrummed, shaken to the core. There would have to be the line about shaking knees and quivering lips. It all would be true. I love that kind of man skin, the face just shaved, but just under the surface, the sudden beard. He would feel soft and smooth and hard. I don’t think I’ve really ever touched a man with a face like that (Danny was perpetually bearded and then my high school boyfriends were too fully pubescent for much facial hair) but I know what this man would feel like. My fingers itch, my heart flumes wide. I need a glass of wine. Breathing in to calm myself doesn’t help. He smells like the inside of an expensive men’s magazine with those little cologne samples. I have a feeling that he also smells like a perfect fine cotton shirt, freshly laundered, dried in the sun. He is solid, firm, there, and true. He is a pair of well worn Sperry topsiders. He’s the East Coast, old money, sail boat, blue blood, been here forever but looks like new kind of man. I want to push away my cart and pull him to me and sniff, like some kind of bombtrained dog. The good news is that I don’t do anything. Maybe I’m standing in front of him like a zombie, but at least I’m not molesting him. But it’s almost impossible not to. He’s the hope chest of men, the man my mother always wanted me to find, the man that was not my father. “Hi,” I say. “I—um. Food.”

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I point to my cart and the obvious examples of, well, food. “This looks wonderful,” he says. “Is this your business? Do you make it all yourself?” For a second as he speaks, he slows, cocks his head a little, stares. “Have you been here before? I mean working here?” he asks, moving a little bit closer to me, close enough so I smell his sea-spray skin. “You look really familiar.” I shake my head, knowing that bringing up a scary doppelganger story in my scary doppelganger’s office is not a good thing. Suddenly, despite this man’s beauty or because of it, I want to leave. I put my hands on the cart handle, ready to take off, ready to push to the next office, to offer up my wares to the man who orders up salad for lunch every day, a man who obviously needs a pumpkin wheat muffin. Then I hear it. Then it’s too late. Then it’s all about the clomp, clomp, clomp of her angry shoes, her walk an attack, a preemptive strike. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I can almost feel her irritated breath on my cheek. “Excuse me,” she says in a voice that excuses nothing, not for anyone, ever. I push forward, my eyes wide, and she barrels past, her hip whacking me as she moves into the office with her sharp angles, and crackling energy. “Look at this, Jennifer,” the man says, talking to her as if she weren’t sharp enough to razor all our appendages off with one move. “Amazing stuff. Have you ever seen food that looks this good?” I force my eyes to move, starting with her black pumps, her worked out calves, her tight grey suit skirt, her light blue blouse, unbuttoned one too many buttons to expose the tops of breasts that reside in a very expensive, brand new push up bra, and her grey

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jacket. Her pulse beats in her throat, and I move my gaze to her face. She’s—she’s not frowning or scowling or angry, except in her eyes, where there is a truth she wants to hide, a missile ready to fire when the time is right. But for this man, she’s not the woman who yelled at the temp or scared Sasha and Chad into the bathrooms or berated me for my fashion choices. In fact, she smiles at me despite the message in her eyes, moves toward my cart and says, “Ohh, those look so good. Let’s buy a couple, all right Jeff?” Jeff. The man’s name is Jeff, a solid sure name. He reaches out his hand (tended to but not professionally so fingernails, expensive gold watch, no wedding ring) and takes a napkin, picks up two scones. “These look the best of all,” he says. “Both of us will have to hit the gym tonight.” Jennifer folds her arms, the missiles in her eyes ready for lift off. I want to stare at her, to see if she really does look like me, but it’s all too much. Jeff is too beautiful and she’s too dangerous. If I only had sunglasses. “How much do we owe?” Jeff asks, reaching his free hand into a pocket. I pick up my notebook, find my voice where it’s been hiding in the back of my throat. Raising the notebook, I flap it as if that’s a universal sign for something. “I keep track every day and the office will bill weekly.” “That’s a great arrangement,” Jeff says. “Clearly, I’m working for the wrong firm.” Jennifer forces a big smile onto her face, but the missiles are still at defcom 5. “We are very lucky here,” she says. “And we would be even luckier to have you working for us instead of at Madison, Ivory, and Yang.” A look passes between them, that look that is general and specific, the kind of look that each couple creates, the connection possible when other people are in the room, the

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I-Know-You-and-what-you are-thinking look. It says, we are clearly hot for each other, want each other, but how and why is between us. Don’t even try to go there. You are not nor will you ever be invited. I clear my throat, and Jeff looks back at me. “Jenn, doesn’t she—“ Jeff starts. “I’m sorry. I forgot to ask. What is your name?” “Becca,” I say. “Rebecca. Rebecca Muchmore.” “Jeff,” he says. “Jeff Williams.” “Hi,” I mumble, moving my hand in some lame kind of wave. “Doesn’t Becca look familiar?” he asks. “Like someone we met once? Somewhere? Maybe a long time ago? I just can’t remember.” A wall goes up, Jennifer doesn’t see me now, can’t share his attention, needs to shut this whole discussion down. “Maybe,” she says. “Jeff, despite these delicious treats, we do need to get back to work.” She turns away from me, from Jeff, and walks around her desk to her chair. I can see that her blouse is slightly untucked, the one flaw in her whole person today—that and, of course, her personality. But she doesn’t try to hide anything, not bothering to smooth down, tuck in, or iron out her edges. As a parting, Jeff smiles again, his teeth white, little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, which are open and true and happy eyes. Kind eyes. Beautiful eyes. “Bye,” I say and move on. I can’t feel my feet, but I know they are working, the cart slowly rumbling down the hall. I don’t know what happened just now, but it was

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something important. I’m no closer to answering any of my questions about Jennifer, and I’m not sure that I see a resemblance between us, but there was Jeff. When I was little, I was in love with Ken, but he was taken, even when I hid Barbie in the toy box. Ken was even keeled, realistically proportioned (except for the missing part Dez and I conjectured about), and very nice to Barbie, when we let her out of the box. He looked good in topsiders and shorts and light blue shirts. He went to college and read books, but he was also really sexy, doing amazing things to Barbie, even though they were both missing the parts Dez and I learned about in fifth grade. “Ken respects Barbie,” Dez said. “But he’s cute.” And that’s what Jeff seemed to be. Ken with all the right parts. Oh, my god. I have to call Dez. I know that. I’m about to embark on yet another unrequited love story and I need an intervention. But first to pumpkin wheat man. What was his name? Neil. The healthy person. Then to the rest of the office. Maybe by then, I will have forgotten all of this.

On the corner of Stockton and Geary, I stand waiting for the pedestrian light to turn into a green walking man. As I wait, I catalogue things about my body that are unique. I start with scars—the one on my shin from my father’s BMW exhaust pipe, the knob of puckered flesh from the willow park sword John Nichols made for our epic battle in second grade-- and realize that scars are environmental, and unless two people have made strange pacts with each other and punctured themselves in exact spots above the ankle or hip bone or left eye or belong to some whacky tribe, no two people have the same scars.

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The light turns green, the annoying beep beeps, and I cross, wanting to sit on the wall just inside Union Square. The sun is warm, the air light and soft, and I need to think how I could prove that Jennifer Regan and I are the same. Identical. Or just how we look alike. For a second, I wonder why I even care. Why am I doing this? Have I started my own business to finally lose my mind over something that is completely ridiculous? I walk toward the wall, feeling the sun on my neck. I might be crazy to contemplate it, but it feels as though I have no choice. Maybe by figuring out who I am, well, I’d know finally. What a concept. So what do I have? I think as I sit down next to the homeless man and his five bags. What makes me me? “There’s lots of stuff,” the man says, and I jump. I look at him, but he’s talking to a pigeon and pushing at bread crumbs with one foot, which is shod in an old, torn loafer. Lots of stuff. But the truth is, I’m average. I don’t have a noticeable gait. One foot doesn’t turn out when I walk. I swing my arms normally. I have an in-y belly button. Normal sized head. Normal sized nose, not too big, not too small. No pokey out bones, no sexy shoulder blades, collar bones, cheek bones, fat equally distributed all over. “Come and get it,” the homeless man says, the pigeon bob-walking toward the bread crumbs. And as for Jennifer Regan, I haven’t really been able to look at her. This morning, it was all I could do to keep from running out of the office. She’s like a pulsar, a heat bomb, a potential nuclear explosion. If it hadn’t been for Jeff—

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“If you don’t get it now, there isn’t another chance,” the homeless man says. I turn to him, and now there are three pigeons at his feet. “What am I supposed to do? Try to win him over?” I ask. “Why would I think I could even get him?” The man ignores me. I sigh, swing my legs. If Jennifer and I are the same, look the same, then I should be able to have a boyfriend like Jeff—Jeff . . . whatever his last name is. I should be a high powered lawyer in one of the best firms in San Francisco. I should be able to say what I want, when I want, to whomever I want. I shouldn’t be wandering around in my mother’s cast off denim skirts, pushing carts through offices. I should have the desk with pictures of vacation spots on top, everything gleaming in dark wood frames. Or I should have my own business, my own company, a life I made for myself. How did I end up with this life? If this world contains an infinity of possible worlds, all options open at all times, how did I end up here in the denim skirt world? How come I got this universe and not the universe of successful lawyers? If these parallel universes are colliding at us, me, her, at this juncture, then maybe I can go home to hers. Like that old Star Trek episode I saw once, Captain Kirk going over to the dark side, the evil Starship enterprise and crew, Spock actually sexy for once. “You are a little crazy,” the man says loudly, the pigeons flapping away. He stands, staggers off, bread crumbs flying. “You said it,” I agree as he moves on, bags and all. My stomach growls. I start laughing. Here I am, sitting next to a man talking to pigeons, imaging parallel universes and twins separated at birth. The truth is, I need to deal with this universe. I need to go get some lunch and then go back to Winston and sell some more baked goods.

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And here’s the deal, I think, standing up myself. I am allowed to stare at Jennifer to look for similarities. I know they exist. Chester said so, and so did Jeff. Okay, there it is. But I can’t imagine because I look like someone else, I deserve her life or any part of her life. I don’t deserve a man like Jeff, a man I don’t know, who obviously loves Jennifer, who puts up with her for that core of goodness Jennifer must have deep inside. Her wounded, vulnerable self. How could she attract and keep a man that lovely without something besides her business success? So trying for something other than what I have before me is crazy, just as the man says. Flat out insane. The warming air holding me in summer arms, I walk toward the sidewalk and then down the street, headed for the Bohemian café on the corner of Post and Grant. I will calculate my morning sales, cataloging who bought what. I will project my evening baking. And I will live in this life, this baking life, this life of mine.

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September 9, 2008 Day Eight

Recipe: Grandmother’s Sugar Cookies

This is the recipe for your Christmas cookies, your Easter cookies, your any holiday cookies. You can eat these frozen, frosted or unfrosted. Frankly, it doesn’t matter if the frosting is burned by the cold. Eat them anyway. Even cold and hard, they melt on your tongue in a minute, the flakey dough pulled together with lots of butter spreading out on your tongue like an honored promise. Then you can frost them with a delicious concoction made of powdered sugar and milk, colored with the correct food coloring for the season: red, green, pink, yellow, orange. So these cookies will make you fat. Sorry to say it, but it’s true. But the weight will be worth it, every pound.

Like a magnet, Jennifer Regan’s office pulls me toward its open door. I ignore Brad, who sits at his desk and whose gray hair seems to even be standing more on end, and keep walking. One, two, three four, my steps push on, and there I am standing in front of her office, looking at her, actually looking at her. The good news is that she doesn’t see me yet, but she will, though I can’t think about that now. I start at the top of her body, staring at her hair. Yes, her hair is blonde, like mine. As it was the first day I met her, it’s pulled up, and I can tell she uses some amazing brand of

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shampoo because unlike mine, it’s shiny and smooth and looks healthy. Horse mane healthy, full and thick and glossy. It’s not the same as mine—or if it is, I would be like the twin who’d been sacrificed for the other twin, shoved in the closet and kept from the cholesterol rich food. I eat gristle; she gets the loin, the strip of crispy fat, the tender meat. Her face is heart shaped, wider forehead than chin, just like me. But someone has taught her to do makeup or else she’s spent the lunch hour a Neiman Marcus, a heavily foundationed and blushed counter person lavishing attention and hundreds of dollars on her. Smooth matte foundation, perfectly waxed eyebrows, artful lip color surrounding her full lips. She’s very pretty, much prettier than I am. Clearly, this is why Jeff is with her. Either that, or he has no idea what she’s really like or he’s on drugs, which doesn’t seem likely. “What the hell is it?” she asks, and I jump, having lost myself somewhere between her nose and collarbone. “Why are you back?” “I—I come twice a day. Morning and afternoon snack,” I say. “This isn’t fucking kindergarten,” Jennifer says, but she stands, and I focus this time, watching her body. As she walks toward me, coming around her desk as if she will attack, she approaches me at the same eye level. We are the same height, about the same weight, though it seems that she must do Pilates or yoga or run—her blouse slipping smoothly into her suit skirt. But, like me, she’s relatively average, as I noticed before. No strange gait, no odd swinging arm. No cowlick, cleft chin, over-large breasts, pot belly, huge ass, weird calves, big feet. Just normal.

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“What do you have?” Jennifer stares at the cart. Good question, I think. What do I have? Not much of anything to write home about. Jennifer, waits, blinking. “Snicker doodles, honey nuts, sand tarts,” I say quickly. “Coffee cake, scones, muffins from the morning.” “Honey nuts?” she asks. I pick up one of the bags of ten I’ve made, each tied with a little ribbon with my card attached: Becca’s Best. “These are good,” I say. “My mother made them when I was growing up.” She gives me a look. “How sweet. But nostalgia is overrated.” “Do you want some for your friend, um, for Jeff?” Jennifer gives me one of those looks that says, You are such a loser. Don’t you think I can see how you are fishing for information about my boyfriend? About the man who loves me and only me? And really, do you have one tiny true thought that he’d even want to know you? I wish I could disappear. But I can’t. I weigh too much, especially after baking for a week. “Jeff very rarely eats sweets. He treats himself with impeccable care,” she says. “And if he bought anything from you this morning, it was likely out of pity. Charity, more or less.” “So,” I begin, wanting to ask her why she would buy anything containing sugar, but I don’t. “Okay, then.”

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She holds out her hand, and I place the bag of cookies on it. Her fingers, like mine, are short, but her nails are perfect, filed and polished in that French manicured way that I always thought was bizarre, that even white strip at the top. Why not just paint racing stripes down your nail instead? It would look as real. “Goodbye,” she says, heading back to her desk. I breathe in. I want to ask her questions about where she grew up and how she got this far. I want to know where she went to school, what her major was, how well she scored on the GRE, LSAT, or whatever test she took to get into grad school. I want to know all about Jeff, basics like what his last name is and where I might run into him outside of this office. “Goodbye,” she says, without looking at me again, and I walk on, wondering how I can get to know her without getting my head chopped off. “Hey there,” a voice says, and I turn around. I assume that I’ve missed an office door or something, but it’s Brad. And he’s not talking to me. In fact, he’s standing at Jennifer’s office door, one hand resting on the frame. His wild gray hair has been slicked back down, but something is pulling it up again, slowly, as if each hair is filled with helium. There’s something in his smile, something odd and slightly creepy about his “Hey, there,” but then two Crystal Springs water delivery men come roaring down the hall toward me, wearing their blue shorts and short-sleeved button down shirts, and I push past them, turn the corner, and pop into another office, ready to sell what I have. I roll on, passing out treats as I do, my head whirring with nothing that I can grasp onto. Before I know it, I’m in front of Sasha’s desk. She turns to me, and her mouth is

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full of sand tart. So far today, she’s eaten a cranberry scone, a blueberry muffin, a bag of honey nuts, two sand tarts, and a piece of coffee cake. Who knows what she had for lunch? I look down at her skinny pant-clad legs and wonder how it’s possible that she manages to weigh about 98 pounds. I also don’t understand how some people can look all right talking with their mouths full, but here is one of them, Sasha. In fact, I’m not sure how I can tolerate her at all with her long limbs, ability to spew flour and butter and still be cute, and her black lacquer hair. Maybe it’s her bubble eyes that make her relatable. “I don’t know how you do it,” I say. “You can’t possibly eat all this without having to diet for a month afterward. You can do as many squats as you want, but it won’t guard against this.” I hold up a bag of honey nuts. “My mom,” she mumbles, swallowing. “She’s like this too. We can like eat everything. Until we’re about like 60 and then we blow up like puff pastry. You should totally see my grandmother. She’s like ginormous.” “Then I am working in the right place,” I say. “Not that I want to turn you into puff pastry.” I glance at Chad, whose look seems to suggest he wouldn’t mind if Sasha were puff pastry or even a pumpkin. “Um—“ he starts to say, but then Sasha stands up, looking down at my cart. “I’ve got, like, 39 more years to eat,” Sasha says. “God, it’s almost all gone.” “I’ll be back tomorrow.” I start to roll away, pushing the cart back to the workroom. “New stash.”

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“She didn’t like scare you away?” Sasha asks quietly, grabbing the bag of honey nuts. Looking back down the hall, I shrug. “She has some anger management issues.” Sasha rolls her bubble eyes. “Duh,” she snorts. “She needs to go on one of those shows. You know, where they bring in her family and tell her to chill. And if she doesn’t, it’s like an intervention.” “I can’t see that happening,” I say. “She doesn’t let anyone tell her what to do.” “But you’d think she’d at least be nicer to you.” I stop. “Why?” Sasha sits back down and starts opening the honey nuts. “You could be related. I mean, you like totally look like each other.” “You think so, too?” “Ye-ah,” Sasha says, nodding and popping two cookies in her mouth. “It’s like the complete separated at birth thing. Like those pictures people put up on the internet. Here.” She bends down and rummages through something, sitting up quickly and whack! Comes the flash of her cell phone camera. I blink against the photo assault. “What are you going to do with that?” I ask. “Take her picture? Put us on the internet?” She laughs, shrugs. “I’ll have to like totally sneak up on her, but, well, maybe not. But it would be fun to show you how like it’s so true.” “I don’t really see it,” I say, thinking about Jennifer’s glossed, smooth self. “Not really. She’s too, well, shiny.” “Look, like, real close,” Sasha says. “You’ll see it.”

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Then the phone rings, and Sasha has to swallow fast and try to speak as she answers. I give her a quick wave, sort wink at Chad, and push the cart away, thinking as I walk. Of all the places in the entire universe, I end up here with my doppelganger. Of course, I could say that the entire situation is causal, a series of predictable events leading to an obvious conclusion. I met Dez and she married Nick who went to school with Eric, fraternity brothers of the worst sort. Eric works in this particular office and was hired for certain reasons along with Jennifer, who was hired, too. But why would the person who looks most like me in the whole world be here and not in the office downstairs or across the street or in Seattle or something? All my life, I’ve tried not to think about the “why” of things. That game goes on too long. It’s about as bad as the “what if” game, and maybe just as pathetic. The questions just depress me, and I don’t want to wonder why my mother doesn’t support me or what I would be like if my father hadn’t left us. It’s no use playing the “what if Dez hadn’t moved” game. I don’t want to consider how much happier I’d be at this moment if Danny had taken me to the Congo with him, his perfect helpmate in altruism and life. It’s bad enough knowing the first parts of those scenarios: that my mother doesn’t support me and Danny left me here. So even if the now is bad, I try to stay here. Or maybe it’s that I don’t walk through the gates of either those questions. Maybe the answers would be too much for me. I flick on the workroom light and push my cart into the corner. I make notations in my pad about Sasha’s last snack, pack up the few remaining baked goods into a paper bag, fold the linens, and stack the baskets neatly on the cart. I turn out the light and close the door, staring into the office in front of me.

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The universe has put me here. Here I am. Cookie Girl, to the rescue.

As I walk through the lobby, I look toward Chester’s desk. He gives me a nod and a smile, but I keep going. I don’t want to talk about Jennifer Regan any more. Whirling through the revolving door, I breathe in afternoon commute air, a whiff of MUNI diesel hanging over the street. I look around the plaza in front of the building, and spot a group of homeless people around a garbage can. I’ve never done something like this. This is something Danny would have suggested, talking about the inability to share resources, the profligacy of waste, and a culture of greed. “We need to give back,” he’d say. “We need to not use so much in the first place.” Then he’d turn on the television and eat his way through a box of crackers. Walking toward the group, I try to find the right smile. I don’t want the “I’m here to do good” smile or the “Sight of you makes me want to run away smile” or the “What in the hell happened to your pants?” smile. What I’m aiming for is the “I’m benign and have tasty food” smile. Moving my mouth slightly, lips steady, eyes clear, I march up and gently say, “I have some leftover baked goods that I thought you might like.” They all turn to me, and one guy nods. For a humiliating second, I think I’m waiting for thanks, but then I put down the bag and walk toward the bus stop, forcing myself to not turn back. I don’t, and I get on the bus, head for home.

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“You are obsessing over this woman,” Dez says. “This is ridiculous.” “Maybe,” I say. I cradle my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder as I stir the dry ingredients for chocolate crackle cookies with the eggs. “She’s a monster. At least, that’s what I hear.” I look up, stop stirring. “What do you mean she’s a monster? What do you know?” “After you went on and on about her, I had Nick call Eric.” “Dez!” I say. “Why? God, now I look like a total idiot.” “Excuse me, but don’t you think I know what I’m doing? Didn’t I teach you how to learn things about our lovely classmates in 9th grade? You get other people to talk. And trust me, I’ve taught Nick.” I’m irritated enough to hang up the phone, but she’s right. She got Nona Craig to admit she was the one who told Liz Bertram that the poor girl was gong to be nominated as the Homecoming princess—even when there was no way Liz was ever going to get close to the stage. After that, Nona didn’t speak to anyone for a week. So okay, Dez has a superpower. And I realize that I want to hear everything she learned. “I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned,” she says. “Sit back and soak it in.” “I’ve got cookie dough here,” I say. I put the spatula in the sink and start rolling little balls of chocolate goodness between my palms. “But talk on.” There is a pause, and for the first time during this phone call, I realize that no sounds of babies or husband or Manhattan apartment life push through the connection. “Where is everyone?” I ask. “I don’t hear a sound in your apartment.” “Asleep, for once. All of them. Nick fell asleep on the rug next to their cribs. I’ll go pull him out of there after this. So listen.”

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I roll on and wait for her to start. “She’s an amazing lawyer, smart in court, savvy with the judges. She brings in tons of money. But everyone hates her, except for maybe one dufus and her boyfriend.” Dufus, I wonder. Brad? Did messy hair make one a dufus? “So what about her boyfriend,” I repeat. “Apparently, he’s a really nice guy. Really. The kind no one dislikes. And he’s not only nice, he’s the kind of guy you want to hang around with. Eric doesn’t understand how she found him. How she keeps him. She hates everyone else. She’s apparently gone through about a million assistants since she’s started. Even the temp agencies won’t send her over any more people.” I drop the cookie door on the sheets, look to see the oven has reached the right temp, and put the first batch in. “You wouldn’t believe how wonderful he is,” I say, thinking about Jeff, his eyes, his smile, the way he looked at me and listened to what I had to say. “Becca,” Dez says. “How can you know he’s that great from what? One or two meetings?” “One. But I just do. He is great. But it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t want to know me even if there was no Jennifer.” Charity was the word Jennifer had used. Pity, too. “Becca,” she says, that fatigued and slightly irritated sound in her voice. “What?” I sit on the kitchen chair and look at my cupboards, all the doors open. “Why don’t you know that you deserve a Jeff? You deserve your own Jeff. And you can find one. Him.”

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Standing, I open my mouth to say something. But there isn’t an answer. I don’t believe her and I can’t argue with her. I don’t know that I deserve anything, but I know what I would like, if I could have it. If I was allowed. “It’s about you doing this work. It’s good! Eric says so. He told Nick that everyone loved your stuff. So do that. Worry about psycho lawyer chick and her boyfriend-cuteas-hell some other time.” “Are you ever coming out here?” I ask. “Am I ever going to see you again?” As I ask the question, I realize how hard it’s been here without her. Ever since ninth grade, I’ve been at this by myself except for periodic Dez breaks. Somehow, I don’t think I’m cut out for this alone thing. Sure she has a husband and two babies that need her, but what about me? I hear Dez sigh, and for a second, there we are again, sitting together and watching the kickball game, our knees touching. “Do your job. Love it. And then find that boyfriend, and I’ll be there that same day.” “Promise? “Promise,” she says.

“So I have a theory,” Sal says as we barrel down Fell Street, the Cutlass’ engine roaring. “It’s about life.” “Another theory about life?” I ask. “Doll, they just roll out of me,” he says.

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I turn to look at him, realizing that there is something different about him this morning. First of all, I didn’t even ask him for a ride and he was outside my door when I opened it to leave, and secondly, he looks—he looks like he’s dressed for show. A black shirt with red shiny stripes going through it, black jeans, cowboy boots. He even smells different, not as green, more like rich amber hues. More tangy and spicy. He’s shaved and combed, and I think to ask him what’s going on, but he interrupts me. “It’s this. If you don’t see what you expect, look elsewhere.” I blink. “What do you mean?” “It’s like this,” Sal goes on, his tooth sparkling. “You think that something’s gonna work, but it doesn’t. The part that’s gonna work’s still out there. It just wasn’t there in the plan you had. You have to, you know, look elsewhere.” A car blasts by, the driver flipping off Sal, but Sal keeps driving a solid 25 miles an hour. Grandma Souza, I want to call him. “Go on,” I say. “Like you want money or love or whatever. And you think it’s all gonna come together. But it might happen in school or something. If you imagine it, it’s there, somehow.” Sal raps his hand on the steering wheel, drives on. Cars pass us as though they are at La Mans and we are the only ones stuck in commute traffic. Who knew he was such a deep thinker? What else don’t I know about him? “So what is it you are looking for?” I ask him. “Where else have you been looking?”

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Sal shrugs, flicks on a turn signal and turns onto Market. He turns to me for a second, his face softer, less full of a joke. But then the good driver in him turns back to the road, his hands at ten and two. “Hard to say.” It is hard to say. If I said I was looking for a man, then I would change my mind, realizing that I’m also looking for some kind of success I can hold onto. Maybe with Becca’s Best or maybe—maybe by having my own bakery. Or going back to school. I really had no clue. Maybe I’d just like to get along with my mother. Or forgive my father. Or just be able to go out and buy an outfit that looks good on me. How is it that some people—like Jennifer Regan, for one—can buy clothes and look good in them? Life is so mysterious. We drive in silence for a while, my mind full of the mystery and then nothing but the feel of the road, the solidity of the big, slow car. And then Sal pulls up to the office building at and then he doesn’t stop, sort of slowly edging down the curb, irritating the people walking the edge and those waiting for the bus. “Sal?” “I was thinking, doll. I could help carry those things up for you. You know, save you some pain and agony. And I will finally show you what a quick study I am. I am so all about baked goods.” I shake my head. “It’s hard to get upstairs. It’s not like you can just get into the elevator. I mean, you’ll have to sign something. Fill out a form. Give away the rights to your first born child”

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“That’s okay by me,” Sal says. “I am not a marked man. I have no record. Currently, I have no woman to give me that first born child, at least any child I know about.” He winks. He looks out at the traffic, into his rearview mirror, and then at me. “But I do have a parking place we can go to. Right around the corner on first. My friend Mack is the head attendant there.” Looking in the back seat, I realize that having Sal help me with my four bags of food wouldn’t be bad. Somehow, of all the people I know, Sal is, truly, the most supportive. “Where did you come from?” I ask him as we pull away from the curb and make a quick right toward the parking garage. “Queens,” Sal says. “Where else?” Sal smiles, and we wait for a man to come out of the little shack with a parking ticket. I sit back, breathe, think of biscuits, scones, savory bacon and cheese biscuits.

“All shit has hit the fan,” Sasha says, meeting me at the elevator. She’s clutching a key chain, and I wonder if she has a secret hiding spot other than the bathroom. Chad stands behind her, looking serious, but not scared. “I told Chester to call me when you got here. He said you had help.” Sasha looks at Sal, and I see her taking him in, his black shirt, his boots, his almost lacquered hair. He notices her gaze, and he smiles at her, his chipped tooth barely visible.

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“What is going on?” I ask as we walk out of the elevator, the metal sliding closed behind us. Sasha doesn’t really move but step back, still looking at Sal. “How you doing?” he asks. “I’m Sal Souza.” Sasha tries to smile at him but looks over her shoulder instead. “Everyone is freaking out. I think Jennifer is going to kill the Xerox guy. Oh, and, like, no messenger service will send anyone up here because of her.” Sal sort of waves at Chad, but he’s staring at Sasha, with the devotion of a guide dog. I think the guy needs an intervention of some kind. He’s a “Sasha-holic,” and needs to take the first step. “Sal, Chad,” I say, and I start walking toward the work room, Sasha, Sal, and Chad following me. “So what is the problem exactly?” “You know Jeff,” Sasha says, her beautiful bubble eyes sort of glazing over for a second. She snaps out of it, and goes on. “He and his partners and Jennifer and about half this office are working on a huge case for Romblem Fizer Carey.” I stop walking. “Even I have heard of that company. They do a lot of work for the government or something.” “Probably all the President’s friends,” Sal says. “I have a theory—“ I give him a look and he stops. “But I still don’t understand,” I say. Sasha sighs. “There’s some big deposition today with this case. Judges, meetings. I don’t like know what they are doing. Some big corporate type trial. Lots of money involved. But they need this big, like, package all copied. And the Xeroxes broke and the deposition can’t be copied and brought back here because last time a messenger

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came, Jennifer did something to him. He wouldn’t say what, but it, like, involved violence. Word like got around.” She looks at both Sal and me and nods. “Yeah, like, a slap or something.” Rubbing her forehead with a hand, Sasha goes on. “No one who isn’t working on the case wants to help her or like lose their parking space. So everyone is running around here, and I thought maybe you’d want to hide out. I’m about to go to the bathroom and stay there. Who, like, cares about the phones?” “I’ll answer them for you,” Chad says, and Sasha actually turns to look at him. But then that moment of attention is over and she back to wringing her hands, the key chain clicking. Pausing to listen for some outburst coming from the other end of the office, I wait. But there’s nothing, and I shrug. I look at everyone around me. Sasha is staring at Sal, Chad is staring at Sasha, Sal is looking at me, waiting. I’m glad he’s here, especially today, a day when Jennifer might actually lose it again and my whole, small, wonderful, sad career could go up in smashed cookies and flour. I will end up back in the rows, staring at Professor Conklin’s Dockers, wishing I’d never been born. Because I have, and she’s a violent, raging bitch who ruins careers. “Maybe I should just go home,” I say. “Doll,” Sal says, and I breathe in and look up. I swear he’s grown about an inch in height, his shoulders held back, his chest pressed forward. He’s standing taller, one hand on his hip, the other pushing back his hair, which is, of course, permanently pushed back with gel. Sasha stops talking and looks at him, me, and them him again. Sal clears his throat.

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“I bet I could help,” he says. “I’ve got a car and a completely permanent parking space. I could get this thing copied and be back here in no time.” Sasha looks at me and then back at Sal. “Oh my god. Maybe you could calm them all down. But you’d have to like do it fast.” There is a pause, a space made in the air between us, something crackling and magic floating around. I’m sure you’ve seen this before, the way someone who is attracted to someone else start sending out an aura. I’m no psychic, but I swear as I look at Sasha, this sort of rainbow pulse seems to hover over, threatening to end at the pot of gold named Sal. But the pot doesn’t seem to notice, and I wonder what is wrong with him. He needs to smile, wink, say something funny about the world. But Sal is looking at me, his eyes wide open and waiting. But Chad sees the rainbow, and he steps forward, almost pushing Sasha out of the way as he does. “I’ll go with you. I know the place.” “Excellent,” Sal says. “Take me to your leader.” Sal pats me on the arm, and then he and Chad are both headed down the hall, fast, Chad almost running to keep up with Sal. “Oh. My. God,” Sasha says. She’s still clutching her keys. “Where did he come from?” “My building,” I say. I open the workroom door, and as I do, Sasha moves inside with me. “He’s—he’s amazing,” she says, and when I hear the words, I realize that she’s right. Who else would stir up sand tarts and go get things Xeroxed? Drive me around like a taxi service? Listen to my perpetual whining? “He is,” I say, He’s—“

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I’m about to go on, but Sasha holds up a hand. “What?” I ask. She shakes her hand, waits, listening to nothing the same way someone would listen to the ocean in a shell to the ear. After a moment, she nods. “It’s quiet. I think Sal must have worked some kind of magic.” “that’s what he does.” I pull my cart out and begin to organize the cutlery and napkins. And when I look up, Sasha is running down the hall, her keys clicking. The phones are ringing, and there’s some loud talk from an office or two , but it’s busy not hysterical. The day will be manageable, I think. I’ll steer clear of potential Jennifer madness. I’ll stay on this side, offering up today’s upside down cranberry cake, gingerbread, pecan scones, and fresh whole wheat bread slices with pats of butter. As I organize the baked goods, a little pinprick of sadness opens up in my heart. I can’t really describe the feeling but to say I had a Chad moment. I have always been Chad, the one who looks on and is left behind. But not even Chad could stay Chad. He jumped in, tried to salvage the moment. I’m not even as Chad as Chad. I don’t put myself forward, save Jeff’s day, redeem an other wise bad love moment. It won’t be long before Sal falls for Sasha and her big eyes and amazing body. She’s nice and kind, and just what Sal needs. He’s what she needs, too, a knight in a Cutlass Supreme. Yes, I’ve read all the magazines telling me that women don’t need a knight on a white charger, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a little ride, a little gallop, a little chivalry, and then a little love. How lovely to be held, buoyed for just a little while.

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Even Jennifer Regan gets that, Jeff here at the office helping her. Dez has it, Nick calling Eric for her just because she asked. “Poor, poor you,” I can hear my mother say. “Now get on with it.” Get your ass in gear, the Dez in my head says. “Fine,” I say to the empty room and I push my cart out into the hallway and close the workroom door behind me.

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September 10 Day Eight

Recipe: Cranberry Upside Down-Cake

I don’t know who told you life starts out in order. Yeah, you think you are going to live your life from the beginning to the end in some kind of perfect line. Wake up! It’s not always like that. Shit happens. Just like with this cake. You start with the top, melting butter and brown sugar into a rich syrupy liquid in a cast iron pan. Then you add a layer of cranberries, letting the heat slowly soften them. But that’s not the bottom of the cake. You hide that amazing fruit goodness under a delicious yellow cake you pour over. Then you bake and cool and later flip out onto a plate. It takes a while for you too see the top again, glistening and brown and delicious. For some time, you think it’s gone. But there it is, finally, what you’ve always been waiting for.

The good news is that Sal has saved the day. While I was working the other side of the office (selling out of just about everything), Sal and Chad made it to FastCopy and back with the huge packets of copied whatever it was. As soon as they returned, Jeff’s team and Jennifer’s team rushed to court, leaving the office hanging and then settling into a moment of peace.

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Now Sal, Sasha, and Chad are sitting around the front desk eating slices of the cranberry upside down cake. Sasha is being her most vibrant Sasha self, and it is working wonders—on Chad. I can see him almost bursting with joy, being given this amazing show of laughter, teeth, conversation, and personality. Sal is having a good time, too, but when I walk past, he turns to look at me and nod. Sasha hasn’t caught on yet. All it will take is time. And when it does, we will really have to do a Chad intervention. “Do you need some help, doll?” Sal asks, putting down his fork. “No,” I say. “Finish your reward. Let me see what I can salvage of the day.” Rolling by the desk, I give them all a little wave, and move down the hallway toward Brad’s office, ready to sell him a bacon-cheddar muffin. I’ve made a half batch, hoping that Brad will be hungry for carcinogenic meat before lunch. I see that he’s there, standing by the window, and I knock on his open door. But Brad doesn’t turn around right away, something very slow and sad and immobile about him. The sadness in the room almost has a smell, heavy and gray and dank. With a sigh, though, he turns, and his face is so altered, I’m not sure what to do, convinced that I should just turn and walk away as if I never saw him. Everything about him looks heavy—his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth—as if sadness wants to pull him to the floor face first. It’s hard to look at such pain. No dufus ever looked like that. I swallow, pretend I can’t see what he’s showing me. What else can I do? “Hi, Brad,” I say, glancing down at my cart. “I have a muffin I think you might like. I made them especially for you.”

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“Sounds good,” he says, his voice robotic, automatic. Brad walks to his desk and sits down. I pick up a napkin and then the muffin, bringing them both to him. Brad tries to smile. I can feel how much it hurts to try to be happy. “There’s bacon in these,” I say. “Cheese, too.” “Sounds good,” he says. “So,” I say. “Lots of commotion around here today.” Brad shrugs, picks up the muffin. I wait for some response, but he is staring at the muffin and then he takes a bite. Bits of cornmeal drop onto his desk, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He nods. “Good muffin.” The light in his eyes is shut off, his face too sad to smile. I could do a circus act and he wouldn’t smile. I could do the dance of the seven veils and he wouldn’t even blink. But making Brad happy isn’t a job I have any qualifications for. “Have a good morning,” I say, rolling my cart past his door and into the darkness between offices. The hallway is dead quiet, and from here, it’s clear that most of the lawyers and their assistants have left for the big shindig down at the courthouse. There’s isn’t any real reason for me to keep heading down the hall (unless, of course, I hope to see the water delivery guys in their shorts again), but for some reason I keep going. At the end of the corridor, I angle to make the left turn and then stop. Someone is in the end office, staring—like Brad—out onto the San Francisco morning. Backing up a little bit, I lift my hand to knock on the door, but then the person moves into my view and I see that it’s Jennifer Regan.

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Automatically, my stomach muscles clench in surprise. She’s not supposed to be here still, she and her team the SWAT answer to the huge problem in court. I stop breathing and wonder how I can get out of this one. But what am I trying to get out of? What have I done but my job, the one I am qualified for. I am here to sell baked goods and this is exactly where I am supposed to be. “Do you want anything?” I ask, feeling the ever so slight quiver of my lips as I speak. “I have some nice stuff this morning.” Unconsciously, I put up my force field, knowing that some sling or arrow is coming my way. But she doesn’t say anything for a moment, the same strange sadness on her face as there was on Brad’s. The she sighs. “No.” “Okay,” I say. But I don’t move. “My friend Sal helped you all out this morning.” Jennifer turns back to me, her brown eyes level. For a second, I freeze, seeing . . . seeing myself in the mirror, the way I look in the morning when I realize that I actually have to go about my day. She is determined, clear, focused, and . . . angry. “Thank you for that,” she says flatly. “I’ve got to go.” I don’t know whose office this is, or why she isn’t down at the courthouse with everyone else, including Jeff. She picks up a packet of papers from the desk and then starts to walk by me. She stops, looks at me, and as she does, I see that more than anything, Jennifer Regan is tired. With an energy she has to pull from probably her feet, Jennifer breathes in and finds her bitchy self. “Tell that Sal friend of yours that he could use a more professional look

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if he’s going to be working with you,” Jennifer says. “This isn’t some tacky disco whorehouse for god’s sake.” She wrinkles her nose, pushes past me, and then clomps down the hall, almost running, it seems, toward the elevator. I find my breath. Blink. Life is so mysterious. I roll on.

As I wait outside for Sal to come out of the building, I pull out my cell phone and check for messages. After Danny left, I used to play a game with the phone called “Surprise Message.” I never won the game because when I pulled out my phone and saw the message alert, the message was never from Danny. I used to play a game like that when I was little, back before we even had cell phones. When the phone rang, I always imagined that it would be my father. In the second before my mother would start talking to whoever it really was, I’d imagine her saying, “You’re coming home? Today? Oh, I’m so happy!” I never won that game, either. And now, the message on my cell phone is from my mother, and as I listen to it, I wonder if some deadly flattening agent has been loosed upon the world. She sounds the way Brad and Jennifer looked—cold, clear, automatic. “Your father wants to see you,” is what she says, static crackling behind her words. “Call him. He’s in town.”

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That’s it. No more drama for the day. I’m going to play the “I didn’t get it” game with the cell phone message. I put the phone back in my bag, and look toward the office building just as Sal pushes through the revolving door, the glass and chrome gleaming as it circles. The red threads in his shirt sparkle in the afternoon sun, his black boots shine. Sal could use a sound track, something tacky and disco, just like Jennifer said, but it would work for him. As he walks toward me, the theme song to Shaft in my mind, I can tell that he has had a great day working at Winston. I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that I have a permanent partner in crime, a baked goods buddy par excellence. He is carrying the last of the baked goods, the afternoon shift a relative mistake due to the emptying gout of the office, though I did manage to sell all the chocolate crackle cookies. So far it looks like I will break even this week, and maybe even make a profit. With hope, there won’t be a general afternoon clearing out of the office on a regular basis. “My theory of life—“ Sal says as he approaches me. “Has changed,” I say. “No.” Sal smiles. “There’s just more to it now.” “All right,” I say. “Lay it on me. He puts a hand on his hip. “Okay, doll. Here it is: People want what they want, but wishing isn’t needing.” For a moment, I take in this new theory. My mind works the people in the office around, placing who needs whom and who wishes for whom in strategic order. Wanting, wishing, needing. Basically the human condition.

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“Tell me more on the way home,” I say, knowing that no thinker or writer ever had figured out that trinity. “Why don’t you get the car and I’ll wait here.” “I may have to schmooze a little with Mack,” Sal says, and I nod. “If we can park there all day, then you schmooze as much as you have to.” Sal smiles and turns, his walk as jaunty as I have ever seen it, his arms swinging. He is lighter, freer. Sal is happy. He found something he needed, wanted, or wished for, and there is a strange prickly feeling in my chest when I wonder if it’s Sasha. When he turns the corner, I stand up and walk over to the same area where the homeless people were congregated yesterday. They are there again, though I feel ashamed that I don’t know if they are the exact same people. Yesterday, I was nervous about the proffered gift. Today, for some reason, I’m not. Maybe it’s because I’ve stared down Jennifer Regan. Maybe that I realize that people like my food, want my food, and free good food is good. “Hi,” I say. “Sugar cookie, my girl,” a man says. “What’s happening?” “More of the same.” I put down the bag next to him. “Muffins, too.” The man nods, and I look at him, seeing nothing but dark eyes, dark skin—either from dirt or weather or genetics. Hard to know, and I can’t yet bear to look more closely. I look around the circle of men, my eye contact about as meaningful and long as glancing at other drivers I pass by on the freeway. I find a smile, and then I turn and walk away, locating my breath again after realizing that I must have stopped breathing at some point. Air, I think. I need air—

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“That was really nice,” a voice says, and I jump. Literally. Feet off the sidewalk. My mother used to complain to me when I freaked out like this, saying, “You know, I live here, too. Who else is going to be in the living room?” Once a high school friend bought me a blow-up Bozo the clown that I left in the living room after the birthday festivities were over, and for three days I jumped each time I walked into the room, certain I was facing down an intruder. Finally, my mother popped him with an ice pick. “Sorry!” I squeak out. I look up and it’s Jeff. He reaches out for my arm, steadies me. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Jeff’s face is reassuring, and I want to stop the action right here. Now. I want to stare at what a smile can do to a face, what a real smile can mean. Eyes, mouth lit up, bright and true. And god, so sexy. I’m not sure what sexy really means, but I think it’s how you feel when looking at someone. The sexiness of someone else comes into you, and you know it in your bones and blood. You want to move into that person, merge, segue, into the place where there is no in-between between you. Sexy. Looking at him now, I can see Jeff tying up a sailboat, his arms strong and tan, his hair tousled in the wind. I close my eyes, breathe in salt and sun. “You are okay, right?” he asks. “I’m just jumpy.” “Trust me, it’s been a jumpy day,” he says. “If I hear a judge rap a gavel one more time I might pass out.” “Did things go all right?” I ask.

