Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks Page A

coffee table.
“I just mean, if you need an attorney or any financial advice, I know a lot of good people.”
“I think I’m set, thanks.”
“Do you have any plans?” Georgia asks.
“Nothing concrete.” It gets really quiet. I can hear the two cocker spaniels next door going nuts over some imaginary intruder.
“If there’s anything we can do …” she says.
“I appreciate it. I guess it’s just one of those things you have to wade through.” Finally, my mother calls us to the dining room.
My mother tells the Graebels all about her new job. Georgia talks about her work at Project Literacy. Tim regales us with stories of breaking in his new crew in time for the Trans Pac Race. I nod and smile a lot. We eat coq au vin with parsleyed new potatoes, followed by salad and cheese.
“Jo, I always forget how French you like to do everything,” Georgia says with a giggle. “I was thinking you forgot the salad, but we’re doing it the continental way.” I can hardly look up from my plate, but my mother laughs without a trace of embarrassment.
Back to the den with the rest of the wine. I take charge of the music while they reminisce about old times and gossip about people they know. Inevitably, Tim and Georgia start waxing nostalgic and talking about my father.
“Do you think he would’ve stayed with Andersen?” Georgia asks my mother.
She smiles wistfully. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“I think he would’ve gone on his own, don’t you, Wynter?” Tim looks directly into my eyes, and it’s disconcerting.
I shrug and look away. “It’s hard to know what someone would do. People change, I guess.”
“Glenn couldn’t have changed that much. He was a risk taker at heart. He used to say that the most dangerous thing in the world was too much safety.” He leans back in the leather chair that was my father’s favorite, clasps his hands behind his silvery head. “One thing’s for sure, he’d be very proud of you, Wyn.”
That’s when I go out to the kitchen to take care of dessert and coffee.
I’m standing there watching the coffee drip into the pot when Tim announces cheerfully that he’s come to be my assistant. He pushes up the sleeves of his yellow cotton sweater.
While I pour half-and-half in the pitcher, he gets the cups and saucers down from the cupboard. He puts it all on a tray, carries it into the dining room. I cut the tarte tatin that my mother labored over and dollop crème fraîche on each piece.
“I’ve always been pretty handy in the kitchen,” he says, reappearing. “Do you remember?”
“I remember you as the charcoal king,” I tell him.
He laughs with exaggerated heartiness and then he says, “Wynter, I can’t believe you’re all grown up. I still think of you running around our yard with Jim and Terry like a bunch of little Indians.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you’re not looking. Little Indians grow up.”
“But they don’t all grow up as lovely as you.” “Thanks.” I take a step toward the dining room.
“Wynter.” I look at him. “I know this is a difficult time for you. I’m sure you’re lonely. I just want you to know that if you ever need anything. A friend. Or advice, or anything at all, I hope you won’t hesitate to call me.” Not us. Me. He holds out his card. “I have a little office at Marina del Rey. You can usually reach me there.”
I want to tear it into shreds and stuff it down his throat. “Thanks, Tim. But I’m sure my mom has your home phone.”
Tuesday morning, my mother’s upset because I eat only one piece of French toast. We’re sitting in the kitchen with sun streaming inthrough the double windows over the sink. A chorus of lawn mowers and leaf blowers is getting started outside. There’s a dusting of gold pollen on the table from the pink and yellow zinnias in the white porcelain vase.
“You’re not going to catch one of those eating disorders, are you?”
“Mother, you don’t catch an eating disorder.”
“I know,