Sweet Forty-Two(40)

A large clock was hung on the main wall, but it was wrong. The numbers were in the wrong place and the hands of the clock were squiggly, not straight. The wall immediately to my left held what looked like a candy bar. Bright colored teacups that looked as if they were about to topple over held glass jars that were filled with candy and sprinkles and chocolate. Above that was a large painting of a playing card. The Queen of Hearts.

“The Mad Hatter,” I whispered as I walked forward, toward the display case, which was a scene all its own.

“What?” The door closed behind Georgia, and she locked it shut.

“It all makes sense, now,” I said as I stood in front of the nonsensical desserts.

“I doubt it. But, what are you talking about?”

“Alice in Wonderland.” I turned on my heels, holding out my hands.

Georgia lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, a smile starting in her eyes, but traveling no further. “How does that make sense of anything?”

“The rocking horse fly!” I shouted as recognition overtook my brain.

She jumped, and shouted back, startled, “What about it?”

I clapped my hands together once. “The tattoo.”

“Which one?”

“The rocking horse fly, Georgia.” I reached my hand out and spun her around, placing my finger on the spot under her shirt that held the tattoo.

“Okay, okay, calm down.” She rolled her eyes, taking a step back. “Come with me into the kitchen before your head explodes.”

“Jesus, G, this place is fantastic. Why isn’t it open, like, all the time?” My eyes followed her all the way to the large stainless steel oven and watched her bend slowly over, pulling out a pan of muffins before closing the door.

“I told you. No time.”

“This looks new, though. Why would you open a place you had no time to run?” I hadn’t considered the personal nature of my questioning until I watched her face fall.

“Sometimes our intentions are roadblocked by life, Regan.”

“So was Alice in Wonderland your favorite movie as a kid?” Since I kept screwing up socially with Georgia, I’d gotten better at changing the subject.

She set the muffin tin down on the stainless steel counter. She curled her hands around the edge of the countertop and sighed. “Still is. The books are incredible, too.”

“Books? Plural?”

“You know, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass.”

Without much thought, I reached across the space and grabbed her hand, determined to examine one of the mystery tattoos I’d noticed during our first meeting. On the inside of her finger, Who are you? was scrawled in cursive black ink.

“Who are you? The caterpillar.” I locked eyes with her and she smiled.

“Look at all of those adorable little light bulbs just bursting away over your head.” She pulled her hand away from me and used it to mess up my hair more than the ocean wind already had. “Go. Wash your hands and you can help me with the next batch.”

Over at the sink, I turned my head and looked over to the seating area. As people walked by, they stopped, looked in, smiled at their friends and pointed at things, and some even pulled on the door before walking away with an unsatisfied stomach.

“Do people always try to get in here?” I nodded toward the door as more people passed, a wounded look across their faces.

“Sometimes. The sign says Open by chance, so they don’t usually get too disappointed.”

Sure enough, just as she said that, I saw the rectangle sign hanging from the door, a large Cheshire-like smile stamped where the period should be.

“Wow, you’ve really committed to the theme, haven’t you?” I dried my hands and walked back to the prep area.

Georgia set butter, eggs, and sugar onto the table. “If you’re going to do something, you’ve got to do it right. Completely.”

“I guess you’re right. So, where’s the flour? I can sift that.”

She looked up in a flash, mouth opening slightly. “You bake?”

“Probably not well, but I know that my mom always sifted things. I wanted to sound smart,” I admitted.

Georgia smiled and squatted down, coming up three times, placing a different container in front of me each time.

“This is...” I shook my head, my kitchen prowess fleeing by the second.

“Flour. Sorghum, tapioca, and white rice.” She tied an apron around her waist and tossed one to me.

“I ... um...”

“This is a gluten-free bakery. I don’t use wheat flour at all. So, listen carefully, or you’ll f*ck it all up...”





Georgia

Keeping his mind off of that letter was working, even if it was at the risk of opening myself up more than I wanted to. More than I needed to.

The look on his face last night, and then again on the swings, was too painful to swallow. If he wanted to talk about my bakery and his reasoning for why the theme was what it was, I’d allow it.

“I’m listening.” He didn’t make funny faces or weird noises when I uttered the phrase “gluten-free,” so we were seemingly off to a good start.

“How much do I use?” He tied his apron around his narrow tattoo-free waist and waited for instruction.