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Jeff shrugs, and we walk slowly toward the revolving door. There is a space of time and air, and I think he doesn’t want to talk about work or the day or the case. He stops walking. “Do you always give out food to the homeless?” “Yes,” I say, realizing it sounds as though I’ve been on a one-woman crusade against hunger, the Mother Theresa of Downtown. I don’t want to give him the impression I’m better than. “I mean, I just started doing this . . . food thing. And day-old is too old, at least in the office.” Jeff looks toward the door and then down the street again, and I wonder if he’s looking for Jennifer. Maybe she never made it down to the courthouse. Maybe I should tell him about finding her in the office, about the way she looked at me, but I don’t know him or her well enough to say anything. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s nice. And your scones are amazing. I’m sure your second audience will love them as much as we do.” For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to hear him say something like, “Your eyes are amazing” or “Your legs are amazing” or “You are so truly beautiful and wonderful, I can’t get enough. Your eyes, your smile, your breasts”— “ . . . so I hope you work in this office a while. From what we heard today, I have a terrible feeling that this case will go on for months. I’ll be running into your scones for a long time.” “Maybe,” I say, the words flinging out of my mouth like bee bees. “Maybe I could set up a service in your office. With your firm.”

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Even as I ask, I feel like an idiot. My motives must be obvious. I have no art, no guile, no charm. I am a desperate woman wanting to see this man as much as I can—I want to steal him from an angry woman, who just happens to look like me. “Maybe I could come over after your lunch and before I come back to Madison for my second shift.” I’ve said all this without being able to hold back. I’m insane, I’m on fire. Someone should kick me in the ass, and I realize that I need to call Dez for said kicking the moment I get home. But Jeff seems to not notice my plot, nodding as he says, “That would be great. I could run it by the office manager, Dahlia. I know I wouldn’t be the only one happy for some sweet sustenance daily.” Again, that smile, that open ocean eye gaze, that ski slope white smile, that face that seems to be only true. Then he cocks his head at me, the way he did back in Jennifer’s office the first day I saw him. “I swear, you remind me of someone. It’s—it’s uncanny. I keep having this feeling that I’m talking to someone I know. As though you know things about me I haven’t told you. I even asked Jennifer about it.” “It’s the mold theory,” I say, quickly, fearing the conversation we might have about Jennifer, twins separated at birth, doppelgangers, parallel universes, insanity. “What?” “The mold theory. My friend Sal told me,” I say, just as Sal pulls up to the curb, his Cutlass burbling with gas and power. “Mold. You aren’t talking the green stuff that grows on cheese, I take it,” Jeff says.

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“No, it’s that there were only 27 molds of people made. Doesn’t matter the race or ethnicity or culture. 27 molds. So I’m one of them, and you’ve seen me somewhere.” For a second, Jeff seems to contemplate the theory, and then he shakes his head. “No, it’s something else. Really. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.” I swallow, not wanting to be that reflection of Jennifer, not wanting him to figure anything out. “I’m not worried.” Jeff reaches out and touches me on the sleeve, his fingers warm. “If I don’t figure it out. Jennifer will. She’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to a question.” “Have,” I begin, feeling the lump in my throat trying to stop me from prying. I ignore it. “Have you been seeing each other long?” “A couple of years. Maybe less. When we met, I had a girlfriend, but was as though I had no choice. Boom!” He claps his hands. “Jennifer is hard to ignore.” Sal honks, lightly, and Jeff turns and then waves. “He saved us this morning. Or saved me. I think it was all my fault what happened, according to those who lay blame.” His face shuts down, a curtain pulls closed. “Anyway, thank him again. And Becca?” I blink, wait. Here it comes? Now? Can I have my miracle now? It’s my turn. It’s not too much to ask. Want, need wish. I have all three for Jeff. “I’ll talk to my office manager about having you come in. Looks like you might be needing Sal on a permanent basis.” Jeff reaches out, touches me again, squeezes my arm briefly. He’s so close, I want to bring my cheek to his and rub, feeling his smooth, slightly prickly skin. I just want to breathe him in, take in his cologne, his salt, his skin. But that would be horrifying, causing a rupture in the space-time continuum, so I just smile. No harm done by that.

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At my smile, he gives me another bright, ocean grin, that sexiness floating around and through me, and then turns and walks through the revolving door Walking on cotton, walking on air, walking on hope, I head toward Sal’s car. It’s sad to think about it this way, but that, right there, was the best thing that has happened to me in about forever. “You will, you know, find it easier to get into the car if you open the door,” Sal says, looking at me through the open car window. He’s not smiling. “That’s a good first step.” Startled, I look up to see Sal straight-faced, no evil chipped tooth Cheshire cat grin now. “It’s bad to poach, doll. Bad form.” I grab the door handle and open it, sitting down hard in the passenger’s seat. My face is flushed, and I don’t want to talk about Jeff with Sal—mostly because there is nothing to talk about but fantasy and desperation. “I need you,” I say. “Man, you are flighty. But I have to say, doesn’t everyone need me?” Sal says, putting the car into gear and lurching slowly into traffic. As we moved away from Winston, he seemed to regain his sense of humor. “It’s been that kind of day. Some days, when you are hot, you’re hot. Today, I am the best thing on the menu.” “No, I mean, really. Need. Not just want and wish. Jeff is going to talk to his office manager about getting Becca’s Best in his office. So that’s three shifts a day. Baking, too. I need you, Sal.” The joking disappears, the car cab silent. Sal glances over at me, keeps driving slowly down Market. “For real,” he says. “You know, for every day? On a permanent basis?”

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I nod. “If Jeff comes through with this, I can’t do it alone. You said—“ “I know I did,” Sal says. He stops talking, and I think I hear a “but” coming in the next sentence. But he keeps not saying anything and we keep driving, turning onto O’Farrell. “I’ll keep the bouncer job. I can go in later. We can do the baking in the afternoons.” “Right.” I feel like I need to breathe, take in air, more air than usual. Or maybe that’s the problem, why I feel faint. “I have to get paid, though,” Sal says. “I would pretty much do it all for free, but I have to keep feeding the Cutlass. Trust me, I like coming to work here for more reasons than one. But times are hard.” “Of course,” I say, nodding. “Yes. Yes. We’ll figure it out, Sal. I promise. I think that—I think that maybe this will really work out.” “Doll,” Sal says, his voice raised a little, enough so that he drowns out the traffic outside the open window. “It already has.”

It’s nine at night, and I’m idling out front of my mother’s house in the Cutlass. I had to make a run for some snickerdoodles, and I brought over a few batches of chocolate crackle cookies. Sal told me earlier that he had a friend Joey, who would lend us his freezer, so these Contra Costa County runs will soon be over. I don’t want to go in. My mother’s house looks like a jack o’lantern gone bad, one eye window eye shut, the door mouth an “O” of surprise. When I go inside, I know I will have to hear about my father. I will have to talk about him and talk about how I haven’t

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called him. She will tell me on the one hand how awful I am for not calling him and, on the other, what a schmuck he is. Even now, I can hear the string of comments she’s said about him my entire life: “He left without a how-do-you-do” and “He only thinks about himself” and “You’re just like your father.” But after that one, she’d say, “No you’re not. That’s not true. But could you go and clean up your room?” Glancing toward the garage, I realize that I could just sneak in through the side door, grab the cookies, and hightail it out of here. I start to roll up the window, and my cell phone rings. Picking it up, I see that my mother is calling. I flip open the phone and listen. “I see you out there. You’re in that strange man’s car again.” “Yes,” I say. My mother met Sal once on a visit to my apartment. After he introduced himself, she whispered, “I bet he has tattoos in very soft places. That is, if he has any soft places.” But I noticed that she watched him until he turned a corner, something about the idea of Sal’s soft places appealing to her. “Come inside,” she says. “Stop being ridiculous.” “Yes, “ say, clicking closed my phone. I roll up the window. I get out of the car and walk up the steps toward the house, knowing I can’t turn back now. My mother opens the door before I get to it, one hand on her hip. “You know, some people like to relax after nine pm at night.” I hug her quickly and walk into the foyer and then the dining room. I put my purse on the table and start to head toward the garage.

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“Sorry. I have to pick up my cookies,” I say. “Business is booming. We are getting a freezer in the city.” “Who, pray tell, is we?” my mother asks. “Sal,” I say. “He’s my assistant now.” “I hope he’s only assisting you with baking,” my mother says. “He is strange. Sort of dark and wild. And I do still think he has some secrets.” “Mom, there is nothing between me and Sal. At,” I say, “all.” She gives me the look I’ve known forever, her chin tucked down, her eyes wide, her mouth pursed. It’s the “I can see through your bullshit” look. It’s the dark and heavy and knowing mother look that made me hide my report cards for weeks. “Mom!” I say. “Well,” she says, as I walk away. I hear her following along behind me as I move through the kitchen and into the garage, staring at me as I pack up my tubs of cookies. “So I suppose this means you are staying with this enterprise.” “It’s been going really well,” I say. “I sell out pretty much every day, except for a few leftovers.” “Well, it’s been less than a week,” she says, and I can hear how she would finish the sentence: “There’s still plenty of time for you to mess up.” I grab the tubs of cookies and put them in the handled Macy’s bag I brought my new and ridiculously unfashionable clothes home in only a few days before. My mother crosses her arms, taps her foot. “Did you call your father?”

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Honey nuts, snickerdoodles, sugar cookies. Enough for a few days, and then Sal and I will have to make more of these. I put the chocolate crackle cookies in the freezer, hopeful that the next time I come out, I can pick up everything and not come back. “Rebecca?” I stand up straight, cross my arms back at her. “No.” “He’s only in town for a week. You need to give him a call or I will never hear the end of it. It will be the same old story. How I poisoned you against him. How I never gave him a chance to know you. How it’s all my fault.” “Excuse me? Because he decides to come into town without giving us warning, I’m supposed to drop all that I’m doing—“ “All that you’re doing? Turning from the freezer, I look at her, my heart thumping against my ribs. For a second, my mother looks like Jennifer Regan, arms akimbo, judgment flaring, superiority intact. I turn back, take in a lungful of cold air. Never enough, I think. Not muchmore, not yet. I pick up the bag and close the freezer door. Anger races up my back like insane matchbox cars. Nothing is ever enough. Good enough. Right enough. I want to say things that are wrong and mean, throw sentences out like ceramic plates. “Mom,” I say, taking in a breath after the heavy word. “Mom.” “What?” she asks. I turn to her. “Listen, I haven’t had a moment off since I started doing this. It’s not like I can just not show up at the office tomorrow.”

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She rolls her eyes a little but relents. We walk together into the kitchen, the bag banging against my shins. “The weekend is coming. Your father will be here then, too. Staying at the Mark Hopkins.” I look at my mother’s refrigerator, full of photos of me, her brother’s children, her cat, Leo. There are grocery lists and kitchen aphorisms stuck on with wildly colored magnets: My kitchen is clean enough to be healthy, and dirty enough to be happy. “Just because he left me, it doesn’t mean he left you,” my mother says. I turn away from the refrigerator and look at her, really look at her. How can she say that? She’s only fifty years old but I think she might have actually stopped living from that very moment that Dad walked out the door. Yes he was wonderful and charming and picked me up and spun me around when he came home from work. He sang me songs before bedtime, one about a chimney that wanted a fire inside it. One about a purple car. Yes he made my mother’s heart beat the jungle drum song of love until that very moment of departure. But he was all the shine and tang and purr, and he left anyway. He left me with her, left me the one to worry about her and make sure she was okay. And left me having to live with her, listen to her, take in all her suggestions. So if he didn’t leave me, who else did he leave? He left us. Both of us. He couldn’t chose to leave just one of us. There were two hearts left in this house, no matter how anyone looks at it. “Mom, he’s called me approximately forty times in twenty years. He wants me to show up a ritualized dinners. He sends me graduation cards and birthday cards. He’s not

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a father. He’s not someone I need to know. It's my choice, you know? I can make this decision.” As I speak, my mother is no longer channeling Jennifer. She seems to have crumpled into herself, shutting her eyes, her mouth, her heart. I realize that my mother is attached to my attachment to my father. Maybe she is afraid that if I let him go—let loose the thread of father/daughter—he will really, truly be gone. My mother won’t be able to think that he’s still a part of her life, no matter that he’s an asshole. No matter that he left. “I suppose,” she says, her voice sharp like the edge of a wet knife. She turns to the sink and turning on the faucet, rinsing off a plate. What did she have for dinner? I wonder. What does she do all the time, alone? What do I do? In that second, I can see it. Both of us alone forever. There we are, in separate houses, living our separate and lonely lives, rinsing off plates, watching bad television, calling people at night, people who anticipate our calls with slight horror. Can’t she get a life? the people will think. The calls will end, and then my mother and I—in our separate houses—will bake something that we won’t want to eat ourselves but give away. But by then, there will be no one left to give things to. We will have run them all off. “Mom,” I say, walking to her, putting my hand on her shoulder. Now, she feels smaller to me, vulnerable, sad. She can’t be like that—it goes against the natural order of things. That’s how I was raised, a tiger for a mother. A bear in the kitchen. Sometimes a seagull, screeching in my ear. But mostly an angry mammal. Tonight, she’s no gull, more a fragile bird. A Sparrow. Hummingbird.

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“Mom, he’s not worth it. He never was.” “He was,” she says, her voice soft and light. “Once.” And then something terrible happens, right there. Not only do I imagine my mother weak but old. My strong, opinionated mother. Old. Alone. Sad. I can almost see her back sloping right there in front of me, her hair graying completely, her life shutting down into the smallest possible size. I see all the hope that I have hidden for myself in her—she’s hidden hers, too. She will lock herself into ever smaller boxes, living one day out of the family room with her television and a bowl of popcorn. I don’t want that for her, and I don’t want that for myself. All my mother has wanted all these years is for me to do something good. What that desire has really meant is that she’s wanted something great for herself. She’s tried to give me everything. In fact, Becca’s Best wouldn’t be happening at all if she hadn’t helped me in the first place. “Mom,” I say. “I need your help.” Her bracelets clack on the counter and then there is a space of silence. I can hear her take in a breath, one, two. My mother turns away from the sink, and I know again that all she wants to do is help. Underneath it all that’s what she wants. She has some issues in terms of how she offers, but I know what’s real. “You do?” she asks. “Yes,” I say. “I do.” “What do you want me to do?” she asks, her brown eyes wide. I can see that she’s not old, not yet. She’s young enough for another whole life, one that starts from now, this second in the kitchen. “Snickerdoodles,” I say. “Sugar cookies. Gingersnaps.”

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At home, I sit at the kitchen table waiting for a batch of blueberry muffins to come out of the oven. Sal just left, having helped me package up some scones, regaling me with his day’s success. “I saved the day,” he said, lifting his arms into a Charles Atlas pose. He’d showered ad reapplied his slick, smooth gel, his hair curled and clean and smelling like green. “I kept the earth from being destroyed. I kept the evil doers from doing evil.” He was funny, posing in the kitchen, a look in his eye as though he were waiting for something. Maybe a trophy? “It’s possible you did stop the earth from falling off its axis,” I said, thinking that Jennifer could have yelled loud enough to shake the earth to its core, her evil horrid vileness spreading across the planet in a black death. “And,” I added. “You made friends and influenced people.” Sal looked at me as though he didn’t understand. “Huh? You mean the top brass at Winston? Of course they want to hire me for all their top level issues. I am flying by private plane to Zurich tomorrow.” “No,” I said. “Not the part about you making millions. I mean Sasha.” He shrugged, flicked me a glinty tooth smile. “I can’t turn off the style.” “I guess not. She is smitten.” I checked the timer, looked in at the muffins through the oven door. “My theory of women has changed!” Sal smiled.

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“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know,” I said. “But I didn’t tell you what it is,” he said. “Fine. Tell me. What is it now?” Sal sat down in one of my creaky wooden chairs, his legs spread, his hands on his slim thighs. He was gleaming tonight, and part of me wanted to put space between us, his energy almost scary. I grew up tamping it all down, hiding that energy because I never knew what to do with it when it showed up. Maybe I let it out with Danny, and that, of course, had been a mistake. “Some women know quality and know how to shop for it and when to buy,” he said. “Some women don’t know where to shop or what to buy, even when they are in the right store” The timer went off at that point, and he stood, did another muscular pose, and then left to take a load to Joey’s freezer to stash the frozen goods. And he was gone, my apartment quiet, his absence leaving a huge energy hole in the kitchen. I hold my cell phone in one hand and then the other. I know I should call my father, if nothing else but to get it over with. Call, say hi, beg off. The kitchen hums with heat. Inside the muffins, the blueberries bake, cell walls breaking down, their goodness infusing the batter, the dark liquid coloring everything. My parents’ divorce was like that, all that horrible heat of their life together, all the fights, pushing out into our family, me. But when he left, all the juice went, too. I could have never abandoned my mother, leaving her alone in that juiceless place. Every time my father called, though, I did think about asking, wanting to come live with him and first wife number two and then wife number three. My father travels for work, flying to

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countries I can only aspire to. His is a not a romantic career—he works for a food company—but he visits factories all over the world, checking on production and packaging. I would get a postcard from Mumbai, a phone call from Beijing, an email from the hotel in Madrid. More than a father, he became like a character in a travel novel, the ner-do-well cad on romantic adventures with eager middle-aged women. A business genius, who could close the deal but not the relationship. I look at my phone, find his number, press call. Don’t answer, I think. Please, please, please be in the shower, having sex, out to dinner, dead asleep. Don’t answer, don’t answer. “Hello Rebecca,” my father says. “Hi, Dad. Sorry it’s so late—“ “It’s fine. It’s fine. We were up still anyway,” he says. We, I think. Wife three—Marcie—must still be in the picture. I didn’t go to the wedding, though I sent a silver candlestick from Crate and Barrel, something that could have been used as a doorstop or a murder weapon, my father killed in the billiard room by Mrs. White. The fourth wife was killed in the parlor with the candlestick. “Marcie is with you,” I say. “Yes, we thought it would be a nice chance for her to see San Francisco again. But how are you, Rebecca?” How am I? How am I? I don’t know, I realize. Or really, how to explain? I’m happy and lonely and sad and confused. I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out why my father left us and how to deal with my mother’s frustrated ambitions. I’ve quite my job, quit school, gone out on my own. I’ve been in only one significant relationship with a

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man, and he left me, too. I’m falling in true hopeless lust with a man my identical separated-at-birth-twin-my-mother-won’t-acknowledge is seeing. Everyone around me seems to be smitten with someone, and I don’t have enough freezer space. “Fine,” I say. “I hear you decided not to go back to school. And that’s you’ve started some kind of business on your own.” Despite my earlier kind feelings about my mother, I itch to hold that candlestick I gave my father. “Right,” I say. “It’s a baking company. I just hired an employee. Two.” “Wow,” he says. “That sounds a lot more impress—that sounds great.” I don’t say anything because I’m not sure that it does sound great. If I explained that the two hires were my downstairs neighbor, a bouncer from a bar, and Mom, then the effect wouldn’t be so profound. “So,” he says. “Can we see you?” Can we see me? Is this a trick question? Has he ever really seen me, much less Marcie? “Okay,” I say. “I’m downtown at lunchtime.” “Can you make it to the hotel? The Mark Hopkins.” “I know where you are staying,” I say, but then I remember Jeff and his office. “I think it might have to be tomorrow. I might be busy on Friday. Another office wants to hire us.” I worry that I’m lying. But then I think, it’s all about hope. Being hopeful is maybe like lying but different. At least, I hope it is.

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“Tomorrow then. I’ll make reservations. Just go to the front desk,” he says. I agree, say goodbye, and hang up. Just then, the timer goes off. I’ve completely forgotten that I had anything in the oven, and I pull it open, jerking the door as I do. The good news is that the muffins look perfect. Brown on top, slightly crunchy, perfectly cooked through to the middle. Every bite will be sweet and tart and tangy and have a heaven’s worth of mouth feel. I pull the tins out of the oven and put them on the cooling racks, staring at the mounds of sweetness. Sal doesn’t know anything about theories compared to mine, and my theory is this, no doubt about it: Baking tops life, every time.

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September 11, 2008 Day 9

Recipe: Old Fashioned Gingerbread

You have probably never told anyone this, but when you smell this cake baking in the oven, you want to weep. Seriously weep. It’s Christmas and Grandma and first grade snack time and a fireplace with your favorite chair in front of it. It’s that old children’s book you loved so much, the one that ends with a happily ever after, the children safe and cared for. This cake is an embrace, a hug, warmth, and love. It can’t help itself, and you can’t help but swoon. Is it the molasses? Or the ginger and cinnamon? Is it some archetypal smell that brings you and all other human creatures home, home, home. So make this cake. Then just try to leave the house. You better hope you have a lot of milk on hand, an old movie, a rainy day.

As Sal works one end of the office, I push slowly past Jennifer’s office. She’s there, talking on the phone, facing the window that looks out on office buildings, steel grey sky, the reflection of the sun beating back metallic. I can’t see more than her hair and one hand that is moving in the air in slicing motions as she speaks. “No,” she says. “That won’t work. It’s untenable.”

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All my life, I’d always imagined I was different than everyone else. Dez helped fro a while, but mostly, I felt like I was in my own little bubble, Rebecca Muchmore amongst the aliens. Even the name Rebecca was unusual, no one but Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm to deal with. I was quiet, my parents were divorced, and I was thinking too much, when other girls seemed to be able to play. But here is someone the same in some ways, worse in others, better in a few. Her vocabulary is better than mine. And so is her hair. We do both have the same shade of blonde hair, the sort of in-between blonde of many Americans, all that northern European blood colored by waves of immigrants. Somewhere in my background is a Swede. And we mustn’t forget the Muchmore, oh he of British Isles descent and irony or purpose in passing down the optimistic notion of more. But then there are the Polish, the Northern Italian, the potentially Jewish ancestor racing forward with genes. Everything in between. “I’m not going back to my client with this ever,” she says, her hand giving one more chop in the air. Her desk shakes as she speaks, as she moves. Jeff’s bronze photo frame clangs on the desk. Even in an 8 X 11, he’s gorgeous. “Go do to yourself what no one else ever will.” Jennifer swivels around on her chair and almost seems to throw the phone down into its plastic nest of buttons. “What?” She looks up at me, her eyes blazing, full of a passion I have never known for my work or maybe anything. “What is it?” “Blueberry muffins,” I say. Jennifer stands up, tucking in her blouse, her waist trim and thinner than mine. How many ab crunches does she do a day? I wonder. She must have a trainer who shows her

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how to do perfect squats, lunges, dead lifts. Compared to her, I am the Pillsbury Doughboy. “You know,” she says as she looks at my cart. “It’s not easy staying in a size 2.” “I know.” I nod. Her face slides into derision, the barbs on her tongue ready to pop out and sting. “How could you know? I don’t think you have a single clue what a size 2 even feels like,” she says. Her eyes move from my shoulders all the way down to my feet. “I don’t think you know what it’s like to work here all day and then go to a gym and put in another couple of hours because you want your body to be fit. Maybe you are skating by on some past body, but that will run out. Trust me.” “I—“ “And I think the difference couldn’t be more clear when you look at, well, the man I spend time with.” She looks over at her desk, a portion of Jeff’s smile visible in the frame. I can almost hear the sea crashing against the boat hull. I stop breathing for a second, blink. Can anyone actually be like this? Can anyone be this blunt? Say what she feels when she wants? Other than my mother, I’ve never known anyone who just said things. If I could call her a bitch, I would, but I can’t because I didn’t go to the Bitch on Wheels summer day camp Jennifer Regan did. I can’t say a word. For so many reasons. Without taking my eyes from her, I point to a plate of muffins. “Whole grain muffins. Made with whole wheat flour and oatmeal. Very little fat. Non-fat milk. Really.”

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Because I have an answer for her, Jennifer doesn’t seem to know what to do next. She looks up at me, the steely, warrior look gone, and she’s . . . I swallow, seeing that mirror image again. In that instant, she’s unsure. Vulnerable. Maybe her slim hips were wide in high school. Maybe she crammed herself into size 14 pants at one point, hoping to be asked out on a date. But no. That was me. How could I forget that? She reaches out for a napkin and then takes a whole grain muffin, looking at me as she takes a bite. I know what she’s imagining. I know she thinks that these muffins will taste like glue, like paste, like water. In fact, she can already feel the glop stuck to the roof of her mouth as she imagines trying to swallow. But these are light and true and fluffy muffins, nutty, sweet, and healthy. As she chews, she watches me, and I watch her back, struck by the similarity in our eyebrows. Just like mine, hers curve up and over her eye area, thick at first, tapering to a thin line. It’s not plucking that does that, and my friends in high school used to envy my already plucked look. “Okay,” she says after her first bite. “That’s okay.” For a moment, I imagine that she will smile, and I can see the smile lines in her face starting to form, lines she will likely Botox or Restalyne out of existence in years to come. In a way, she reminds me of my mother, of how Carla’s smile lines are now permanent fixtures on her face, lines I so often wish to see instead of her intense, harsh gaze. “I’ll make sure to have something like these muffins every day,” I say. “Jeff will like these, too,” Jennifer adds.

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“He’s . . . .” I stop, not wanting to face her ridicule again. “Great.” Jennifer sits back down, a smirk on her face, and I push my cart out of her office and back into the hallway.

“Rebecca,” my father says, standing up from the table. The woman at the front desk of the Mark Hopkins has told me that my father and his “party” were in the Nob Hill Restaurant waiting for me. As I sit down, I look up at the fancy domed ceiling above me, the waiters in their traditional black and white waiter garb, and realize that while my father wasn’t around, at least he has always made money. There’s been enough of that to go around, enough for my mother, enough for me to get through college. I suppose I could have asked him to help me with Becca’s Best, but he’s my final, desperate, emergency escape hatch. I can’t ask him until there is nowhere else to turn and no one left to ask. “Hi, Dad,” I say. We kiss each other quickly, a dry, tentative peck on the cheek. I smile at Marcie. She’s a pretty woman, trim and very nicely dressed in a red suit and white blouse. She’s only ten years older than I am, almost at the forty-year-old mark, and I can see she’s clinging onto her 20’s as if they were a life raft. Her hair is a blonde that doesn’t occur in nature—at least on this planet—and her face is too smooth, shiny smooth, micro-dermabraised smooth. “Good to see you, Marcie. “Oh, Rebecca,” she says. “So nice to spend some time with you finally.”

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As I arrange my napkin on my lap, I wonder why people say things like that. It’s not true. This isn’t nice, not for any of us. For my father and me it’s guilt and a feeling of duty. For Marcie, as the new and eager wife, it’s about doing what she thinks she should. Maybe she thinks it’s a way to get to know my father better. By knowing me, she’ll work around the mysteries inside my father. But I’m no door into Dave Muchmore’s heart or mind or soul. Probably all of us would rather be somewhere else. Now. A young man pours me a class of water, someone else brings bread and butter to the table. All around us are lunch conversations, tourists and business people making talk. Or actually having talk they want to have. My father, Marcie, and I smile. “So tell us about this business of yours,” my father says, his statement makes the word business sound like a question, as if the idea of my having a business at all is a riddle. I breathe in, reach for a piece of bread and then put it back, thinking about Jennifer, her tiny waist, her millions and millions of crunches and lunges and squats. “It’s pretty new for me, but I’m selling my own baked goods in offices. I think—“ I stop, the thought of Jeff a reverberating gong in my head. “I think I will have another office soon. Tomorrow maybe.” “How wonderful,” Marcie says. Her smile is wide and full of bleached teeth, red lips. Her chin is slightly pointed, her face an oval. If I could venture a guess, I’d say she weighs about one hundred and two pounds, 102.3. “Maybe one day you can have your own bakery.”

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“If you open a bakery,” he say, “you will have to hire your mother. That woman can bake anything.” Marcie smiles a big, accepting, forced smile, and I can see why. Even after all these years and all the fights, I can hear something good about the past in his words. “I don’t know about that,” I say. “It’s only been about a week that I’ve been doing this.” Marcie keeps smiling her wide, red-lipped smile. “But some things you just know are right. What you should be doing. I mean, I know this isn’t exactly the same, but it’s like when I met your father. One five minute talk in a movie house lobby, and I knew it! I knew it! This is the man I would spend the rest of my life with.” “I always say,” my father goes on, “that when all else fails, go to the movies. You’ll never know what you’ll find.” I stare at them, wishing that they had another story, one that didn’t involve a chance encounter. One that involved years of painstaking internet dating or a pen pal correspondence while Marcie was in jail, on death row for killing the second wife with the rope in the library. But it wasn’t anything more than the miracle that all those around me seemed to be experiencing. “I’ll take your advice,” I say, my voice a weak monotone. “The movies.” My father and Marcie make some more comments, ask a few questions that I answer. But all along, I’m wondering how people ever say the things they want to say. How do people just up and make a scene? How does Jennifer do it? I never do. Right now, for instance, I want to ask my father once and for all, point blank, why he left my mother. Why he only called once a month for that first year. Why he sent money but never

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visited, blaming my mother for the visits he didn’t want to make. And most of all, I want to ask him if he loves me. If he really cares about me at all or if he’s only here, right now, because Marcie is with him and he wants to show her what a wonderful father he is. He wants to show off something that he made, the thing he did. I am just something he did once, 27 years ago, probably by accident. Looking down at my plate, I swallow, nodding to something that my father is saying. I think of cardboard boxes. Synthetically stuffed pillows. Fork tines. Meatballs with no sauce. A pine cone. A stapler. A hanger. A pillbox. A TV Guide. “It’s great,” I nod. “I really like the challenge.” “When you were little,” my father says, “you did like to play cook. Always making something in the kitchen. First you had that little oven that bakes with the light bulb. Once I even bought you one of those white chef’s hats for your birthday. Do you remember that, Becca?” He looks at me, and I know he’s thinking about one of the few times I spent a night with him. Once, my mother had begged him to stay with me when she went to see my grandmother for a weekend. Instead of talking to my father, I made cookies. For three days straight. Ready to take our order, the waiter comes over with his pad of paper, and when it is my turn I ask for the apple walnut salad with dressing on the side. “Is that all you are going to eat?” Marcie asks, taking another piece of bread from the basket. “They apparently make the most divine prime beef tenderloin with pistachio crust.”

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“Oh?” I say, knowing that Marcie has never put a piece of prime beef tenderloin in her mouth, much less a swallow of the mascarpone polenta that accompanies it. Marcie nods. “Yes. I just don’t get it. What is wrong with people these days? I’ll tell you the truth. You know they say that whole anti-carb thing was overdone. We should be eating everything in moderation.” “I believe in carbs,” I say. “They are my bread and butter.” I wait for some reaction from either of them, and realize that only Dez would have heard the pun. “Are you on a diet?” my father asks. “You certainly don’t need to be.” I look at him. “Well—“ “I mean, not everyone can look like Marcie. She has a body that’s one in a million.” My father puts his arm around his bride, pulling her close. His long fingers squeeze her waist. “But you seem fit to me. Not bad at all. You’re built like my side of the family. Not tall but running to lean.” For an instant, I want to tell him about Jennifer, his secret other daughter, the one who really looks like his side of the family, all leanness and hard muscle. But that would be crazy. I know I must be crazy to think about her at all. Chester gave me a wrong, weird impression, and I’m chewing on it like it’s beef jerky or even prime beef tenderloin with mascarpone polenta on the side. Clearly, there is something truly wrong with me, but the good news is that the waiter brings out my father’s and Marcie’s soup, the food orbiting the table and landing in front of us. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” I say, scooting back in my chair. They both smile, nod, pick up their soup spoons.

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It feels as though I’m running to the bathroom, but it’s really the motion of my thoughts, everything whirling around and through me. I can’t believe I put myself in this situation. My father doesn’t know me or care about me or need me. He never has. My mother is hung up on that not needing habit he has. Maybe she thought she could one day turn him around. Maybe she hoped that one day he would squeeze her around the waist and tell a dinner table that no one has a body like hers. Marcie has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. My father made a relationship career out of not wanting, and I push through the women’s restroom door and sit down on the striped chaise in the bathroom foyer, hugging my purse to my chest, breathing in the slightly fruity air around me, everything deodorized and clean. Canned, happy music flows through the speakers. I could stay here for an hour and be happy. This is all I need. Peace. Nice upholstery. Mind numbing music. A woman leaves the stalls, washes her hands, walks past me without even noticing I am there. And then I have the whole bathroom to myself, and I lean back, sigh, wonder how I got her in the first place. My cell phone rings, a vibration to my heart. Almost jumping off the chaise to get to it, I open my purse and pull it out, the number one I don’t recognize. “Hello?” “Becca?” It’s a man’s voice, and I suddenly wonder if my father is checking up on me. He actually noticed that I was upset. He wants to make sure everything is all right. He’s sending Marcie in to get me. “Yes?”

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“It’s Jeff.” I sit up, amazed at how fast my heart is beating. “Hi.” “Are you at the office?” he asks. In the moment before I have to answer, I try to find an even place to talk from, but the sound of his voice makes me feel as though like I’ve been sucking on a helium balloon. “No, I’m in the bath--I’m at lunch. With my father at the Mark Hopkins.” “Sounds nice.” Jeff pauses. “Listen, I just wanted to touch base with you about what we discussed yesterday.” He sounds as though someone is sitting next to him, listening. Maybe Jennifer, maybe the office manager. It’s all business here, and I feel my face literally fall, just like people always say faces do, muscles loosening, as if potential tears are pulling everything to my chin. Electrical outlet. Snails. Wood paneling. Bricks. Dice. Rose bushes. Train tickets. “Right,” I say, forcing my mouth to move, forcing air and light and breeze into my voice, the sure sound of nonchalance. “I sure hope that will work out.” “In fact,” Jeff says. “It will. Actually, we’d like you to start tomorrow. If you can.” Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Okay. That’s a lot of baking I need to do before then. But every day—every day—I will be able to see him. “Wow.” I pause, feeling for a second like I did that day in the marketing strategy class: inept and wrong. How? How can I do it? Can I send Sal over to Jeff’s office instead of going myself? Will I have to go through another Chester-type moment, pictures and fingerprints and ID’s? Will that security guard recognize me, too? Or, at least, think he

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does? How will I do all of that and get home to bake? Who will go to Joey’s to get what we have in the freezer? “It’s a lot, so let me do this. I have to get to Winston this afternoon. I can bring the paperwork and a pass to get in the first day. I’ll talk with security.” I close my eyes, feeling a slim line of tears between my lids. He heard me without me having to say a word. He knows what I wish for, need, and want. “There’s Sal, too,” I say, swallowing. “Of course. A pass for two.” Something in the way he lifts up the word two makes me wonder if he thinks Sal and I are more than co-workers. But how could he possibly think that? I have to make sure he knows there is nothing but work between me and Sal. “Um—“ Jeff keeps talking, though, his idea flowing. “It will be a bit hectic, but I think you’ll really do us some good around here. You are so talented.” I am talented. I will do some good. “All right,” I say, standing up from the chaise. “I’ll be back at Winston at about 2. Could you also bring a list of the people and the lunch orders?. Just so I have some numbers and can make plans.” “Absolutely. I’ll bring it all later. See you then,” Jeff says, hanging up, without, I realize, saying goodbye. As I put my phone back in my purse, I stare without seeing much at the wallpaper. In the bigger scheme of things, getting this gig means nothing. It’s a flick of water in an ocean of activity. But to me, now, it feels like everything.

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“There you are!” Marcie pushes through the door and then stands in front of me. “Your father thought you might have fallen in. The meals are here.” “Sorry,” I say. “I had to take a call.” I look at her and see her worry, and realize that, in fact, my father did think about me. Today, in this restaurant, my father worried about my well being and sent the only possible emissary available to figure out what happened. Marcie, smiles, looks at me, her eyes narrowing, and I am thinking, No. No. Don’t give me advice. Don’t say anything about how my father really loves me. How he always cared. How he wants to change things, make things better between us. How he’s turned over a new leaf, made huge strides, starting now! Forget all that. Let us get through this moment so it will end. “What color blush do you use?” she asks, taking my elbow and leading me out of the bathroom. “It’s a little too dark, I think. And there’s a lot to be said for eyebrow pencil. It’s my little secret. It has changed everything.”

“So, doll, my theory is this,” Sal says as we organize the carts for the afternoon shift. “We are going to go big time. Jeff or no Jeff, we are on our way. Everything is working out as planned.” Today, Sal is wearing his favorite black jeans but he has no shiny, stripy shirt on. Just a black t-shirt and a new red apron I bought the same day I purchased the second cart. He

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does wear his cowboy boots, and he’s probably the only man I know who can pull off an apron and cowboy boots in the same outfit. I never said a word to him about his slightly disco attire, so he somehow picked up the same message Dez gave me on the phone. I would have never believed it possible. The first day I met Sal, years ago when I first moved into the building, not too long after Danny fled for the Congo, Sal was smoking on the front step, wearing lizard skin boots, black jeans, a backward Giants baseball cap, and a white wife beater t-shirt. He reminded me of the desert, of Las Vegas, dangerous places with secrets that stayed there, either because the heat killed you before you could spill or you were tied up in a room with silk scarves, your words muffled due to the kinky sex. Sal stood up, laughed, grabbed two of my cheap Ikea chairs from the back of my rented trailer, his cigarette dangling from his lips, his chipped tooth visible. “You know, this is a good building,” he said. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong.” He seemed so comfortable with himself he scared me. I didn’t know and I don’t know how people move so comfortably in their skins, as if they and their bodies are a flowing fabric, a river, connected. Just looking at him that day made me consider moving back home with my mother. I didn’t belong out in the world because I knew I’d never be as comfortable as Sal, ever. But here we are together, organizing my carts with my baked goods. We were expanding, growing, ready to take on a whole new office. Maybe I could believe him. “So what’s with that Jennifer chick anyway,” Sal says as he stacks the peanut butter cookies. “She gives me a royal case of the heebie jeebies.” “What do you mean?” I ask.

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“It’s like I’ve met her, you know what I mean? Like she should be a hell of a lot nicer to me. She’s like someone I tell the sad story of my love life to one night in a bar, and the next day, Bam! She doesn’t know who I am. She gives me the stink-eye every time I see her.” I look at my watch. It’s almost 2.30. Jeff should be here soon, and I feel my nerves explode in my chest like gunfire. “She’s the one,” I say. “What one? Like Christ? The Messiah? No, I think she’s from the other place. You know, the chick-devil.” “No, the one I was telling you about last week. I mean, remember when I was talking about being a double? And you went on and told me your mold theory? Well, she’s the one who looks like me. My double.” Sal stands up straight, looks at me, scratches his temple, seems to wince. “Doll, don’t ever say that again.” “I mean it,” I say. “Everyone says so.” Sal stands in front of me, puts his hands on my shoulders. “Look at me,” he says. I lift my chin and stare at him, trying to keep my eyes on him, trying to keep my eyes from watering. I’ve never liked looking at people this close, always scared they’d see something in me they didn’t like. I’m sure they see spinach in my teeth or a brand new zit or a hair that is growing where it shouldn’t be. I look down. “Doll,” he says. “Look at me.” Breathing in, I do what he says, and he searches my face for clues, trying to see the Jennifer written all over me. It’s weird, Sal taking me in like this, his gaze on my

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forehead, eyes, cheeks, chin. Then his gaze softens, and one corner of his mouth raises, a glint of tooth in his smile. “You are my favorite nutbar,” he says. “We need to put those on the menu.” Sal lets go of my shoulders and shrugs. “Well?” I ask. “I don’t see it. Not one bit.” ‘Wait,” I say. “The hair? The face?” Sal shrugs again, turns to me. “Doll, when I look at you, I only see you.” Something about the way he delivers this sentence to me makes me want to sit and have some kind of a good cry. I know I’m tired, though, ready for a three day nap or a marathon Sex in the City Marathon. “Oh, I don’t know what to think. People think I’m crazy when I talk about it. Everyone but Chester.” “The door dude downstairs?” I put away the extra cookies and pull out the napkins. “Yeah.” “Don’t tell anyone else.” “Um,” I start, realizing that it’s a story I want to tell everyone. “Oh, doll. Who else did you tell? Wait, don’t tell me. Your friend Dez. The one who lives in the phone.” Nodding, I put on my apron. “That’s it. But I know for sure that . . . .” I can’t say any of this. It’s too stupid and crazy and weird. “What?” Sal stares at me with his huge black brown eyes. “I don’t have a twin. No separated at birth thing. I sort of asked my mom.”

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I expect him to laugh, to punch me lightly on the shoulder, to tell me I’m an idiot. Who at age twenty-seven asks her mother if she has a long-lost sister, a baby given away in this day an age of anything-baby-goes. But Sal just shakes his head. “Your mom must wonder what’s going on with you. Your bringing her this mess of crazy from one of those TV shows. You know, alternate realities. Movies and stuff. The Twilight Zone reruns.” I shake my head, push the cart toward the door. “No, you’re right. I think—I think we just look a lot a like. But she has a whole different life than I do. She’s actually got one.” Sal stops me, puts his hands on my shoulders again, his eyes taking in even more. “Wait a minute, doll? Are you comparing yourself to her?” “Why not? She looks like me and she’s, well, successful. She finished her degrees, has a good job, has a great boyfriend” I try to say the last four words with lightness, with air, as if I am not jealous, as if I have not broken one of the Ten Commandments or at least partially broken one. I’m coveting my bitchy twin’s boyfriend. Or it’s a deadly sin. Envy. “Would you even want to be like her? I mean, really?” I want her boyfriend, I think. “Not really. But she’s gotten pretty far in her life.” “Do you want what she has?” he asks, and I don’t know what he’s asking, really. “She’s made it in a lot of ways I never have,” I say.

