gruffly, covering for his dazed
look.
“Oh!” She jumped, tilting the tray.
He caught the rolls that slid off. “Ow. Damn. Hot.” He dropped
them on the counter. “That makes three,” he said.
“Three what?”
“Injuries you caused me.” Blisters added to the scraped thumb
and the lump on his skull. At least the powdered sugar hadn’t hurt.
“That was your own fault. You made me jump,” she said
indignantly.
The sight of her backside had fogged his reflexes, but he
wasn’t about to admit that.
“Could you help me frost these?” She motioned at four trays, a
bowl of frosting and two pastry bags. “They’re pecan rolls for the express
coffee service and a side dish for breakfast or lunch dessert.”
“Hold on. You’re leaving. I won’t
have a waitress, let alone time to run a coffee cart, squeeze lemons or bake any
damn—”
“But I’m not. Leaving, that is.” Her cheeks went as pink as she
smelled. He noticed dots of dark blue in the pale sky of her eyes.
“You’re not?” Despite the risk of personal injury that would
entail, he wanted to grin. Maybe some football pads would help....
“Not for a week or so. It’s better for my, uh, job. Plus, the
money’s good.” She glanced down, so he knew that wasn’t the whole story. What
was up?
“While I’m here, I want to spiff up the menu.” She picked up a
roll, swirled frosting on it and thrust it at him.
“Spiff up the…what?”
“Taste first, bitch after.”
He took a bite. Wham. Sweet, spicy,
nutty glory, the dough so flaky it dissolved on his tongue.
“Tastes great, huh?”
He couldn’t pretend not to agree. She’d no doubt seen his
pupils pulsating again.
“It feels good to bake again.” CJ sounded relieved, as if she’d
been afraid to try. She frosted more rolls while he savored the rest of his,
explaining how easy they were to make, that Ernesto could do the baking and they
could freeze ready-to-bake trays.
Jonah reached for a second, but she slapped his hand. “No
eating up the inventory. Start frosting. At a price point of $3.95, that’s $3
profit. Rosie needs the cash.”
“Rosie won’t care. She’s pretty laid-back about the café.” He
picked up the pastry bag. Whatever the reason, CJ was staying. He decorated the
first pecan roll with a heart made of lips he could draw from memory.
* * *
B ARRETT W ARNER RAISED his
face to the sun, soaked in the endless blue of the California sky and inhaled
his first breaths of sweet free air. It was the same sun, sky and air he’d
experienced in the prison yard, but the sky had seemed grayer, the sun dimmer
and the air had tasted bitter on his tongue.
He’d endured three long years of gray sky, dim sun and bitter
air. Three years behind bars, each minute of each day a slow drip of acid on his
soul. He’d felt like Prometheus—his liver plucked by talons from his stomach
each day.
Three years for an accident. If
Cara hadn’t struck her head so hard on the washing machine, he would have
apologized for losing his temper, held her, convinced her not to tear apart
their family, and all would have been well.
Instead, she’d accused him of trying to murder her and the best his lawyer could get him was six years. Six years.
Anger flared, but he quashed it. In prison, he’d discovered it
was a personality disorder that caused his rages. He’d learned to manage it with
pills, mental tricks and the lesson of prison: patience.
It’s over now. He was out. The
horror was behind him. Soon he’d hold his wife and daughter in his loving arms
again. They’d been a closed circle, inviolate, which he’d broken with his
unknowing outburst.
When he’d married Cara, he’d sworn before God and man to love
and protect her. Instead he’d attacked her. Even if he’d been out of his mind
for that wild moment, he’d still committed the act.
Cara hadn’t answered a single letter. She’d no doubt kept the
ones he’d written to Beth Ann from her. How dare she? By what
look.
“Oh!” She jumped, tilting the tray.
He caught the rolls that slid off. “Ow. Damn. Hot.” He dropped
them on the counter. “That makes three,” he said.
“Three what?”
“Injuries you caused me.” Blisters added to the scraped thumb
and the lump on his skull. At least the powdered sugar hadn’t hurt.
“That was your own fault. You made me jump,” she said
indignantly.
The sight of her backside had fogged his reflexes, but he
wasn’t about to admit that.
“Could you help me frost these?” She motioned at four trays, a
bowl of frosting and two pastry bags. “They’re pecan rolls for the express
coffee service and a side dish for breakfast or lunch dessert.”
“Hold on. You’re leaving. I won’t
have a waitress, let alone time to run a coffee cart, squeeze lemons or bake any
damn—”
“But I’m not. Leaving, that is.” Her cheeks went as pink as she
smelled. He noticed dots of dark blue in the pale sky of her eyes.
“You’re not?” Despite the risk of personal injury that would
entail, he wanted to grin. Maybe some football pads would help....
“Not for a week or so. It’s better for my, uh, job. Plus, the
money’s good.” She glanced down, so he knew that wasn’t the whole story. What
was up?
“While I’m here, I want to spiff up the menu.” She picked up a
roll, swirled frosting on it and thrust it at him.
“Spiff up the…what?”
“Taste first, bitch after.”
He took a bite. Wham. Sweet, spicy,
nutty glory, the dough so flaky it dissolved on his tongue.
“Tastes great, huh?”
He couldn’t pretend not to agree. She’d no doubt seen his
pupils pulsating again.
“It feels good to bake again.” CJ sounded relieved, as if she’d
been afraid to try. She frosted more rolls while he savored the rest of his,
explaining how easy they were to make, that Ernesto could do the baking and they
could freeze ready-to-bake trays.
Jonah reached for a second, but she slapped his hand. “No
eating up the inventory. Start frosting. At a price point of $3.95, that’s $3
profit. Rosie needs the cash.”
“Rosie won’t care. She’s pretty laid-back about the café.” He
picked up the pastry bag. Whatever the reason, CJ was staying. He decorated the
first pecan roll with a heart made of lips he could draw from memory.
* * *
B ARRETT W ARNER RAISED his
face to the sun, soaked in the endless blue of the California sky and inhaled
his first breaths of sweet free air. It was the same sun, sky and air he’d
experienced in the prison yard, but the sky had seemed grayer, the sun dimmer
and the air had tasted bitter on his tongue.
He’d endured three long years of gray sky, dim sun and bitter
air. Three years behind bars, each minute of each day a slow drip of acid on his
soul. He’d felt like Prometheus—his liver plucked by talons from his stomach
each day.
Three years for an accident. If
Cara hadn’t struck her head so hard on the washing machine, he would have
apologized for losing his temper, held her, convinced her not to tear apart
their family, and all would have been well.
Instead, she’d accused him of trying to murder her and the best his lawyer could get him was six years. Six years.
Anger flared, but he quashed it. In prison, he’d discovered it
was a personality disorder that caused his rages. He’d learned to manage it with
pills, mental tricks and the lesson of prison: patience.
It’s over now. He was out. The
horror was behind him. Soon he’d hold his wife and daughter in his loving arms
again. They’d been a closed circle, inviolate, which he’d broken with his
unknowing outburst.
When he’d married Cara, he’d sworn before God and man to love
and protect her. Instead he’d attacked her. Even if he’d been out of his mind
for that wild moment, he’d still committed the act.
Cara hadn’t answered a single letter. She’d no doubt kept the
ones he’d written to Beth Ann from her. How dare she? By what
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