Sweet Forty-Two(69)

I frowned slightly. “Why?”

She let out a sad chuckle. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

I actually did recognize that quote from Alice in Wonderland. But, why? “What?”

She put her hand on my forearm and looked at my mouth. Her eyebrow arched as if it were trying to pull her gaze toward mine, but failed. “Sometimes the question is as complicated as the answer.”

I settled myself on stage and looked into the moderately inhabited bar. The pit I had in my stomach had nothing on the look on her face as my bow and strings embraced, and wept as if separated by the war of emotions. The stubborn part of me wanted to stop playing right then and rush over to her and find out why she wiped under her eyes every few measures. Why she smiled through those tears. Moreover, why she requested the song in the first place.

The musician in me, though, ordered me to keep playing. To let her feel what she needed to feel. In time with the music. In the confines of the score. I couldn’t move my eyes from her. Not during that song, or the rest of the songs I played over the course of the night.

As promised by the nameless bartender, she would disappear for ten or fifteen minutes at a time through the night, returning looking a little more broken than she’d left. As far as I knew, her mother wasn’t at the facility, though I don’t know that she would have told me if she’d had to go back, given I was led to believe the woman was dead in the first place.

I got the feeling that I thought more of my relationship with Georgia than she did. I felt like she was erecting new walls as quickly as I broke through long standing ones. Maybe I wasn’t breaking through any at all. That seemed almost more likely as I watched her zip up her feelings and circle through the rest of her shift under my soundtrack.

At closing time, my fingers were sore, and my brain hurt from trying to figure out someone I thought I was getting to know. Georgia cashed out, cleaned up, and nodded to me when she was ready to leave. I followed her to the parking lot.

“Ready to go bake some hippie love?” While the words were light, her tone suggested she was psyching herself up for the night.

I shrugged. “We can wait for another day if you’re tired.”

Please don’t be tired. Please don’t be tired.

“No, I’m not tired.”

Thank you.

“Ok, then. See you at home.”

Her eyebrows pulled in a little. I immediately regretted calling it home, but what else was I supposed to say? I didn’t want her thinking I thought we, like, lived together, but, for God’s sake, we shared a roof. We gave each other tight smiles as we got into our cars and drove.

Home.





“Time’s up.” I whisked egg whites in a large stainless steel bowl, while Georgia sifted various flours that sounded like they should never go together. Garbanzo. Sorghum.

“Huh?” She turned for the oven and back to me, looking confused.

“You need to tell me where you were tonight. You promised.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I never promised.”

“Well. You said.”

She softly bit the inside of her lip as she shook the last of the flours through the fine metal mesh.

“Something with your mom?” I encouraged.

Georgia took the bowl from me and poured the egg whites into her mixture. “She just got out of the hospital over the weekend. I was just checking in with her.”

I didn’t buy it for a second.

“Georgia...”

She smiled. “Look, Regan, there’s nothing grander here. I was quiet about it at work because no one knows about what’s going on with her. I can’t stand the taste of pity.”

“Why do you assume people will pity you?”

She looked startled. Her mouth stuttered open and closed a few times.

“Just because people care about what’s going on with you,” I continued, “doesn’t mean they pity you. I didn’t feel a single shred of pity from you when I read Rae’s note. I felt supported and cared for.”

Georgia sighed. Labored and through her cheeks, I watched her stubborn and self-mutilating resolve fade away.

“I’ve been thinking...” She cut herself off, grunting almost silently, like the words were too big to fit out of her throat.

“What?”

“I ... I think it would be good to open the bakery. Like ... for real.” She placed her palms on the cold steel workspace and looked at me with her indelible poker face.

My eyes widened. “Really? That’s fantastic, Georgia!”

“It’s not as easy as it seems. I know I’ve got the space here ready to go, but I need to get permits. That won’t be too hard, but, then ... I need customers.”

I playfully slapped the counter. “That will take less than a second. You’re a genius in here.”

A smile fluttered on her face for a split second before disappearing just as quickly. Like a hummingbird. “I need to spend a couple of weeks baking everything I know how to bake and delivering them to businesses. You know, like advertising. I need to get a spot at the farmer’s market, get business cards made ... I can’t think about leaving my job at the bar unless I’m making enough here. And, I can’t make enough here if people don’t know about it.”

Her hands were rolling around the air like she was listing an impossible number of obstacles. Excuses. But I stopped her.