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“She scares everyone. Sasha told me she’s evil. Flattens tires. Yells at messengers. Do you know what kind of unhappiness you have to have deep down inside to act like that all the time? It’s like a black well of sick she keeps drinking from.” I step back, consider. How did Sal get to be so mythological? What else don’t I know about him? “Just forget about it,” he says. “Maybe she looks like you. But she isn’t you. So let’s sell some food. You can talk to your Jeff and then we can plan total world dominion.” Nodding, I push my cart out into the hallway and Sal does too, both of us taking our known routes. I stop at Eric’s office and he asks for a bag of snickerdoodles. Brad wants some peanut butter cookies. Sasha smiles, waves, and holds up one of my gigantic blueberry muffins. Chad munches on sand tarts. Neil wants oatmeal cookies. His assistant Keri wants chocolate crunch. As I’m leaving Neil’s office, Yao, the file clerk, asks for a bacon cheddar muffin from this morning’s round. He ends up taking two, and I push away from Neil’s office, moving toward Jennifer’s, taking in small breaths. “She isn’t me, she isn’t me, she isn’t me,” I whisper. “We are not the same. We are different.” But who am I? I wonder. What am I doing? Where am I going? How will I get there when I figure it out? The future suddenly seems like a tunnel with no outlet, only darkness and forever. How to find the light? How to wake up and shake off all the dark past? “Becca?” I jerk up, realizing that I’ve stopped right in the middle of the hallway. Jeff stands in front of me, on hand on his hip. I can see him at the prow of a ship. “I hope you were

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contemplating chocolate or something. A debate in your mind between semi-sweet and bittersweet. It had to be something of that magnitude because you looked really serious.” Taking in a breath, nodding, I try to find words. “Oh—oh, thinking about your office. What I’m going to bake. That’s all.” “That’s good,” he says. “Because I have all the details right here.” He holds up a folder, smiling. I look around him, trying to see into Jennifer’s office. “Oh, she’s at the courthouse. And I think she doesn’t want any more calories. She was at the gym for about four hours last night.” “Really?” I remember her showing me her waist, her evil gaze on my stomach. I try to suck it in now. Jeff shrugs, his face holding onto some emotion, something I can’t read. But it passes in a flicker, and he smiles, those white teeth shining. “She’s pretty health conscious.” “I guess,” I say, stingy in my words of praise, not wanting to give her one more thing. I almost can hear Sal say, She doesn’t deserve jack. “She’s driven in every area of her life,” Jeff says. “She pushes me, too.” “Oh,” I say, knowing that her push has to be too hard. “There were things I needed to do I didn’t even know about until I met Jennifer. I used to think I had everything under control, but I was apparently misguided. Who knew I wanted to be in corporate law? Who knew I wanted an SUV? Who knew I wanted to live in California?” I shake my head. “You seem to be doing just what you want to be doing. You don’t seem misguided.”

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“Oh, well. Amazing how appearances can be misleading. But I often am quite on the wrong track.” Glancing at him, I try to find the joke, the irony, the smile, but there doesn’t seem to be anything but the truth in his words. I try to cast about for something smart and quippy to say, but Jeff is moving us toward Jennifer’s office. “So let’s go in, and we can go over the details.” Jeff walks on, and I push along behind him. I leave the cart at the door and follow him, both of us sitting in the chairs in front of Jennifer’s desk. Jeff’s photograph smiles at us. In the photo, he and Jennifer are on a sail boat, Jeff’s arm around her, the wind blowing their hair. “We were on Brad’s sailboat,” Jeff says. “He docks it at the Berkeley Marina. We’ve gone out on the bay with him a couple of times. Once with his wife Deirdre and their two boys. But this time in the photo was the best.” He seems to remember the day, and I think I can almost feel the salt spray, smell the ocean water. “Jennifer was in such a good mood.” Why wouldn’t she be? I want to say. For god’s sake, she was with you. What more could she want? “It looks like fun.” I study the photo, taking it off the desk and looking at it closely. Jennifer does look happy, almost hysterical, I’d say. Her smile wide, her eyes wild with what? Exhilaration? Fear? She has her hand on Jeff’s tanned knee, but there’s another knee in the picture, and Jennifer’s other hand is out of view. For a second, I try to imagine what she was doing with that hand, that knee. Whose knee? I bring the

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photograph closer, stare at the evidence. A man. It’s a man’s knee. Slightly hairy, thick, attached to a relatively big leg. Who else could the leg be attached to but Brad, and why Jennifer would touch his knee instead of Jeff’s would be the question of the new millennium. Brad? Rumpled graying dufus Brad over Jeff? “Anyway,” Jeff says, pulling himself out of his marine memory. “Here’s what I have for you.” He leans toward me a little, and I breathe in now, smelling his shaving cream, his cologne, his breath, something minty floating between us. I didn’t have time to brush my teeth after rushing out of the Mark Hopkins, and I pray that I have no apple or dark green lettuce between my teeth. I run my tongue over my teeth, wish for a mirror. “I made a call and Chester helped me out.” Jeff holds up two photo ID cards, one with Sal’s photograph on it and the other with mine—the same photo Chester took of me the day he sprung the Jennifer angle on me. I stare at mine, seeing the agitation still on my face from Chester’s separated-at-birth theory. “Those are from here,” I say. “Chester’s my main man,” Jeff says. “He hooked me up.” “That’s great,” I say, taking the photo Ids from him. Jeff shows me those white teeth again. “I have my secret talents.” I can only imagine, I think. I bet you do. But it would take a flight of fancy for me to figure out what Jeff can do and how and where and even imagining the imagining makes me start to feel warm. I tuck the IDs in my purse and wonder what is wrong with me to

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be feeling all of this for a wholly unavailable man. I am so wrong, full of wrongness. So full actually, that I can’t begin to catalogue it all. “And here is a list of the people in our office. It’s a bit bigger than this one. We have more staff. But what you have on your menu here would be great for starters.” Nodding, I look at the list, thinking in dozens: Tomorrow will call for brownies, sheets of them. Sal and I need to go to the store on the way home. Taking in a big breath, I look up at Jeff. “Thanks for doing this. I’m—I’m not sure why you did. But thanks.” At my words, Jeff looks a little confused, as if he doesn’t know why he arranged this for me either. Maybe he doesn’t know why he’s being this nice. Maybe this, “I” am something not on Jennifer’s to-do list. I am simply an act of rebellion. Part of me wants to leave, now, before more acts of rebellion can occur, but I’m caught. And then there it is, his smile. “You’re really great at this, you know? Everyone here talks about it. Waits for you to come around. I’m sure once they realize they’ve gained ten pounds business might slow down!” “I hope not,” I say. “I want everyone with a tummy and love handles.” He laughs, a sound I could grab onto and lie down on, the lovely ripple of air and voice in my whole body. I swallow, wanting to leave, wanting to take my information and ID and go about my business. That’s all I should be doing. That’s all I can do because he belongs to someone else, someone not me. “Besides, I can’t figure it out, but I feel like I know you. Like you are someone I’m supposed to help.”

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“Charity begins at home,” I say, feeling the razor in my words. Of course. Not rebellion. Charity. What Jeff feels for me is only slightly different for the way I feel for two of the homeless men outside the office building, Hallelujah Jones and Vick. I am simply a person who needs something. Jeff shakes his head. “No. No, that’s not it at all. You are talented. This isn’t charity,” he says, standing up. I stand up as well. “I mean, I want to. I feel I should. And . . . “ He looks down, puts his hands in his pockets. “With you, I feel like you will actually take my help. Want it. Listen to what I have to say, maybe, at least if it sounds halfway useful.” He looks to the desk, the sunlight beaming off the sailboat picture, his photo-white teeth a row of shine. Stop, I think. This is the moment. This. Here. He takes one hand out of his pocket and takes my arm, and I swear, I feel his heat all the way through me. For the first time in my life, my knees actually shake, and I lean against my chair, hoping I won’t fall down and completely embarrass myself. “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it. I really do. I didn’t mean anything—“ “Don’t worry about it. So, okay.” And with that last yes word, Jeff leans toward me, his fresh sea salt smell washing over me. I close my eyes, lift my face, and we are kissing, his lips just the lips I’ve always wanted to kiss, lips that know what to do with themselves. As we kiss, he takes my arm in his hand, moves to my elbow and presses me to closer to him, closer, our bodies a joined heat, a together hotness. I can feel his solid, sure, lean body exactly next to mine. His hand slipping to my waist. He’s not just a photo, he's a man, a man kissing me. All the other kisses I’ve ever had in my life slip away, one by one. Danny’s lips pale in comparison and float away. The first and last

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kiss on a blind date, gone. High school boyfriends disappear into memory. This is the kiss that I want, and I don’t want it to stop. But then it does. In a blink of air, in a second of realization of where are and what we are doing, we pull apart, blink, breathe, stare at each other. We shift into a time that is not the kiss, a place where the kiss has ended, a place, maybe, where the kiss did not happen. What Jeff doesn’t know is that I will never be able to leave that place of our kiss. Ever. Jeff looks at me, his eyes wide open and honest, but he almost seems to be blushing, though it’s hard to tell through his tan. He shakes himself a little, smiles. “Well,” he says. He moves away from me, claps his hands. “Oh. Okay. Well. I can’t wait for tomorrow. And I don’t have to. What do you have? What’s good for the afternoon?” What should I do? I wonder. Try to kiss him again? Storm out of the office? Apologize? Beg for more? Throw myself down on the floor and forbid the world to move on past this moment? But the world has moved on, seconds pulling us both away from our embrace, and Jeff and I walk over to the cart. The kiss whooshes out of the room like smoke. So here’s how I want to answer his question about what is good. I want to tell him what baked food tastes best in the afternoon. Me. I taste best. I want to tell him that I have twentyseven years of love just bursting to come out. That I have appreciation for him. That I will never take him for granted. That I have great listening skills. That I can make more than just baked goods. That I put together a mean spaghetti and meatballs. That just maybe I have more great things than I even know about.

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But I don’t say any of that. I say, “Rum cake. You’ll love it.”

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September 11-12, 2008 Day 9-10

Recipe: Rum Cake

You don’t want to like this cake. You are too smart for it, have lived too long in a healthy world, the place where everything must be fresh and organic and ecologically sound. You know about cholesterol and high blood pressure and just plain old fat. You never buy things in boxes, eschew all ingredients with more than two syllables. So this cake, well, it’s your dirty little secret. Yes, it involves a yellow cake mix. And a box of Jell-O instant vanilla pudding. Shhh! Don’t tell anyone. They won’t know. They won’t care. Because once the cake comes out of the Bundt pan and cools, you are going to coat it, inject it, cover it in a concoction of dark rum, butter, and sugar. Make sure you get the entire cup of liquid into this cake, let it drip all over the pecans on top. This will be a cake that can get you drunk, make you high, and eat up every crumb in sight.

My mother waves goodbye from the front door of the house, the foyer light shining behind her, her graying hair lit up behind her like a glowing orb. “She’s, like, so nice,” Sasha says, biting into a chocolate chip cookie, one from one of the many batches of cookies my mother made for me. Chad sits next to her in the back seat, both of them simply sort of following Sal and me home at the end of the day. Or,

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rather, Sasha followed Sal, and Chad followed Sasha. “I wish my mother was so like happy.” I turn back to look at Sasha, who smiles, but her smile is directed at the back of Sal’s head. He would never turn around now, not that we are driving and he needs to keep himself in perfect driving position. And except for Sal, we all have Tupperware tubs on our laps, some full of the hamburger casserole my mother insisted on giving us. At Sasha’s comment, my first instinct is to laugh or to make a puuuh! sound, something that would be the sign of my disagreement with Sasha. But I don’t do either. My mother did seem happy, bustling around the kitchen, making coffee for Sal and Sasha. Because Carla was so happy, I didn’t think to mention my lunch with my father and Marcie. Why spoil things, I thought. Why ruin a perfectly good brain chemistry moment? Before I left, I gave her another order for next week, and she beamed, saying, “Rum cake! Oh, how I love that rum cake.” Everyone loves the rum cake, and I wonder if the cake will be my secret weapon, the thing that brings Jeff back to me for more than cake. Two slices, and he’d storm out of Jennifer’s office, search me out in a back and empty office, and give me another best kiss to replace the one from today. “Doll,” Sal says. “Where did you go?” I start a little, feeling the Tupperware in my lap, a perfect grounding tool. “Just thinking about rum cake,” I say. “Ummhuh,” he mumbles, the car speeding up a bit as he turns onto the freeway onramp.

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Rum cake. At the very least, the whole office will buy some. My feeling is that if more law offices ate rum cake on a daily basis, the world would be a happier, less litigious place. “Well, Carla really helped us out,” Sal said, the us in our business coming naturally to him. “We are going to be set for tomorrow.” To Sal, Becca’s Best was a we and an us, and I wondered how long before the we and us included Sasha. But then, what were we going to do with Chad? “We have a lot to do before tomorrow,” I say. “We just need to prioritize,” Sal says. “Get this party started.” Nodding, I think about the order of the visits. First to Winston and then to Jeff’s office—Madison, Ivory, and Yang—and then back to Winston. Before we left the city, Sal and I bought a cart at Rukeyser’s Food and Party Supply store and dropped it off at Madison, giving our new ID badges a go. We were waved in like the upstanding citizens we are. So tonight, it’s all about putting the sweet rolls in the oven and then frosting them, making up two pans of coffee cake, and we are reading to roll. Literally. “Jeff is so like nice,” Sasha says, reaching into the Tupperware tub for another cookie. I keep myself from reaching back and slapping her hand. “I really don’t know why he dates Jennifer Regan. She is like a total bitch and so like mean to him.” “Really?” I say, playing dumb. “She seems to treat him okay. She doesn’t yell or anything.” “That’s not what I like mean, really.” Sasha rolls her bubble eyes. “I mean about being mean.”

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“So,” Chad says. “What do you mean?” My head turned toward the freeway before us, I smile. Go conversationalist Chad. I am suddenly the champion of unrealized love hopes and desires, myself being the Queen of Not Having What She Wants. “I mean Jennifer and Brad,” Sasha says. “That kind of mean.” “What?” I turn back to her. “What?” “Yeah, can you believe it?” Blinking, not really breathing, I stare at her. “Jennifer and Brad? As in Jennifer and Brad? In the biblical sense? As in the sneak around kind of sense?” Sasha nods, her face serious. “Oh, like yeah. In his office. At her apartment. But he’s like married and stuff and there’s no way they will ever be together. So she’s like with Jeff.” “That’s not right,” Sal says. “That’s fucked up, to use the vernacular.” Jennifer is using Jeff as a backup to Brad? My heart wants to bust out of my body with a spear and go after her. How could these men compare? How could Jennifer pick Brad over Jeff? I think of the play Hamlet, how Hamlet compares his dead father to his mother’s current husband, his uncle Claudius. Hamlet calls his uncle a mildewed ear. That’s what Brad is compared to Jeff. A mildewed ear. Jeff is the beach and the sun and the water. He’s Kelly green and crisp air and smooth skin. Jeff is kind and nice and thoughtful. Jeff makes my body ripple with a current I thought someone had turned off long ago. Jeff has lips like all the clichés I can’t even remember. Brad over Jeff?

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“No way,” I say, feeling the heat rise to my throat. I turn back to Sasha. “There is no possible way.” “I swear,” Sasha says. “I’ve like told Chad all about it.” Chad nods, his face full of the proud fact that Sasha told him a secret. “Doll,” Sal says. “Who cares? It’s a messed up situation, but we don’t have to get involved here. We have sweet rolls to make.” Sasha keeps talking, grabbing another cookie as she does. “I can prove it. I know that Brad goes over to Jennifer’s every Thursday night. It’s for a ‘business’ meeting. But what it really means is like his wife Deirdre takes a Pilates class and goes out with her friends afterward. I know because I’ve talked to Deirdre on like a regular basis.” I can’t say anything to this. I’ve never understood how people can have what looks so good to others and then just throw it away. If I’d known Jennifer was tossing things out, I would have run behind her to catch Jeff. How can she not see the gold she has in her hands? “I still can’t believe it!” I say. But then I remember the day when I found both Brad and Jennifer pensive, contemplative, as if sadness had migrated down the hallway and found them both. Had they had a fight? Had they decided to see each other? Not to see each other? Had Deirdre found out? And then there was the photo, the anonymous knee, the misplaced hand. “Let me prove it,” Sasha says. “Let’s go to Jennifer’s. Sit like out front. Watch Brad leave. I promise you, it’s true.” “Why would we do that?” Sal asks.

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“Because,” Sasha says. “Becca wants to know. Becca needs to know. Becca has, you know, a thing.” I feel the heat everywhere in my body at her words, taking in a deep breath. And even though it goes against his creed and code, Sal gives me a little flick of a look, though his hands stay put on the wheel. “Do you really want to know?” he asks, and I can hear another question under this one, but I am too amazed by the news and Sasha's challenge to think about it. “Do you want little espionage?” Sal says. “Some righteous spying?” “We can’t! We shouldn’t do that” I say, my stomach jumping with beans. “What if they see us?” “Dude,” Chad says, though it’s unclear to me if I or Sal are “dude.” “Let’s go.” “We will get caught.” And there will end my lovely and sad career as purveyor of the tastiest baked goods in the city. “No one there knows this Cutlass,” Sal says, now invested it seems in this plan. “This will be true undercover.” “But you are right. We have baking to do. Lots of it. We are supposed to be planning total world dominion, Sal.” “If you need to know, as Sasha says you do, then we need to find out,” Sal casts me another one of his looks. There is something else he needs to say, something that goes beyond Brad, Jennifer. Maybe it’s about Jeff. Simple as that. Plan A is in effect.” I shake my head. “This is crazy.” “Humor us,” Sal says. “I’ll get you home in time for your sweet rolls.” “Awesome,” Chad says. “It’s like television.”

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Sasha giggles at that, and I sit back as we zip along Highway 24, passing into the mouth of the Caldecott Tunnel. The lights flash in the car, reflecting off the glint of steel on the Cutlass’ dashboard. My mother’s leftover casserole is warm in my lap. A little more than a week ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d be with Sal and two office workers driving into the city from my mother’s house, on our way to spy on a woman who looked just like me, save for her tiny waist. To spy on a woman whose boyfriend I just kissed in her office this afternoon. What next? I thought. What could happen next?

“There,” Sasha says, pointing to a parking space on California Street just as we pass Divisadero. “There!” Chad laugh as Sal pulls into the spot. “You have amazing parking mojo. Among other things.” Turning toward the window, I roll my eyes. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Sitting in the car Chad might make me want to commit hari kari or, at the least, run down California screaming and pulling out my hair. His need for Sasha is like mine for Jeff, but just more visible. But then Sal opens the door. “Let’s go, doll.” “Go?” I say. “Can’t we just watch from here?” “She doesn’t like live close or anything,” Sasha says. “We were lucky to park here.”

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Shaking my head, I open the door. It is nighttime, but it might as well be 12 noon, the streetlights bright and plentiful. “How can we spy in plain sight?” I scoot out, and Sasha and Chad do, too, closing the heavy car door behind them, the whapping thud making me nervous. “Listen, I know where we can sit. I’ve been here before, you know. Like for the holiday party.” “Why are we doing this?” I look at Sal, who shrugs, gives me that double look again, the one that has a secret in it. But then he smiles. “I’d do whatever you needed, doll,” he says. “But really, consider it office information. It will help you figure out what muffins to make. What about a big batch of passion fruit muffins. Or chocolate decadence cake. Catch my drift? It’s all about research.” Sasha laughs, Sal giving her a grin. I want to know what is going on between Jennifer and Brad and Jennifer and Jeff that I would actually knock on Jennifer’s door to ask if I weren’t such a chicken. But I am a chicken, I grew up that way, feathers and all. We start walking up California, turning onto Pierce, a much quieter street that dead ends into Alta Park, AP as everyone calls it. Kids run past us, carrying backpacks full of what only could be alcohol. I think to stop them to let me have a swig because I need to be slightly something before I continue on with this madness. Sal, Sasha, and Chad walk in front of me, and I shake my head. This is ridiculous, but I want to spy. Otherwise, I would have pitched a fit and made Sal drive me home. But instead, I’m hiking up Pierce Street, ready to skulk in a doorway to wait for Brad. “Brad’s not a bad guy,” Sasha says. “He’s like the nicest one in the office, if you ask me.”

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“He’s married,” I say. “That fact makes him a bad guy.” “Well, like, Deidre isn’t very nice to him,” Sasha says. “She calls him a dufus.” “There is a story in every marriage we can never understand,” Sal says quietly. “Trust me doll, there is a lot we can never know.” “But still,” Sasha says. “His wife could be nicer.” “And Jennifer is nice to anyone?” She’s hell on wheels. She’s rude and inconsiderate. She’s the meanest person I have ever met, and I am not kidding,” I say. “If we want to grow enormous balls, we should all take lessons from her.” “If Brad likes women with balls,” Chad says. “That would make him gay.” “He’d have an easier time coming out of the closet than getting together with Jennifer,” I say, just as Sasha grabs my upper arm with her hand and pulls me against the wall. “There,” she says, pointing with her free hand. “That’s her apartment.” We are at the corner of Pierce and Sacramento, and the four of us flatten ourselves against the building wall, gazing upward to the bank of three shuttered windows on the third floor, each window illuminated, the light yellow, gold, and shining through the shutter slats. For a second, a shadow passes in front of one of the windows, and we all take in breath. It’s Jennifer, I think. She sees us. She’s going to come down here and fire us all. The jig, as they say, is up. But then the shadow moves on, and we all relax. “Do you think he’s up there? Are you sure?” I ask. “I am like so sure,” Sasha says. “One hundred percent totally sure.” “How?”

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“That’s Brad’s car.” She points to a black BMW M5 across the street, the smooth black metal shining like a beetle under the streetlights. “Damn! Sweet ride,” Sal says, pulling away from the wall. “Don’t,” Sasha says, grabbing him. “They can see us if we move closer to the street.” Sal nods, pulling himself away from Sasha a bit. Chad watches them both, and I wonder what stupid merry-go-round I’m on. “Just be patient,” Sasha tells us all. “It’s only like a little while longer.” She must have done this before, I think, her espionage experience showing. Maybe not here, maybe not with Jennifer, but Sasha has spy stripes. “So what do we do while we are waiting?” Sal asks. “It’s not as if we can have a couple of cold ones.” Sasha seems to puff up, flush a little, and she pulls two beers out of her jacket pocket, flipping one open with a bottle opener and then the other. Despite her reliance on the word like, Sasha is a smart one, knowing an opportunity when she sees it. All Sal needs to do is look at her, really see her, and then the writing will be on the wall. “I like always plan ahead,” Sasha says. Raising my eyebrows, I wonder what else she had in the coat pocket. I’m glad I didn’t run down one of the teenagers, and we sip the beer, Chad and I sharing the beer Sasha handed me. Down on California Street, MUNI buses barrel by, lit up like houses. More teenagers pass us, giggling, furtive hands in large jackets. Tired, I squat down, thinking about Jeff. I don’t really know him very well. Actually, I don’t know him at all, but I do know that he doesn’t deserve a girlfriend who is mean to on him. No one deserves that. He doesn’t deserve a girlfriend who cheats on him,

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either, but what about the kiss this afternoon? A kiss counts as cheating, at least in my book. Anything that involves physical contact other than a hand shake or a quick hug is cheating. So I am a cheating facilitator. I’m as bad as Jennifer, as mean as Deirdre. We are all a ball of mean and nasty. But what we want is one hundred percent attention and love. We want to be the center of everything. What people deserve is someone who focuses on them and them alone. No other person, no Congo taking up space. Of course everyone has a life, goals, hopes, aspirations that don’t include a partner, a husband, a wife, a significant other, but in the center—up front and center—should be that important person. A lighthouse in the fog of life. Chad laughs at something, and Sasha shushes him. Sighing, I think about Danny, and I know that I should have seen the signs from the beginning. Always, he was looking just past me. I wasn’t the lighthouse. I wasn’t even the fog. I was the shipwrecked survivor on the life raft just out of the glare of the rescue boat light. Danny didn’t save me. He didn’t even see me. And there is no way that Jennifer sees Jeff. If she did, she wouldn’t be up there on the third floor with Brad, doing whatever it was they are doing. Jeff needs . . . . I want to laugh, putting my head in my hands. What am I doing? How do I get off thinking that Jeff is the one? You just don’t know that from such a casual acquaintance as ours, even after one kiss that lasted all of fifteen seconds. Somehow, this double “thing” with Jennifer has spilled over onto her boyfriend, giving me the notion that he’s possible for me. But he can’t be for me on such short notice.

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Jeff, Jennifer. Brad, Deirdre. Mix ups, mismatches, misdeeds. Then there is all this wasted yearning, me for Jeff, Sasha for Sal, Chad for Sasha. What is wrong with everyone? I shake my head, feeling my hair move against my hands. Above me, my fellow spies murmur, sip beer. Baking is so much easier than just about anything else. It makes sense. There are rules to the way ingredients are added, a method that provides a simple clarity. Chemistry is so straightforward. There is an order to it. Sift, mix, add, stir. You know when you do something wrong, and you can always start over. But usually, voila! There is a cake, a rich butter cake, butter and sugar and eggs and milk. It’s clear what will emerge from the oven, and it’s worthwhile, smelling good, tasting good. No deception. No lies. No surprises. Cake, every single time. “There!” Sasha hisses. I look up, stand, stop breathing, wait. We all press back into the doorway, the awning above us casting a shadow that keeps us hidden. There, walking out of the building’s main door is Brad followed by a woman, whose legs we see, then torso, then, yes. It’s Jennifer. She follows him outside, letting the door close behind her. For a second, she is still, watching him. Jennifer seems different than she does in the office, softer, and I realize it’s because her hair is loose, flowing onto her shoulders, down her back, just like mine. Of course, my hair lurches instead of flows, but as she looks at him, I see me. But is that how I look when a man leaves me? Is the yearning in her face the yearning I held in my eyes when Danny got on that plane for the first leg of his trip to Africa? Did I hold myself as she does now, everything in limbo, no answer to whatever it is they are asking

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each other? Was I ever so serious, so focused, so intense? Even from across the street, I can feel Jennifer’s heat and need and want—of Brad, of something. This second is like a spell, a bubble holding them but also holding Sal, Sasha, Chad, and me. We wait in their waiting. Then the moment pops open, and Brad moves toward Jennifer and they embrace, though it’s hard to see if they are kissing, Jennifer’s hair in the way. But the hug is long, Brad’s hands moving up and down her back, one hand resting just about her rear, their bodies pressed together. They don’t speak words loud enough for us to hear. They are giving each other something important, feeling and touch and comfort. While I watch Jennifer’s and Brad’s embrace, I flashback to Jeff’s hands, face, smell, the way he smiled afterward, shy and embarrassed, and confused. Still, I can feel his breath, there, against my face. “Watch,” Sasha hisses. Slowly, they pull away, Brad walking backward for a while, talking to her as he heads for his car. Jennifer tucks her hair behind her ear, nods, and then she turns and walks back inside the building, the door closing behind her. Brad’s car flashes as he presses the opener, and then he is in the driver’s seat, the motor like a road boar, ready to snort and push its way home, fast and dangerous. The air fills with the sound of engine and expensive tires, and then he is gunning down Pierce, turning onto California, and then he is gone. “Wow,” Sasha says. We all seem to agree, even though there wasn’t a huge wow in this. In fact, all of it cold be easily explained in a simple story. But there was wow in how they moved, wow

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in how they parted, wow in the sad way Jennifer tucked her hair behind her ear and walked back inside. It is quiet on the street now, Brad’s car engine roar only a memory. The four of us stare up at the bank of windows across the street, see the shutter slats open and then close, and then the lights turn out. “Let’s blow this pop stand,” Sal says, his voice grim. I look at him, and he’s not smiling, not joking with Sasha. In fact he walks fast ahead of the three of us, all the way to the Cutlass.

“So do you think they are having an affair?” Dez asks. “I mean, not that a nonmarried person can have an affair. That’s called cheating, I guess. But him. He’s having an affair. Or not.” I am sitting on my counter, surrounded by cooling coffee cakes and chocolate chip cookies. Sal just left after I woke him up after the third time he’d fallen asleep at the table. After promising him I wouldn’t be late tomorrow and closing the door behind him, I texted Dez, not wanting to wake her up at 3 in the morning New York time. But apparently, she was sitting on the couch nursing one of the babies and called me right back. “From my observation,” I say, “he’s having an affair and she’s cheating. What else could it be? They’re not in some therapy group up there. No psychologist can down later. They aren’t in some pyramid scheme. No Amway or sex toys or Tupperware or May Kay. Herbalife, maybe?”

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Dez is quiet for a moment, and I hear rustling, a tiny, almost imperceptible sucking sound, and then she’s back with me. “So what are you going to do?” “Do? What can I do?” “Becca, how are you going to be able to look at Jeff tomorrow and not think about this? How could you not say anything?” Looking down at the sweet, deliciousness around me, I know that there is more than what I’m telling Dez now. How will I be able to look at Jeff, not just because of the kiss, but that would be enough. With the Brad situation, I don’t know how I will be able to face Jeff tomorrow or, for that matter, Jennifer. In terms of my daily dealings with Jennifer, I carry a shield, protection, defense. With him, I’m a puddle of water, an open book, a wet rag. I have no defense. I am all about his infrequent touch, his smile, his words. His ocean eyes. That one amazing kiss. If he asked me, I would blurt out, “I love you.” If he asked me, I would say, “She’s wrong for you.” If he asked me, I would say, “She is evil and mean and cold-hearted and a true, one hundred percent bitch.” If he asked me, I would say, “She’s fooling around with Dufus on Thursday nights because of his wife’s Pilates class.” “It’s none of my business,” I say, reaching down and picking up a cooking, biting down right on top of a warm slightly melted chocolate chip. “I barely know either of them.” “She’s your evil twin, your demonic second half. You have a responsibility to save him from yourself.”

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For a second, I consider this, thinking that if I had a sister I might feel that I had to save her hapless boyfriend from her death grip. I’d have to pull her victim out of the deep water. But she’s not my sister. She’s not my twin. She’s just a strange freak of nature. Or I am. One of us is, that’s for sure. I start laughing, lifting the phone from my mouth, laughing. “Dez,” I wheeze. “Dez.” “I am totally serious!” she says loudly. The baby whimpers, and she whispers, “I am serious. You can’t just let this happen. You have to tell him.” In the best of worlds, I would be able to tell Jeff about Jennifer’s clandestine rendezvous with the Dufus, but this isn’t the best of worlds. This is the world I live in right now, one full of mothers with thwarted aims, fathers with too young wives, and other people all around me who manage to fall in love just like that. It’s a world where people like Jennifer get people life Jeff. It’s their problem to deal with. Not mine. “I’d need a lot more proof than one hug. We couldn’t even tell if they were kissing,” I say. “But you saw them in the office!” “I saw them both sad in the office. The last time I checked, being sad did not constitute having an affair.” “The photo! The hand on the knee!” Dez’s voice is getting louder, and I know soon we will have a wail caught in the signal between San Francisco and Manhattan. “The knee could belong to Popeye the Sailor man for all I know,” I say. “This case would fall apart in court. I haven’t complied forensic research on the knee’s identity. I’m not a lawyer but I push a food cart through a law office, for god’s sake.”

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“Get more proof then,” she says. “I don’t need more proof, “ I say. I am the proof, I think. “Dez?” “What?” The words fill my mouth, and I have to tell her. For so long, she’s been my wailing wall, my staff of life, my true blue. I’ve been there for her, too, through it all, but never have either of us had a kiss like this to report to the other. There has never been a cheating, evil, surreptitious kiss, a kissing of someone completely unavailable. “Jeff kissed me,” I say. “I kissed him back.” For a moment, there is nothing. I can picture her in her apartment, a baby or even two in her arms. She’s warm and quiet, Nick asleep in the bedroom. She’s a happily married woman, a woman with a husband who leaves her every day to go out into a world of which she has no control. Anything could happen out there, anything could happen to him. Someone like me could happen to him, and she can’t think about that. “Oh,” she says finally. “Dez? It didn’t last long. It was a mistake. He was embarrassed. I don’t think it will happen again.” “Screw that,” she says. “How can you make it happen again? Becca, this is your big chance.” “It didn’t last long,” I say. “Becca, no man who is happy with his life kisses a woman not his girlfriend or wife. This is where you move in.” “Dez!” “I mean it,” she says.

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“Go to bed,” I say. “Put that baby to bed and get another 40 minutes of sleep before the next one wakes up.” “Call me when you tell him,” she says, hanging up. “Or call me when you kiss him again.” I close my phone and chew the rest of my cookie and look out the window, city lights filling my vision. Downstairs, Sal is sawing logs, maybe dreaming of Sasha, the first inkling of new love. Across town, Chad is dreaming of Sasha, too. Across the world, Danny and his new wife save the Congo, one school building at a time. At the Mark Hopkins, my father and Marcie are whispering to each other, making promises they hope they can keep. In Pacific Heights, Brad sits in his den with a scotch, wondering how to fix his life. Maybe Jeff has shown up at Jennifer’s, and he sleeps next to her as she stares at the ceiling wondering what to do. Or she sleeps like a baby, not worrying about anything. And here I am, eating a cookie. Here I am alone, eating a cookie. I put down the last, uneaten bite of the cookie, get off the counter, walk to the light switch and turn it off.

Today, Sal had to make a freezer run and buy some cutlery and napkins, so I’m taking MUNI to Winston. In my lap are grocery store bags full of fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee cake, Sal taking the rest for maiden voyage at Madison, Ivory, and Yang. The cinnamon and sugar and yeast waft up and out of the bag, and when I look up, I see that

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the entire busload of commuters and students is staring at me. Some people are even licking their lips. Smiling a little, I look down at the bags. How will I commence my spy program? And should I even try? Whose business is it anyway? I know I have the perfect excuse to wander throughout the office, but should I? And what am I looking for? The main point is this: Jeff is not mine. Not mine to save. But in all my thinking, there’s a thought bigger than any other, and that thought is: How can I get another kiss? How? When? Where? Then I move back into the more doable and reasonable thoughts. The one thing I’ve learned in this life is that you can’t save anyone, especially if you haven’t been able to save yourself. Maybe I used to try to get my mother to change jobs, move out of Monte Veda, live a little. But the hours and hours of discussion have led nowhere. The truth is, I bet she feels the same way about me. Dez, I fear, would concur. When the bus reaches Market and Second, I pull myself and my bags up, step out of the bus, and onto the sidewalk, walking toward the plaza and the revolving front door. Next to the door, Hallelujah Jones and Vick stand, holding their dirty cups, full of quarters, at least I hope they are quarters and not pennies. I wave, and they wave back. “How you doing, sweetheart?” Vick cries. “Great,” I say, lying. “I’ll be down later.” Vick salutes me, and I spin into the revolving doors.

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Upstairs, Sal has already begun loading up the carts. He looks up as I walk into the workroom, and he smiles at me in the way I’ve recognized as my smile, the way he looks at me. Something prickles around my heart, but then I put down my bags. “I left the extras in the back seat of the car. It’s not hot today, so we will have plenty for Winston.” “Okay,” I say. Sal nods, and I remember the hardest task of the morning—figuring out his paycheck. Eric and I agreed on a number, and Sal is basically getting half of it. Jeff’s offer came just in the knick of time. I hand his the paycheck, and he nods again. “Thank you kindly, doll.” “Sal,” I say, “you’ve been a lifesaver. There is no way I could have done this without you.” “Please save the Oscar acceptance speech until we are sure you don’t go bankrupt,” he says. “Okay, I promise not to forget you when the Academy awards me that honor,” I say. “But really, Sal, I mean it.” Sal doesn’t seem to think I don’t mean it. He unpacks napkins, forks, spoons. “I am one lucky man. I am beyond lucky. I am truly blessed.” “Are you having a religious conversion?” I ask, smiling. “Don’t you know that’s a private thing?” “Conversion? Not at all. It’s about rules. My theory is this,” he says. “If you follow your gut, things work out.” He looks at me, expectant, but I’m not sure what to say. I wait for more.

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“That’s it?” “You were my lucky penny. I knew it when you moved in. I can still see that day. You were standing there with a lamp in each hand, and I thought, She’s got an answer I need.” I cross my arms and stare at him. “Me? I made you think that? What could I possibly know that you don’t? I’m not the one who’s heard everything to be hand in taxis and bars.” “I’m not sure, doll, but here we are. We are moving toward something, that’s all I can say. I can feel it in my gut.” There are certain people I will never forget meeting, that first glance a moving memory, sort of like a video file on an email attachment, a short youtube.com film. Dez, sitting by the kickball game in fourth grade, her perfect knees warmed by sun. Danny, turning to look at me at the N-Judah MUNI station, his hair blowing up around his head, his lips red, his eyes so dark, so brown. Sal, sitting there in front of the building, smiling at me, his tooth shining. And Jeff, turning to look at me, his eyes staying with me, with me, with me. All these people, lucky pennies. Sal was right. “Well, okay,” I say. “I’ll be your lucky penny. No one cent charge. But now—“ “Yeah, I know. Get to work.”

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September 12, 2008 Day 10

Recipe: Chocolate Chippers

At first you will pretend these are not like chocolate chip cookies. Firstly, the dough doesn’t taste quite as delicious, full of cocoa powder that makes it a tad bitter and slightly grainy. Also, the dough is stickier, harder to manage. So you won’t be eating great globs of dough with a tablespoon or licking your fingers. You won’t take the bowl of dough and go sit in front of the television with a spoon in hand. You’ll be able to take the high road, think yourself virtuous. But give it up, sister. These cookies rock. They come out of the oven dripping chocolate, melty and chewy with oatmeal (don’t let that health food fool you). You will eat a full batch before the next come out of the oven. Give it up. Delve in. Let go.

Brad is not in his office. Behind me, I hear only silence in the hallway and reception area, a number of people in a meeting. I pull the cart into his office and look around. I’ve never paid much attention to Brad’s office, wanting mostly to get the hell out of there. He seems fine, really, but I feel as repelled by him as I am attracted to Jeff. Sort of a continuum of men.

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His office is big, the huge window looking out toward office buildings, slate grey sky, fog pushing toward the bay. The furniture is sleek, wooden, smooth, Brad important at Winston, Janszen, and LeGuin, someone who matters enough to get the good stuff, furniture with heft and weight. Walking toward the large desk, I glance at the photos on the front. There is Brad, his arm around a woman (probably Deirdre), her eyes blue and wide, her hair long, blonde and sleek. She’s not just pretty, she’s beautiful, skin smooth and tanned. She doesn’t look mean and horrible, as Sasha said. Just beautiful, open to the camera. While I want to think of Jennifer as pretty because how I judge her is how I judge myself, I can’t even say that the two women are in the same league. It’s like Giselle Bundchen in a Victoria Secret bra and panty set standing by Sally Field, a young Gidget, Flying Nun kind of Sally Field. Cute and perky and nice but Sally Field nonetheless. Next to the photo of his wife is a photo of two boys, blond like their mother, wiry, smiley, happy. They sit on Brad’s lap, clearly in mid-squirm when the photo was taken. A father and a husband. And a cheater. A man having an affair. Ad-ul-ter-er. Where does the word adult fit into that? Infidelity. Fooling around. Stepping out. But you don’t know that, I thought. You have no proof. You could be inventing this whole thing. Taking in a breath, I turn to look behind me. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of laughter. I walk around to the front of the desk, staring at the top as if Brad would have left a note: Gone to screw Jennifer. Back in ten.

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Staring at the door, I grab the pull of the top drawer and quietly slide it open. Pens. Staples. Paper clips. I close it, the metal in the drawer rattling along with the pounding of my heart. What are you doing? I think. You will get caught. It will be like the stupid movie when the stupid heroine does everything wrong, gets caught, ends up with duct take on her mouth and strapped to a wooden chair. I hate that movie. I want scream at the screen at that point, yelling “Get the hell out of there. Now!” Why are the plots so ridiculous? When I’m watching that movie at home, I walk into the kitchen and get a bowl of cereal, only willing to listen to the stupidity because I can’t bear to watch it. In that movie Tom Cruise or Wesley Snipes or Harrison Ford or Russell Crowe comes in to save our hapless heroine. But sometimes, it’s too late. Sometimes, she’s toast. But I can’t stop myself, and I reach for the second pull, slide the second drawer open, and I see the reflection, the glint of metal, the small square of a condom wrapper, condom safely nestled inside. My heart starts to beat fast, my hands tingle. Sure, I’ve seen these before, but only in places I’d expect: bedrooms, maybe in wallets or jeans pockets. Mostly, I don’t see condoms very often, souvenirs for trips I don’t take. Mostly, I don’t see them at all. But here they are in Brad’s drawer. Condoms? At work? I close the drawer and look up, just in time to see Brad round the corner and come in the office. I have an excuse right on my tongue. I am about to blurt out that I wanted to see his photos. What a lovely wife, I am prepared to say. But Brad is hungry and not paying attention to where I am positioned. After all, he’s a Dufus.

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“Wow, are these home made cinnamon rolls?” he says. Moving fast, slickly, so fake, the plot in the movie now all about cover up, I walk to the cart. “Yes,” I say, picking one up with a napkin. “I made them late last night.” Brad smiles, take the roll, but then he looks up, cocks his head, his eyes narrowed. I swallow, push out, “Your kids are adorable! I saw the photo on your desk. How old are they? What are their names?” And then I make some kind of mistake, some kind of error. Did I stand up straight for a change? Did I put my hands on my hips, tilt my head, and look nasty for a split second? Did my hair suddenly seem smooth and silky and highly conditioned? Did I give him a look that only Jennifer’s and my faces can make, something about the bone structure, our lips, our eyes? I don’t know but I realize that Brad hasn’t stopped watching me. In these few seconds, I’ve reminded him of something else, connections firing in his brain so clearly I can almost see them. He knows what I’ve seen, saw me opening his drawer, heard the scratch of the condom wrapper as it slid along the drawer bottom. “My god,” he says quietly, his face going slightly pale. I stare, not wanting to say another word. “It’s—unbelievable.” Still I stay quiet, wanting to get out of his office. But Brad is staring at my hair, my face, his eyes following my profile so closely I can almost feel it. I reach up to smooth my hair, and then stop, putting my hand back down at my side. I flush, blush, wonder what to do. This isn’t about the condoms. Thank god.

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“Well, glad you like the cinnamon roll,” I say, moving toward the cart’s handle, grabbing it, pushing slightly. “See you later.” “Wait.” He grabs my arm and not as gently as he might. “What is it?” I ask. “I wasn’t . . I didn’t . . . I won’t . . . “ But Brad isn’t paying attention to my words at all, his eyes on my face. “You two look—I mean, have you noticed before?” He stands before me. “It’s . . . weird.” I laugh lightly, pull my arm away from his grasp. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. What a coincidence, huh? Okay then . . . “ “You know?” Shrugging, I move away, pushing the cart out the door. “Yeah. Small world.” “This isn’t some kind of trick,” he asks, and I look back at him. He’s standing with a cinnamon roll in his hand, fear on his face. Why would this situation make him afraid? What has Jennifer done to him? “No amazing trick,” I say. “A freak of nature. That’s all They say that everyone has a double. It’s only a matter of time before you meet..” Brad walks around me, sizing me up, looking at places he must know intimately on Jennifer. I cross my arms over my chest, turn a little, wishing I could disappear. “But you both end up here? How weird is that?” “It’s not a big deal. I mean, so what?” I say all of this calmly, but inside I’m as crackly as the condom wrapper, wanting to get out of this office. In fact, I want to go home. I want to forget about everything. I don’t need this job. I don’t need to find out anything about Brad or Jennifer. Jeff and I have only kissed once, and he probably has already forgotten about it. No harm, no foul. So I can go. I don’t want to work with

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someone who looks enough like me that it scares people. I can end this right now. Make it stop. And then Brad stops circling me like a hawk, shrugs, smiles, lifts the cinnamon roll to his mouth and takes a bite. As he chews, I walk away, down the hall, sweat pooling under my breasts. Maybe in all the sugar haze, he’s forgotten I was standing in front of his desk and that I look like Jennifer. Before I can abandon my cart, Neil waves me in his office, takes a whole grain muffin, adding it to the pile of wholesome food on his desk: a bottle of carrot juice, a banana, two prunes. “You are a regular guy,” I say. “That’s my goal.” Neil winks at me, and I move on, marking my sales as I walk toward Jennifer’s office. Something pulls at my mind, and I start to laugh, even though nothing seems very funny. What would I find in her drawer? A diaphragm? A vibrator? A pair of crotchless panties? A lace bra? The laughter takes over, settles in my lungs, my eyes watering. I lean against the wall, letting the feeling rush through me. Two associates walk by, and I pretend to cough, hacking into my cupped palms, knowing that I’ve likely blown those sales, both of them imagining I’m coming down with a horrifying cold or the plague. But once they pass by, I start laughing again. I have the laughter that Dez used to give me in school, wiggling her eyebrows at me when Mr. McClenahan tried to teach us prealgebra. When we were sitting in the dark watching videos about water buffalo. The kind of laughter that hits at the wrong time for the wrong reason, like in church or at a wedding or in a big meeting. The kind of laughter that doesn’t want to end.

