Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks

boulangerie with molders andproofing cabinets and stainless steel ovens watched over by numerous apprentices and maîtres. While doing this, he was also required to attend regular school classes one week a month. Sylvie bragged that only a small percentage of those who began the program ever finished. Apparently, to his mother’s consternation, he had yet to show any inclination to marry; his only outside interest seemed to be the Toulouse rugby team, the Stade.
When I finally laid my head on my soft, square pillow that first night, my dreams were full of a French film CM and I saw once, called La Femme du Boulanger—The Baker’s Wife.
My mother staggers in, loaded down with grocery bags, just as I’m dumping bread dough out of the KitchenAid onto the counter, sending up a little cloud of flour. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I thought you might like to have a little pain ordinaire for dinner.”
“That would be lovely.” She beams at me. “Does that mean you’ll be here?”
“Yes, I’ll be here.”
“Where did you go this morning? To work out?”
I sigh. “Actually, I went over to talk to David. Since he hadn’t called.”
A slight frown drives her perfectly shaped eyebrows together. “And?”
I don’t look at her. “He wasn’t there. Already left for work, I guess.”
I’m making a half-hearted attempt at presentability when the doorbell rings at seven o’clock.
I finish smoothing foundation over my nose, pick up the tube of concealer and start to dab it under my eyes. Ridiculous. What difference does it make whether I look polished and pulled together, or like the business end of a wet mop? I dust on some finishing powder, a bit ofblush. I dip the end of my little finger into the pot of clear lip gloss and give my mouth a quick pass. Then I scoop all the bottles and tubes and brushes and boxes into the top drawer and shove it closed.
I step into black rayon slacks and pull on a red knit shirt. The red makes my skin look pale, or maybe it’s the bathroom light. David liked me in tailored clothes. Clean lines. Ralph Lauren for casual, Anne Klein for daytime business, Armani for evening. I don’t remember what I liked me in.
My mother and the Graebels are sitting in the den and I know they’re talking about me because conversation dies when I come bounding in. Georgia gets up to kiss me and Tim hands me a glass of red wine.
“Wyn, the house smells divine,” Georgia says. She’s about the closest thing my mother has to a hippie-chick friend. She’s skinny and still wears her long hair in a braid hanging down her back, even though it’s liberally laced with gray. She’s never discovered makeup, except for pink lipstick, and she wears full skirts that hit her about the ankles. She’s always seemed kind of cheerfully out of it, as if she were perpetually stoned. “Your mom told us you made bread this afternoon. I’m so excited. I love French bread.”
Tim says, “You get prettier every time I see you.” He was a corporate attorney at Andersen Development where my father was finance VP, and I grew up with his and Georgia’s two kids. I remember him as being kind of nerdy, the type who probably carried a briefcase in high school. But then he started dabbling in commercial real estate, retired at forty five, and took up competitive sailing. Now he’s silver-haired, tan year-round, and suddenly women seem to find him very attractive. I’d feel sorry for Georgia, but I don’t think she’s ever noticed. To her, he’s probably still the sweet, geeky guy she fell in love with.
“It’s great to see both of you.”
When my mother goes to check on the coq au vin, Georgia turns to me. “We’re so sorry to hear about you and David.”
I have to remind myself to breathe. “Thanks. I was kind of sorry to hear about it myself.”
“I hope he’s being reasonable,” Tim says.
Georgia frowns at him. “Tim, for heaven’s sake …” She pushes some magazines aside, sets her wineglass on the