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It is all so silly. Nothing, nothing, nothing makes sense. I snort, wipe my eyes, fall back against the wall again. Finding my breath, I take in a deep one, and then two. No new spasms, paroxysm, and I stand. Okay. Back to work. If you can call looking for sex toys work, the Dez in my mind says to me. Giggling, I keep moving, hope she will shut up. Jennifer is not in her office, and I wonder if the empty office thing is a conspiracy, a temptation, a lure. They want to catch me in the act. Or it’s a sign for me to leave. I hover just outside her office, looking down either side of the hallway. No Jennifer. I leave my cart in the hallway, and walk into her office quickly, looking around, trying to find something, as if she would leave me a clue right out there on the desk or table or floor. As if there would be an Alice in Wonderland moment, something with a tag on it, reading Look at me! Read me! Open me! But there isn’t anything out of place, nothing that would work in the Clue game Dez and I liked to play when we were little and that I still think about now when I contemplate candlesticks. On top of her desk are the things on top of most desks, envelopes and papers and pencils. A pile of memos. A stack of file folders, all neatly labeled Romblen, Fizer, Carey. A desktop computer, a keyboard, one large manila envelope with the return address of Haas Business School, something I might not expect but not worth looking into further. I’m about to walk out the door, when I notice the other photos on Jennifer’s desk. Of course, there’s the one of Jeff and the strange knee. For a second, I stare into his beautiful photographic eyes, imagining how they looked yesterday as he kissed me.

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During one of the 15 seconds, I opened mine, and he was looking at me, too, both of kissing and looking and then closing our eyes and enjoying the feel of each other again. But then I see another photo, of a woman, a woman with short graying hair and glasses, smiling into the camera. A woman about fifty. I step closer, my heart wild against my ribs, the office air a roar around me. I think I’m losing my mind for a second. The woman looks at me from the frame. She is smiling, wearing a greenish sweater, her glasses in a shiny tortoise shell frame. I know this face better than I know my own. The woman is—the woman is my mother. My mother. Everything stops in that second. This is too weird, a double parallel universe. Two of everything. I lean forward, pick up the photo and stare. It’s my mother all right. Except —except—she’s not really my mother. She’s not my mother. Not at all. She’s the mother of a woman who looks like me, and her coloring is similar to Carla’s, her face lined with probably the same amount of time. From a distance, she could be my mother, but Carla a very geometric hairstyle she never had, and her hair is a shade lighter. Or two shades. And her eyes are much more heavily made up and a little bit smaller. A different shape altogether. Probably she’s squinting at the flash. And my mother ever had a mole of the corner of her mouth like this mother does. This is no evidence of a twisted doppelganger story, but the story of two daughters, daughters with mothers who care and complain and rule the roost. Who need help, too, with this business of living. I put the photo down, almost laughing at myself. I never had siblings, never had to fight over who got her attention, but now I have a stab of that reality. She’s mine. All my life, she’s the one person who was mine. My father never belonged to me. Danny

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certainly didn’t. Dez was simply on loan. Jeff isn’t even a consideration. But Carla, my mother, with all her nagging and pestering and judgment was the one person who I could claim. The tiny thought that I’d had to share her even in an imaginary world upset me, and more amazing is the relief and thankfulness I feel now. “What in the hell are you doing?” My muscles and bones try to jump out over my skin. I crack rattle the photo back down onto her desk and look up, searching for sentences to throw out to Jennifer, who stands arms akimbo in front of me. Oh, Jeff told me you had a lovely mother. Jeff told me about your sailboat trips. Your phone was ringing. I saw a cockroach. I’m looking for sex toys. But there is nothing to do but act dumb. “Nice photo of your mom?” I hold out the photo, feeling the shake in my arm, my hand, my face. Jennifer pushes past my cart and storms into the room. “There is absolutely no reason for you to be one inch inside my office. In fact, I’m going to have to call Eric and get you removed from this office completely. I work with highly sensitive material for important clients and anyone who is anyone knows you don’t walk into an office and touch anything on a desk.” Jennifer grabs the photo from me, and I stumble backward a bit. “I didn’t see anything,” I say, knowing that last night, I pretty much saw everything.

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Turning, Jennifer seems to glare, to almost bare her teeth, something animal in her response, something vicious. “Why are you in here?” “I—I’ve been in here before, you know,” I say, knowing that if I told Jennifer how and why I’d been in her, I’d be on the floor, bloodied about the mouth and nose. “Jeff brought me in to talk about . . . about working at his firm.” My words are like falling leaves, brittle and fragile, cracking as they come out of my mouth. “Your mom reminds me of my mom.” Jennifer makes a dismissive sound and then stares at me, her brown eyes blazing, her face flushed. And then, as she fumes, I see that something else is happening to her. It’s the look I’ve seen in Chester’s face. In Jeff’s. In Sasha’s and Brad’s. Maybe even in my own, the way I’ve caught myself gazing at my reflection these days, trying to see what everyone else seems to be able to. We are similar. We somehow compare. Maybe, we are in competition. And then there is something else, a glimmer of—of jealousy. Of anger. But then all those emotions are gone, the brief, insane notion that we are somehow the same flicked behind her the way she’d push her hair behind her shoulders. “Leave my office,” she says. “I just,” I begin, wanting to say something that matters. But, really, maybe none of this does. How could anything that has taken only a week to manifest mean anything in a whole life. So much happened to both Jennifer and me to get us to this conversation in her office. How could one kiss change the course of anything?

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I have nothing more to say, and I turn, start toward the door. Sighing, Jennifer walks around to her chair, shakes her head, laughs. “You know, all my life people have wanted what I have. Who wouldn’t, really? I suppose I shouldn’t blame them. Blame you.” She stops talking, her eyes level, evil, mean on mine. “I don’t—“ “Do we have to go over this again? Do I have to show you what you look like when you are around Jeff,” she asks. “Oh, please, let me recapitulate for you.” And right there in front of me, Jennifer becomes, well, me. She slumps slightly, her eyes open wider, she smiles, almost looking like she means it. Her hair—loose today— falls forward, and she twirls a loose strand with an index finger. “You think you could ask your office if they would like my baked goods?” she says in a lighter voice, a softer voice. My voice. “Oh, that would be so wonderful. You are wonderful, I mean. Really, Jeff, you are too much. Such a nice guy. A perfect guy. The most perfect guy on the planet.” “It didn’t happen that way,” I say in the same tone that she used to mimic me. “It didn’t,” I say again, more air and power in my words. “Please,” she says, putting up a hand. “Pathetic.” “You might think everyone wants what you have,” I say. “But I don’t.” Jennifer rolls her eyes again. “Okay, fine. He is amazing. You are lucky to have him. Anyone would be. Anyone on this planet. But he’s not leaving you for me. And no one—including me—has asked him to. He is true blue. He is loyal to you.”

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Except for one kiss, I think. Just one tiny kiss. That last he was one he too many. Jennifer starts, puts her hands back on her hips. Before she can say anything to me, I plunge forward. “But to think that anyone wants your life? What you have? I don’t want your life. None of what you have. You are deluded. People don’t even want to be near you. Why Jeff does is a mystery. Why anyone would is a mystery.” Before she can tell me to leave again, I turn, feeling her arrows flying at me from her every pore. “I’m going to tell Eric—“ she begins. “Tell Eric what you want,” I say, slowing and turning back. “I am not afraid of you. I’m not the one who has done anything wrong. I’m not the one who is lying.” I feel the words infiltrate me, seep into every part of my body. I am not afraid of her. Why should I be? What can she do to me that I can’t fix for myself? She’s a bully having an affair with a dufus. She’s too silly to see what she has right in front of her. This time, I don’t run around. This time, I keep pushing the cart, moving away from her, feeling her gaze as I roll away. But something weird starts to happen as I head for the back row of offices. With all that happened in that office with her, with Jeff, I know that I should be afraid or confused or worried. Probably, I should run to find Sal and pull him out of here, Jeff’s office our only job at this point. But I don’t feel any of that. For the first time since Jennifer Regan clomped into my life, I am not afraid of her voice, her words, or her face. Not even the idea of her akimbo stance scares me.

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Slowing the cart, leaning on the handle, I know something worse has happened. I don’t know how or why, but here it is: I feel sorry for her. Worse yet: I think I’m going to have to help her. “You are such an idiot,” Dez would say. And she would be right. “Take the boyfriend and run,” Dez would say. Despite the sad fact that I don’t have the skills to do that feat, she would be right as well. But even though Jennifer is cheating on a wonderful man, even though I want that wonderful man, I have to help her. Somehow, she’s the sister of my skin, the sister I couldn’t and don’t have, never had. In a weird twist of time and fate, we are in this world together in the wrong way. No matter how I look at it, helping her is the right thing to do. Stupid but right. “Get a move on doll,” Sal says, coming up behind me. “We have to high tail it out of here and get to Jeff’s office, yadda, yadda, and yadda.” I nod. “Okay.” He sidles up beside me, our carts banging. “Still sleuthing? Can’t give up on this useless story?” “Maybe,” I say. “But—“ “Any clues? Any ideas about our two lovebirds? Any slimy artifacts of their illegal desire?” I picture the condoms twinkling and crackling in Brad’s drawer.

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“Not really,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.” “Bummer,” Sal says. “Maybe next time.” “Maybe,” I say. “Let’s go.” Sal pulls his cart, turns, and heads down the hallway. I do the same, following him, wondering where I am going now and how I will get there.

The sweeping palatial offices of Madison, Ivory, and Yang are bigger than Winston, Janszen, and LeGuin, slick and chrome and spacious, all the windows overlooking the bay, the light pouring through so crisp, so light, the law almost seems elegant and true and regal, words I never use about lawyers or lawsuits. “Becca,” Jeff says as he walks toward me. And I wish—I truly, absolutely wish—that I did not have the bodily reaction that I have with him. Who needs the quick breathing, the roiling stomach, the pinpricks of nerves on my chest? I’m sure other parts are doing their best to catch up, and I try to breathe those symptoms away. It’s stupid, pointless, and without any logical merit. He is not mine, and he never will be. He kissed me once and never will again. But, regardless, here comes the thrum in my chest, the timpani of ridiculous fiddlers and xylophones and church bells in my sternum. The ache in my jaw, the shivers in my hamstrings, the wobble of my knees. As he walks toward me, he smiles, his face lighting up like—like someone who wants to see me. His gait is confident, strong, solid, a man who lives on this planet, who feels sure of himself, who likes the direction he’s going in.

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I am an idiot, idiot, idiot. “Jeff,” I say. “This is an amazing office.” “Sweet,” Sal says, sticking out his hand, which Jeff shakes. Sal’s further metamorphosis from bouncer to food industry tycoon includes a white button down shirt under his apron. I wonder who is giving him the dressing trips, and I watch him act the business man, standing straight, his hair not quite so gelled, but curly, dark, and, well, nice. “We’ve got the best view in town,” Jeff says “But let me show you where we’ve put your cart and where you can set up every day. I know you want to get comfortable with this. And I need to introduce you to Dahlia.” The three of us walk down the hall toward a bank of desks, and as we approach a woman with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes that laser over her short cubicle wall. As we approach, Dahlia’s eyes narrow, and I almost think I can see her sitting up taller in her chair. Her chin lifts, and then she stands, keeping her eyes on me the entire time. There is a story here, too, and I wonder how anyone gets anything done in any office across America. “Dahlia,” Jeff says as we all stand in front of her desk. “This is Becca Muchmore and Sal Souza. They are from Becca’s Best.” Dahlia looks at Jeff, and I can see the wonder, amazement, and disbelief pass over her face. Who, she must be imagining, are we letting into the office? Or maybe she is seeing my shadow, my alter-ego. Jennifer. If she has nay brains, she doesn’t like Jennifer, either, so I’m going to have to work hard at proving myself to her. She blinks, looks at me, and then at Sal.

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“Hello,” she says, her words slow, giving space, I imagine, for some punch line she expects Jeff to deliver. But Jeff keeps talking, asking her for a key to the office staff room for us. He talks about delivery times and accounting and weekly payments, and Dahlia nods, but she doesn’t stop giving me the laser eye. Her eyes are so blue they are almost white, so blue they can cut all the crap in an office or anywhere. I’m grateful she didn’t go into teaching, didn’t teach anything in high school or I would have never graduated. “All right,” Dahlia says, and when I smile at her, she suddenly looks different, smiles back at me, relaxes. It’s the Chester-effect, the thing that happens when people realize I am not Jennifer Regan trying to sneak up on them with an ice pick or an axe. It’s like she had up her force field to protect herself—no, to protect Jeff. “Nice to meet you,” Sal says, shaking her hand again. I nod, and Dahlia sits back down, her eyes still on my but softer now, kinder, less intense. “I’m looking forward to some treats,” she says. “Jeff says you are quite the baker, and I trust him completely.” “Then Becca is the answer,” Jeff says. “Just wait for her poppy seed muffins.” “Come on.” Jeff leads us down another hallway, and I look at Sal, feeling a little nervous about having to quickly meet fifty new people, finishing up here in time to get back to Winston. As we walk, he takes my hand, his skin warm and dry, his grip steady “It’s gonna be good,” he whispers. “That I can promise you.” I’m not really sure what he is talking about, but I want to agree. I want to be as positive as Sal, as hopeful. I want to believe that he’s right and knows something that I do not. How nice it would be to just relax into someone else’s idea for a while, float

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around the lake of Sal’s good feeling for a month of Sundays. How nice to relax into a space that does not involve anything that isn’t good. “As they say, doll,” Sal whispers again. “It’s a piece of cake.” Chocolate cake, I think. I want the cake to be chocolate.

Sal is washing up in the Madison restroom, and I’m in the office staff room packing up what we didn’t manage to sell. But there isn’t much at all, and I’m glad we spent much of last night baking. It would be good and bad news to not have much left at the end of the day, though I was hoping to have a cinnamon roll for both Vick and Hallelujah Jones. “You were a smash,” Jeff says, and I jump, dropping a handful of plastic forks. “Sorry,” he says, bending down to pick them up. As I look at his smooth, dark hair, it’s all I can do from touching it. “Don’t be,” I say, kneeling down to help him and to keep myself from molesting him. “I’m a nutbar.” We stand, Jeff handing me the saved forks, his fingers touching mine, and I remember, again, our kiss, the way his hand moved from my elbow to my upper arm, to my shoulder. The way he moved closer to me, enough so that I could feel his body—all long, strong, lean limbs—against mine. I pull away, stand up straighter, find a ragged breath in my throat. “I wouldn’t ever call you a nutbar.”

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Without warning, I blush. I’m pathetic. Turning back to my cart, I try to keep my embarrassment out of my voice. “It seemed to go really well. We pretty much sold everything. I’ve even been given requests. Brownies. Brownies are on the ticket for Monday.” “I’ll say,” Jeff says. “Arun was lobbying Michael for his cinnamon roll. War might break out at any moment over sugar.” I turn back to Jeff, confident my face is back to its usual color. “Well, I hate to say this, but I need to keep them fighting. I need for there to be daily skirmishes over chocolate and spice” Jeff shakes his head, smiles. He has a way of moving that reminds me of an animal, something competent, confident, sure. Some kind of African cat. Nothing in his body isn’t connected, all parts moving in concert. Where I usually feel like pieces are missing or out of order, Jeff is in perfect working order, a factory model, a floor display human. “It’s so amazing that you just showed up that day at Winston. You’re just what we’ve been needing here.” In my fantasy-addled brain, I want him to say You’re just who I’ve been waiting for. You Becca. You. “I wish everyone felt that way,” I say, wishing as soon as I said it that I hadn’t. He doesn’t know about the condoms or Brad’s dash out of Jennifer’s apartment last night. And he doesn’t need to. There is a pause, a brief blip of silence, and then Jeff says, “You mean Jennifer.” I nod. “She’s just very business-like.”

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“Some people say that,” Jeff says. “And others say much worse things. Don’t think I don’t know what they say. But . . . “ “But what?” Jeff sighs, runs a hand through his hair, looks up at me. “There’s something in her. Inside, she is so beautiful. Outside, too, of course. But there is something I can see that comes out once in a while. I’m not sure she even understands who she is. Who she could be. Who she is inside.” If he feels this way, why is he kissing me in her office? How it can be that a man like Jeff is willing to take only brief moments of happiness in order to see flashes of beauty when he could have someone who was constant, a moon, a sun. All that waiting seemed like looking up in the night sky for hours just to see that one shooting star. “Is that enough?” I blurt out, wishing I could pull the words back, knowing that I shouldn’t make him feel worse, knowing I am supposed to help Jennifer. “I mean, isn’t it hard waiting for that ‘thing’ to come out?” Without wanting to, I think of the movie Alien and the creature that popped out of the man’s chest. If anything, that’s what I’d expect from Jennifer, her fang-toothed true self to emerge. But that isn’t fair or true. I know what Jeff is talking about. Maybe I’ve even seen a second of her inner person, saw it in her eyes when she held her mother’s photo. “Sometimes,” he says. “But we’ve had adventures. And like everyone, we’ve had our ups and downs. And inside, I know she means well. And she doesn’t treat me—“ “The way she treats the rest of us.” Jeff shrugs. “Right. Exactly. And somehow, I think I’m good for her.”

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“How,” I say, finding the air to do it. “How could you be with someone who is so horrible to people? It’s not—it’s not you.” Jeff looks down at his hands and then at me. “I know. And with you, I feel something other, something else.” I feel a Dez moment coming over me. I want to take him by his well defined shoulders and shake him, hard. I want to tell him that he shouldn’t have to wait for her kindness like a tourist standing around for a geyser that goes off once a day. But then I realize that I could be talking to myself. I’ve been waiting for everyone forever. How long have I been waiting for another Danny-like experience? And in those months with Danny, how long did I wait for him to turn to me and tell me that he loved me? I would have sat across from him at a table for weeks, months, maybe years if I’d known it was coming. I wouldn’t have needed to eat or shower or sleep. I would have waited a lifetime for the words to emerge. But they never did. So I don’t say anything to Jeff. Instead, I nod and keep packing up, trying to be Zen and rid myself of desire, even as his arm brushes mine as he helps me. How easy it would be to turn just slightly, let our arms, our shoulders touch, our bodies. How easy to reach up, stand on tip toe, and kiss him, again. But neither of us do anything that’s not proper or expected. It’s all for the best anyway. I know that. I should help Jennifer. I can. “Thanks for everything, Jeff,” I say. I fold the top of the bag and turn to him. “I think this is going to work out here.” And there is his smile, the one I want to fling myself into and drown in. “Let’s hope everything works out,” he says. “Everything.”

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As Sal gets the car, I walk over to Hallelujah Jones and Vick near the garbage can, opening the bag of leftovers as I do. They are alone today, none of their friends hanging with them, and I’m glad because Winston cleaned me out or the most decadent treats. “Guys, it was a busy day,” I say. “Only the healthy stuff is left. Pumpkin and whole grain.” “Damn, girl,” Vick says. “What about that de-licious coffee cake?” “Sorry,” I say, thinking about how the lawyers at Madison ate up more than I expected. “I need to go home and plan a giant baking festival for Sunday. I know there will be something better for you on Monday.” I put the bag down, and Hallelujah and Vick dig in, liking the time to think or not think, the day, the week, the past two weeks moving through my head like static. I look up, watch the cars pass by, police cars whizzing by, tires a whoosh of hurried rubber. Usually, I leave the men to their eating, but it’s quiet today, the sun warmed bricks shooting out heat. Suddenly, I’m so tired I could sleep for a lifetime, and I lean against the wall, keeping my eyes open only in order to see Sal. “So how was your day?” Vick asks. “Did you survive?” “Hard to say. I ended up talking to myself.” I laugh, knowing that neither of these men really could understand that I meant literally. That is, if they could believe that Jennifer and I are the same. Which we aren’t and are at the same time. “Damn,” Vick says. “That’s not a good sign.”

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Hallelujah shakes his head, takes a bite of muffin, his voice muffled by wheat. “You know what they do to us when we do that. Tell us to get back on our meds and cart us over to County.” “No, you’re right. Probably not a good sign,” I say. “I better knock it off.” “What did you tell yourself?” Vick asks. “I told myself I wasn’t afraid of myself,” I say, cracking up again at what I was actually articulating. “I told myself to leave me alone.” “Listen,” Vick says. “If you have the very good fortune of meeting yourself, you need to pay attention. You don’t want to get farther away from yourself but closer. You have no idea what you will say next.” “I’m kind of a pain in the ass,” I say. “No one wants to get closer to me.” Hallelujah nods, and from around the corner, I hear the Cutlass rumble. Vick holds up his muffin free hand. “That’s the mistake. People run away from the dark side. You’ve got to go in, get closer. You’ve got to be the dark side to understand it.” “Damn,” Hallelujah says. “Didn’t you ever see Star Wars?” Both the men laugh, and the Cutlass murmurs at the corner. Sal taps the horn, and I sigh. “I’ll take all of this under advisement,” I say. “Damn,” Hallelujah says. “You are starting to sound just like them upstairs. Pretty soon it will be Winston, Janszen, LeGuin, and what’s your name?” “Muchmore.” “Winston, Janszen, LeGuin, and Muchmore.”

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“Sounds like an ad for Christmas,” Vick says, and the two of them laugh. “You are their Christmas present,” Hallelujah says. “No, man, she’s our present,” Vick says. “Thanks for the grub, girl.” I smile, turn into the sunlight, and walk toward Sal’s car. I know once I sit down on that warm slick leather seat, I will fall asleep. Maybe if I’m lucky, Sal won’t mention Brad or Jennifer of Jeff. Maybe he will simply listen to the radio and beat out a rhythm on the dashboard. Maybe I will sleep all the way home and when I wake up, I’ll find out that some of this has been a dream. No affairs. No doubles. And maybe no Jeff. Just brownies, cinnamon rolls, and coffee cake, the only things I truly understand.

When I open the door, I’m sure that I see Sal, or at least the top of his head as he disappears down the stairs. He’s there, he’s not, but then I realize that the only person I can see is Jeff. “Um,” I say. “I think that’s your favorite new word,” Jeff says. “It isn’t a great sound, and no matter what you put in front of it doesn’t make it better. Bum. Slum. Mum.” “Rum isn’t bad,” I say, trying to be funny while all my insides seem to shake. “Dumb.” “There’s a b on that one.” “Silent,” Jeff says. “The way I can’t be any more.” Something kind of rankles through me, a laugh maybe, a snort, but it’s gone in a second. I open the door, and Jeff walks into my apartment.

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“Have you lived here very long?” he asks, and I almost cringe, imagining what he thinks of my simple, cheap Ikea furnishings. “I moved here after I graduated. It’s not great,” I say. “But the good news is that the oven holds its temperature.” “I—“ he says. “What—?“ I say. Then both of us say nothing, staring at each other until I look away. “Can we sit?” Jeff says, taking off his jacket. “I need to talk to you.” At his words, the red balloon of happiness that a sad little clown inside me was blowing up began to deflate. Jeff is here to let me down, tell me it can’t go on, whatever it is. He’s seen the error of his ways, told Jennifer everything, and they are both quitting their jobs and moving to Brazil to work with the indigenous peoples. I nod, and we sit on my couch, and I try not to notice Jeff struggling to get comfortable. If Becca’s Best goes big time, I vow, I will buy another couch. We don’t talk for a moment, and then Jeff brings a hand to my shoulder, squeezing me lightly. He’s warm, and I relax under his touch. Slowly, his hand moves up to my neck, and I can feel my heart rate zing high, my skin prickle with goose flesh. “There’s a lot going on in my life,” Jeff says. “I know,” I say, my words rapid fire and too fast. “It’s okay—“ “Becca,” he says. “Wait. I’m busy, yes. I have things to figure out. And one of them is you.” I’m about to ask him a hundred questions, but then his finger is on my lips, pressing away my words. I close my eyes, wanting all the questions and confusion to go away,

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but what goes away is his finger and what replaces his finger are his lips. Soft, pressing mine, his lips seem to be doing the talking he was unable to. I pull Jeff close, and he leans over me. For the first time since I met him, I have what I’ve only really been able to imagine. His taste, his smell, his just so amazing body right here, next to me. “We really—it’s not,” I say. “It will be. I promise,” he says. I hope he’s right. There is a very particular type of bad karma involved with the seduction of someone else’s boyfriend. There’s a level of hell reserved for “poachers,” as Sal called it. And I promised myself that I would help her out. “Stop thinking,” he says. His hands are on my back, my neck, and then behind my head. This feels like a kiss that could be on screen because it must look as good as it feels. “Becca,” Jeff whispers in my ear. “Yes,” I say. “I want this,” he says, and again, I feel something sort of weird, that desire to snort. This snorting this is not what I want right now, so I push it away because I agree with him. Yes. Want. This. For minutes, we kiss, touch, hold. He moves me so that I am lying on the couch under him and the shuffling of clothing begins. Since I am wearing only a t-shirt and sweat pants, this disrobing isn’t an issue for me, his hands skirting under my t-shirt, moving up over my ribs, onto my breasts. I inhale, but then almost wince because his belt buckle is grinding into my hip bone.

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“Sorry,” he says, sitting up and taking it off, the whoosh of the leather through the belt loops exhilarating. Jeff lies back down on top of me, and I put my arms around him, feeling him again, his muscles, his body worked out to the point of being a physiology exam for the sight impaired: trapezius, rhomboids, obliques, quadriceps. Everything right under my fingertips. Then, his two hands running up my ribs, he pushes my t-shirt over my head. The edge of the neck catches on my chin, but I close my eyes, and then it’s off. I wish I’d turned off the lights, but he’s looking at me, his eyes still the ocean I can’t afford to swim in. Maybe now, however, I can stick my foot in, test the waters. “You are beautiful,” he says, and he begins to unbutton his shirt, slipping it off, lying back down on top of me. I force myself to stop thinking, just as Jeff told me to. To let the touching take over. I let my hands learn him. But I’m not quite comfortable, and it’s not that I’m feeling guilty about Jennifer—though I should. “Becca,” he whispers again, and I feel his mouth on my breasts, my nipples, and no matter how I slice it, his touch feels good, so damn good. I think I’m just about to stop thinking. His mouth moves on me, his hands slide under my waistband., pushing down my sweatpants and my underwear. I am ready, yes, so ready for what I know is going to happen. I haven’t had anything like this for about a million years or since Danny left me. I am going to go under, under, under and never come back, not without captives, and then —his warm hands on my rear—he asks, “Do you have something?” “Something?” I breathe out, hold him close. What does he mean? A disease? “A condom,” he asks.

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Underneath Jeff, I think hard, blinking into the glow of my living room lamp. No, I want to say, but I know where I could find one. “Um,” I say. “No.” I feel Jeff relax, probably deflating in all ways, especially in that one most important way I was looking so forward to. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I—It’s just not a good idea.” We struggle up, putting ourselves back together. He looks at me, and I’m really wondering why I feel the way I do. I thought that if we’d ever gotten this far I’d feel some amazing sense of satisfaction. I imagined I’d have to alert the media and Dez simultaneously. But while I really wanted the sex to happen, it seems more about wanting it to happen than wanting Jeff. And that thought doesn’t make sense. He brushes his hair off his face, and I smile. “Can you imagine a time when condoms weren’t necessary?” “No,” he says. “But I’ve heard tell of those ancient times.” We sit on the couch, looking out at the dark window. If it were light outside, we could see the Monterey Pine swaying in the fog. But now, all we look at is just a bank of shiny glass. “What are you going to do about Jennifer?” I ask. “I don’t know. I have to figure it out. It’s probably for the best that this didn’t go forward.” He turns to me. “Not that I didn’t want it to go forward. One condom and we’d still be flat on the couch here.” I nod, missing what might have happened and also glad that it didn’t. “Becca, meeting you has been so important. Thank you.”

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Jeff kisses my cheek, and I want to say something profound and mean it. I want to tell him that it will all work out, but I don’t know that. I want to prognosticate a clear path for us both, one that involves no emotional trauma or financial crisis or psychotic break, on our parts or others. But more than anything, I want to know what this make-out session meant because now I don’t know what I want at all. Jeff smells good, feels good, is flat out good. But my brain knew something that my body didn’t, though the messages are still incomplete, no part talking clearly to the other yet. We don’t talk, and Jeff sighs. I take his hand and we stare at the window, imagine trees, fog, the moon hidden behind it all.

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September 13, 2008 Day 11

Recipe: Cinnamon Rolls

All your life, you’ve been told not to go into the dark swirl, the tender middle, the sticky goodness from which there is rarely any return. But with these rolls, you can’t help it. slowly, you bite away the delicious yeasty pastry, pulling and eating your way into the center, the cinnamon urging you forward. Sure, you could stop and eat the frosting. Maybe you could even put down the roll, walk away. It’s been done. But who doesn’t regret it? Who ever puts on her tombstone: I didn’t eat it. So move on, go in, get to that sugary middle and close your eyes. Breathe in. Take that final bite.

I called Sal every fifteen minutes for three hours and even pounded on his front door a few times. Since we started working together, he never disappeared, checking in with me from the bar, especially on nights I was baking. “Sal,” I said into the phone. “Where are you? Call me. I need ingredients. I need help.” But he never came home and never called back. I thought about calling the hospitals, worried that he’d done something to himself in the Cutlass, which wasn’t parked outside by the curb. My body starts to roil with anxiety, an old feeling that was familiar, but I

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wasn’t sure where from. I pictured him in all sorts of horrible situations: strapped down in a hospital bed, bleeding from a head wound, his body wrapped in a cast. For a few minutes, I had the strange thought that he’d gone home with a woman, maybe even Sasha, and I swallowed down some slick sick feeling I couldn’t explain. So what? I thought, pushing away the images of him taking off his black shirt with the red stripes, an appreciative woman before him. So what if he’s having a good time. But I couldn’t push the thought away until I realized that I must be regretting missing out on my good time, the failed sex with Jeff a confusion still. I was jealous that Sal was able to go have some fun, and I was here, funless, still. Finally around one in the afternoon, I gave up on him and took BART out to my mother’s so we could get the baking down. After hours of standing on our feet mixing and rolling and baking, we sit on her couch, a bowl of popcorn between us. In her kitchen, dozens of chocolate chip cookies cool on racks. She’s already packaged up the brownies and the chocolate chippers, and now we are watching her tivoed soap opera. During a cleaning product commercial, she decides to not fast forward through, my mother turns to me. “So did they pay you?” “Of course they paid me,” I say. Of course, but I don’t tell her that most of the profits went toward paying myself back for all the supplies and for paying Sal. “No one is trying to rip me off.” “That’s reassuring,” she says, taking another handful of popcorn. On the screen, a woman mops her floor so happily it seems she’s about to burst into song or orgasm. “Sarcasm, Mom,” I say.

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“Well, it just seems like you’ve done a lot of work. We’ve all done a lot of work. I want you to be compensated.” The mopping commercial turns into one for deodorant that will make you smell so good, animated flowers will waft from your pits. “I am. It’s going to take a while for it all to get going. A while before I can pay you back—“ “I’m not worried about that,” she says, waving her hand, a piece of popcorn flying. “I am,” I say. “I don’t want you to think I forgot about it.” My mother turns to me, serious, her eyes wide. “If you are going to do this—and it seems that you are—I want you to focus on making it work. Not what you owe me.” Blinking, I wait for something else, but there isn’t anything else. She’s stopped talking, her support hanging right there in the air between us. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” The soap opera comes back on, and we watch for a moment, the mother and father yelling at each other. At some point, I realize, someone will have to storm into the room. This yelling can’t go on for much longer. My mother sighs, presses pause. “So tell me.” “What?” I ask, pressing salt grains with my forefinger. “Your father. Her.” In all that has happened this week—the baking, the spying, the confrontation with Jennifer, the kissing and the more-than-kissing with Jeff—I’d forgotten all about my

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father and Marcie. But my mother clearly has not, and I realize now that she’s waited the eight hours that I’ve been here to ask me this question. “He’s fine,” I say. “And she’s—“ “Perfect body, perfect hair?” my mother adds. “Is she everything I could never be? You know, toned and ripped, and smooth?” I open my mouth, knowing that I should tell my mother some bad things about Marcie. I could tell her that Marcie is obviously fixated on her form, a perfectionist with little brain fire power. It’s possible—though unlikely at this point—that Marcie has had just a teeny, weenie bit of work done on her face, something she could hide under her hairline. Maybe I could manage a little lie, one that involves my father’s unhappiness. But none of the above is true. Yes, my father is more involved in his marriage than with me, but I am a 27 year old woman. My father shouldn’t be checking in with me daily or even weekly. And after I went back to the table with Marcie, we ended up having a decent meal, with a few laughs, and a promise to see each other again soon. All in all, nothing to go into therapy over. The past—yes, bad. But now? Life has moved on, pushing us all forward, all except my mother. “Mom,” I say. “She’s actually not a bad person. She’s okay. She’s nice. She’s not as smart as you are—“ “Younger, though. Makes up for a world of hurt.” “Mom! Let me finish a sentence, will you?” She looks at the still and silent television.

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I take a breath. “They seem happy. He seems happy. Maybe this relationship will last. That wouldn’t be a bad thing. Who wants to see anyone go from one spouse to the next?” My mother swallows, crosses her arms. “You need,” I begin, and then I change my approach as I see her frown pull at her lips. “It would be great if you could find . . . someone. A person to do things with. A companion. A friend. He doesn’t have to be a boyfriend. I mean, he doesn’t have to be a he at all! A—“ “Becca! For goodness sake! What am I supposed to do?” She throws up her hands, shakes her head. “I don’t know. Something. Join—join one of those dating things online or something. A lot of people do, you know. A lot of people meet that way. It’s not something to be ashamed of.” My mother flicks her hand, dismisses the idea, and I can almost see the online dating mouse scurrying into the corner of the room with its cheese. “I don’t know then,” I say. “I’m not exactly an expert myself. As you well know.” She turns to me, her gaze micro-demabraising my cheek. “You don’t try either.” “You’re right. I don’t, though I have made some progress along those lines.” My mother turns to me, her eyes wide. “Really.” “Yes,” I say. “I’ve decided to go after a lawyer’s boyfriend. I thought I’d make it much harder than it had to be.” My mother laughs. “Sounds promising. And how is this better than online dating?” Turning to her, I smile. “Clearly, we have issues.”

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“Maybe the online site will give us a discount if we sign up together,” she says. “An online dating two-fer.” We start to laugh, and I wonder if anyone ever answered a mother/daughter ad other than some sexual deviant. But then we stop laughing, nothing but the sound of the television humming its mute hum. “Mom,” I say. “You can’t—you can’t think about Dad any more. He’s really not worth it. Not that I don’t love him. But he’s gone. In a way, he was never really here.” My mother sighs, puts her hand in the popcorn bowl but doesn’t pull out a handful. “Rebecca, I just don’t know what to do.” For a moment, I can’t reply, never having heard my mother say anything like that. She’s always known what to do and where to go and how to get there. Directions, plans, ideas, focus, clear-cut lines. That’s my mother. Everything about my childhood was ordered and arranged from school outings, birthday parties, to laundry, and I’ve known since I left home for college that I’ve disappointed her with my lack of successfully completed objectives. “What do you want, Mom?” She grabs the popcorn, holds it in her cupped palms, sighs again. “I don’t know. I supposed I’ve always thought an idea would just show up. I’ve been waiting. And then maybe, I thought you—you were my idea.” I shake my head. “Well, I haven’t been a very good idea. I haven’t done much.” My mother turns to me, her face full of heat and fire. “You’ve done a lot. You have your degree, and right now—well, you have your own business. It hasn’t been easy for you. It’s the divorce, I’m sure. You just never got on the path that you were supposed to.

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The right thing didn’t show up. But you are young, Becca! The right thing will show up. There’s so much time to find the direction you need to go in.” My mother puts her arm around me. “Oh, Becca. It will get better. And besides, you have that Sal to contend with.” “Sal? Without him, I’d be sunk.” “That’s not what I mean,” my mother says. “You know he’s in love with you.” I pull away a little so I can look at her in her crazy mother eye. “In love? Mom, he’s my friend. My co-worker. My neighbor. I stare at her so long, I assume she will take it back or, well, take it back. But she just looks back at me. There is no way Sal is in love with me. The only person I thought might sort of like me is Jeff, and now I don’t even know about that. She sighs, pulls me closer. “Okay. Maybe I’m wrong. But it shows how you are loveable. How you are just ready for the right man.” I swallow, feeling tears, but I’m not reading to cry now. The tears press against my cheeks, fill my eyes, so I think about cotton swabs, toothpicks, ice trays, ant spray, potting soil. Then I take a deep breath. “There’s a lot of time for both of us, Mom.” Without warning, the mute pops off with a crack, the sound of wailing filling the room. On screen, a female character sobs in a buff male arms. His triceps flex, unflex, flex. His shirt is at least two sizes too small. “Isn’t’ that nice?” my mother says, winking at me. “Special,” I say, and we both turn to the television, grabbing popcorn, watching, waiting for a while before talking about any of this again.

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Instead of making me take BART home, my mother let me borrow her Camry if I promised to bring it back in the morning. Compared to Sal’s Cutlass, this thing is a tin can, a little metal box, and I start driving like Sal, and at least this kind of careful driving matches the car. But even in the Camry, there seems to be nothing in the world except for me, the space of the car’s cab, my little bubble of nothing. It seems propelled down the highway on its own volition, making me feel a little too cocky, comfortable. Clearly, I am channeling Sal. Sal. My mother must have felt some kind of energy that night we all came over, some bit of Sasha’s crush and mistaken it—for what? I put on my turn signal and get into the right lane. Sal has been my lifesaver, my—as he said—lucky penny. He wanted a new line of work anyway, and aside from today’s MIA on his part, he’s been there from the beginning. Helpful, kind, thoughtful. Funny, engaging, strategic. But in love? Love? No. On the bridge, the night lights of San Francisco flicker and glow, the world beautiful when all that can be seen is outline and shine. I stop thinking, driving safely, surely, and then I’m taking the Freemont Exit, not my exit at all. That’s when I realize where I’m going, again. I turn to the passenger’s side of the seat, but Sal, Sasha, and Chad aren’t here, everyone home doing normal things like watching television or working on the computer. What do I think I’m going to find tonight? It’s not Thursday. It’s not a Brad night at all.

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I accelerate up Pine Street, for once in my life making all the lights. After driving the Cutlass now and again, I vow to never buy anything without a V8 engine, something environmentally unsound and fuel unwise. In the Cutlass, the way the power rests just under my foot, all the movement there with each press and tap and release. When I drive Sal’s car, I steer without having to move much, feeling Sal right there, saying, “Doll, you are smoking.” In the Camry, I feel like my mother, and what would my mother be doing here on her way to more espionage? I should just get back on the freeway and head down 280, maybe go all the way to Pacifica. That’s all I need—a little time to clear my head. But that’s not what I want. Clearly, I’m looking for clues. I want the answer, but not the answer to the Jennifer/Brad question. No, this time it’s answers about Jennifer/Jeff that I want. Need. What happened with Jeff and I last night was really about his relationship with Jennifer, how it still exists. If they weren’t together, if he was free of her, I could have been more free with him. If he weren’t with Jennifer, he might have actually called me today, even if he was never wanted this to happen again. If they were broken up, I wouldn’t have had those weird thoughts and feelings that I wanted to bolt off the couch. No, it’s a know fact. Everything can be fixed with just a little recon and spying. When Dez and I were in 8th grade, we took it upon ourselves to understand the machinations of Nathan Knauer’s life. Nathan lived down the street from Dez, played on the high school freshman football team, and had the cutest ass either of had seen in our entire lives. He had left junior high in a swoosh of fame and glory and was proceeding to

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hurtle through high school in the same intense popular way. Dez was madly in love with him, even though he had never said one word to her, or me, or anyone we actually knew. “This show is so boring. Let’s go sit on the curb across from Nathan’s house,” Dez whispered one night when we were watching television in her living room. “What’s the difference between watching Nathan’s mom do dishes or watching Seinfeld?” “Come on,” she said, pulling me of the couch. “We will be spies. Grab a hat.” So that night and for a few nights in a row—or when we could escape our houses and mothers—we sat on the curb across from Nathan’s house in the semi-darkness, baseball caps pulled down low, taking notes. “He’s in the dining room now!” Dez would whisper, her voice high and alert, as if watching Nathan Knauer eat pizza were the holy grail of sightings. “He’s washing off his plate! He’s putting it in the dishwasher!” Finally on Friday night, Nathan’s mother walked out the front door, threw away a bag of garbage, and then headed straight for us, standing still when she reached the curb. She didn’t look mad or angry but bemused, understanding, really, her eyes calm. “That’s enough,” was all she said. “Time to go home.” Dez and I went home. Now, driving past Van Ness, I realize I didn’t learn enough about spying then, and my one night with Sasha showing me the way only taught me that I don’t know what I am looking for. What can staring up at Jennifer Regan’s bank of windows explain to me that I already can’t explain to myself? Do I think that she and Jeff will have a fight, right there, in front of her the window coverings? Do I think the windows will be open enough

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for me to hear him say, “Jennifer, our relationship is over. I’ve met someone else. Someone wonderful and beautiful and kind. Someone I will love all the days of my life. And you know her, too. It’s Becca. Rebecca Muchmore.” And what do I think she will say in return? “Thanks so much for telling me, Jeff. That’s good to know because I’m going to tell you all about Brad. We are together, and he’s leaving his wife, right now.” But the truth is, I don’t have anything else to do tonight. My mother has done the baking for today, I’ve done all the business I possibly could before even going over to her house, and it’s late. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and pretend this little spying episode never happened. I’ll drive back to my mother’s, take BART home, go on a walk in the park, and then get to work. I’ll roust Sal, and we can get back to business, back in focus. The next weeks will be about Becca’s Best. I will forget about Jeff and Jennifer and my stupid need. I will focus on how to help her see Jeff for the amazing man he is. I will be nice to her, even when she sandblasts me with her words. As I drive, I promise myself this. “Promise, promise, promise,” I say under my breath. I know I lie to myself sometimes, but I don’t remind myself of this fact. I gun the gas, head up the hill, ready to see nothing, or everything. Whatever comes up.

It’s quiet tonight on Pierce Street, no Saturday night high school kids running to the park with wine jugs or joints. Down on Sacramento, the MUNI isn’t running as often,

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cars moving quickly, no squealing brakes, no sirens from police cars or fire trucks. The sky is still and calm, fogless, stars blinking from their great distance. I am parked down the street from Jennifer’s apartment building, behind a truck large enough to hide the Camry, and I know that I should just go home now. But there’s this autopilot thing going on in me, as if I have the rhythm of getting out of this car onto this sidewalk programmed in my DNA. Opening the door, I slowly push out of the car, looking around as I do. No one is on the street at all, and, more importantly, Jennifer and Jeff aren’t on the street. For a minute, I scan the parked cars, imagining that I might see Brad’s shiny BMW parked along the line. But Brad is not here, home with his wife and children, those beautiful boys I saw in the photograph just before I opened the drawer and found the condom. Sighing, I walk down the sidewalk, keeping myself in the shadows of the awnings, away from the glare of the streetlight. The air feels cool, smells fresh—no diesel, no car exhaust—and I wonder how long I could walk. Could I make it all the way to Cole Street? Could I walk to Golden Gate Park? To Ocean Beach? Should I? Should I just leave and keep on going? There are places I could walk with my eyes closed, asleep, unconscious even. The journey from my mother’s house to Dez’s is right here, in my head. Down El Verano, let on Las Vegas, right on La Espiral. Past Mrs. Gruber’s, past the Lesters’, up onto the curb, and up her driveway. Twenty-two steps to the front door. I know because I counted them each time I went to her house, knowing that the sooner I counted down, the sooner we’d be able to play—and then later, the sooner we’d be able to talk about something exciting or do something dangerous, like spy on Nathan Knauer.

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I know I could still get to Danny’s apartment, even after all these years and even though I visited him for just a few short months. Mostly, I could get through his door, jimmying the door lock that didn’t really catch, holding onto the hand rail as I ascended to his fifth floor apartment. There was no elevator, so I walked, always feeling that the lug up the steep stairs was worth the effort, more than worth the effort. Then I’d make it to his door, use the key he gave me to open it, and there he’d be, sitting on the couch, rumpled and sexy, reading a book about water rights in the Congo. He’d turn—and I can still see his face, his smile as he looked at me—and I’d be where I wanted to walk to, all my life. A crack breaks into the night, a slap of wood against wood or glass, and I jump, looking up at Jennifer’s apartment windows. She’s up there, or someone is, moving the shutters, banging them against the window frame. I stare, thinking I can see someone’s hands up, gesturing, the shadow imperative, asking an unanswerable question. But then the shadow changes, and I think I haven’t seen anything at all, all that remains the light between the slats. I stop, breathe, watch, wait. Nothing. Leaning against an apartment building wall, I sigh, shake my head, start to laugh. Except for the time with Dez and the excursion here earlier, I don’t do things like this. I stay the course, keep to the path, follow the rules. When have I ever driven to a place I shouldn’t be, driving around in a borrowed car, at night when I should be at home reading or watching television? What has happened? I don’t kiss men who aren’t mine? Or, at least, baking. I don’t do spontaneous, different, new, wild. I sit in a dark office over a stationery store and work the books. I sit in classrooms, waiting to be told what to do. This isn’t me out here, on the sidewalk. Can’t be.

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I shake my head, push away from the wall, and turn to walk back to the car. But I can’t because someone is standing in front of me, and that someone is Brad. My heart flops, I blink, imagining that I am hallucinating. I’m having that worlds collide feeling, one right and one wrong thing in the same place at the wrong time. We look at each other in surprise for a moment, and then Brad assumes his law office stance, his I’m the King of the World attitude. He could be standing in his office, waiting for me to sell him a cheddar bacon muffin. “What are you doing here?” he asks, hands on hips. Despite his attitude, he’s not in law office garb but sweats, a t-shirt, a baseball cap. Actually, he looks, well, sort of dumpy, sad, rumpled, a coffee stain on one sleeve, mismatched socks. He looks like a man who has told his wife he’s gone out for a pint of ice cream and a gallon of milk, and has ended up exactly where he shouldn’t be, miles and miles away from anything dairy. Somewhere in his car, his cell phone is ringing, his wife Deirdre saying, “Dam it, Brad, where is that peppermint stick ice cream?” Finding my breath somewhere, I smile, searching desperately for my answer in the air. “Um.” “Are you here to see Jennifer?” he sort of flicks his jaw up at the window. “A little late for a social call.” “Yes,” I say. “It is a little late for a social call. Completely inappropriate. What are you doing here?” The air has provided my answer, and I find a way to breathe. Brad puts his hands in his sweat pockets. “Talking a walk.”

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“I didn’t know you lived around here,” I say, suddenly feeling the knife in my words. In my mind, I see the glimmery shine of the condom wrapper, hear the metallic flick of it as I shut the drawer. “It’s a nice night,” Brad says in answer, and I see that law school has, in fact, paid off. “Yes,” I say. “It’s really nice. That’s what I’m doing, actually. Talking a walk. Up to the park.” I point vaguely as I try to find the park entrance, realizing that I don’t know where it actually is. My hand drops, and I cross my arms over my chest. We look at each other, knowing that we are both lying. To each other and to ourselves. Brad lets out one of those sighs that is involuntary, a pushing out of air and sadness. He takes off his cap and rubs his hair. “It’s crazy.” He could be talking about so many things, everything in my life on the crazy list right now. “Yes,” I agree. “Things . . . well, they don’t fall into the right place or the right order, if you ask me. Or it’s the right order but it doesn’t seem that way. You know. I mean . . .” I stop because I don’t know what I mean. Or I know what I want to say but can’t really say it. “Yeah,” Brad says, seeming to understand. “It’s not how it all should be.” “How should it be?” I ask. He puts his cap back on and shrugs. “Different.” Nodding, I think of the things I would make different. My mom’s love life, for one. I think I would take back last night and try for Jeff again under better terms, my terms, no

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shirt flung off again without the hope that all could be flung off without guilt or remorse. I want Sal to be happy, though I’m not sure what that would take. If I’m going for all wants, I could really use my own car, one that is actually me. I want—I want . . . “He shouldn’t be with her. She shouldn’t be with him.” Blinking, I wait, hoping that Brad isn’t done yet. He takes in a breath. “But I can’t tell her that because I, well, I’m where I’m at. With who I’m with. And that isn’t going to change over night. Or maybe ever.” “Things change overnight all the time,” I say. I know this because one morning I woke up and my father was gone. Packed up and moved out. “Not that it’s optimal or anything. But that’s how it happens. Poof! in the morning everything is changed, and there’s no way back to the old life, even if you wanted to go there.” Brad stares at me. “Are you sure you’d want the new life?” I ask, knowing that even though we are sort of talking in code, he understands me. “Are you sure it would be the right decision?” “Yes,” he says. “I’ve known since I’ve known.” That’s right, I think. That’s exactly the right answer. I think of that first moment I met Jeff, the way he turned to me in Jennifer’s office, and I knew that even though he could never be with me, he was the one. He and I together would be that new life I would dream about even as the old one kept moving forward. I wish I could ask Brad if that was normal, but Brad is no Dr. Phil. Is there such a thing as love at first sight? And does that kind of love second guess itself? If I really loved Jeff, wouldn’t I have done anything I could to be naked with him, condom be damned?

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“Are you going to do anything about it?” Brad nods. “I’m doing something about it every day.” “Really?” “She’s in the middle of a very big big case. We’re in the middle of a big case. A career making case. A case that’s . . . “ Brad sighs, shrugs, looks down at the concrete. “Is it more important, than, well, this?” I ask. “What is more important than your life?” Good question, I think. If Brad knew how sad my life was, he’d laugh right now. But he looks up at me, and I can see the answer he wants to be true. No, he wants to say. Nothing is more important than us being together. But Brad can’t say that to me, the girl who doesn’t even know him, the girl who sells muffins. “I’m doing my best.” “What are you doing?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t, knowing that my desire for Brad’s plan to work isn’t part of my plan to make Jennifer see the amazing guy she has right in front of her. As I am about to tell Brad that I don’t need to hear what he is up to, the lights flicker in Jennifer’s apartment, shadows moving back and forth again. “What’s going on up there?” I whisper. He shrugs, closes his eyes. I move closer to him. We both press against the wall, stare up at the window, watch the relationship shadow puppet show. “Why are they still together?” “Why does anyone stay together?” he answers, and I realize I don’t have one clue. People staying together has never been the issue in my life. People break up, move on, get a life, say “ciao,” and don’t come back, sending happy, irritating postcards. Or if they

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do show up, it’s only for short visits that involve awkward meals and ice cream. Or they come over completely unprepared to stay for long, forgetting the one crucial thing that would make everything perfect. At home, his very own wife is waiting for her ice cream, her answers, her husband. And there is nothing that Brad can tell her right now that would answer anything. “Haven’t you told her how you feel?” I ask him, realizing I don’t know if I’m talking about Jennifer or his wife. Brad looks at me, his eyes sad, serious, and suddenly, I can see what might make Jennifer leave Jeff. What might make his wife cling on harder if he would try to leave. There is something inside him deeper than I know. “This isn’t as easy as you might imagine,” Brad says. I shake my head, raise my hands. Brad has no idea how I relate. “I don’t imagine anything is easy.” “That’s not a bad way to go through life. Makes anything that does appear that much more welcome. Makes anything that pops up that much more of a reward.” For a moment, I think about what he is saying. Isn’t it negative, pessimistic to think good things aren’t easy, aren’t welcome, aren’t expected? It’s triple reverse psychology, something that I think my mother is in an expert in. I don’t want to feel like that. I want to believe that now, now, now the good thing will happen. I want Jeff to walk out of that apartment having said “No” to Jennifer once and for all. And then I want him to give us another go, kissing me again and again and this time with a condom in his pocket.

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But I don’t believe in that scenario happening the same way I don’t believe that Jeff will pull me into the workroom and Winston and tell me that I need to leave, never come back. It’s the middle I’m always in, the middle of nothing. Brad pushes off the wall. “I’m going. I hope we can keep the story of our walk to ourselves.” We look at each other, the streetlight casting a slightly orange glow on us, the cars, the asphalt. I nod, shrug, sigh. Brad tips his cap at me, turns, and walks up the street and around the corner. After a minute or two, I hear the full throated chug of the BMW and then the street is silent again. You are crazy, the Dez in my head says to me. Tell me something I don’t know, I say back. But I’m not the one trapped in an apartment with two babies. I wait for Dez’s comeback, but there isn’t one. She would be too smart to say anything to that because her “entrapment” is what she’s always wanted. She’s stuck in the exact place she always dreamed of, with the exact people she always believed would come into her life. The good thing happened to her. Up in the apartment, the puppet show continues. And I realize that behind the shutters is Jennifer’s and Jeff’s story. Not mine. Not Brad’s. I turn, walk back toward the Cutlass, know that it’s truly time for me to go home and snap out of it. Exactly, the mind Dez says. And not a moment too soon.

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“Sal,” I say as I get out of the Camry. “Sal!” He’s walking toward our building, and he turns toward my call. As he realizes it’s me, I see his face going through something that should be put to animation: recognition, irritation, fight-of-some-feeling, calm, and then cool. Cool Sal, the Sal I know. “Sal,” I say, running to him, carrying the bags. “Where were you today? I called a hundred times.” “Hey, doll. Yeah,” he says. I can hear his keychain jangling in his pocket. He looks down at his cowboy boots, kicks the sidewalk, looks up at the streetlight. “I had to do some other work today.” “Oh,” I say. “Okay. I just didn’t know.” “There are a lot of things you don’t know,” he says, and I get a weird feeling. I’m getting tired of these weird feelings, my body telling me way too much in the past 24 hours. “Don’t you think I know that?” I say. “I’m a walking encyclopedia of what I don’t know.” He sighs, kicks the sidewalk again. Under the yellow light, his hair is a brilliant black. He smells green and a little bit like tequila, but not too much. He shrugs and we walk toward the building door, Sal digging in his pocket for his keys. “So were you out?” I ask, the weird feeling in my body making me ask. “Yeah, I was. Sasha invited me to a bar she and her friends go to. Not my kind of place, really, but her friends were cool.”

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“Oh.” My body is sending me a message, and I’m not sure what it means. It feels like something twisting my stomach, just a little. We look at each other for a second, and then he notices the bags. “Do I need to make a freezer run tomorrow?” He’s all business, his tone flat and clear. This is not, I want to tell my mother, a man in love. “That would be great. My mother and I baked all day.” “You were there all day?” he asks. “Pretty much. After I couldn’t get a hold of you, I went out there. And if I bake all day tomorrow, we will be fine.” Sal kicks the sidewalk yet again, and I wonder about his soles. “Don’t you ever feel like seeing the ocean, doll? Maybe at sunset?” I blink, breathe out, remember him telling me about the woman who was all about the no. “Of course I do,” I say. “But we have so much to do.” “I have a theory,” he says as he unlocks the door and takes the bags from me. “What is this one?” “All work and no play make Becca a dull girl.” “Sal,” I say. “Even I know that one.” “Doll, I don’t think you do,” he says, closing the door behind us. “I really don’t.”

Before I fall asleep, I stare at my phone on my nightstand, willing Dez to call me, playing what I call “Magic Phone.” I need to talk to her about Jeff, Brad, and Sal, now,

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but I am reluctant to text or call her in the middle of the night, not wanting to wake her out of one moment of precious sleep. Once she called me weeping, so exhausted that she couldn’t even stand up from the couch, one baby in her arms, the other asleep on her lap. I had to talk her out of tears and help her realize that she could pick up both babies and put them in their cribs. That standing, walking, and carrying babies were possible things. So now at 12 midnight, I have to invoke Magic Phone, the trick that never works. I imagine our old and true connection, thinking about Dez with my full frontal lobes, all synapses firing. I first started using Magic Phone when I was little, watching my mother’s push button phone that hung on the kitchen wall. I would clear my mind, open up to the universe, imagine my father thinking about me, needing me, wanting that very instant to talk with me. In the fuzz of my head, I picture my father holding the phone, dialing my exact number, calling me. I talked to the phone through my mind, tried to pull my father’s voice through to the other end, my end. You need to call me now, I would think. You need to save me from Mom this very instant. You need to decide to take me on a European vacation immediately. Call me. Tell me you are at the airport. Save me. I’d think so hard, the only thing I’d end up with was a headache. I’d cry for hours, unable to tell my mother why I needed aspirin. Later, I tried it on high school boys I had crushes on and even on Danny, knowing that if they only paid attention, they’d call and tell me how much they loved me. Magic Phone is like the lottery. Possible, but you never win. But I haven’t given up hope.

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Staring at the phone, I imagine Dez hearing my plea for guidance, picking up her cell, walking to the quietest spot in her apartment—the kitchen—and dialing me. Up circling the earth’s atmosphere, a satellite is right now intercepting the signal, beaming it down to the west coast, sending the signal to my cell phone company, my cell phone, it’s going to ring now, now, now. Ring, dammit. My cell phone rings, the sound thunderous on the nightstand wood. I sit up, grab the phone, stare at the number, clueless. For one thing, it’s not Dez, and after my concentrated Magic Phone moment, I can’t understand it when I don’t see a 212 area code. Then I see that it’s a local number, 415, but I don’t recognize it,. It’s not Sal, who seems to barely want to talk with me. Not Joey with a warning that his freezer is on the fritz and dozens of brownies are thawing into a gelatinous goo as he speaks. The phone in my palm, I stare at the face of it, worried it’s Brad, calling to warn me in some kind of legal language to not tell anyone what I saw tonight. I’m afraid that it’s Jennifer, threatening me to stay away from Jeff, ready to sue me using some archaic 9/10ths possession law that I don’t know about. I’m almost breathless, imagining that it’s Jeff, convinced by Jennifer that I’m out to get them both. Next door, Mrs. Kinsella bangs on the wall with her fist, and I open the cover of the phone, and answer it. “Hello?” At first, there is an inhale, as if the person on the other end is pulling in air in order to say something. But then the sound disappears. “Hello?”

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Now I know. It’s my dad, deciding once and for all that he’s going to a monastery, convinced finally that he’s no good with women. It’s Marcie, hysterical about my father’s prescient decision. It’s my mom, needing me to help her with her date.com ad, having listened to me tonight and finally capitulated to my dating suggestions. It’s Danny, home from the Congo with his wife and twenty children, most of whom are adopted. It’s Hallelujah Jones and Vick desperate for scones. “We had . . . Becca?” the man asks, and I wait for recognition to settle into my brain. “Um, yeah,” I say. “And this is?” “Sorry. Sorry. I’m just feeling comp—it’s Jeff. Sorry.” I can’t breathe. Even though I was thinking about Dez, magic phone actually worked. It took 27 years, but magic phone finally brought forth a person I wanted to talk to. The person I wanted to talk to. But what should I say? “Um, it’s okay. I mean, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I wasn’t asleep or anything.” “It’s late,” Jeff says. “I shouldn’t have called. And I should have called a lot earlier. This is totally inappropriate.” I can feel that he’s about to click off his phone, and I stumble forward, not wanting this call to end before it even gets started. “No, it’s fine. It’s okay. I was awake. Really. I hadn’t even gone to bed yet. I was just thinking.” There is a brief silence, and then the sound of Jeff sighing. “That makes two of us.” He doesn’t know I was out in front of Jennifer’s apartment earlier, so I can’t say what I think I saw. I can’t tell him that it looked like they’d been fighting. And I can’t tell him that I ran into Brad and had an oblique conversation about his true love for Jennifer. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, learning things I wasn’t supposed to know.

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“So,” I say, leaning against my headboard and searching for something to say. “What’s going on?” “I—I . . . I have some questions, as you know. About last night. With things. With my life. Every thing. Work. And when I got home tonight, you were the one I called. There’s something—you make me feel comfortable. And I’ve already told you that I feel like we already know each other.” His words should have made me feel good, I suppose, but as he talks, I’m not thinking about us making out on the couch but about sitting on it afterward. That was when I felt the most comfortable with him. His friend. Someone he could just be with, mostly with clothes on. And maybe, that’s what he liked, too. I was like Jennifer, a calm Jennifer. A nice Jennifer, his girlfriend on Xanax. So now, he’s not really talking to me but to the Jennifer he sees, that something he imagines is deep inside of her. Part of me wants to tell Jeff that this phone call is inappropriate and highly bizarre and that he should take his problems to someone who cares, someone who he knows, someone who hasn’t almost stripped in front of him. But those words won’t come out of my mouth, and I do want to talk to him, no matter the reason. That’s how much selfesteem I have, right there, in a nutshell. “What happened” I ask. “You said it’s work, too?” I shake my head, unable to believe that’s what I asked him. Of course none of this is about work. It’s about the fact he’s involved with two women, one not his girlfriend. But he answers me, not missing a beat. “Yes, in a way. I don’t really know why I’m still at Madison. I never intended to work corporate, fancying myself, well, you know. Kind of a lawyer for the people kind of guy. But really, the case is fine. That, at least, is

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going well. It’s—it’s this. It’s us. All of us,” he says, and even now, in his upset, he sounds calm, his voice steady and flowing and clear. He must be amazing in front of a judge, in front of an audience. He would be the best person to read books to children, that low, quiet, deep voice a lull into sleep. “Yes?” I say, waiting. Waiting for the words, knowing that my magic phone powers have all been used up. “The same old thing,” Jeff says. “I am talking to Jennifer, and sometimes, I don’t know who she is. There’s that thing I was telling you about, and then there’s the other part. The sort, hard, mean part, the part that hurts. That wants to hurt.” He pauses, the air a whoosh between us. “And then there is you.” I want to agree with him, and yet, I can’t. There is Jennifer, and my decision to help her. There is my want, and my confusion. “Were you arguing,” I say, slumping down a little and turning on the lamp. “Did you have a fight.” Jeff moves, the sounds of blankets or pillows shushing through the phone connection, and I have this strange feeling that we are almost in bed together, except, of course, we aren’t. But for a second, I remember what it would be like to move next to him, press against his body, rest my head on his chest. Here, without clothes on, it would be warm under the blankets, cozy, safe. And then there would be the part after cozy, the way I can now imagine him. Naked, his skin perfect, his body hard in all the right places. “I wish I could come over there,” he says. “I could bring supplies.” “I—I,” I begin. I so many things. “It’s not a good idea, is it? Maybe we need to go at this more slowly. Start from the beginning.”

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As I say the words, I think that Sal would be proud of me, tell me about a theory he has. I wonder what he would call it. “So tell me about Jennifer. The argument,” I say. “Jennifer has been pulling a lot of strange, late hours. I called her on it. I asked her what she’d been doing, and she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me. We have a date tomorrow to meet at the Ferry Building for lunch, and I told her if she missed it—well, she just can’t. She can’t blame work for that one.” “She—she’s in charge of the case?” I ask. “She’s not the lead attorney, but she might as well be.” For a moment, we are silent. I can see Jennifer taking over, leading the case, telling people what to do and who and when and why to do it. What has always amazed me is that people who can organize others can’t always do it for themselves. If she were working on herself, she wouldn’t have Brad on the side. “So she’s working,” I say, hating the way my words feel like a lie. “Maybe,” Jeff says. “That is what you were fighting about then? Her hours? What she’s doing?” Jeff made a sound, kind of a throaty hummh. “Not really, but you know how when you are with someone, there’s the over-fight that you can have, the thing that always comes up. With us, it’s work. But underneath, it’s about something else. Something I can’t really see.” The overfight. With Danny, the overfight had always been about his attention. That he didn’t have enough of it for me, wouldn’t spend enough time with me. What the underfight was that whole time was that he wasn’t attached to me, attracted to me,

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wanted something, someone else. His lack of attention was just a symptom of that bigger, more important story. “What do you think you are really fighting about then?” “Well. That,” Jeff begins, his words coming slowly. “There are a few things. Like what she and I want for the future. Our careers. Our life together. I know she doesn’t really want to be a lawyer sometimes. But the main thing that we fight about I guess that she doesn’t really want to be with me.” Well, duh, I want to say. I want to kill her by moderate torture. Or maybe just by boring her to death. I will recite recipes to her. I will force her to bake muffins. “Does she ever really say anything like that to you?” I ask. “She can’t,” Jeff says. “What do you mean?” I ask. “She won’t or can’t?” He sighs, and I slip down even further into my blankets, the night urging me to sleep. But I can’t be unconscious while actually talking to Jeff, having his attention. It’s a waste of a gift from the universe. “I told her this—I told her that she thinks she should be with me. It’s not that she wants me or our relationship. But I’m right in the way she wants a man to be right. She pretends that things are okay with us. That this, us, is what she wants.” In the background, I hear the shiff of sheets or clothes, and even though Jeff is talking about his confusion and sadness, I feel my body listening to him, his noises, sussing out the clues of his life away from the office, away from Jennifer. Closer to me. My heart beats faster, and I feel the little hairs on my knees prickle, the ones I always miss when I shave.

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“So,” I blurt, ignoring everything I had decided. “Why do you stay with her?” “Yeah,” he says. “Good question. What is wrong with me? Maybe I need to talk with Dr. Phil or Oprah. I can see the title now: My Co-Dependent Issues: The Story of My Dating Life.” “Maybe we should start a support group,” I say. “I’ll be the second to join up. We can hit the road as a team.” I hear the pop of surprise in Jeff’s thoughts. “Oh, are you . . . do you—are you in a relationship?” “Was would be the verb and tense,” I say. “And I suppose you could say badly.” We laugh together, the sounds of both of us mixing together. I am now flat on my back, watching the ceiling, listening to Jeff. “Then you are the perfect person to call,” Jeff says. “I’m glad I decided to ask for your advice. Tell me, oh guru, what is the recipe for a perfect relationship?” “You have all the right techniques,” I blurt. “But the wrong ingredients.” I pause, wanting to take back that statement. Despite myself, I want to make him see what Jennifer is doing to him. But Jeff doesn’t seem to connect the metaphor to his life. Or he doesn’t want to. “So what ingredients do I need?” Love, I think. “Fresh ingredients,” I say. “Only the very best.” Patience. Time. Attention. Care. Long afternoons. “Ah,” he says. “Of course.”

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“And then there is the process. You don’t want to get stuck. There’s a fluid way of moving through the steps: sift, mix, add, stir. You can’t stay on one too long. For instance, with muffins, you just barely wet the ingredients when stirring. Then you have to pour right away. No waiting. No over-stirring. Or else, you ruin everything.” “Yes, I’ve heard tell of this. The famous muffin method,” Jeff says. “Ingenious.” We laugh again, and I feel fatigue start to slowly creep up my legs, my body, crawling toward my face. I want to close my eyes, breath soft and deep. If he were here, I’d curl into him, let his heart lull me to sleep. In my waking-sleeping mind, I suddenly see Sal, see his head in the stairwell when I opened the door for Jeff. What did he think happened? Was that why he disappeared today. Was he not saying things to me the way Jeff wasn’t saying things to Jennifer. What we all needed was a support group. Part of me wants to hang up, call Sal. Most of me wants to sleep, to dream of something I didn’t know about yet. Something new. “Becca,” Jeff says. “Oh. What?” “Mixing methods,” he reminds me. “There are other methods,” I say. “We haven’t even talked about folding.” “I don’t want to try another method,” he says. “Folding sounds too complicated. Gymnastic, even.” “You don’t have to try another method, really,” I say, yawning. “You can’t give up on a recipe until you master it or at least understand it better. And then you can move on to the right recipe. The one that is really calling you.”

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Jeff yawns too, the sound like a light lion roar. I relax, let the bed hold me. And in my half waking, half sleeping state, I can feel him against me again, the way he felt on my couch, his arm around my shoulder, his body warm and gentle and loving. I’m shy, but my hands move along his ribs, feel his muscles, work down toward his thighs. Oh, my. He yawns again, and it feels as though his yawn is mine. I can almost feel his jaw against my face, his shoulder on mine, our hips rubbing, bone and flesh and skin pressed close. “Don’t give up,” I say, but I don’t think I say it at all. It’s a thought twinned up in my dream of him, the softness of my bed, the imagined feel of him next to me, and then I don’t feel anything but his breath against my cheek, his arm holding me tight, the warmth in me pulsing like electricity, like fire.

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September 14, 2008 Day 12

Recipe: Brownies

If you are not brave, don’t dare these. Put the steel bowl down and walk away, get in the car, and drive to Las Vegas. You will likely be safer there than you will around these dangerous bricks of chocolate and sin, these momentous concoctions of sugar and fat and nuts. One whiff of them as they reach optimal cooking temperature will snare you, force you to wait in the kitchen until they are done, your greedy, eagle eyes on the pan as they cool. But soft—they do cool, the chocolate pulling together except for that melty center, that lick of dark goodness on your lip as you chew. Better yet, pull them out of the pan hot, serve with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, or crème fraiche. Eat well and often.

I have been baking for hours, Sal already taking a huge load of goods to Joey’s freezer. When he came in my door, he was all business. No “doll” this and “doll” that. No theories about life to tell me about while he splashed coffee out of his mug. No chipped tooth smile, no splash of green to breathe in. He was all and only business, so

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instead of talking and laughing, I helped him load everything up, the Cutlass full of the week’s supplies. Something is very wrong, but we are set for the week in terms of cookies and coffee cake, though my idea of late summer fruit pies will have to be a daily occurrence, baked on demand. But even as I am in the midst of measuring or rolling or sifting, I look to the clock and see that another five minutes has gone by, another five minutes that Sal doesn’t call to check in, another five minutes that Jeff doesn’t call me back. “Why would he?” Dez asks when I finally have a minute to call her, two pans of corn bread in the oven. “It’s not like you slept together or anything. Yes, yes. I know you took your shirt off for him the other night, but that alone doesn’t create a calling schedule. And after last night? He doesn’t owe you the traditional post-sleeping-withyou call.” “But we did sleep together,” I say, the phone pressed against my cheek and shoulder as I chop nuts. “The last thing I remember is his voice. And then it was morning, my phone still in my hand, the battery dead.” “You are delusional,” Dez says, sighing. “Identical twins and then sleeping together by phone. It wasn’t even phone sex! What next? Will you be traveling through matter and using telepathy to communicate?” “He is having trouble with Jennifer,” I tell her, ignoring her sarcasm. “He knows that she’s up to something.” “And you told him all about Brad, right? You came right out with the truth.” Putting down my knife, I rub my forehead, look out my window onto the sunny San Francisco morning. Everything clear as a bell except for me.

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“No,” I say. “It’s not my place.” Dez laughs, and in the background I hear Nick’s voice, the gurgle of babies, the roll of stroller wheels. “So it’s your place to almost have sex with her boyfriend and to almost sleep with him but not tell her the truth?” “Exactly,” I say, and I try to find the laugh to go with this statement, but I don’t have one. It I weren’t baking right now, I would have no idea what I was doing. What am I doing? And if I brought up the Sal element, Dez would be even more incensed. Treating him like dirt, she’d say. Not appreciating him, she’d decide. “So what are you going to do?” she asks. She’s always known to ask the exact question, the one I can never answer and have been thinking about endlessly. “I don’t know. Nothing. Bake all day. Think about him meeting Jennifer for lunch. He doesn’t even believe that she’s going to show up. She told him she has work. Work, Ha!” Nick’s voice grows louder, and I can imagine him motioning to Dez, mouthing “Hang up” so that they can go out and enjoy the day in Central Park. Dez shouldn’t be listening to me whine. I shouldn’t be whining. “Listen, you’ve got things to do. I’m going to go back to my brownies.” “No, wait. You listen,” Dez says, and I can hear her footsteps on the hardwood. “You go to the Ferry Building. You have got to figure this thing out once and for all. You meet him for lunch.”

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“You mean dress up like her? Pretend to be her?” I realize that this might be the only way I could show Jeff that Jennifer was good—by taking over her life. It was a wacky plan, but leave it to Dez. “No, you weirdo. That could never work in real life. You don’t even really look the same, no matter what you think. Characters in movies always do things like that as if the other characters wouldn’t notice, but you and she are different. I don’t care how much you look like one another. There are things deeper than looks, you know.” Staring at one of my kitchen walls, I try to take in what Dez is telling me to do. How would it be possible? How could I just show up like that? “He’d notice—I mean, I can’t be her.” “Duh. One look at you even with all the Jennifer stuff you’d wear, you’d be you. You are 100 hundred percent impossible to erase. Trust me. Once a Becca, always a Becca. And that is a good thing.” I can’t believe that Dez is telling me to do this. “I should go? What if she shows up, too?” “Listen, if she’s as into this Brad as you say and as stupid as you say she is to not be into Jeff, then she won’t go. She needs her excuse to be with Brad. He’s probably lied to his wife six ways till Sunday in order to see Jennifer.” In the background, I hear Nick cough, his clear message for her to get the hell off the phone. “I’ve got to go,” Dez says. “And you’ve got to go, too. If you want something, go for it. And I mean it. Go.”

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But what do I want? And where should I go to find it? “Dez,” I say, but she has already clicked off the phone. I stand in my kitchen, looking at my pile of nuts on the cutting board, feeling the waft of heat from the oven. The corn bread will be done in a minute, and the brownies can wait. So I have no excuse, really. But to go? Go to lunch. Go to the Ferry Building and walk right up to Jeff and say, “Hi. I thought I’d join you.” “Hi, I thought I was crazy enough to think you would want me here.” “Hi, I’m a loser and I have nothing else to do other than drive to my mother’s or bake muffins so here I am! Aren’t you lucky, you lucky thing, you.” I start to laugh, turning to the kitchen door, shaking my head. In less than two weeks, I’ve done things I can’t imagine, things I really shouldn’t have done. I’ve seen things that shouldn’t be true. I’ve met my parted twin, spied on apartment buildings, riffled through others’ drawers, tried to not steal someone else’s boyfriend, even though I’ve done my best to. So what would this horrible social faux pas be other than exactly the perfect thing to do, today, this sunny Sunday? “Idiot!” I say to myself. But I walk out of the kitchen toward my bedroom, wondering only what I am going to wear.

Despite the sunny weather and the off shore flow, September trying to masquerade as July, I’m cold in my sundress as I walk down Market Street toward the Ferry building. When I was growing up, the Ferry building was something other than it is today. Now it is a yuppie, upscale food court in a landmark building. But when I was little, we sort of

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ignored it, going to Pier 39 to play the arcade games. I remember my mother pulling me by the hand, walking me past the piers, the buildings, the bars slung out over the bay. Every weekend, we did something that involved plastic bags full of treats and bottles of water, and often it involved San Francisco, a place where we could be two different people, not Carla and Becca whose husband/father left them both. By the end of the day, we almost thought we were who we felt like, bundled up against fog, walking to the BART station, happy, for that moment. I’m not really happy now, cold, nervous, everything in me feeling on edge, prickly. I thought maybe Sal would have cheered me up before I left, but he never returned from his freezer run. So I’m a jangle of spiky fear. I could throw up at any given second, and yet I keep walking toward the Embarcadero, clutching my purse. Sunday tourists jostle past me, laughing, speaking in Russian, French, German. I look around as I wait at the crosswalk, certain that at any moment, Jennifer Regan will tap me on the shoulder and wait until I turn around before clocking me. “Sleep and not-sleep and have sex and not-have sex with my boyfriend, bitch?” Pow, to the moon. Tomorrow, I will have brilliant blue eye. And at least I will have a story to tell. The Dez in my head keeps telling me to keep going. The me in my head wants to run away, head back to the MUNI station, and go home. There are still brownies to bake, the sludgy chocolate batter waiting for me in the fridge. I could watch a movie, maybe something like Shakespeare in Love or Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility, something really romantic that would make me cry and wish I were dead. And at home, later, at some point, I will have to figure out Sal.

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The light changes, and I follow my tourist friends, trailing behind them, just barely keeping up with the time clock that tells me I only have 10 seconds to cross the street before I am flattened like a pancake by the busses headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf. The red hand pulses its warning. 10, 9, 8, 7 . . . “Becca?” I hear, and right then, I wish I were in that magic book Dez was teasing me about earlier. Poof! I would be gone, disappeared into the ether like smoke. As I walk, I turn my head and—of course—there is Jeff, the morning sun behind him, his hair moving slightly in the breeze. If I could catch this moment, I would, staring at him forever as the sun touches his hair, his skin. Snow globe: Beautiful Man in San Francisco Sun. Even out on a crowded street, the air swirling all around us, I can smell him, beachy, clean, smooth. For a second, I expect another smell, something else, other, but I don’t know what my nose is searching for. I shake my head a little, and try to focus. Dez’s plan came true. Here’s Jeff, right in front of me. “Hi,” I say, finding the tone in my voice that might suggest I am just a busy girl about town on my way to the farmer’s market. “I thought I’d go to the farmer’s market,” I say as way of hello. “I’m thinking about making pies this week.” “Oh,” Jeff says. “I was imagining you were here to spy on my failed date and reconciliation with Jennifer.” I swallow, try not to wince at the word spy. If he only knew. I try not to hear the word reconciliation. “Late peaches.”

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“Bad news,” he says. For a second, I imagine he’s telling me the name of some new, improved fruit. “Huh?” We land on the curb, pause as the hand stops flashing red. “The farmer’s market is on Saturdays only.” I blink, already forgetting my lie. “Oh? Oh! Oh. Well, maybe I will spy on your date, then. I’ve got to get something out of my MUNI ride.” I’m talking too fast, acting like the idiot I always manage to pull out of my embarrassment hat. One day, I tell myself, even as I blather on, I will learn to shut up. “Why don’t you come with me?” “On your date? That would be weird, don’t you think?” He shrugs, sighs. “I think it will be just you and me.” Tourists jostle past us, the sounds of the ferry horn a bassoon in the air. I blink, cross my arms against the wind. This is what Dez wanted to have happen. Dez would say, “Go, for god’s sake. That Jennifer idiot won’t show up anyway. If he doesn’t think she will come, why are you so certain she will?” I shrug. “You are going to the Hog Island Oyster Company? The oyster bar?” “That’s the plan, or at least as much of a plan as I could formulate yesterday,” Jeff smiles at me and my heart turns to brownie batter. “That was some talk we had last night. I think you fell asleep on me. Made me realize that I might need to work on my speaking voice.” “Don’t take it personally,” I say. We start walking toward the main door. “I fall asleep everywhere. While I’m driving, for one. The good news is that I don’t have a car.”

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Jeff laughs. “During holiday dinners. Graduations, my own. Waiting in line at the grocery store. At my friend’s Dez’s wedding. And I was the maid of honor. The priest had to poke me with a cross to wake me up.” “My god,” he says. “You’re a narcoleptic!” “No, just easily bored,” I say. “Okay, we are back at square one. I am boring. I need an intervention. What have I been doing to juries all these years?” Glancing at him quickly, I realize he doesn’t seem like a man about to be disappointed by his girlfriend, jilted at the oyster bar. Maybe he’s nervous deep down somewhere, but if I were meeting him for the first time, I would guess he was happy. We push through the doors, the warmth giving me the notion that I might be able to relax. The wide open spaces of the Ferry Building are full, Sunday visitors, tourists, the occasional child running up and down the smooth stone floor. Without saying more, we walk toward Hog Island Oyster Company, and my feet and heart seem to be in a constant, drumming rhythm. Now and then, I glance to my right, waiting for the moment when Jennifer comes upon me with her fists and mouth, her words slinging at me like rocks. But she doesn’t, and when Jeff takes my elbow at the restaurant’s maitre de stand, I blink, sure that soon, in seconds, I will wake up. “Is the window okay?” he asks, pointing to the direction the hostess is leading us. In front of us, the bay opens gleaming, silver, wet. “Yeah,” I say, wanting to add, Are you kidding. I’d go to McDonald’s with you. I’d split a Big Mac, fifty-fifty.

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The hostess seats us, hands us the menus, and Jeff thanks her, taking his and smiling at me before he looks at it. I realize that while the view of Treasure Island, the Bay Bridge, the ferries lugging through the water is absolutely beautiful, I’m trapped if Jennifer walks in. There is no clear escape except through the glass, and I know that I will do what the Cowardly Lion did in The Wizard of Oz, jump through the class to escape the fear. “Do you like oysters?” Jeff asks. “Not everyone does.” “I take the close-your-eyes-and-swallow approach with oysters. The I-don’t-knowwhat-I’m-swallowing technique. I guess you could call it denial.” “So, basically,” he says. “You don’t even know what they taste like.” “Not really,” I say. “Mostly, I think of sea water and sand.” And that’s when I realize that sea and sand are what I think of when I conjure Jeff. Spray, heat, wind, water. “You haven’t truly lived yet,” he says. And I want to tell him he is right. I haven’t truly lived. I’ve been trying to, but the way to live hasn’t shown up yet. And maybe the way to live never really shows up. You have to put on your party dress and go out to meet it. Look at my mother. She’s still waiting, sitting in her living room watching soap operas and eating popcorn. But the thing is, you have to go outside, at least, flag down the way to live as it passes by. Or at least meet it half way. Otherwise, ships passing in the night. Maybe I’ll be floating for a long time, but the good news is that at least I’m finally out looking. “If oysters are truly the way to live, then I will order some,” I say. “I don’t want it said that I didn’t give it my best.”

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Jeff motions for the waitress, and I look around the restaurant. Out of all the people there, no one looks like me. No one is having my experience. Even if Jennifer came in right this minute, she wouldn’t be me, this me, sitting here with a man who seems to want my company. Sure, he may be projecting all his Jennifer feelings onto me, but I think he knows who I am. I am a woman eating lunch with a man, trying oysters, learning how to live.

“Now,” I say, “I understand all there is to know about living.” I’m lying, of course, but I have eaten ten oysters and a salad of arugula, with pecorino cheese and wine vinaigrette. I’m on my second glass of wine, possibly a mistake, but drinking has made me forget about jumping through the glass. And during the course of our meal, Jeff has stopped looking around, expecting Jennifer to show up. So have I. We realized that we are the ones having lunch. Just us. “We should bring the world through here, then,” Jeff says. “We can cure the world’s ills with oysters and salad. War? Oysters. Gone.” “I think that’s true with desserts,” I say. “How can anyone be angry while eating a cookie? It’s hard to declare war with warm chocolate in your mouth.” Jeff wipes his mouth with his napkin, sits back. “You are so great at what you do. I’m surprised you don’t have your own bakery. It’s a true, amazing thing to do what you love.” “Do you love being a lawyer?” I ask.

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He shrugs. “I love the ideas. The idea of the law, the idea that people create it to try to live better. But it seems to always backfire. When I was in college, I wanted to move to Chile or Israel, a place with true issues. I wanted to work on making life better. Of course, I can do that here. But corporate law isn’t exactly working for the people.” “But you are doing your best,” I say. “Does anyone really ever?” He smiles that smile, the restaurant noises float between us for a second. How can I tell him about myself without coming off as, well, myself? “I was in graduate school for about one day,” I say. “Business. This is my first attempt at making a living at what I love. A bakery seems like a long way off.” The busboy comes to fill our water glasses and take the last of our plates. Jeff nods, shrugs a little. “I have some dreams like that. Lately, they seem to be getting farther and farther away.” “But you do like being a lawyer?” “Who likes being a lawyer? We are so popular with the masses.” I laugh. “But you are good at it.” “Yeah, I am. But really it isn’t work that I’m worried about these days. My personal life seems to have taken over.” And with that, we are back to Jennifer. Once a couple of years ago, I went on a blind date with a man who—for four solid hours—talked about his ex-girlfriend. I learned about the real estate firm she worked at, her family life, what particular STDs she had caught from a musician boyfriend, the evil boyfriend she’d taken up with after my dumping my date. He even showed me the photo that he still carried in his wallet.

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Through lunch, a walk around the park, and the ride home, it was “My girlfriend this,” and “My girlfriend that.” I was ready for morphine by the time I arrived home. A couple of weeks later at Royal Grounds, I heard a woman talking about her latest house sale. Turning, I recognized the woman in the photo. I wanted to go up to her and tell her she’d made the right choice, but I figured that would be rude. All I can say is that listening to people’s tales of woe about a former love is not a good dating strategy. But this is not a date, I tell myself. This is an accidental luncheon. Jeff and I can only be classified as friends, friends with half or partial benefits. “You mean Jennifer?” I ask, just as the waitress places two dessert menus in front of us. “Oh,” Jeff says to he, smiling at me as he does. “We don’t have to do dessert because we have here the dessert queen, the owner of Becca’s Best.” The waitress pretends to understand, takes back the menus. “I’ll bring the check then.” “There’s nothing better than your chocolate chip cookies,” Jeff says. “I buy extra to bring home.” I want to bring up Jennifer again, but then the check comes, and we do that dance of grabbing for it, hands moving across the table. For a second, we touch, and the feel of his skin does every cliché to me that writers have come up with. If I were in a Southern novel, I would swoon. I’m breathless; my skin prickles; my heart pounds like a drum; I flush crimson. If we were in an erotic romance, we’d be naked on the table. But then the thought of that makes me want to snort, and the feeling inside me flickers away.

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“Listen, you’ve done me a favor,” he says, putting his credit card in the jacket and handing it to the waitress as she walks by. “You’ve kept me from myself. You’ve made it possible for me to go home and actually get some work done.” Jeff leans over, touches my hand on purpose this time. I go through the entire cliché ritual one more time. “You’ve made me happy, Becca. Thank you.” The waitress comes back, and we stand. I don’t want this moment to end and suddenly I feel tears in my eyes, my cheeks. I look around the restaurant, searching for ordinary objects to focus on: fork, knife, spoon, cup, ugly red tie. Short sleeved orange t-shirt, black shoes, white aprons, wood paneling! But it’s not working this time. Not at all. Turning to look out the window, I wipe my eyes quickly, and say, “Do you want to take a quick walk? To stroll off a little of this meal?” I keep looking out the window, pretending to be searching out our walk even though most of what I can see is water. Swallowing, breathing in, I turn. “It’s such a nice day,” I say. Jeff takes my elbow, and we walk toward the door. “Yes. I would like a walk before going home and disappearing into my work. And you’re right. It is a nice day. A really nice day. I wish I didn’t have to work later. But I can pretend that I don’t for a little while longer.” “You have a lot to do?” Jeff pushes air out from his mouth with a pfff. “God. Dahlia’s coming over to my apartment to help me get organized. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

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As he says her name, her laser gaze comes to mind and I almost shiver. But when I look at Jeff, I can see that he’s not unhappy about the work—smiling to himself. Outside, the air has warmed, the wind died down, heat pulsing from the concrete sidewalk. Jeff and I walk toward Pier 1, just inches apart, close enough so that sometimes I feel the brush of his elbow against my arm. Our steps match, one, two, one two, left, right, left right. We don’t speak for a while, and I listen to the sounds of the water, the ferries, the laughing children. Here is one of my snow globe moments, times few and far between. But this one I would take off the shelf and shake just about constantly, watching the snow fall around the two figures walking on the Embarcadero, a bold SAN FRANCISO under their feet. San Francisco in September with Jeff. I could put it by the Danny at the MUNI snow globe and the One Time Happy Suburban Family snow globe of years ago. There is always the Becca in the Kitchen snow globe to keep me steady. But this snow globe would be my favorite, so far. Jeff sighs, puts his hands in his pockets. “You know, I feel so comfortable with you. I thought I’d be having this terrible reaction about Jennifer totally blowing me off, but I’m not. I don’t really get it, but it’s true.” I glance at him, not able to see his eyes because of his sun glasses. He seems serious, though, not smiling. “Maybe I’m just a good stand in.” “What?” “Maybe we look enough alike for it to work,” I say, trying to laugh as I do.

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Jeff stops and I follow suit, turning to him as he takes off his glasses. He stares at me, his eyes squinting, one hand on his hip. I watch my statement play out on his face, see his confusion as he takes a long look at my face, from forehead to chin. I’m waiting for him to suddenly understand his misplaced affection and interest in me. He’ll see. All along, it’s been about Jennifer. Nothing else. He’s seen her face in mine, her body in mine. Maybe I’m nicer, but because we so closely resemble each other, he’s been able to imagine that she is actually being nice. She’s riding my coattails, and maybe, I think, this is the help I’m supposed to be giving her. I’m here only to remind Jeff of her—in a good way. My function is this triangle is to be good. Jeff’s look goes on. It stretches on forever. There are too many beats in the moment, and I want to shut it down, move on, forget about it. Why did I blurt that out? I feel my blush pulsing up my neck and into my cheeks. His eyes move up along my jaw, over my cheek, rest on my own eyes, and I feel he’s looked farther inside me than anyone ever has. “You know, you actually do look a lot alike. That must be what I’ve been feeling all this time. You know, thinking I’d met you before. Feeling that I knew you. Wow. Wow!” He keeps looking at me. Not at me, but at me. And I feel sad somehow, a hole opening up in the lovely portrait I’d titled Jeff’s Feelings For Me. He can’t stop looking at me, and I look toward Treasure Island, hoping he’ll stop. This time, my tears aren’t happy. I rummage in my purse for my sunglasses, needing them to hide my tears because the garbage cans, mail boxes, fence railings, and gum wrappers are not working.

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“Lots of people at Winston have thought we look the same,” I say, taking a breath, hoping he doesn’t see the one tear sliding down past my ear. “I was barely able to convince Chester that I wasn’t Jennifer trying to get another pass.” Jeff laughs, the sound curling warm into the air. “Well, Chester smokes a lot of pot, Becca. Haven’t you smelled it down there? Some kind of ganga festival. I can’t believe he hasn’t been fired.” “I don’t think he was stoned the day I met him,” I say as we start to walk again. “He kept thinking I was Jennifer pretending to be someone else.” He stops, puts his hand on my arm, looks at me, and I wish he didn’t have his glasses on. “You better hope Jennifer stays on the right side of the law! You might end up in the slammer.” In that moment, all the hopes I’d been cultivating in my sad little garden wilt. Jeff may have come over to see me, may have called me and lulled me to sleep, but this isn’t a Cinderella story. I’m still the girl who sits in her apartment watching television, wondering why her boyfriend has escaped to the Congo. I’m still the girl who works in a cramped office, worrying about numbers. I’m still the girl who makes batches of cookies instead of making her life happen. Certainly, I’m still the girl whose father left, whose mother is angry and eats too much popcorn and watches horrible soap operas. But I don’t want to be that girl any more. I want to simply be a girl in a summer dress. Wait. A woman in a summer dress, walking with a handsome man who really sees her, who doesn’t mistake her for anyone else. Who does not come in second to anyone in this man’s affections. I know I deserve this, but it’s not going to happen with Jeff. It’s not

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going to happen with a man who doesn’t want me for me, without reservations, without an open heart. I want to snort, and that want makes my tears go away. Jeff looks at me, but I don’t care. Suddenly, it all seems so funny and stupid, and I know who I should be with in the most beautiful place in the world, the weather warm, the sun casting a gold glow. In know who should be in my snow globe as we walk, our arms are barely touching, heat between us. I know whose hand I want to hold we walk toward the horizon, toward the water, everything clear and clean and, for this tiny blip of time, perfect.

My father calls as I’m being slammed around on the MUNI bus, trying to hold on for dear life as each and every tire hits a pot hole. Sal was right. The biggest problem in the city is the busses, and I’m going to tell him that right away, as soon as I get home. I manage to pull my phone out of my purse and answer it, even as the bus almost forces it out of my hand. “Becca?” my father says. “Are you there?” “Barely,” I say. “I’m on a bus.” “Can you talk?” he asks. “I hope so,” I say, and just then, the bus slows for a stop, and most of the crowd gets off. The bus hums, starts up, moves onto smoother road. A girl in a pink hat and a white sweater smiles at me and then goes back to her book. “Are you there?” my father asks. “Yes,” I say. “What’s going on?”

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This time, he pauses, and I try to hear what’s in the background. But there’s nothing but phone air. “I was hoping we could see you again before we left,” he says. “I could see you.” I look at the girl in the pink hat as she reads. The bus shudders and lurches, and I grab onto the rail in front of me. “I’ve been really busy,” I say. “Sorry.” “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we can’t see each other, and I’m just sorry.” In all my life without my father, I never imagined this “I’m sorry” scene would occur on a bus. When I fantasized, I thought we’d be sitting together at a perfectly set dinner table somewhere or in an outdoor setting, the sun casting a soft yellow glow on everything. I would be able to tell him every single thing that he needed to be sorry for, starting with the very second he’d walked away from my mother and me. On and on my diatribe would go, him a willing listener to every wrong he done me. In no way was I lurching around, barely able to hear him, barely able to say a word. But the story is unfolding in the way that it is unfolding. And it is okay. “Becca,” he says. “Can you hear me?” “Yes, Dad. Yes,” I say. “I’m—I’m just . . . .” “That’s okay. I just needed to say it for a long time. And really, I need to talk to you more at some point. To let you know about my story. It’s probably not always a good tale, but I want to tell it.” The other side of the story. There always was one, and that’s the pisser. Once you hear it, you have to change.

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“Okay,” I say. “We should talk more. I’ll call you next week. When things calm down a little.” “Sounds good, Becca. It was good to see you. You seem—you seem happy,” he says, and we say goodbye. I fold my phone and slip it back into my purse. I seem happy. He’s sorry. Two impossible things separately, more impossible together. The bus stops again. The girl in pink looks up at me, closes her book, and stands, getting off and walking up Fulton. The doors close, and the bus lurches on toward home, toward what I hope is more.

Sal isn’t home when I get back to the apartment, and he’s not answering his phone again. “Hey,” his message says. “You know what to do.” I really don’t know what to do, but I leave him a quick message anyway. I also knock a couple of times on his door. I wait each time, looking at the wood, the number 4, the metal door knob. I try to play a version of Magic Phone, but with Sal. As usual, as most often happens, no magic happens. No footsteps, no door opening, no long conversation that ends with the big Happily Ever After. So I go back up to my apartment and instead of obsessing about how I waited too long, how I missed my chance, I manage to bake up the brownies, the pans now cooling on the counter, and I know I need to think about pie but instead, I’m standing in front of my window, looking out at the Monterey pine, or past the tree, at nothing but air, a swirl of fog licking the hills. My cheeks are flushed from the warm afternoon, my arms

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slightly pink, smarting from the last kiss of sun for the season. I have evidence of my “date” with Jeff, but it’s more like I am reminded of what I know, how I learned that Sal is the only man on this planet who has ever really seen who I am. Even though it’s the tritest of trite clichés, I feel as though I am floating, suspended from the ground by my own hope and delusion. But I don’t care why I’m up there. It feels great, the best feeling I’ve had maybe ever. I’m floating, gazing blurry eyed out into the world. I hear something, sigh, turn a little. Someone knocks on my door, and then knocks harder. It takes a while for the sound to make sense, and I have to work it into meaning, push it through my air dream of eternal happiness. Finally, I think, he’s home. Sal. Knock. Salvatore. Knock, knock, knock. Knock! Almost jumping out of my skin at the final knock, I walk toward the door, shaking myself into reality. It must be Sal, and he’ll be here only to make sure things are on schedule. He’s a real hardass. I smile, grateful for all he’s done, and I’m ready to throw my arms around him, happy with him and the whole universe. Pulling the front door wide, I smile, already seeing him there, slouched, his arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted in sarcasm. He’ll say, “Doll, you need to get your act together. Snap out of it and get that fruit, pronto.”

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And I will say, “Sal, we need to talk.” I will say, “I’ve been an idiot.” But it’s not Sal. Not at all. It’s Jennifer Regan. This is a snow globe I don’t want, the one entitled Two Angry People in a Doorway. This snow globe is where two people who are on opposites sides of something stare at each other for longer than is comfortable. Much longer. One is clearly a little menacing, her arms akimbo, her eyes so dark, so shiny, so angry. She’s wearing weekend clothes, jeans and a blouse, so she doesn’t scare me with expensive silk or wool. But she scares me with her feelings. She, I know, can take away my happy air, my floaty joy. She’s the sharp needle to my balloon. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asks. “Answering the door?” I offer. “Looking at you.” Jennifer rolls her eyes, shakes her head, makes a slight snorting sound. “Don’t be stupid. I mean today with Jeff. I just got off the phone with him and he told me you showed up at Hog Island. What gives you the right to do that?” As Jennifer speaks to me—her words hard and crisp, whacking the air like a machete —Mrs. Kinsella from next door clumps down the hallway, giving me her famous stink eye. I have to let Jennifer in or pretty soon, everyone will know the small amount of business that I have. Slowly, I move aside, open the door wider, and Jennifer pushes into my apartment like a gunshot.

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If there were any way to disappear right now, I need to know. For a second, I try to channel some magic, something that Dez could help me with, but sadly, all there is is my pathetic little apartment, gleaming Jennifer Regan, and the man in between us. Jennifer stands in the middle of my living room, looking at my things, and I know I am small, smaller than she’s ever been, my couch second hand, my rugs too ethnic, my wall artwork all framed posters of things that look pretty but have no connection to me. Images that were on sale somewhere for a dollar: Edith Piaf, sunflowers, Yosemite, a California poppy in full bloom. Everything is Ikea, Crate and Barrel, yard sale. There is nothing in my apartment that she would ever want to own. “For your information,” I say. “I didn’t go down there for a date. I thought I was going to the farmer’s market, but it was cl—“ “Give me a break,” Jennifer says, holding up her hand. “Please. Don’t insult us both. You and I both know that’s bullshit. You’re Miss Baker Girl, and you’re trying to tell me you don’t know what day you can buy a peach?” Jennifer looks at me with eyes as brown as my own. She doesn’t blink. “He invited me to join him,” I say, my voice sounding about as firm a Playdough. “It was just lunch. It wasn’t a date.” As I say those words—even though I know I’m trying to protect us all, myself especially—I realize that it is so true. He didn’t ask me on a date. It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t invited beforehand. He really wasn’t looking for me at all. He doesn’t even see me. Jeff only came to me as an alternative. I was the mirror rebound girl, easier to be involved with because it wasn’t such a stretch. I looked the same, was in the same building, and I fawned and acted like an idiot. What’s not to love?

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Jennifer walks to the window, looking out at my pine, the tree whose every inch of visible bark is known to me. The arc of the limbs, the fans of needles imprinted on my brain, a product of too many days staring at it due to loneliness and confusion and no where else to go. I want to tear her away from the view, but I wait. “I thought we were clear on this,” she says, turning for a moment to glare at me. “I thought you knew the deal.” “How can we be clear on this?” I say, feeling the truth in my throat. “Jeff doesn’t know half of the story. Or maybe any of it.” In my mind, I see Brad standing out front Jennifer’s apartment, looking slumpy and sad and lonely. I see the silver flash of the condom in his drawer. I think of his wife and the two boys in the photograph on his desk. I think of Jeff and me on this very couch, and I realize that I shouldn’t be telling her to be truthful. But I can’t stop. “There a lot to this story that you aren’t telling anyone,” I say, my body almost trembling as I say the words. “You haven’t been truthful, and—and it takes a lot of nerve to call me on something that I didn’t do.” Turning away from the window and my pine tree, Jennifer stares at me, her face pale. In this moment, she looks wan and scared and lonely, sort of like Brad did as he stood looking up at her slatted windows. What’s worse, she reminds me of me when I look at the tree, and I want to ask her about this, us, the way we look the same. I want to talk about this true thing between us, truer than Jeff or Brad or any of it. But no one else in my world seems to care that we look the same, not even Jennifer. There’s no mystery for her in it at all.

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“What are you talking about?” she says. “What do you mean about lying?” I put my hands on my hips, not looking away from her eyes for one second. “Brad,” I say simply, the trembling in my body quieting. “I’m talking about Brad.” She seems to grow smaller, as if I actually had one of those Alice in Wonderland potions and dumped it on her head. She drops her gaze, turns a little, sits down on my couch, the sad, cheap cushions a fan around her ass. “How do you know about that?” she whispers. “The question is how could Jeff not know?” I say, unable to tell her about all my spying. I lie to her about the lying, so, in a way, I’m as dishonest as she is. “It’s happening right in front of him every day. How could anyone not know?” Jennifer puts her face into her cupped hands, her body curling over into a C. “This can’t come out,” she says. “Not now when we are so close.” I don’t know what to say. How could I ever have envisioned her this vulnerable? This worried about someone other than herself? “Because of his wife? His kids?” I sit down on the chair opposite her, watch her chest move to her sighs. “Because of everything,” she says, looking up. “Because of Brad’s family, Jeff, the case.” “Give me a break. Don’t you mean because of you? Isn’t this all about you?” I ask. And of course it’s all about Jennifer. She wants what she wants because she wants it. But who doesn’t? “Doing anything about . . . this could compromise all of what we have.”

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“But neither you nor Brad have what you want if you want each other,” I say, the push-pull of my want for Jeff making me feel guilty for saying this truth. “And what about Jeff? What’s he getting from being with you? You’ve got to be clear here. Who is this helping?” Moving her hands away from her face, Jennifer looks up at me with my own worry and sadness, the face I’ve carried around my whole life. Catching my breath, I want to turn away, stare at the pine until this mess disappears. But I don’t move. I don’t look away. I want to tell her that it will be all right—that everything will be absolutely fine-but I would be lying again because I don’t know that’s true. I’ve been hoping it’s true for years, but nothing absolutely fine has happened yet. Not yet. I was hoping it would this afternoon with Jeff until I realized what an idiot I am. I was hoping it would happen just as Jennifer knocked on the door, but she wasn’t Sal. “Please,” she says. “I can’t have this all explode now. It has to wait. Jeff—I need Jeff.” “But it’s not fair to him,” I say. As I speak, I see my mother, a woman whose husband cheated and rolled on, that stone rolling for years before it stopped and crashed into Marcie. If my father had been unhappy all those years, he should have told my mother, spared her the angry surprise. Bad news is worse news when you wait to tell it. “It’s not fair at all.” “Just for a while. I will tell him. I will. But for now, I need things to stay the same. Until the case ends, and it won’t be long. Things are heating up. A week. Maybe less. But a week. Then . . . “

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She stops talking, looks back out toward my pine tree. Now that I don’t see her as blocking me, I feel sorry for her. I want to help her, but I also can see how selfish she is. And how scared. If she could manage to pull herself out of her own pity patch for one minute, I might be able to help her with Jeff and brad, these two men I seem to know in a way she does not. Stepping closer to her, I open my mouth to begin my part of the story, but she turns to me, at once completely open and vulnerable and weak, and the other, an Amazon with a spear in one hand and a severed head in the other. “Listen,” she hisses. “I don’t know who you are or what your life is about and I don’t care. We’ve met now at the worst time of all. But with some luck and with you keeping your big mouth shut, our acquaintance will end. Do you understand me?” “No,” I say. “I don’t. I don’t think I ever will.” She moves closer, and I remember the way Sasha trembled my first day at Winston, the way that Jennifer’s voice made her run and hide in the bathroom. As she approaches me, she seems to be growing like an evil cartoon character, and I think to put my hand out to catch myself before I fall. But then I snort. Jennifer’s eyes widen a bit, she stops moving. “Look,” I say. “You seem to have been lucky enough to get what you want in a lot of ways. So why have you stopped here with this man thing? What’s stopping you from getting Brad but yourself? All you have to do is take a look around and see who wants you. Open your eyes. Stop trying to control everything. Especially yourself—at least in this area.” “What does that mean?”

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I snort again. “It means you are a full-on bitch, Jennifer. I means you’ve pushed everyone aside, even the one you want to hold the closest.” For a tiny slice of time, she seems to understand what I’m saying. She seems to be listening. I keep going while I can. “You’ve got to move to what you want. Stop waiting. Go for it.” We stare at each other, and I look at her, see how she’s a person wholly unrelated to me except that we’ve both probably lost the very people we want the most. And for what? I didn’t see Sal, didn’t happen to notice that he was loving me by showing up every day, talking me down, bolstering me, helping me. I didn’t notice how much I enjoyed our conversations, how I was never bored. All the years we’ve lived together in this building, I was blinded by some fantasy, some snow globe image of my life that didn’t even fit. What I needed all along was exactly what I had, and I was too stupid to notice. And that is the only way that Jennifer Regan and I are the same. Two Lousy at Love Women in An Apartment is our snow globe. Boneheads Par Excellence. “Just shut up about all of it, okay?” she says after a few beats. “Just don’t say a word.” Her anger makes her stronger, and she seems to be pulsing, growing, and for a second, I wonder if she will explode into a million pieces, leaving me with a bigger mess than I could even imagine. But then she pushes past me and leaves, my apartment door slamming behind her. I exhale and try to feel my feet and legs, hopeful that I am still standing. What do I do once I can move again? This is when people drink. They sit down with a bottle of

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Scotch and slurp it down. This is when people eat a box of Hostess cupcakes. This is when people call other people, running through every last detail in order to somehow feel sane. “Can you believe that visit?” I would say to Dez. “can you believe she doesn’t see exactly what to do?” I look at my phone on the table. No messages. No texts. No Sal. He’s out in the universe living his life. He took no for an answer and moved on. He saw Jeff at my door, and decided not to mope. Probably, he’s with Sasha again, a woman who showed her feelings, who already knew the advice I gave to Jennifer. The advice I needed to give myself. So the life will go on. I know what I want and don’t want. I know what I messed up on. By just inches, I missed the mark, failed the exam, lost at cards. At least, I have Becca’s Best. I stand transfixed in my living room, the fog slowly spilling over and through the trees. I am going to do what I need to do, do the work at hand. Pies, not love. Pies, not the truth. Pies, the farthest into the future I can see right now.

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September 15, 2008 Day 13

Recipe: Bad Cookie

Wait a minute! Where did you think you were going? You thought you could just leave? Who did you think you were fooling? I wasn’t born yesterday. Get yourself all the way back to the kitchen. I don’t care that you know how to bake. I don’t care that you used to feel happy. This is what you are going to make and eat for the next week, whether you like it or not. Who told you that cookies were fun? Who told you they would always be easy? This oatmeal cookie has no fat—yes, no lard, no butter, no oil. Nothing juicy, mouthwatering, or delicious. It is filled with erstwhile healthy ingredients, those chewy, tough ingredients that are supposed to make you “reg-u-lar.” All those tasty dried apples and raisins. The oatmeal should lower your cholesterol, even if you are too young to even care about all that fat in your blood. Eat these, dammit, and enjoy them. They are all you are going to get.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Sal says. “Doll, what the hell are these?”

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He drops the cookie onto the counter, his face the way it might look had he bitten into a dead rat instead. Sighing, I close my eyes, look at the mass of wasted flour and nuts and oatmeal and fruit, all cooked up into some quasi-healthy pile of cooked substance. “I thought it might be a nice change,” I say. “You know, start the week out healthy.” “We have plenty of those healthy muffins, you know,” Sal says. “Those health blobs, I call them. Neil’s favorite chomping material. Pumpkin muffins, too. So what’s up with this scene of total destruction? What happened to you today?” I take off my apron and throw it on top of the pile of cooled cookies. Unable to sleep, unable to even close my eyes since Jennifer left, I baked my way into this kitchen madness. When Sal finally showed up, I was on my fourth batch and had all about given up on him coming home at all. In fact, I had him raising a family in New Zealand, Sasha pregnant with their sixth child, two border collies running in the yard. “I need to throw all of these away,” I say. “I didn’t get to the pies. I never bought any fruit. I couldn’t leave the house. I wanted to, but it will have to wait for another day.” I start toward the door, but Sal puts his hand on my arm. And I finally know what happens when my brain and body speak the same language. I close my eyes and feel the yes everywhere. Yes to his hand, yes to his humor, yes to his heart. “What is going on? I haven’t seen you like this—Wait, I’ve never seen you like this.” “Welcome to my neurosis,” I say, trying to laugh. But the laugh doesn’t come, just sort of a wobbly smile. “I’m sure it’s a great place to visit,” he says. “But I know you don’t even want to stay there. So let me have it, doll.”

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“Where were you today?” I ask, ignoring his question, knowing that I need this answer. Sal looks down, shrugs a little, puts a hand on his hip. He doesn’t meet my gaze. “Went to a little picnic at Chrissie Field. Some amazing barbeque, let me tell you--” “Who did you go with?” I ask. “Jeez, doll. What is this? 20 questions or die?” “I called you, that’s all,” I say. I sort of flap my hand at the mess of food. “I needed your help.” Sal raises an eyebrow. “I assumed you had plans for the day. So I took some time for fun myself.” “So you went to the picnic with . . .” I wait for him to finish the sentence. “Sasha invited me. Her friends. Some of the people I met at the bar the other night.” Sal looks at me, his eyes dark and so kind. He’s letting me know. He’s letting me down easy, I think. He’s giving me the big no. “Oh,” I say, turning to face the window. “Okay.” Too late. Too late. I was right to be surprised when my father called. I couldn’t be happy and he couldn’t be sorry on the same planet. It just wasn’t supposed to happen like that. “You need to tell me something now,” Sal asks. I sniffle and then turn around. “Okay.” “What happened to you today?” I want to tell him everything. I want to say that after doing my level best to poach Jeff, I threw him back when I realized that all along, Sal was the one. I want to tell him

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about the great advice I gave Jennifer, advice I can’t even take myself. I want to tell him that I am only meant to have only one part of my life working well at a time. If that. I want to tell him to come closer to me, let me breathe in his green smell. I want him to say, “Doll, there’s only one thing that can fix you, and it’s a big dose of Sal.” But instead, I lie. I’m a liar, just like Jennifer. In that, we are the same. “Oh, it’s just my mother. Called me to complain about something. Went on for hours. You know, mothers,” I say. “Do I know about mothers? Do I? Me? You remember my theory: If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother,” he adds, laughing, poking my arm gently with his fingers. I want to laugh because Sal’s theory is true, but because he’s seeing Sasha right now, his humor won’t be as available to me. I’m going to lose everything. Sal is staring at me, his laugh starting to wear off. “It’s always my mother,” I say, going along with his theory. “Okay then. If it’s a mother issue, I can handle it. We can’t have any meltdowns tomorrow. Let’s get some pies made. These blobs of grossness we can leave out for the crows, don’t you think?” He points at my mountain of wrecked oatmeal. I hate wasting food, and it makes me slightly sick that I took out all my frustrations on helpless food stuffs. Somehow, I’ll have to make up for that. For wasting food, lying to Jennifer, for not truly seeing Sal the way he saw me all along. I have so much penance to do.

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As the elevator doors open onto the tableau of Winston, Janszen, and LeGuin, I wonder if I can tell if Jeff is in the office this morning. I stand still, hoping to suss out his presence, but all my potential modes for extrasensory conversation are eroded as Winston seems to be under attack. The associate lawyers and the assistants and the assistants to the assistants are running, literally, up and down the halls, carrying files and papers. Those who aren’t in mule service are hovering like drone bees around Jennifer, Brad, and even Eric—not to mention to lawyers from Jeff’s office. “Must be the pretrial date,” Sal says. “Or something legal that I will never understand.” Sasha is suddenly in front of us, her eyes as big as I’ve ever seen them, her face set in a tense and fearful expression. Chad is next to her, quiet as usual, and the two of them seem united in whatever plan they have for living through today.. Sal gives Sasha a look I’ve never seen him give her, an “I know you” look. He puts a careful hand on her shoulder, and she leans ever so slightly closer to him. I feel a sadness that makes me want to go home and sleep for days. “How’s it going around here,” he asks. “Are you holding down the fort or trying to run away from it?” She takes a break from her fear and laughs a little. But then we all hear Jennifer’s harsh voice, a cracking whip of command, and her bubble eyes widen. “It’s a mad house. Something with the judge—I don’t know, he like changed the date on them and everyone is freaking out.” “Sounds like they need some sugar,” Sal says.

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I turn to look at him, wondering where he came from, popping into the world with his ability to be himself, even in the midst of insane lawyers. “I’ll let you start the brigade. I need to take deep breaths before I forge into my territory,” I say. The four of us walk toward the workroom, and once there, Sal loads up his cart and pushes off, Sasha walking next to him, helping him hand out muffins. Chad follows behind them like a forgotten child. I close the door and lean up against the work table, glad for the time to compose myself. How am I supposed to act now that I have blown the biggest thing since, well, since ever? Should I just be Becca doing her best, pushing the cart, selling baked goods? After all, this is what I get to have. The business. I need to go about my business. Of course, this is the answer, and I know it. A few days of acting like normal, and it will all be over. Sal and Sasha will be official, Chad shooting hateful glances at them for weeks. The case will end, Jennifer will or will not leave Brad, Jeff will or will not be with her. It won’t matter what happens, unless Jennifer wants to blame me. All I can do is wait. I can’t adapt to it all until it happens. So like Sal, I load up my cart, stack it high with muffins and coffee cake, arranging the napkins and forks, controlling the very small part of the universe I can. “There you are,” he says, and I almost jump out of my shoes. “I do have permission to be in the building,” Jeff says. “Chester himself let me in.”. Taking in a deep breath, I look up. “Hey, there,” I say. “It’s crazy here,” he says, moving closer to me, so close I can almost feel his skin. “But I had to find you. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed yesterday.”

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“I, um,” I say, my voice light, calm, flat. “It seems wild out there.” “Yesterday,” he says again. “That was really fun,” I say. “I will always thank you for showing me the error of my ways in regards to oysters.” “That was the best non-date I’ve ever had,” he says. I nod, and if truth be told, it ranks up there as the best, date, too, but that has to say more about my dating life than Jeff. Jeff goes on. “Listen, I need to talk with you. Maybe later today? It’s important that I say a few things.” I want to snort. It’s like we all signed up for the three-legged race with the wrong partners. Yesterday morning, I would have given anything to hear these honest words, and I look quickly at Jeff, who’s face seems full of a surprise he can’t wait to share. “Okay,” I say, and then I turn back to work on my cart. Despite myself, I wish I want Sal to come in and save me, his action quick, and dramatic. I picture movies involving Richard Gere and his saving of the female lead character in dramatic and profound ways, the sweeping up of the women quite literally off their feet. There goes Debra Winger off the stage in Richard Gere’s arms, him all dressed to the nines in his Naval Academy whites. There he is taking Julia Roberts off in his white limousine, red roses brandished and held high. Sal’s saving me would end my misery, show Jeff how I feel, keep Jennifer away—and break Sasha’s heart, though, of course, Chad would be thrilled. But I’ve never been saved before, and I know it won’t start now.

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“Becca,” Jeff says. “What is it?” Tears plop on the Saran wrap covering the cheddar bacon muffins. Plop, plop on the coffee cake. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, make mountains out of sweets. “Becca,” he says, putting his hand on my arm, but then an assistant pushes into the workroom, throwing down a stack of papers. Like that, the snow globe of Fantastical Reconciliation crashes on the floor, splintering into fragments, just in the knick of time. “They are going over to the courthouse,” the assistant says. His name is Ali, I think, the one who likes rum cake with a brownie chaser. “They want you to ride with them.” As they talk, I wipe my eyes again, find my game face. Jeff moves away from me, listening, and I hear him sigh. Ali leaves the room, and Jeff walks toward the door, turning to face me before he leaves. “Becca, we’ll talk later, okay?” I lift my hand, nod. “All right.” For a moment, he waits, thinking I might be smart enough to say something. But I’m not smart enough to even offer him a poppy seed muffin, and he leaves. The only thing that makes sense to me right now is my cart. Of course, I can’t really see it through my tears that just don’t seem to stop, but it’s what I can do and what I’m here to do. Taking in a huge breath, standing straight, I place my hands on the metal cart bar and begin to roll. I’ve got to be okay with being my own best hope, my business the thing to take me places. No leading man in a Cutlass is going to whisk me to Las Vegas and a quickie wedding. If I want a bubble of happiness, I’m going to have to blow it up myself. I will have to plant myself in my globe called My Truly Wonderful Life.

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When we get to Madison, Jeff’s team isn’t in the office, and Sal and I do a quick, swift job, handing off muffins, scones, and cookies. “Doll,” he says to me as we meet up at the end of our rounds. “Our main gal here Dahlia says an office downstairs wants to hire us. Gave me a number.” I take the business card he hands to me, and then look back at him. “Why didn’t she tell me?” “Going all presidential on me, huh?” he says. “No,” I say. “I mean, I just passed her desk.” “Who knows! All I know is that things are really looking up. “ He seems so happy, one dark curl slipped out of his do, his eyes full of light. I smile and then gulp down a sob. Sal steps back, stares at me. “The news isn’t that bad,” he says. “It will involve hiring a couple of people though, if that’s what’s bothering you.” I shake my head. “No, no. That’s really good . . .” But I can’t go on. A week ago, good business news would have been exactly what I wanted to hear. Another office, another client, would be a step closer to the life I wanted to find for myself. But twenty-four hours of self-understanding has wrecked me for everything else in the universe. Sal puts a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, I’ll go down and scout it out, all right? You go out front and wait. Get some air. Think about the story you’re going to tell me to explain what in the hell is going on with you.”

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He nods, turns, and then walks away, his keys and change jangling in his pockets, his boot heels hitting hard on the carpeted floor. He is so sure of himself, so cool without having to try to be cool. Of all the people on the planet, Sal Souza knows best who he is. I watch him until he turns a corner, and then I lean against the wall, waiting for something normal to hit me, some normal feeling. But do I really want that? The last time I felt normal I also felt like shit. Where was it? Oh, right! That fine day I found myself sitting in the classroom watching the marketing professor humiliate me over my last name. Normal. Feeling like shit. Wearing my mother’s cast offs. Staring out my window at the pine tree. Abnormal? Being in love. Crying. Finding success doing something I love. “Get over yourself,” the Dez in my head says. “Move on. Take the good and leave the rest behind.” “Fine,” I tell her back, pushing off the wall, walking toward the elevator, knowing that Sal will get us a new client and that we will have to hire someone and I will have to think about renting a kitchen somewhere. Knowing that even while Rome seems to burn, at least business will be booming.

“So are you going to tell me what’s eating you?” Sal says. We are sitting in the Cutlass, parked in the garage around the corner from Madison, Ivory, and Yang with a few minutes to spare before we have to drive back to Winston and

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the mad house. At my feet is a bag of goodies for Vick and Hallelujah Jones, and part of me wants to hang out the afternoon with them, stand around the garbage can, and listen to their stories. In the slight gold gloom of the parking garage, it feels like evening, as if this day had already passed, as if I won’t have to run into Jennifer or Jeff or Brad again today. With some careful planning, I won’t have to have that conversation with Jeff. It’s possible that I could send Sal in for the final round and take the bus home in order to write up the Craigslist ad for a new employee, someone to help us with the new account Sal nailed. We are going to be busy, and busy is good. Busy will keep me busy and away from my own mind which is clearly a deadly weapon. “Doll,” Sal says finally. “Moping never looks good on anyone, especially on someone as good looking as you.” I laugh out loud, shake my head, and look down at my lap, wondering how to tell him I wish I could take back the past twenty-four hours, the ones wherein I let him slip away. “It’s,” I begin. “It’s . . . .” “It’s about Jeff,” Sal says, his face now inscrutable. “Not really,” I say, finding the tightrope I need to walk here. “It’s the wicked bitch of the west, isn’t it, huh?” he says. “She wants to control the universe. Wants everything and everyone.” I’m about to agree with his assessment of Jennifer, but who doesn’t want everything? What a learned yesterday was that Jennifer and I have more in common that I’d thought. We both want what we want, all of it. Who says, “Oh, I’ll have love but not money. Money but not love. Family but not money. Love but not family.”

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Maybe for a while people go into love thinking the food stamp scenario will be doable, but somewhere along the line, one of them will leave the bed and head for the hills. “She’s . . .” I start, not knowing how to tell Sal about everything I know while not telling him at the same time. “She’s trying to figure things out. She’s hoping that things will turn out the way she wants them to.” Sal seems to take this in, beats out a little rhythm on his steering wheel with his fingers, the sound reverberating in the car. Then he takes a breath, leans back against the seat. “My theory is this. If you don’t take what you want, it’s taken from you.” Sasha. He took what he wanted before she moved on. He was a lot smarter than I was. “When I was a kid, My mom would say, ‘Who wants the last pancake?’ And if I didn’t take it fast enough, my sister would. Pancake gone, just like that.” “Until the next time,” I say. “People,” Sal says. “Aren’t like pancakes. They just don’t show up on Sunday mornings. You have to hope they show up on a daily basis, even when you don’t think they will. And then, bam! You’re outside just hanging around, and there she is.” . I know he’s thinking about Sasha and the picnic, and I can picture then sitting cozy on the quilt, a lunch basket the only thing between them. The air is warm, full of the end of summer sunlight. Sasha leans toward him and he kisses her, gently. On the cheek. After all, it is my imagination. I stop the torture, and look out the window, willing the tears to stop.

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Sal sits next to me, no more theories, and I imagine he’s lost in a reverie, one he likely can’t share with me. I let the tears dry, and we sit in the garage, cars squealing by on the slick concrete. Somewhere, someone laughs, the sound a booming echoing bouncing off the parked cars. Sal is a genius, and he doesn’t even know he’s talking about what just happened to me. He’s the one who got away. “So if you really want him,” Sal says, his face blank again. “You need to try.” “The case,” I start, trying to find an excuse. Sal holds up his hand, shakes his head. “There is always going to be a case. Lawyers and cases are like you and scones, doll. There’s always going to be something. Work. Life. Parents. You can’t wait for the perfect moment. It just never comes. You’ve got to listen to me.” “I know. You’re right,” I say, smiling, trying to convince Sal that all is clear, understood, a done deal. “Thanks, Sal. Thanks for everything,” I say, and I want to tell him thank you for himself, for giving me the idea of what I could find. Just not with him. “Thanks for getting the new account, too.” “Doll,” he says, clearly ready to change topics. “We are on our way. Customers out the wazoo.” “That’s going to hurt,” I say. “Change always does, doll. That’s my next theory.” Before he gets going on some other painful psychological drama that obliquely— without his knowledge—involves me--I continue on. “We are going to need a kitchen,” I say as Sal starts the engine, the car rumbling to life.

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“We are going to need a bakery,” Sal says, putting the car into reverse. “We are going to need a whole block of buildings. We are going Martha Stewart doll!” He pulls out, shifting into drive. We are on our way back to Winston, the place it all started, the place I met myself and didn’t like who I was. The place I met Jeff, and realized I couldn’t have him, not yet, and maybe not ever. “Snap out of it,” the Dez in my head says. And I try, smile, blink as Sal pulls out into the light of the San Francisco day.

Hallelujah Jones tells me that 3 pm in San Francisco is the best time of all. The fog is gone, heat radiates off the pavement, and people are in a good mood because they are on their way home soon, work almost over. The only people who are angry are those parked in zones that turn into tow away at 3, everything gearing up for the commute home. “Everyone wants to be in the in-between,” Hallelujah says. “The not there and the not at home yet.” Vick shrugs. “I think our girl here knows exactly what she wants but it’s so far away she has to leave the middle to get it.” Hallelujah and Vick bite into scones, and I nod, agreeing sort of, exactly in that inbetween place right now, not one thing or another. And yes, what I want is on a ship headed to China, the passengers waving to me from the stern. I have no real answers but not a lot of questions left, either. Strangely, though, ’m almost in a good mood myself. The day ended without a conversation with Jeff or a run-

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in with Jennifer. Aside from the fact of my broken heart, I’m almost good to go. In fact, standing out here on Market Street, I can almost forget about everything. I’ll start a homeless center, I think. I’ll devote myself to a career of service. Vick passes a cookie to another man, a fellow I only know as S. I’m about to say hello, when I hear my name and the whole in-between glory feeling starts to waver like a migraine aura. “Better go to it,” Hallelujah says. “Time sleeps for no man.” “Or woman, you idiot,” Vick says. I smile, turn, see Jeff walking toward us. Turning to give the guys a little wave, I start walking, not wanting Hallelujah or Vick or even S to rhapsodize on some philosophy that might end up hitting too close to home. With Jeff right now, I want things to be light and easy and absolutely not focused on anything but work or food or office banalities. Forget our non-date. Forget our throwing off of clothes. Forget Jennifer and everything. “There you are,” he says. He looks happy, too, as if the day is throwing down light on us all. His briefcase is slung over his shoulder, his hair pushed back by the wind. “Becca,” Jeff says. “Rebecca.” “Yes, here I am at my usual corner,” I say. “Sal went shopping. We ended up getting another account today.” As I walk toward him, I try not to look up into his face, but it’s impossible, even now. I have to forgive myself for being sucked up into his vortex liked a doomed spaceship. He is a classic man, the kind in GQ and Esquire, the man who could slide into any situation other than maybe a gang war and know how to handle it. Right now, he seems

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confident, sure, accessible, and lovely. And he’s not the man I am in love with. Maybe, he never was. “We did great in court today,” Jeff says, and I should have seen that when I first heard him call my name. Now wonder he’s glowing. He’s glimmering, his eyes happy, his smile wide. And before I can stop my noise, I’m smelling him again, the ocean of his scent. “That’s really good news,” I say. “How much longer do you think it’s going to go on?” He doesn’t answer me right away but instead looks at me, so closely, that I want to turn away. “We need to talk. Really..” “About the case?” I say, knowing how stupid that sounds. “Is it about over?” He shrugs, moving closer to me, taking my elbow. “There are some things I want to tell you.” “Jeff,” I say. “Um, I need to get back home and start baking. I think I might end up getting fired before I even start if I don’t. Three offices! Can you imagine that?” I know I’m blathering, but I want to avoid this scene. I want to avoid running into Jennifer and having her believe that I’m after her man, or half-man. I don’t want Brad to saunter by and see that Jeff is moving on, giving him trepidation about his affair. None of this should be my business, but it is. And more than anything, I want to sit down at my kitchen table with Sal and talk to him. Hallelujah Jones and Vick are wrong. The middle sucks. I’ve felt like this maybe once, when I went to Danny’s apartment the last time. In my mind, I had a script I was going to recite. I was going to lay it out on the table, all the

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reasons he should stay. The bad news was that I was on the top of my list but not his. But the feeling I had before getting to his apartment was the breathless desperation I’m feeling now, thinking about telling Sal how I feel. Not only is it about 99.5% possible that he will decline my kind offer of heart and soul, but the business could fail. And meanwhile? I’m standing here with Jeff, a perfectly wonderful man, and trying to figure out how to blow him off. Even the Dez in my head is speechless. Little orbs of light start flickering in the corners of my eyes, and I think I am actually going to swoon. “Becca?” he asks. “Are you all right?” I close my eyes, shake my head, lift a hand in a little wave, the kind that says, “Oh don’t bother about silly old me.” One, two, I breathe. Three, four. I open my eyes. “I’m just really tired. And I have to do so many things. Not just baking. Business tuff. I have to go to my mother’s and pick up some things. Boring.” His face is solemn now, still and watching. “We do need to talk. Soon.” “Okay,” I say. “I promise. But I really have to get going.” I’m expecting him to stay watchful, but he seems to recall something very, very nice, his face suffused with what I can only describe as light. What is he thinking about? Our night of non-sex, even though it was so quick, and, at the end, pointless. If so, this whole situation is going to be worse than I can imagine. “Maybe we have a drink soon. When the case ends,” he says. Pulling my purse up on my shoulder, I keep walking away from him, hearing the rumble of a bus in the

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distance. I’ll take this bus, even if it isn’t mine. It’s going in the right direction no matter where its going, away from trouble. How can I actually be doing this? When did I get to the point of not taking the second choice? When did I actually have more than one? “That would be great,” I say, and then I am almost at the edge of the sidewalk, and then the MUNI comes, and I’m jumping onto it, waving goodbye.

Long ago, I learned baked goods should be stored for the least amount of time as possible. This is what my mother taught me and this is why she freezes everything, trying to avoid this conundrum. It’s entirely too gross to open a cupboard and find a twoweek old piece of coffee cake. Don’t do that to yourself or your dear family members. Even an hour can take away that lovely mouth feel, the flakey, tasty spike of butter and flour on your tongue. But if you must store overnight or not more than two or three days, baked goods should be tightly wrapped with plastic wrap or aluminum foil—or both, just for good measure. If you want to waste materials but guarantee additional freshness, place your wrapped good in an airtight bag or under and inverted bowl. But here’s the thing, if you leave any part exposed, it will become stale just like that, a crumbly mess because of the loss of moisture. The problem is, you want to take the baked good out of its wrapping. You want to eat it. You don’t want to hide the taste treat away from, well, your mouth. Baking and

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eating. That’s the perfect order of things. Don’t leave things hidden in the cupboard. Take it out. Live. At least, that’s what my mother always told me.

My mother isn’t in the living room when I get to her house. The television isn’t blaring away, Mario or Sean or Rori not on the screen declaring undying love for Marcella or Kate or Susan. No one is dying or in a coma or on the ledge of a building, threatening to jump. In fact, it’s completely quiet for a change in the house, nothing but the slight whine of the electrical appliances. In the kitchen, racks of chocolate chippers and sand tarts wait for my desperate, emergency pick up, but I have to keep walking all the way into the bedroom to find her. I find her perfume first, the hallway awash in Nina Ricci, a fragrance I don’t often smell these days. Her room is almost overpowered by perfume, the air—I swear—just about pink. Her bed is covered in clothing, and I fear I’ve made it for yet another Goodwill pick up date. I vow to not look in any of the bags. “Mom,” I say. “What are you doing?” She peeks out of the closet, holding several dresses in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other. She’s in her underwear and a t-shirt, but her face is done, made-up, looking the way she does only on holidays or during visits from my grandparents. “Trying to find something to wear.” Pushing away some clothing, I clear a circle and sit on the bed. “Something to wear where?” My mother seems to ignore, me, moving clothes around, and then turning to look at me, clothing options draped over both her arms. I know she wouldn’t believe me, but she

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looks amazing. Despite her popcorn addiction, she is thin, her body smooth, her breasts looking good in that Victoria secret bra I had to help her order from the catalogue. “It’s a roll ‘em up and lift ‘em high bra,” she said when we ordered it, but she was exaggerating, knowing that the lift was simply a good thing. The truth is this—and it’s the truth that must irritate her because it’s not true about me: No matter what she put on, she’d look great. “Well, if you must know,” she says, dropping the clothes on the bed. “Your mother has a date.” For a second, all I can feel is the bed underneath me, the air on my face, the wall of perfume surrounding me. How many times during my childhood did I want more than anything to hear that statement. “I have a date.” A date? A date? Looking up at her, I suddenly feel how my mouth is hanging open, air on my teeth, my tongue drying. I snap my lips shut, blink. “With who?” I ask. “With whom.” “Mom, with whom then, for god’s sake.” “Oh, you don’t know him,” she says, her voice reaching for unconcern. “Just someone I met at the library.” “You met a man at the library?” I ask. Of all the dating scenarios I’ve ever heard, no where was the word library mentioned. Yes, yes. Cute little bookstores are all the rage when it comes to romantic date sites: small tables, little lamps, cups of coffee served amongst the artfully placed, towering stacks of books. But not once did anyone tell me I could meet a man at a library. I was supposed to go to outdoor activities and grocery stores and, yes, bars and parties. Maybe a bus or BART or a café. But the library?

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“When did this happen? I mean, Mom, I just saw you on Saturday. You never mentioned a thing.” She holds up a blouse, something slightly diaphanous, red and black flowers swirling front and back. I see her eying a pair of black pants. Dinner, I think. They are going out to dinner. “When did you meet him, Mom?” “Today.” “Today?” I say. “Today?” “Yes, Rebecca. Today. I met him today when I was returning a book after work. I had just gotten your phone call to make the rush-order cookies and was in a hurry, and he offered to slide the book in the slot for me.” “Slide the book in the slot? Do we have to go Freudian on this” “Rebecca, please.” My mother stops for a moment, unbuttons the blouse and then puts it on, and it’s the right choice, the colors good wither hair, her skin. “But we ended up talking, and well, we are going out to dinner.” “What is his name?” I ask. “Are you sure he isn’t some kind of mass murder who hangs out at libraries waiting for victims? Did you do a Google search on him? Seriously, Mom.” My mother rolls her eyes, picks up the black pants off the bed, holds them up in front of her body, assessing the situation. “Do these match?”

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I nod, not bothering to remind her that she herself has complained about my fashion know-how on about six billion separate occasions, so I am not exactly the right person to ask. She slips on the pants, zipping the zipper, tucking the blouse in. She looks up and smiles, and in that second, I can see my mother’s future happiness. Maybe she won’t end up with this nameless man, but she has finally found the desire to move away from what she had been clinging to. And it happened in one afternoon, just like that. Change. Sal would approve. “Mom, who is this guy?” She starts putting away the rest of the clothes, zipping and hanging, and folding. “His name is Michael. He’s retired. And widowed.” My heart sinks a little, imagining my mother with some really old man, both of them on the couch watching the Tivoed soaps. I must have made some kind of expression, and she stands up straight, putting her hands on her hips. “He’s only 55. He was involved in some kind of technology company. Took the golden, golden parachute. Now he reads a lot. Likes history.” As I scoot over so she can grab the last of the clothing, I smile. “Okay, then. So where are you going tonight?” “Oh, downtown. Just to Voici,” she says, lingering on the French word, sounding mysterious and glamorous at once. And in that sound, I can see my younger mother, the one who met my father, who fell in love all those years ago. The one who watches the soap operas for more than just the upheaval and despair. There is hope and wistfulness and need in her voice, the sound of someone who maybe hopes something nice will finally happen.

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Who knew? My mother, the true romantic. “Well, just be in by 11,” I say, thinking of all the times she didn’t have to say that to me. My mother closes the closet door and turns to me. “You need to take your own advice, Rebecca.” “Which advice?” I say, standing up and following her as she walks into the bathroom. “I’m always in by 11.” “The advice to get out into the world.” I sigh. “Mom, didn’t I just tell you this afternoon that we have a new account? That we are going to have to hire at least one more person? Things are happening fast. I’ve been baking so much I don’t even need measuring cups any more. I don’t exactly have time to go hang out at the library and wait for a rich retired man to return The War of 1812 or whatever.” My mother picks up a blusher brush and sweeps it once, twice on her cheeks bones. “You didn’t have time when you were at Grommer’s, either. You haven’t had time even when all you had was time.” “Mom,” I start, but I can’t go on. I don’t have the energy to argue. She’s right, as usual. But how can I tell her I made one of the world’s easiest to spot mistakes. I fell into the path of man unhappy with his relationship, both of them with one foot in and one foot out, the in-between as Hallelujah calls it. I made the error of being the fast, quick rebound girl. And it was made complicated because I reminded him of Jennifer. If he could process a short, non-relationship with me, he might be able to do the same with

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Jennifer. I was a stepping stone at best, though it was nice to have that brief contact with human flesh, even though it really wasn’t the flesh I wanted. So, Carla’s right. I need to get out into the world, but the world I want to go into is a little crowded these days with love triangles. “You’re right. And . . . and there is someone. But—“ “But nothing,” she says, putting down the brush and looking at me. “Yes you’ve gotten this strange little business together. And I’m glad of it. You haven’t been happy since college. I’d assumed graduate school would have helped. But never mind that.” She smoothes her hair, stares at her teeth, picks up her bottle of Nina Ricci. “Mom,” I say, “I could find you by smell alone in a deep, dark, four mile long cave.” She puts the bottle down, the glass bottom clacking on the tile. “Who is this person?” she asks. “Who is this someone?” I watch her in the mirror, see how interested she is, as always. “You don’t like him.” “Of course! That Sal,” my mother says, raising her hands and holding them out in front of her, Jesus style. “I told you he was in love with you.” “But I’m too late,” I say. I wasted some time with someone else—“ My mother makes a sound, a surprise of air and hope and happiness. “You’ve had two men? My goodness, an embarrassment of riches.” “I don’t have either,” I say. “I’m too late. I turned around, and Sal found someone who recognized him for how great he is.” My mother humphs. “Listen, Becca. I saw the way he looked at you. He’s with this someone, but it’s out of, well, default.”

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I shake my head. I saw the way he looked at Sasha. I saw his hand on her shoulder. “No, he just saw the error of his ways.” “Have you told him how you feel?” I nod. “No. It’s too late, Mom. We’re neighbors. We’re co-workers We’re friends.” “There is no such thing,” my mother says. “I have never believed that. Your father always talked about female friends, and sorry Charlie, opposite sex friends don’t exist. You read the stories all the time, “He Fell in Love with His Best Friend.” So please don’t get me started on that topic. This Sal likes you, Rebecca. Make no mistake about that.” “He has a girlfriend,” I say, using the word for the first time, the “g” a pain in my heart. “I can’t just take—“ “Don’t you know the saying? And it’s not just about the war of 1812. ‘All is fair in love and war.’ It’s not just a cliché.” I want to tell my mother that Sal’s “girlfriend” is a wonderful person, someone who helped me out during my delusional Jeff period. If I told my mother about the spying at Jennifer’s house, I’m sure she might cancel her date and stay home for the next twenty years in order to keep better tabs on me. I’m not going to ruin her date, her first in about forever. “I hear you, Mom. Loud and clear.” She takes in a deep breath and turns from the mirror. “Now I have to go out and wait in the living room for my date. Keep me company so I don’t end up walking the floorboards or pulling all the batting out of the pillows.” “Maybe we can watch one of your shows,” I say.

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“Those stupid things?” she says, and I follow her, hearing the slick slip of her clothing, breathing in her perfume, and smile.

“When were you going to tell me this? Any of it?” Dez says. “Why didn’t you tell me about Jeff? About Sal?” She’s called me during her 2 am feeding and diaper change. My hands are covered in flour as I just finished rolling up cinnamon rolls. Rows of them are now curled in their pans in the fridge, ready for early morning baking. By tomorrow at 9 am, I will have everything ready for working at three separate offices. Sal has taken care of the logistics, written up a help wanted listing on craigslist, and by the end of the week, we will be fully functional, everything working, except, of course, for my brain. By the time I got home from my mother’s house, there was no time for a kitchen table talk, Sal running out to buy another cart. And as far as I heard, he hasn’t come home. If I had to guess if he were at the bar or with Sasha, I’d pick Sasha. “Jennifer is crazy. If you were still going after Jeff, I’d say don’t listen to her,” Dez says, the yell in her voice just under the whisper. The babies must be falling asleep. “But I’m not going after him,” I say. “I wasn’t really “going” after him at all. It just sort of happened.” “Or not happened. Not having sex on your couch is a not happening,” Dez says.

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“Thanks for reminding me,” I say. I clap my hands together and watch the whoosh of flour rise around me. “But I’m glad it didn’t happen.” “Well, fine and dandy then. But you still have to work with this circus freak show of people.” “There is a big case going on in one of the offices,” I say, brushing flour off my hands and then picking up a sponge to start cleaning the counters. “Lots of high drama. I’ll let it pass and then talk to Jeff. Jennifer will see I’m not a threat, and they can work out their act all by themselves.” “What are you going to do about Sal,” Dez says. “You have to work with him, too. And are you sure? Are you absolutely certain he’s with this girl? Did you ask? Did you dig for details? Or are you just too chicken to find out?” I stand still for a second, and instead of being irritated with Dez, I realize that her words flooded me with a little happiness, slim and sad as it might be. I do not know anything for sure. “Yes, I am a chicken,” I say. “I haven’t asked. I’ve been meaning to, but—“ “You haven’t quite gotten around to it. Becca! This isn’t some romantic movie, where you are holding back a deep dark secret, something that will tumble empires or ruin countless lives. Tell him. Live through the outcome. Jesus!” “For a non-religious person,” I say. “You’ve invoked god a lot in this conversation.” “If praying would work, I’d pray,” Dez says. “I’d walk on my knees four miles to Barney’s if it would do any good.” “I’m just . . . scared.”

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And that’s it. All the while I’ve been thinking about Sal, I realize that I see the shadow of other loses, other tragic failures in male relationships. My father. Danny. Even Jeff. In the background, I hear a slight cry, shufflings of blankets or diapers or something soft and fabric. Dez seems to shift, continues. “I know, Bec. It’s scary. And you know. You just have to ask yourself if Sal is the one. You will remember. You’ll see it or hear it or feel it. In a snap, a flick, a spark. Maybe this isn’t a romance novel, but this is the truth. It was like that with Nick, from the first second he walked in the room. I knew. So I will pray. And pray hard. I will say, ‘Holy whatever! Make Becca do what she has to. Make Becca see the light. Oh, lord, let her see that holy light.’” As I rinse the sponge, I realize for the first time since I met her, Dez can’t help me fix my life. I can listen to her and know what she would do, but I have to finish the story all by myself. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll figure it out.” “You better,” she says. “Otherwise, I’ll never get out there to see you.” After a few more words, we hang up, and I sigh. The kitchen is clean, everything packed up and ready to go for the morning. There’s no telling what will happen next, everything since I walked into Winston, Janszen, and LeGuin a sudden and amazing mystery. I don’t know exactly what I’ve learned, but I know I’m not sitting in a classroom learning things I’ll never use. Maybe I will never figure out who Jennifer Regan is to me and why I was so fixated on our similarities and then our differences. Maybe I’ll never know why Jeff and I made a stumbling foray into relationship. Was it just so I could see what I really wanted? Maybe my father and I will talk next week, and

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then the next. Maybe one day we will have a relationship, finally. Maybe my mother will have had this one date only and will never have another. Who knows anything, really? Who knew if I’d ever be more than a person who made cookies for people better educated and much better off. Who knew if I’d ever meet a man I could date? But I know that Dez is right about one thing for sure. I remember seeing Sal for the first time, the way he took me in with his dark, smiling eyes. I can see the sun shining on his hair, his strong crossed arms, his flashy cowboys boots. I didn’t understand the message my heart was trying to send me then, but I can understand it now, time and experience helping me translate the cryptic message. I love Sal. Salvatore Souza. I do.

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September 16-18, 2008 Days 14-16

Recipe: The Dessert You Should Never Make

You don’t want this recipe because if I give it to you, you will worry about losing it. You will hate me for giving you something this sweet. You will think about making it every single day for the rest of your life. Every ingredient in this dessert is precious and delicious and divine all by itself, and mixed—there aren’t words, so I will stop trying to explain. Let me put it this way: There won’t be a minute of one day where this very dessert isn’t on your mind. It will become your home, your solace, your delight. So why should I give it to you? This thing that you might just lose somewhere, the notes all crunched up in the bottom of your purse or pushed under the front seat of your car? Why give you the hope in the first place? So I’m going to keep it a secret, hold it back, remind you of it every once in a while so your can long for it. But trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Something this wonderful isn’t meant for you at all.

I didn’t do what I promised both my mother and Dez, and Dez’s prayers didn’t work, mostly because having three offices to deal with was too much. And, probably, because

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Sal seemed to be gone more than ever, so much that I stopped trying to call him on his cell. But somehow, Sal and I got through Tuesday and most of Wednesday without a blip. Probably because of their new and true love, Sal was able to get Sasha to help us during her lunch hour, and together, we worked Winston and Madison and the new office of Grant, Williams, and Lassen without a hitch. Maybe I haven’t worked out the complicated problems in my heart, but I am in the flow, in the groove, handing out food, assessing people’s wants and desires and needs. It feels wonderful to be busy and not worrying about anything but my job. What do they need? Chocolate chip cookies. Blueberry muffins. Cinnamon rolls. They seem to want what I had out to them, smiling and laughing and eating. Tuesday night we baked and interviewed Serge, the San Francisco City College student and our only applicant who actually knew the difference between a scone and a biscuit. Of course we hired him, and by Wednesday, he was passing out muffins and cookies and coffee cake. Wednesday we also bribed Joey into giving over all of his freezer, and my mother agreed to not only make batches of sugar cookies and mocha bars but drive them over to my apartment as well. Tuesday and Wednesday, Jeff and Jennifer and Brad were out of the office, at court. Jeff never even made an appearance at Madison, and Dahlia seemed to busy to even talk to us about anything, so it was easy to forget, easy to sail around, being professional, clear, happy. Not, in a word, me. Wednesday night around 11.30, I sit in the middle of my kitchen floor, leaning against a cupboard, barely able to keep my eyes open. All around me float the scents of blueberry, chocolate, strawberry, and cinnamon, a dream of food and sustenance.

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Beating behind my eyes--far enough away that I don’t have to focus on it--are thoughts of Sal and my little pet loneliness. I can’t even get mad at Sasha because she’s been helping us out, even dragging Chad into the routine, both of them working a whole section of the offices by themselves. Here’s the name of my new snow globe: Regret. I shake my head and think about standing up. Thursday is going to be a big day, a huge day, a day where I will sell batches of baked goods, more than ever before. Sal and Serge will arrive early at Winston, get things set up, the food ready for the next two stops. I hope there will be leftovers for Hallelujah Jones and Vick and S, who has turned out to be a great guy, too. Above me the counter seems to rumble and then my phone ring blasts into the warm silence of the kitchen, I lift my arm, search the counter for my phone and grab it, bringing it down so I can look to see what else Dez might have to say. But it’s not Dez. It’s Jeff. There is his name in front of me, on the small screen, right there. Jeff. “Hello?” I say, hoping that maybe I am wrong, that maybe this is a dream that I will awake from now, now, now. “I thought you’d be up. What are you baking? Something chocolate?” As I stare at the cheap linoleum, I breathe in. Chocolate. “Something. Everything,” I say. “I’ve been baking for hours.” “All work and no play,” Jeff says. “Well, you know the saying.” “Speaking of all work, how’s the case?” I ask.

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He pauses, and I can see all the rules about legal cases floating in the air. “Well,” he says. “Let me put it this way. I think we are almost there.” “That’s great,” I say. We fall into silence, and a feeling comes over me. It’s not sadness but understanding, the kind that tells me this hope is ending, just like all the others Pity patch, Dez would hiss in my ear. “Rebecca,” he says. “I really do need to talk with you. About us.” At his words, I have an image to Jennifer, the wombat from hell, the virago in corporate lawyer’s garb. To have an us with Jeff would mean doing battle with her. I think I might be able to take her down now, but I don’t want the battle. I give up the spoils. “I need to talk to you, too—“ I begin. But Jeff interrupts. “It’s complicated.” “I know,” I say. “That’s the understatement of the year.” He is silent again, and I wait, knowing that it is finally time to talk about it all. “I think,” he says. “I know that I moved too fast with you. After being with Jennifer for so long, putting up with her, trying to figure her out, trying to always see that part of her I do love was wearing me down. You—you aren’t like her, at least on the inside.” I want to laugh, knowing that Jeff never really “got” to my insides, but I think it’s best to save that joke for another time even if it’s true. “But—but before you, there was someone else I just didn’t . . . someone I would have spent time with if I weren’t with Jennifer.”

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Blinking into the light of my kitchen, I think about what he’s saying. Someone else. And more than ever, I know that he didn’t see me at all. He saw what wasn’t Jennifer. He saw her opposite only. “So after that night with you, I realized that I had no business coming over to your house. And I had no business calling you, either. I’m so sorry about it. If I’m going to break up with Jennifer, I have to be clear about what I want. And I have known what I wanted for over a year, but I couldn’t articulate it. She waited, though. She never gave up on me.” “Okay,” I say. “You are saying that you are going to break up with Jennifer and go out with someone who you've known for awhile. Someone not me.” There is another pause, and then Jeff says, “Well, I don’t think it’s that clear. Or, well, yes. Yes it is.” “Who is this person?” I ask. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but I am curious.” “Dahlia Livingston. From my office. I just couldn’t let myself see her. I don’t know why. Probably because I’m an idiot.” It’s contagious, I think. A case of not being able to see the forest through the trees disease. An epidemic. At least Jeff is lucky enough to find Dahlia waiting after his illness ended. And now I think about the glances Dahlia gave me, her laser like glare, her protectiveness for Jeff. Duh! I think. “When are you going to do all of this?” I ask, realizing that I am very interested but not out of jealousy or hurt or upset. “After the case is over. When the stress is over.”

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“That’s going to be tough,” I say. “I just ask that you break up with her at the end of the day. I don’t want to be around for any of it.” Slowly, I push myself up off the floor, feeling myself in one full, whole piece. Maybe I’m tired, but I am all together. “So,” he says. “You aren’t mad?” “No,” I say. “Maybe a week ago, I would have chopped my head off with my carving knife. But I realized—well, Jeff, you made the right decision.” In the next pause, I can hear his relief, his happiness. For once, I’m not angry at a person who has left me. All I wish him is luck, and I do. “Good luck, Jeff. And thanks for telling me all of this.” “Becca, you are something else,” he says. “I am so glad I met you. It’s like it was meant to be.” In a weird way, he’s right. Without each other, we’d both be less of what we are right now. He would still be holding onto a dying relationship and I’d be without much work. We were, as Sal might say, each other’s lucky pennies. As Sal would approve of, we’ve both changed, though Jeff has gone farther than I have. All I can hope for is more luck, more of what he has. We say goodbye, and I know that I have no excuse now but to tell Sal what I feel. I don’t want to hurt him or Sasha, but I need to let him know. Then I can move on, just like Jeff, into the life that I have, free and clear of the mounds of luggage I’ve been carrying around for years. I might not have love, but I will have my work. I will be doing something I love, and that will have to be enough.

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“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Sal says when I open my apartment door at 6 am. At first, I’m so glad to see him that I reach out and grab his arm. That’s when I notice that Sasha stands behind him, her arms crossed. Sal looks back and her and then at me again. “Doll, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit. Is everything okay?” What do I say to that? No, everything is not okay? I’m in love with you and you are standing here with a woman you must have spent the night with because whey else is she here when it’s not even light out. “I’m—I just didn’t sleep well,” I say. And he’s right. I do look like shit. I passed a mirror on the way to the door, and there is no other way to describe me. My hair looks electrified, my eyes red and swollen mounds, and I’m still wearing the clothes I had on yesterday, shirt and pants coated in flour and sticky with butter and sugar. I woke up on the floor, clutching one of my Cost Plus pillows, the alarm beeping slowly in my bedroom, but it was still early enough for me to put in my batches of cinnamon rolls. “So,” he begins. I catch his eyes, finding something in his gaze that I don’t understand. “Well, got everything ready? I know you had a lot to do last night. We--” “Yes,” I say, not wanting to hear anything about the we in his sentence. I am just not that evolved. “I think you two should both go in the car. I’ll take the bus. I need to go on a walk and take a shower.” And cry for an hour.

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Sal shrugs a little and walks into the kitchen. Sasha walks in and then looks at me. “Are you like all right? Did something happen? Did she do something to you?” She moves closer, takes my hands, puts them between her own. She’s gong to tell me, right now, that she and Sal are together. That she and Sal actually drove to South Lake Tahoe last night and got married. I look at her, wishing she’d just get it all over with, but Sasha doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, she just presses my hands, and I start to feel alive again, the human contact good. “Chad’s down in the car. Sal enlisted all the squad. It’s going to be a big day for you, Becca.” For a second, I feel as though I’ve just fallen off the balance beam. I don’t know what is going on at all. Everything in a whirl of weirdness. “Thank you for helping out,” I say. “I really appreciate it.” And I do, no matter what. “It’s really been amazing,” Sasha begins, but then Sal pounds back into the living room, his arms laden with baked goods in bags. Sasha steps forward, takes some, and they both look at me over their loads of sweets. “We’ll pick up Serge and set up at Winston,” Sal says. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll be down there soon. I just need—“ “Doll, you don’t have to tell me what you need,” Sal says. “It’s written all over your face.” Can he tell how I feel about him? Can Sasha? I want to ask him what he can see, but then they are walking toward the door. “You know my theory,” Sal says.

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“Maybe not this one,” I say. “Okay, then. The theory is this. You need to bring everything you have to the table in order to have a feast.” “Sal,” Sasha says. “What does that mean?” With his arms full, Sal shrugs a little shrug, gives me a strange look. Sasha rolls her large eyes, and they leave. I close the door behind them, and turn to look in the mirror that doesn’t lie. “Bring everything to the table,” I whisper. My reflection says the same thing, and because both of us look so terrible, I walk toward the bedroom, knowing I need air and light and exercise. I need to see if there is anything left in my table worthy to bring to the feast at all.

When I walk into the foyer at Winston, I expect it to be quiet, all the principals in court, or huddled in their offices conferring, or out with the clients, the way it has been the past couple of days. But from the moments the elevator doors open, I walk into noise, clapping, laughter. Sasha sits behind the desk, her eyes wide. She’s smiling, talking on the phone, and waving at me. Behind her, assistants and aides Xerox, FAX, talk on the other phones. Before I can walk to her desk, Sal rushes toward me, takes my arm, pulls me into the workroom. “What is going on?” I ask, worried that he has a disaster to report. Economic collapse, law firm merger, IRS invasion. Or worse. His for sure engagement to or marriage with Sasha.

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“The case is over. Settled. Or agreed. Whatever that damn word is. From what Eric says, people will probably leave the office early, so we can do one quick morning walk around and then head over to Madison and then Grant. A short day for a change.” He cocks his head, looking at me, wanting to ask me something. “And I can see that you could use a little break.” “It’s okay. I’m fine,” I say, wanting him to stay away from my affliction. “I’m fine. I’m much better. Really.” “Did something happen with—“ he asks, his look hard and almost mean. I step back a little. “No. Listen. Nothing is happening, and I mean nothing. I’m doing my job here. You have—you have lots going on, so I guess we should just go on.” Sal does that little shrug again, and he shakes his head. “Doll, it’s all about Becca’s Best.” “I know. So. Well, I guess that means we need to go to work.” “Okay, then, take your cart and go,” he says. “I’ll pick up the rear.” Sal walks off, and I start arranging my cart. The case is over. Jeff will break up with Jennifer. Dahlia and he will go off into whatever it is they are going off into. Things will calm, and I will focus. Focus! More hires. More offices. A kitchen. A freezer all my own. I might not get all I want, but I will get this. Chicken shit, says the Dez in my head. Shut up, I think. A muffin is nothing to sneeze at. The cart is ready, all my work in front of me, so tangible, so clear. Good food to be eaten. Straightforward and right. Food I always understand.

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Sal rumbles past the workroom, his cart half empty already. Serge follows behind him with a basket, waving at me, still a little uncertain of his part in this business. But Sal is all business. “Get a move on, doll. The natives are restless.” “Yes, sir,” I say. What would I do without him? What will I do without him? I flick off the light and roll out, knowing that restless natives are easy compared to my own crazy brain. A joy, these natives. I can’t wait.

Neil is ready for his muffins, a pumpkin and an oatmeal this time. “I’ve been needing this,” he says. “You are my regular guy,” I say. “You don’t even want to know,” he says. I nod because among so many other things recently, I do not. I’ve already handed out over half my goods, and it’s a lucky thing that we are only going to service Winston one time today. If things keep up like this, we will need that kitchen sooner than later, or I will have to call my mother and see if I can actually hire her instead of just paying for the materials. “Becca,” he says, and I don’t want to look up. I look up. Jeff stands in front of me, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wide and full and completely holding me in their gaze. “Congratulations on the case,” I say, finding my breath, finding my body which seems to have tried to fling itself onto the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but right in front of Jeff.

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“Thanks,” he says. “But I was just a little part. We’re having a party. Tonight. At One Market. I’m hoping you will come. Really. Both offices are invited. Everyone.” At the end of the hallway, I swear I can see Jennifer’s shadow, creeping toward us. “Um,” I say. “This doesn’t really seem to be the time.” “This is the time,” Jeff says. “If not now, when?” Jeff, my lucky penny, reaches out and touches my elbow, and I don’t feel a thing but his warmth, the warmth of a very nice guy.. “8 pm. I have to go back to the courthouse for a meeting, but I want to see you there. I hope you’ll come. It’s going to be a real celebration.” I can almost imagine it, this party, a party I’ve been invited to. I show up a little late, but—but I know Sal will be there. Some good things over which I have no control have happened during the day. Sasha’s ancient uncle from Greece has fallen in, forcing her to fly across the world to care for him. Knowing she will be gone for months if not years, she gives Sal the sad heave-ho, and he comes to the party jilted but not upset enough to reveal the entire story and then drink and dance. With me. The night turns into the early morning, and on our way home in the Cutlass, I tell him the story of my idiocy and true affection. The moon—the biggest in decades—rises in the East and the curtain closes on us in my apartment. A whole hell of a lot more happens than the last time my apartment saw action, and I’ve got to say, it’s going to be at least rated R. “Jeff,” comes her voice from down the hall. And I blink, the spell destroyed. Sasha doesn’t even have an uncle in Greece.

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“Jeff!” Jennifer calls again, herding Jeff into order, as always. He has a lot of work to do. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I really have to do some baking tonight. And, well, it’s not my party. ” And it never will be, I want to say. “I want you to come. You and Sal and your new guy. You know where it is,” he says, backing away. “Jeff!” Jennifer pokes her head out of her office, and behind her, I see Brad. Over Jennifer, he and I look at each other, understanding shooting between us. Don’t rock the boat, he seems to tell me. If I were even in your boat, I want to say back, I’d be too scared to move. Jeff waves at me, and then I take my cart, turn it around, and push it back to the workroom, unable and unwilling to hand out muffins and scones to Jennifer and Brad. That is a party I don’t want to go to. Pushing fast past Sasha's desk so I don’t start to invent illness in her other relatives, I roll into the workroom, leave the lights off, breathe. Breathe again.

“Girl, you have got to figure a few things out,” Vick says to me as he bites into a muffin. “You’re telling me that?” I say. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

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I am standing by Vick and Hallelujah Jones by the garbage can, waiting for Sal and Serge to drive around from the parking garage. “You just need to do it,” Hallelujah says. “Like that stupid bill board used to say. The one they put across the street a few years back. People running and shit, all over the place. Jumping high buildings at a single bound type of badness. But they did it. They just did it.” “It’s easy to do things when it’s a commercial,” I say. “You know, special effects?” “It’s all a commercial until you get to the show. But you don’t know it until you’re there,” Hallelujah says. “So why not pretend the show is now?” “That is good advice, my man,” Vick says, taking another bite. ‘I’ve always told him he needs to be on Oprah or some thing.” The Cutlass rumbles to the corner, and I turn to leave, knowing we have a lot of work to do. “The show is now. Make it good. Don’t make me change the channel!” Hallelujah says. “Don’t make me touch that dial!” As I walk toward the car, I wave back at the two men, both of them into their second baked good of the day. Even if I didn’t get paid for it—and for years I did not—I would still want to feed people, to give them that part of me that actually works. “What are the boys all about today?” Sal asks as I get in the front seat and fumble around for the seatbelt. Right now, I can’t bear to look at Sal. I keep thinking about my fantasy party and the way he looked at me when I walked in, relieved and happy. So I turn to Serge, who smiles at me from the back, a half eaten cinnamon roll in his hand. He’s fair and blonde and skinny, and I know that he really took this job so he

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could eat. But he is nice, follows instructions, and, most importantly, thinks Sal is some kind of god. He actually writes down Sal’s instructions, his eyes wide open as Sal fulminates on issues ranging from the justice system to the grind of wheat flour. “Hi, Serge,” I say, turning back to sit straight, buckling up as Sal pulls away from the curb. “Oh, the boys were just giving me advice about my entire life.” “I hope you’re listening to it for a change.” Sal sounds a little harsh, pulling too sharply onto First, honking as a man in a business suit darts across the street against the light. “Asshole,” he mutters. “Almost asphalt pancake asshole.” Glancing back at Serge for a second, I raise my eyebrows, but Serge doesn’t get my silent question and keeps eating his cinnamon roll. Sal keeps braking, honking, and I wonder what has happened to make him throw off his grandmotherly driving style in one afternoon. We roll on, and I start to drift, knowing that in a few minutes I will have to jump out and be Becca of Becca’s Best, something I at least know how to do. “Really,” Sal says. “You pretty much need to take every damn piece of advice that comes your way, take them all on, and hope something works.” “Jeez, Sal,” I say. “Don’t hold back.” “Doll,” he says, his doll not the sweet appellation he’s used all these years but something hard in his mouth. “The question is, what are you going to do? And when?” I open my mouth, full of words, and then I close it. Every answer is just about on my tongue. But what is Sal talking about? He seems to imagine have actually have a choice to make.

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“Okay, do about what?” Sal raises an eyebrow, drops one hand from the wheel, gives me a glance. “You know who I’m talking about.” Leaning back against the seat, I cross my arms, watch the traffic next to me. “There’s a party tonight.” “shit, yeah,” Serge says from the backseat. “Awesome!” “You’re going,” Sal says without the question. “It might be a little awkward,” I say, not wanting to contemplate the do-se-do of Brad, Jennifer, Jeff, Dahlia. Why can’t everyone figure it out and split up in the right formation?. “But there will be food,” Serge says from the back seat. “I’m going to go after my statistics class.” “My theory,” Sal begins, ignoring Serge’s comment. “Is this.” “Oh great swami, tell me.” Sal shoots me a look, breaking yet another of his grandmotherly driving rules. He doesn’t say anything, and I close my eyes, know I’m hurting his feelings. And that is the last thing I want to do. “What’s the theory?” I ask. “My theory is that if you don’t go to the party, you are going to regret it for the rest of your life.” Unlike Cinderella and her party, I have no fairy godmother to hook me up with a dress and transportation. Yes, there were a couple of princes in my story, but my first prince turned into a frog and hopped away to another pond. The second prince ran away with

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the runner-up, alternate princess and found happiness. Who is left for me but Serge and a plate of appetizers? At least there will be music. What’s left to do? “That’s not of your usual brilliance, Sal. Likely, I could have come up with that in a pinch.” “Doll, I swear to you, it’s the truth.” I turn to watch him, but he’s not breaking any rules now, hanging on for life at ten and two and driving a whopping 25 miles an hour down the road. I want to reach over and brush that curl away from his forehead, and kiss him awake, just the thing someone needs in any fairytale. I want to help him break every rule of driving, even with Serge in the car. I want to look him in the eyes and tell him how I feel, whisper all the sweet somethings in his ear. The moment passes, a driver blasts his horn, and we keep moving down Pine. Sal does that weird little shrug and then begins to hum to a song somewhere inside him. Probably a love song, a theme song for Sasha and him. In the back seat, Serge munches away, humming a little bit, too, right along with Sal, but a different tune. Outside, downtown is bustling, moving in a morning rhythm, every one and everything doing what they are supposed to. We are almost there, Sal’s words of wisdom all spoken. I sit back against the leather seat, breath in the exhaust rolling through the car window.

“Trust me, please,” Dez says. “Black. Black always works. You can’t go wrong.”

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I am standing in front of my bedroom mirror, looking at myself. What is the damn point of this? After baking all afternoon, I managed to get into the shower and “do” myself up to the best of my ability. I’m not bad, actually, for me. I’m wearing black pants, high heels, and a black blouse I bought on a whim a few months ago and hung in my closet. And there it had stayed because I’d never had any chance to wear it. It’s fitted around my chest and then flared at my waist. It has sort of lacy sleeves, a girly blouse, a party blouse. I’ve put on my silver earrings, the big dangly ones my father gave me for Christmas last year, obviously something Marcie must have picked out for me. I’m not half bad, not too shabby, but I will never look like Jennifer Regan as she barrels by in silk. “Becca, take a picture and send it to me. Let me see you. I’ll text back.” “That’s ridiculous!” I say. “No, it’s not. It’s 21st century, but it’s not ridiculous. I’m doing the best friend routine but by remote.” I sigh. “All right. I’ll do it.” “Listen, just have fun at the party. Don’t worry about who is with whom. Don’t think of it as being a big deal. Go, talk with the people you know, and just have fun. You are actually fun when you are having fun, you know?” “Okay.” “Take the picture, and I’ll let you know. But then just go.” Sighing again, I hang up on Dez and then turn on the camera. The best way to get a photo of my whole desperate ensemble is to take a photo of my reflection. So I stand in front of the mirror, hold out the camera and click, the flash bright in the darkened room.

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Blinking for a moment, I look at the screen of my phone, and there I am, a woman in black. An appropriate color for the mourning I’m going to be in after tonight, homage to the deaths of all the sad little hopes I’ve had these past weeks. Pity patch, the Dez in my head says. I find Dez’s number, attach the photo and send it, knowing that with my connection it might take as much time to get to her as it does for me to get downtown. Call a cab, the Dez in my head says. “Fine,” I say to no one. I rummage around in my closet for a “wrap,” as my mother would call it, pulling out a loose cashmere sweater and then I look for my purse, the one I never use because I’m always carrying bags of food out my door, keys, wallet, and phone shoved into my pockets. I almost feel like a real girl, one who might be going out to meet a man at a party. My phone makes its stupid ding noise, and I pick it up and flip it open to read the text. You are Cinderella, the text message reads. Go to the ball. Now, I think, as I clear the screen and search for the cab company number in my address book, all I need is my pumpkin carriage. My prince drove away a few hours ago in his Cutlass, presumably to pick up princess number two, who was probably out buying her glass slippers. See you there, Sal had texted me. Don’t be late.

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The cab lurches to the corner of Market and Spear, and I open the door, the cabbie turning to me as I fumble for my money. “I am telling you, this is a very fine restaurant. Just last week, I saw the Mayor walking in the door. Just like that. With his lovely wife.” “I don’t think they are married yet. Or maybe just,” I say. I am deciding between a five and four one dollar bills as a tip. I’m never sure what to tip anybody for anything, so I hand him everything. He nods. “Oh, my, they are indeed married. And yet, I saw him with that other one. The one who is now on the television in New York City.” Always a triangle, I think, and I grab my purse and wrap, I slide out of the car and close the door. The cabbie rolls down the passenger’s side window. “Be sure to keep your camera ready,” he says. “You never know who might show up. This restaurant is always something of a surprise.” The window goes up, and then he is gone, a gush of cool air around my legs. Without moving closer to the restaurant door, I stare in the window, trying to see the party. But it must be in a back room, out of the way. All I can see are contented diners and attentive waiters hovering over them in their crisp white uniforms, almost as if the front window were an advertisement for fine dining. I look up in between the buildings, stare at the darkening sky. There is so much light pollution, I can’t see one single star and I wonder if I could, would it show me where to go? Which way to move? Would it give me any sense of direction? Or is that just for nautical adventurers, sextants at the ready? I don’t even have a compass.

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“Becca!” a voice calls out, and I turn, Sasha tipping down the sidewalk. She is wearing a fluttery white dress and high heels so high it’s a miracle of physics and aerodynamics that she hasn’t tipped over. It’s sort of an ethereal prostitute princess look, but on Sasha, anything works. For an instant, I think to close my eyes because Sal has to be behind her and I’m not sure I can take it. He’s probably all in black, hair smoothed, face so handsome, his tooth glinting under the streetlight. But I don’t close my eyes. I know I have to get over, into, used to this relationship. Sal is my business partner, my co-worker, my neighbor, and, sadly, my friend. Good friend. My pal Sal. So I force my gaze on Sasha and wait. And wait a little longer, but she’s there by me, grabbing onto my elbow and leaning into me, kissing me on the cheek, and for an instant, we look like a charming lesbian couple. “You look really dressed up,” I say. “That’s an amazing dress.” “Thanks,” she says. “I bought it just for tonight.” She pulls back, her eyes sort of widening as she takes me in. “Becca!” she says. “I’ve never seen you so—so like done up. You look great!” At her compliment, I want to weep. Like so many things this week, I’ve done myself up too late. I exhale, nod, say, “Thank you.” She usually sees me in aprons and sensible shoes or covered in flour, so I must be quite a surprise. Then I look down the street again for Sal, expecting him to round the corner any moment. But the seconds tick by and he doesn’t. “Where’s Sal?” I ask, finding just the right shade of lightness for the question.

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Sasha looks at me, shrugs, gives me an “I-don’t-know” face. “I don’t know,” she says not unexpectedly. “So, you two didn’t come together?” People walk by us, talking, walking into the restaurant. Laughter and heat spill out and then disappear when the door closes behind them. Sasha shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him since you were at the office,” she says. “But anyway, let’s like go in! This will be so fun.” “You didn’t come with Sal?” I say, following along with her tug toward the door. “Why would I?” she says. “That would be a little weird.” As we approach the restaurant, the door man opens the door, and Sasha and I walk through into warmth and sound and aromas, well prepared food whisping past my nose. “Winston, Janszen, and LeGuin party,” Sasha says to the maitre de, seeming to grow an inch as the words come out of her mouth. More than me, certainly, this is Sasha’s party. She survived the entire case, the fluster at the office, Jennifer’s wild rampages. The man nods, and we move through the dining area, past the happy customers, headed toward the back of the restaurant where I begin to hear laughter, the rumble of happy discussion, the melancholy joy of a violin. I want to stop. I want everything to stop right here, in this state of anticipation before the potential horror show begins. I shouldn’t be here. It’s conceivable that Jeff and Jennifer have not broken up and she will be giving me an evil look all evening. Or it’s just as likely they did break up and she will come after me, knowing nothing about Jeff’s true feelings and true love Dahlia. Or Brad might want to kill Jeff, of Jeff Brad. Or Brad’s wife Deirdre might run in with a hatchet.

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Much worse, of course, will be the first instant of Sal seeing Sasha. I will witness the way his eyes light up, his careful, smooth move toward her, their embrace. I might just die of horrible horror right there. If I can find the bar after that, it’s possible I’ll make it through, but I don’t know. The whole night will be touch and go. “Sasha, I’m—I’m going home. I don’t feel good.” She laughs. “You’ve got like that social phobia thing. If it’s not a kitchen, you aren’t happy.” In so many ways, she’s right. But I can never tell her or Sal how I really feel. “No,” I say. “I just sort of have a stomach—“ “Becca,” Sasha says. “Becca. Come to the party.” We stop walking for a second, and she looks at me, her bubble eyes so kind that I listen to her. They are a good match, Sasha and Sal, both so kind. They will have a wonderful life that I can watch, and I might as well start now. “Okay,” I say. “All right.” We start walking again, and the maitre de opens the door for us, and we move into the room, into the party, into everything. A wave of energy hits me as we walk into the room, Sasha and I standing still for a second. My senses are on overdrive, the music, the heat, the conversation, the laughter, the smells of the appetizers being passed around on metal trays. As I scan the room, I see only a couple of people from Winston and a couple from Madison. But no Jeff, no Brad. No Jennifer. No Sal. I swallow, put my hand on my stomach, feeling as though I was on some kind of ride. “Where is he?” Sasha says. “Where is he?”

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I force myself to look around, beginning to recognize people I’ve served food to. Neil. Yao. Eric. Ali waves to me as he dances with a very tall, thin woman. Chester is talking up a woman, who seems to be interested in his talk, leaning into him and smiling. Arun smiles as he eats something from a small plate. Serge stands with his back to us by a table full of cheese and long loaves of sour dough baguettes. “I just like don’t see him!” Sasha says, her voice getting higher and slightly upset. Scanning the room, my heart flutters and then falls, beating like a drunk jabbed with a hypodermic of adrenaline. I see him. All I see is him, and he sees Sasha because his face lights up in a way I know well. But I’ve never seen him dressed like this. As Sal makes the short but so damn long walk from one corner of the room toward us, I can’t help but admire the way he looks, a black slacks, black jacket, with a black shirt underneath. I can’t help myself and look for his cowboy boots. They are cowboy boots but not his usual pair. These are black leather, shiny, new. And before he gets closer enough to talk, I swear I can smell his lovely green smell, the field of grass I want to run on. His eyes are wide open, he’s smiling, and he reaches out a hand and he’s going to take Sasha off to the dance floor. He’s going to take a spin with his princess. He’s going to drop to one knee, right now, in front of this party and, worse, me, and propose. But, no. He takes my wrist, his hand slipping into mine, squeezing my hand. Sasha turns to him, her eyes taking him in. I can see that this hand-holding is only palliative, a kind gesture before the main swoon fest coming. “Did you see him? Is he here?” Sal smiles. “Yeah, your man is over at that back table saving you a seat.”

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“Thanks!” Sasha says, squeezing his shoulder and kissing him on the cheek. “You look amazing. You both do.” And then she’s off, moving into the crowd, gone. “What happened?” I asked. “Who’s he? Him?” Sal looks at me, laughing a little. He bends down closer to me, and I close my eyes, taking in his scent. “Chad,” he says. “Who else?” “Chad? Chad from the office?” “Who else?” he asks. “You know they are together, right?” I stare up into the party. No, I had not noticed that. Neither had I noticed Jeff’s attraction for Dahlia, both of whom are sitting at a table at the far corner of the room, leaning over a small red candle, talking intensely. “Chad?” I say. Sal puts his arm around my shoulder and I lean into him. Sal maneuvers us both to a quieter part of the room, and he finds two chairs and we sit down. He waves off a server with a platter, and I find the courage to look up at him. “Sasha is with Chad,” I say, taking in the fact. “Doll, where have you been? I’d swear we both went to work with them the other morning. And what about our little spying adventure? Chad was there, too.” “But I thought,” I say. “I thought that Sasha—Sasha and you were together.” Sal sits back and gives me a look that suggests my low IQ and then smiles, leaning back toward me, taking my hand again. “I think both of us thought some things,” he says, giving a quick look over to the table where Jeff and Dahlia sit.

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“But what about the picnic and going out to the bar with her and her friends? What about your hand on her shoulder?” “Sasha was saving my sorry ass when you went through your Jeff stage. She was listening to my tale of woe. Funny thing is Dahlia took quite a liking to me and told me a strange tale of her own a couple days ago. I find out that Jeff and she are an item just about the same time you did.” Sal smiles a smile so big I can’t believe his face can contain it. He takes my other hand and then brings both to his lips, kissing my fingers. “Man, I can’t tell you how her tale of love made me feel. I just had to figure out how to make you see—“ “See you,” I say. “I did, Sal. And I thought it was all too late. I thought you and Sasha were about to drive up to Tahoe to get married. You were angry at me, and I thought you’d given up.” “Doll, I’m not a fickle man,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you for years.” “I didn’t know,” I say. “I couldn’t see.” He squeezes my hand, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Not now.” The door to the room opens and closes, laughter whirls around me, but all I can see is Sal. “Is this really happening?” I ask. “Beats me, doll,” he says. “But I’m taking it.” With that, Sal stands up, pulls me to him, and walks me to the dance floor. Even though the music is neither fast nor slow, the dancers not really knowing how to move so many just talk instead, Sal wraps me in his arms and we start to sway together. We’ve never hugged like this, and he’s even better up close and personal. I take in more of his

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smell, vowing to ask him later what it is. I let my hands sneak up under his jacket and feel him, his wiry, strong body, his warmth. In this short minute, I know that we fit better together than I have with anyone. Nothing he does or feels like makes me want to snort, and that’s a good sign. “You feel so good to me,” Sal whispers in my ear, his breath warm. He lets his lips touch my neck, and I shiver a little, feeling his mouth all the way down to my kneecaps. “I am good,” I say, laughing at my little joke. But I mean it. I’m good. I’m good to go, with Sal, for a long, long time. The music shifts, the beat faster, but Sal doesn’t let me go, not for a second. I hang on at first, but then I’m holding him back, pressing with equal measure against his chest, both of us in this together, for good.

Sal and I have danced the last dance of the night, holding each other and laughing even though the music is fast. We’ve even both talked with Jeff and Dahlia, Jeff seeming to be thrilled we no longer have to process our small failed relationship, Dahlia beaming. Throughout the entire evening, though, I do have the feeling that Jennifer is about to barge in, but she doesn’t. Neither does Brad show up, and the party sails into the night until the music stops and the servers begin to bring out coffee and small deserts in fluted cups. People sit and talk more quietly now, sipping coffee and cognac and eating cookies, and I want to go home. I want to go home with Sal. “I’m going to run to the bathroom,” I say. “Then . . . .”

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Sal smiles. “Then I want to take you home. To my apartment. No temptation to bake anything there.” For too long, I didn’t see Sal. For long enough, I thought that I’d lost him. So I’m scared to go to the bathroom. What if this is a fairytale, the kind where the princess wakes up from the good dream into the bad one. This doesn’t even have to be make believe. I could go to the bathroom, slip and fall and hit my head, and go into a coma and never have the chance to get to know Sal in this new way. What if I leave and Sasha changes her mind? What if Sal does? “Doll,” Sal says. “Do you want me to go with you?” I look at Sal, and I have a feeling he knows my certain kind of crazy and is okay with it. Likes it, even. If I asked, he’d come with me to the bathroom and sit on the pot next to mine. “No, I think I can manage it,” I say. “I have been doing that for years.” “Good to know. And I’ll be here when you get back,” Sal says. “Then we’ll go home.” It is so hard to move away from him, but it will be a useful skill to develop, so I stand and move around people and tables and chairs, and push through the door into the hallway. Right there in front of me is Jennifer Regan. When I saw Jeff and Dahlia at the party, I thought that Jennifer had taken the news well, whatever the news was that Jeff delivered. Maybe, I thought, she’d actually been the one to break it off. Maybe she decided to stop seeing both Jeff and Brad, and after the case, she’d quit. She was going to travel or go back to school. Maybe she was going

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to go into teaching. But the fact that she wasn’t here at the party celebrating her case made me think she’d stepped aside gracefully. What was I thinking? “What do you think you are doing?” she asks, her hands on her hips, akimbo, accusing. She looks the same as she did the first day that I met her. In my mind, I can imagine Sasha slinking away down the hall toward the bathroom. But I can’t slink anywhere. I’m trapped. I take in a breath. “I’m here at the party,” I say. “In fact, I’m about to go to the bathroom. Do you want to come along?” She closes her eyes, shakes her head, her lip curling. “No,” she says, opening her eyes. “Are you here with Jeff? I thought saw you two sitting together. You are just sliding right into my open spot. How convenient for you. Just what you’ve always wanted.” Clearly, Jeff had not been specific during the conversation. Words push up to my throat where I stop them because for a second, I hear something in her voice. A waver, a quaver, a pause. In that instant, I see she isn’t the Teflon bitch of my imagination but a woman caught between two men and her own bad choices. Something flumes out from the kitchen, a delicious smell of olive oil, garlic, lemon, and chile. A waiter walks by with an empty plate. Jennifer takes a step toward me, I breathe in. This is the moment, I see. This is the place where I go forward or fall back. This is the class I don’t run away from. This is the new career path I take. This is the man I fight for. This is where I stand up.

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“Look,” I say, walking up toward her. “You have to get a grip. You have to realize —“ And then I realize I’m staring right at her. I am looking at her in the eye, closely, completely. And while she does look like me, her eyebrows, her cheeks, her lips, I know with a certainty that she and I are not the same person. She has qualities that I might need to borrow, but I can do that without giving away the farm while doing it. I breathe, step back, put my hands on my hips. I don’t owe her anything but the courtesy I would show any other human being. I don’t have to save her or any one any more. She might be all dressed up for a party, but this is my party. This is my story. Not hers. “What?” she says, her eyes wide and dry and wild. “I am really sorry about what happened with you and Jeff. But he didn’t break up with you for me.” “What?” she says. “Then—then who?” “For himself,” I say. “So he can move on.” “But he—he and I . . . .” “I think you know it’s over. He told you. You have to go make the mess you are going to make with Brad somewhere and keep us both out of it. You can’t have everything in order to get nothing, and you can’t take Jeff with you as you fail at another relationship. He’s not a life raft. A man raft. You need to float out there alone.” Jennifer’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. Her eyes seem to glaze over a bit with tears. She sighs.

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And that’s when I see that she needs some of me. That I can show her another way without giving up what I want. “Have you talked to Brad?” Another waiter pushes between us, his tray a silver spaceship of eaten food. We back up, come back together, neither of us with our hands on our hips. “Not . . . .” she begins. “Not what?” I ask. “Not since he hung up on me when I told him Jeff and I broke up,” she said. “I’m not sure he even wants to see me again, not even at work. ‘It’s too complicated,’ he says.” “Do you want to see him? Really? I mean, is he just scared to . . what? Leave his wife? Tell you it’s truly over? What?” When she looks up, there is the pain she and I and just about everyone on the planet share. That I want and I need and I wish I could figure it out pain. But this time, it’s hers, all hers. And it’s about Brad and Jennifer. Not me. Not Jeff. “Find him. Talk with him. But maybe,” I say. “What?” she asks, her voice soft. “Maybe he’s not the one,” I say. “How can anyone know that?” she asks. “It’s not like there are bells and whistles and sirens. That’s a myth. A fairytale.” “all I can tell you is that sometimes, we aren’t looking at the right person.” For a quick second, I want to tell her about that first time I saw Sal, the way his eyes lit up. I want to tell her about how I was too scared to see anything until it was almost too late. I want to tell her about my knees, the way they actually shook when Sal kissed

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me on the neck. I want to tell her about what happened tonight, when I walked into the party and he came straight for me, took my hand, kissed my fingers. The fairytale is happening to me, I want to say, but I can’t. Not to her now or ever. She has to find her own story. Her own book. “I think,” I say. “I think if you pay attention, you’ll know. I think if you look at Brad without imagining what the relationship or he can give you, you’ll here it. Or feel it. But you have to pay attention. Sometimes, we aren’t paying attention.” And as I say the words, I think about how I pretended Danny was the “it” in my narrative. The end all of end alls. How I was trying to force him into a role he didn’t want. He wanted a story in another setting, with another person altogether. The door to the main room opens, and Sal pushes into the hallway along with a whoosh of party noise, his eyes wide when he realizes who is in the hallway with him. But then his inner Sal takes over and he saunters over to us, his tooth showing. “Everything okay out here, doll?” he asks. He looks at Jennifer, and then he slides his arm around my waist, holding me tight against his side. Jennifer takes in a breath, steps back, watches us for a second. She’s a smart cookie, a great lawyer, and the story starts to construct itself. I don’t need to tell her anything. She shoots a glance over to the party room door, but then seems to decide against going in. this will be a scene I won’t have to endure. This is the next part of her story. Mine goes off in a separate narrative. She puts one hand on a hip, sighs, and then shakes her head. For a second, I think she’s going to say something, but instead, she turns and walks away. “Damn,” Sal says. “She’s a piece of work.”

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I want to agree, but she’s just a woman whose lost something. And really, I hope that she finds what she needs because finding it feels so good. Sal leans into me, puts his hand on the small of my back, kisses me on the cheek, his lips warm against my face. He’s holding me. Me.

Later that night, the party long over, the food and drink and music only memories, we are sitting on the couch in his apartment, and the lights are on low. Sal is, quite frankly, the best kisser. His lips are soft and dry, his tongue just the perfect amount of in my mouth and not down it, our kiss a conversation I want to have for a very long time. He doesn’t talk or say much, letting his hands show me what he is thinking, and from the smooth, sure strokes his gives my waist, back, arms, he is thinking some very nice things. “Shouldn’t we have a few more dates before we do this?” Sal asks, though with his hands under my shirt and bra, his thumbs gently touching my nipples, I think he’s being gallant. I could explain that all the years we’ve known each other plus all the hours in my kitchen equal at least three full dates, the socially accepted number for what I hope we are going to do very soon. But if I did, I’d have to move my mouth away from his neck, his chin, his throat, and I just don’t want to. Sal hears my answer apparently, and he moves my face to his, kisses my jaw, my temple, and then he is kissing me on the lips again. Since I know I must be clinically

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insane because I have gotten what I wanted, I kiss him back because this might be the last, best thing that ever happens to me before they attach the electrodes and fire away. I put my arms around him, and press him close. And it’s not just his skin, his body that I had imagined, but the way he touches me, holds me, feels me. He has always seen me, and now I know that he can hold me just as I’ve longed to be held. He is perfect. He is also soft and hard in the right place and warm, and then we are taking off our clothes, one piece at a time. I realize that I’m not going to be getting off this couch for at least a while. Maybe I should be worried that all of this is happening too fast, but my waiting includes the time before I didn’t know Sal. My waiting starts sometime back in high school. All these years, I’ve been hoping for Sal to kiss me just like this. He was the piece of the puzzle that had fallen off the table and hidden under the rug. Now I can pick it up and put everything all together. I’ve waited long enough. “Maybe you don’t have to wake up and bake at 6 in the morning,” he says in my ear. “Maybe we can sleep in for a change.” “Yes,” I say because I want more. Somehow, as Dez told me it could, like the right and true and perfect thing just comes along. And sometimes, you just have to take “Yes” for an answer, even when all other signs tell you to say “No.” Sal sits up, and I stare at him, his smooth, muscled chest, the perfect amount of hair there, the dark line leading down into his now opened pants. As I watch him, he looks at me, and I feel just completely fine sitting in front of him with my shirt off, my pants around my thighs.

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“Can we take this to the other room, doll?” he asks. “I want to get you comfortable so you don’t take off. It’s my secret ploy.”

I kick off my shoes, and he helps me slip off my pants, his hands sliding warm on my thighs and shins. He takes my hand and we walk down the hallway into his bedroom and he turns on the bedside light. “I don’t want to miss any of this,” he says, holding me as we stand next to his bed, his flat palmed touch probably enough to work some magic right there. But I want more. I help him push off his pants, and we sit and then lie down on the bed, my hands touching him, everything hard and defined. “That’s so nice,” he says, when I find out exactly how hard he is. “Oh. Yes, it is,” I say, thinking that everything about Sal is just right. Perfect. “that I’ve been wanting,” he says, turning over, now leaning over me. “I’ve been wanting it all.” Kissing me, holding me, his lips on my throat, my neck, my breasts, his fingers find the major clue that I’m pretty much ready for him, too. “Oh, doll,” he says. “Oh, my doll.” I pull Sal toward me, on me, in me, and for the first time in about forever, I do stop thinking. Everything, just like the cliché suggests, disappears. Baking. The offices. Jeff. Jennifer, Brad. My mother. My father. Even Dez. No more friend voice in my head.

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All I feel is Sal’s strong, gentle, loving strokes into me, his kisses, his skin, my feeling, my body. Us. Both of us moving into each other, moving into a place we both want to be. Holding him against me, closing my eyes, I hang on and let go, feeling everything.

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January 5, 2009 Day 109

Recipe: New York Cheesecake

You’ve been good. You’ve made it through. You went through the vale of tears, the valley of death and surprise! You are still here. So sit down, my love. Relax. Take your shoes off, drink this tea. You have eight hours to wait for this cheesecake and it’s worth it. During the eight hours, you will see how important everything you endured has been. There’s a clear process in this cake and everything else, and you are going to be able to watch it. Maybe before I cut you a slice of this cake, you will realize how lucky you are. You might not understand everything, but who cares? It all doesn’t have to make sense. As someone very wise once said, “Just take ‘Yes’ for an answer.” So here it is, a slice of the best cheesecake you’ve ever had. Really, one bite is all you need, but you want the entire piece, the soft, rich, creamy texture, the slight tang of lemon and orange, the sustaining, filling heft of eggs and butter. Slowly let it sit on your tongue, gently, gently chew. Swallow. It’s the best. The very best. And you deserve it.

It’s 4.30 am when Sal calls for me to get out of the shower, but it’s not until nearly 5 am as we drive to Noe Valley, the streets just starting to fill with commute traffic, Sal

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whipping the Cutlass through the streets. My father gave me a Prius for Christmas, saying it was for a backlog of ungiven gifts, but because of the price of gas, they are on major backorder. I’m hoping to have it by the year 2010. “Serge and Sasha will likely have everything ready by the time we get there,” Sal says, accelerating through a yellow light, his grandmother driving out the window today. “I just hope Sasha doesn’t make the coffee. I dig that girl, but she makes the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted. And last week when we were trying out the new mixer, I realized she can’t do much with dough, either.” “Yeah,” I say, knowing that Sasha likes making this kind of dough much better than the kind she made at Winston. “Serge isn’t much help, either,” Sal says. “But at least Chad comes in to help on the weekends.” “Serge is sweet.” Jeff laughs. “Yeah, he is. But what he is is a sweet tooth. You know that’s why he’s still working for you If you don’t watch out, he’s going to drop out of college and want to work for your full time..” At the next light, Sal turns to me, his face calm in the glow of fading street light, the morning breaking over us. “Doll,” he says. “Are you all right? “Yeah.” I hold onto the corner of the car seat. “Uh, yeah.” But in this second, I’m not sure. As we zip along, I’m not quite certain how this all happened. Today, I woke up in my boyfriend’s (boyfriend!) arms, in his bed, in his apartment to head out in the pre-dawn light to the grand opening of the bakery my mother

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and I opened, with my father’s help. Becca’s Best will welcome customers and hopefully open again and again, for days and weeks and years. But first I have to get through today. The light changes, and Sal drives on. “Doll, this is a piece of cake. Literally.” “Lemon or yellow?” “Sal smiles. “Chocolate. The sweetest kind. Just like you.” I know I should snort at something like this, but it only makes me love him more. Sal nods to some music in his head, and then he flicks me a glance. “It is a big change. But you are up to it.” “It’s the biggest change of my life. I don’t even begin to know how to begin to deal with it.” “If you hadn’t changed, I wouldn’t have either,” Sal says. “I would still be working at the bar and driving the cab. Now, I can do something I care about with someone I love.” I grab harder onto the seat. “It’s going to be great,” I say, knowing I can almost believe it all will be. That is it. Great. Sal nods, stops at a stop sign, accelerates through an intersection. “Listen,” he says. “I know this will all make sense when Dez gets here this afternoon. You have her all to yourself for two days sans progeny before Nick comes out. She will really be able to get you to see how hard you’ve worked and how much you’ve done. And imagine how good you will feel when she’s here and not in the phone.” I have so much to say to Dez, things I’ve already told her, but it will be different when I see her. Then, we can look at each other and know how right or wrong things are by the

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way we smile, stand, nod, or smile. She will be the final judge of how the last few months have been for me, but I know in my heart what she will see: happiness. We turn onto Santiago, and I can see a light burning bright from the building on the corner of 31st. My bakery. Becca’s Best. I can’t wait to jump out of the car and explore my fantasy, the best I’ve ever had, one that interacts, is tangible, and lifelike. Nothing in any dream I’ve ever had, no daydream during school hours or long boring stretches at Grommer’s has provided me this much enjoyment. “Just be ready,” I whisper. At any moment, the spell will end. At any moment, I’ll be pushing a cart, following Jennifer up the hallway, hearing her clomp, clomp, clomp. At any moment, I’ll be looking at Jeff from the sidelines, my blinders on when it comes to Sal. “What?” Sal asks, stepping on the emergency brake. “I’m ready,” I say. “Good,” he says. “And it looks like your mother is, too. She and Michael are already behind the counter.” As I look through the window, I see my mother and Michael, the man she met what seems like forever ago at the library. I know it was only months, but they finish each other’s sentences and want the same things, like a couple that has been married for decades.. I open the door, step slowly to the curb, watching my mother in the bakery, her body framed by the window, the title of the sign over her and Michael as they stand behind the counter. In the morning semi-darkness, this tableau is like some Edward Hooper painting but not two sad unhappy people at a diner, cold and sterile and hollow. No, it’s two

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happy people at a bakery. My mother in my bakery with the man she loves, both wearing starched white aprons and big smiles. “Oh,” I say. “Your mother is cool. I don’t know too many mothers and daughters who could work together every day. But you always say if it weren’t for her cookies, you’d be no where.” We grab bags and sweaters, and I realize that Sal is right. Without my mother’s cookies, I wouldn’t be in front of my own bakery. My life is better because of my mother’s baking, her recipes, that tradition she brought into my life from her mother’s and then my grandmother’s mother before her. Nothing without cookies. Absolutely nothing. “Becca,” my mother says as we walk in the door, the bells tinkling as we do. “We have been waiting, but I suppose you wanted to have an entrance on your first day.” My mother says this with her typical, slightly sarcastic voice, but then she smiles, and in that smile, I see a world of happiness. Looking over at Michael, I know that somehow, my mother has found the right man, early enough that something hard in her didn’t develop, grow, and keep her inside her house watching soap operas. This mother has no Tivo, no perfectly clean house, no closet full of clothing she doesn’t often wear because she has no place to go. This isn’t a woman haunted by a divorce she actually needed and wanted. This mother isn’t thinking about my father, who is actually happy for the first time in his life, happy with Marcie and the choice he made a long time ago. “I always want to make an entrance.” I walk around the counter and hug her, putting my arms around this constant in my life, no matter what life I’m leading.

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Pulling away at her, I see that she’s put on a little sparkle for today, her eyes slightly more made up, her mouth a shiny red. And like her, the front of the house looks beautiful, the black and white checkered floor brilliantly clean, the shiny steel counter organized, the napkins in various bright shades, the chrome sparkling. Sasha yells at me from the back of the bakery, coming in from the kitchen, her face red, her apron covered in flour and batter. “Like I love the happy family scene, but could we possibly get a move on here? These baked goods of yours don’t jump into the oven themselves, you know. This isn’t Disneyland.” I want to tell her that it’s better than Disneyland, but I don’t. Sal walks around the counter, puts his hand on the small of my back, kisses me on the neck. “Go to it,” he whispers. “I’m going to have a cup of coffee with Michael. Then I’ll come back and whip up something safe. Chocolate chip cookies. I know you trust me with those.” I close my eyes, lean into him for a second, trusting him with everything. Around me, the bakery hums into life, my mother laughing with Michael, Serge and Sasha banging around in the kitchen, pots and pans clacking on counters. Somewhere over the continental United States, Dez sits in a plane, on her way to see me, wondering how she could have possibly left her babies. A waft of freshly brewed coffee floats by, the smell of heated flour and sugar and yeast fills the room. Maybe I will never know what happened to be so lucky. Maybe I don’t deserve this life, the one where I have everything. I worry sometimes that I took what I needed, and

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hurt people on my way to, well, this. I haven’t heard from Jeff since he quit working at Madison, he and Dahlia packing up and going somewhere in South America to do the legal work he always wanted to. And I never heard from Jennifer again, not after that night at the party. She took a leave of absence from Winston before I even gave my notice, and I heard from Neil that she was teaching a couple of classes at Cal. But I think that Jennifer is . . . I think that Jennifer is just fine. She’s working, and maybe I will find her again someday, see her walking down the Embarcadero or at Chrissie field or in Golden Gate Park with—with Brad, their two kids, and his two, even if they might be slightly angry teenagers by then. Perhaps she won’t be with Brad at all, that relationship not the one for her. Brad might be her Danny. No, it will be this way. She will be pushing a stroller, her face calm and peaceful, that anger gone, whisked away like smoke. And some new man—a man whose hand is also on the stroller—will be the one who made her see herself the way she could be. The way she truly is. This is Jennifer’s snow globe: Happy at Last. In that instant, she and I will catch each other’s eye, smile, and nod, knowing that somehow in two short weeks, we gave each other those very important things we both needed. Whatever it is that we lost by ending up where we are, we’re okay with that. We are okay with the things we lost in the jump. There is so much to consider. But not now. There’s work to do. Sal squeezes my waist again, and I open my eyes, kiss his cheek, breathe in his lovely green smell. It’s grass I’ve decided. Freshly cut green grass. I don’t want to ask. I want to keep some things mysterious.

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What a snow globe this would be. I don’t know how to even title it. So I won’t. Maybe I’ll just call this my life. “I’m going in,” I say, loving for once all that I have. It’s mine. The best of the very best.

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Dear Readers-Following, you will find some of the recipes that Becca makes during the course of this novel. What recipe she makes and when she makes it is central, I think, to her story. I have made and eaten all of the products of these recipes, some over the course of many, many years. I’m presenting the recipes as I have used them for all my baking life, with some additions for clarity. A few of these have been posted on my blog at http://www.redroom.com/blog/jessica-barksdale-inclan. I even had a few people try out the recipes and send back thoughts (the gingerbread cake was a big hit). But truly, if you run into problems, feel free to contact me through my web site: www.jessicabarksdaleinclan.com and I will answer any question you have. Enjoy!

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Recipes: You Have the Skills to Make Them All!

Sandtarts ½ lb. butter 3 heaping tablespoons powdered sugar 2 c flour 1 t water 1 t vanilla 1 cups chopped nuts (I like pecans for these) (These are my mother’s notes about the recipe. She’d been making them mostly from memory for years.) The directions are not on the recipe, but cream butter; add sugar and rest of ingredients. I think anybody who cooks at all knows what to do except Uncle Bill who was totally up in the air when I sent him another cookie recipe without detailed directions. This part is on the recipe card: Form into balls or crescents about the size of a walnut. Bake in 250° oven for 1 ½ hours. Roll in powdered sugar while still warm. Honey Nuts You cut these cookies with a donut hole cutter, so you feel like you can eat a ton because they are small (ha!). They are crisp and tasty, and I remember them especially around Christmas. Again—my mother’s notes: I love honey nuts, but haven't made them for years because it takes more muscles than I have to mix the dough. I would use parchment paper for the baking, but have no first hand knowledge. If the cookies are left too long on the pan they won’t come off. They easily get stuck on the pan which requires re-warming. I do know that my grandmother made these. I use a cloth cover for the rolling pin and a cloth on which to do the rolling, then flour everything generously. However, some of these silicon mats might work better. Make sure the dough is very well chilled. And I guess role out to 1/8-1/4 inch thick. The rolling cloth will get yucked up after awhile and you will need to use a new spot.

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Also, if possible do this on a non-humid day. I at least try for a little sun which would be difficult these days. The non-humid part is not on Grandma’s recipe. Also, for your info these freeze. Mix 4 cups sugar and 2 cups honey Add 3 eggs 1 t anise seed 1/2 t mace 2 t baking powder 1/2 T cinnamon 1 t coriander Juice of 1/2 lemon Salt Flour to make dough stiff enough to manage (start with two cups and work from there) Bake at 350 degrees. Follow my mother’s rolling out instructions above. Use a doughnut hole cutter to cut and bake for seven minutes.

Snickerdoodles On the desert island I find myself on someday, I want a never-ending supply of snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, peanut butter, and oatmeal cookies. 1/2 c butter, softened 1 c sugar 1/4 t baking soda 1/4 t cream of tartar 1 large egg 1/2 t vanilla 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour 4 T granulated sugar 1 1/2 t cinnamon Directions Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a mixing bowl, beat the butter on medium speed for 30 seconds. Add the 1 cup sugar, baking soda, and cream of tartar. Beat until combined, scraping sides of bowl occasionally. Beat in the egg and vanilla until well blended. Beat in as much flour as you can with the mixer, and stir in remaining flour. Cover with plastic wrap and chill for 1 hour.

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Combine the 4 tablespoons sugar and 1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon. Shape the dough into 1 inch balls and roll in cinnamon sugar mixture to coat. Place balls of dough 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 10 to 11 minutes or until edges are beautifully golden. Transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool. Pecan Sandies Actually, my mother found this recipe card from a one Zera Harper, a friend of my grandmother’s. Actually, we aren’t sure who Zera Harper is, so we send out greeting to Zera and her family. Zera didn’t call these “pecan” sandies, but sandies. My grandmother must have added the pecan part on, always liking to be very specific. So here goes: ¾ C plus 2 T butter 3 cups sifted flour 7 ½ T extra-fine sugar 1 ½ t ice water 1 ½ C chopped pecans 1 ½ t vanilla ¾ cup extra fine sugar Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Cream butter and the 7 and ½ T extra fine sugar. Add flour, ice water, pecans, and vanilla. Mix well. Chill (Zera says not necessary, but I thinking chilling helps when a dough is sticky). Shape into rolls 1 inch by ½ inch and place on greased sheet. Bake at 300 degrees for 30-35 minutes. Roll at once in the remaining extra fine sugar. Angel Food Cake I remember two things about Angel Food Cake from my childhood. One is that it was best not to stomp around the kitchen during the baking process. Not only would my mother yell at me, she would threaten me with the responsibility of the ruin of dessert. Second was coming into the kitchen to see the angel food cake upside down, the tin resting on a large coke bottle (they were made with class in the olden days). This is the version I make now, kind of an amalgam of various recipes. 1 c cake flour 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar 1 1/2 cups egg whites (from about 12 large eggs) Pinch salt Jessica Barksdale Inclán

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1 t cream of tartar 2 teaspoons lemon juice plus 2 1/2 tablespoons 1 t cold water 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1/4 t almond extract 1 1/4 cups sifted confectioners' sugar 1 t grated lemon zest Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Cut a sheet of parchment paper or waxed paper to fit the bottom of a 10-inch tube pan. Fit the paper into the bottom of the pan and set aside. (Important: do not grease pan!) Place 2 large sheets of waxed paper over a work surface. Working over 1 large piece of waxed paper, sift the cake flour together with 1/4 cup of the sugar. Sift the mixture 4 more times, working back and forth between the 2 sheets of waxed paper. Set aside. Sift the remaining 1 cup of granulated sugar onto another sheet of waxed paper and set aside. In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the egg whites on medium-low speed until foamy. Add the salt, cream of tartar, 2 teaspoons lemon juice, water, vanilla and almond extracts and increase the speed to medium-high and beat until the whites are nearly stiff. Lower the speed to medium-low and beat in the 1 cup of sifted sugar, 2 tablespoons at a time, until the mixture forms stiff peaks yet is not dry. Remove the bowl from the electric mixer and sift about 1/4 of the flour mixture onto the top of the beaten egg whites. Using a large rubber spatula, gently fold together. Repeat this motion 3 more times with the remaining flour mixture, each time folding very gently together. Gently transfer the batter to the prepared cake pan and run a knife through the mixture to eliminate any large air bubbles. Smooth the top if necessary. Bake the cake until the top is lightly golden and the cake springs back when touched lightly, about 45 to 50 minutes. Remove the cake from the oven and invert the pan onto its legs (alternately, if the tube pan has no legs, simply hang the pan upside down over the neck of a sturdy bottle) and let sit until completely cooled. When ready to serve, run the tip of a knife around the inner and outer edges of the cake pan to loosen it from the sides. Unmold the cake. You can do whatever you want at this point—strawberries and whipped cream, a chocolate drizzle. Slice a piece and toast it. Amazing any way you slice it. Cranberry Scones

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A great breakfast scone. Well, actually, a great snack scone. A great scone before bed, too. 2½ cups all-purpose flour 2½ teaspoons baking powder ½ t baking soda ¾ c cold butter cut in small pieces 1 c coarsely chopped cranberries 2/3 c granulated sugar ¾ c buttermilk Heat oven to 4OOF, Have an ungreased large cookie sheet ready. Mix flour, baking powder arid baking soda in a large bowl, Cut in butter with pastry blender or 2 knives until mixture resembles coarse crumbs, Stir in cranberries and sugar, then buttermilk, just until blended. Cut dough in half. On tightly floured surface with lightly floured fingertips, press half the dough into an 8-inch circle about ½ inch thick. Cut into 8 wedges. Place wedges ½ inch apart on cookie sheet. Bake 12 to 15 minutes until puffed and lightly browned. Remove to rack, Repeat with remaining dough. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 16. Pumpkin Muffins When my boys were little, I made these all the time, happy to get some fiber and vitamin A into them. Of course, the sugar and fat helped them see the light of whole wheat, but there are tasty and a little more nutritious than many baked goods. ½ cup prepared packed pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix, but plain pumpkin) 2 eggs, slightly beaten ½ C brown sugar ½ C oil (corn or canola) ¾ C molasses 1 ½ C wheat flour 1 t baking soda 1/2/ t salt 1 t cinnamon 1/2/ t nutmeg ¼ t cloves Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 12 cup muffin tin. Sift together the flour, soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves in a bowl. In a large bowl mix the pumpkin, eggs, brown sugar, corn oil, and molasses. After thorough mixed, add in the dry ingredient and stir only until the dry ingredients are mixed in. Bake 20 minutes. Grandmother’s Sugar Cookies

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My sisters and I frosted these each year in a holiday ritual. My mother still makes them, my uncle in frosting service when he gets into town. My sons have eaten these by the tub full. By the pound. They’ve eaten them right out of the oven, while cooling, while frozen. They are melt-in-your mouth good. This is a recipe handed down from my Great-Grandmother Gertrude, and I think it came from generations of women before her. Enjoy. 1 C sugar ½ C butter 1 egg, slightly beaten 1 T cold water 2 ½ C flour 1 t vanilla ½ t baking soda 1 t cream of tartar ½ t salt Cream butter and sugar; add beaten egg, water, and vanilla. Sift flour, soda, cream of tartar and salt together. Add to other mixture and mix well. It’s best if you pat dough into rounds, cover with plastic wrap, and chill dough for an hour to 24 hours. When chilled, roll very thin and cut with cutters (I have Santas and angels and pumpkins —all holidays need a cookie cutter. I bought my mother a lobster cutter, though it is a weird cookie to eat). If you are not going to frost the cookies, sprinkle with sugar and then cut. Bake at 400 degree for 5-8 minutes. Do not let brown past the very lightest golden brown. Cool for a minute and then remove from pan and cool on racks... Frost or eat, it’s up to you. When I make a frosting, I mix powdered sugar with milk to a thin spreading consistency and then sprinkle with nonpareils and other decorative sugars. Old Fashioned Gingerbread I could eat this cake with a fork and a glass of milk, from the pan, the whole thing. Stay out of my way. 2 eggs ¾ c firmly packed brown sugar ¾ c light or dark molasses

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¾ c melted butter 2 ½ c flour 2 t baking soda ½ t baking powder 2 t ground ginger 1 ½ t cinnamon ½ t ground cloves ½ t nutmeg 1 cup boiling water Whipped cream Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Beat eggs with sugar until light and fluffy. Add molasses and butter. Mix well. Stir together flour, baking soda, baking powder, and spices. Add to molasses mixture. Mix well. Stir in boiling water. Pour batter into a greased and floured 13 x 9 inch pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until tests done. Cool. Serve with whipped cream. Peanut Butter Cookies I love these. I think I’ve done damage to myself because of them. With milk, amazing. ½ c butter ½ c peanut butter ½ c white granulated sugar ½ c brown sugar (light or dark) 1 egg, well beaten 1 ¼ c flour ¾ t baking soda ½ t baking powder ¼ t salt Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Cream butter and peanut butter together. Add sugar and brown sugars together and cream thoroughly. Add well beaten egg to creamed mixture. Sift flour once before measuring. Sift flour, soda, baking powder, and salt together and add to creamed mixture. Chill dough well. Form into walnut sized balls. Place balls on lightly greased baking sheet. Flatten with fork dipped in flour, making a criss-cross pattern. Bake 10 to 12 minutes. About 4 dozen cookies. Rum Cake

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I swear, after one dinner (I think I decided to serve this after a corned beef meal. Who knows why) I put this down on the table, and it was gone, just like that. While it is not a trendy, healthy cake (nothing good for you here at all), it is absolutely delicious. I actually inject the cake with a baster attachment, and really get the rum in the cake. 1 c chopped pecans 1 18 ½ oz pkg yellow cake mix 1 3 ¾ pkg Jell-O vanilla instant pudding 4 eggs ½ c cold water ½ cup canola oil ½ c dark rum (80 proof0 Glaze ¼ lb butter ¼ c water 1 cup granulated sugar ½ c dark rum Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease and flour a 10” tube or 12 c bundt pan. Sprinkle nuts over bottom of pan. Mix all cake ingredients together. Pour batter over nuts. Bake 1 hour. Cool. Invert on serving plate. Prick op with a toothpick (you can do this AND inject the glaze as well). Drizzle and smooth glaze evenly over top and sides with a brush (inject, inject!), allowing cake to absorb glaze. Do the above until the glaze is used up. To Make Glaze: Melt butter in saucepan. Stir in water and sugar. Boil 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in rum. Butter Cake If someone asks for a yellow cake, this is it. For many years, my only yellow cake was too dry, but I made it anyway, people choking through it. But this! Excellent. Frosted or unfrosted. You can eat it standing up, cutting pieces from the round. If you manage not to, try a little jam between layers (if you make two). Or sprinkle with powdered sugar. 1 ¾ c all purpose flour 1 ½ t baking powder Scant ½ t salt 1 ½ sticks unsalted butter, softened 1 c sugar 1 whole large egg plus 1 large egg yolk 1 ½ t grated orange zest 1 ½ t pure vanilla extract ¾ cup whole milk

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Preheat oven to 375 degrees with rack positioned in the middle. Butter a 9-inch round cake pan, then line bottom with a round of parchment paper and then butter parchment. Lightly dust with flour. Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. In a separate bowl, beat together butter and sugar with an electric mixer until pale and fluffy, about five minutes. Add whole egg, yolk, zest, and vanilla and beat 1 minute. At low speed, mix in flour mixture and milk alternately. Spread batter in cake pan and bake until golden brown and a wooden pick inserted in the center comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool cake in pan ten minutes, then turn out onto a rack. When cool, dust with sugar, slather with jam or frost! Cinnamon rolls with cream cheese glaze I made these once and only once and to me, they are iconic. I think of that Christmas morning with longing, and have given them an important spot in this novel because of that one time. I used yeast! I made perfect cinnamon rolls! Everyone loved them. Please make them and write to let me know how it goes.

Dough 1 c whole milk 3 tablespoons unsalted butter 3¼ cups (or more) unbleached all purpose flour, divided ¼ c sugar 1 large egg 2¼ teaspoons rapid-rise yeast (from 2 envelopes yeast) 1 t salt Nonstick vegetable oil spray Filling ¼ c (packed) golden brown sugar 2 tablespoons ground cinnamon ¼ c (¼ stick) unsalted butter, room temperature Glaze

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4 oz cream cheese, room temperature 1 c powdered sugar ¼ c (¼ stick) unsalted butter, room temperature ½ t vanilla extract Dough Combine milk and butter in glass measuring cup. Microwave on high until butter melts and mixture is just warmed to 120F to 13OF, 30 to 45 seconds. Pour into bowl of stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Add 1 cup flour, sugar, egg, yeast, and salt. Beat on low speed 3 minutes, stopping occasionally to scrape down sides of bowl. Add 2¼ cups flour. Beat on low until flour is absorbed and dough is sticky, scraping down sides of bowl, If dough is very sticky, add more flour by tablespoonfuls until dough begins to form ball and pulls away from sides of bowl. Turn dough out onto lightly floured work surface. Knead until smooth and elastic, adding more flour if sticky, about 8 minutes. Form into ball. Lightly oil large bowl with nonstick spray. Transfer dough to bowl, turning to coat. Cover bowl with plastic wrap, then kitchen towel. Let dough rise in warm draft-free area until doubled in volume, about 2 hours. Filling Mix brown sugar and cinnamon in medium bowl. Punch down dough. Transfer to floured work surface. Roll out to 15x11-inch rectangle. Spread butter over dough, leaving Y-inch border. Sprinkle cinnamon sugar evenly over butter. Starting at 1 long side, roll dough into log, pinching gently to keep it rolled up. With seam side down, cut dough crosswise with thin sharp knife into 18 equal slices (each about / to V. inch wide). Spray two 9-inch square glass baking dishes with nonstick spray. Divide rolls between baking dishes, arranging cut side up (there will be almost no space between rolls). Cover baking dishes with plastic wrap, then kitchen towel. Let dough rise in warm draft-free area until almost doubled in volume, 40 to 45 minutes. Position rack in center of oven and preheat to 375°F. Bake rolls until tops are golden, about 20 minutes. Remove from oven and invert immediately onto rack. Cool 10 minutes. Turn rolls right side up. Glaze Combine cream cheese, powdered sugar, butter, and vanilla in medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat until smooth. Spread glaze on rolls. Serve warm or at room temperature.

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Brownies Truly, I am baking a batch of these brownies right now. My youngest son is coming down to visit with his girlfriend, and they come for these brownies and not for me. I’m not lying. To win anyone over, give them a try. 8 oz bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped. 9 tablespoons (1 stick plus one T) butter, diced ¼ C whipping cream 1 ¼ C white sugar 3 large eggs 1 T vanilla extract 1 ¼ C all purpose flour ¼ t baking soda ¼ t baking powder ¼ t salt 6 ozs bittersweet or semisweet chocolate chips Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9X13 inch metal baking pan. Stir 8 ounces chopped chocolate, butter, and cream in medium saucepan over medium heat until melted and smooth. Cool to lukewarm, about 15 minutes. Whisk sugar, eggs, and vanilla in large bowl until well blended, about 1 minute. Whisk in chocolate mixture. Sift flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt over, and then stir to blend. Mix in chocolate chips. Spread batter evenly in prepared pan. Bake brownies until puffed and dry looking on top and tester inserted near center comes out with moist crumbs attached, about 30 minutes. Cool brownies in pan on rack. Cut around pan sides. Cut into 6 brownies. Trust me, you’ll want a big one!

New York Cheesecake There are all sorts of rules about cheesecake. There’s New York cheesecake and cheesecake pie. There are pie crusts and graham cracker crusts. I can’t be the judge of all these things, but I can tell you, this is the best cheesecake I’ve ever made in my life. It never, ever fails to bring down the house, even when it’s been a bit too browned. Once after I sort of forgot to set the timer, I had friends basically suck out the middle of the cake, leaving the top and the crust. So if you are careful, you won’t have a crumb left.

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5 (8 oz) packages cream cheese, softened (this is important. A couple of hours on the counter should do) 1 ¾ c white sugar 3 T all purpose flour 1 orange, zested 1 lemon, zested (the zest from organically grown citrus is preferable) 5 large eggs 2 large egg yolks ½ t vanilla 1 graham-cracker crust, recipe below Preheat oven to 500 degrees. If your oven only goes to 450, then make do. Beat together cream cheese, sugar, flour, and zests with an electric mixer until smooth. Add eggs and yolks one at a time, then vanilla, beating on a low speed until each ingredient is incorporated. Scrape down bowl with each addition. Put springform pan with crust in a shallow baking pan. Pour filling into crust (springform pan will be completely full) and bake in the baking pan (simply there to catch drips) in the middle of the fully heated oven for 12 minutes, or until puffed. Reduce temperature to 200 degrees and continue baking until cake is mostly firm (center will stay slightly wobbly when pan is shaken), about 1 hour and 45 minutes more. Run a knife around the top edge of the cake to loosen and then cool completely in the springform pan on a rack. Chill cake, covered, for at least 6 hours. Remove side of pan and transfer cake to a plate. Bring to room temperature before serving. Graham cracker rust: 1 ½ c (5 ounces) finely ground graham crackers 5 T unsalted butter, melted 1/3 c white sugar ¾ t salt Stir together crust ingredients and then press into the bottom and side (1 inch) of a buttered 24 centimeter springform pan. Fill immediately or chill up to 2 hours.

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