Friendship Bread (26 page)

The cards kept coming. Recipes, too. Yeast-free. Chocolate chip applesauce. Carrot coconut. Rhubarb muffins. Lemon poppy seed. All using the Amish Friendship Bread starter.

Connie finally came up with a solution. She went to the drugstore and bought two large index boxes, one for questions and techniques, another for recipes. She left a stack of blank cards and pens nearby for people to copy their favorite recipes or leave a new one.

Within a week, both boxes were filled. So Connie bought two more boxes.

She was starting to notice that women were coming in not just to do laundry, but to consult one or both of the boxes. Connie quickly added free coffee to the list of amenities for Laundromat patrons. Oftentimes two or three women would meet while waiting for their laundry to dry. They’d bring in different variations of the bread and share them, exchanging questions or commenting on whether one box of pudding was really enough or if whole wheat flour contained enough gluten to make the recipe work properly. Connie didn’t really understand these discussions, but was more than happy to participate
in any necessary taste tests. Soon she could count on a mid-morning and mid-afternoon snack, and sometimes a loaf to take home. She declined the many opportunities to take a bag of starter—it wasn’t really her thing.

But helping coordinate the many women who did want a bag of starter, or who needed to get rid of their starter,
was
her thing. She quickly and easily hooked people up, letting them know what day the starter was on and how to care for it. She knew what to do and what not to do, and while she never spoke from experience (she let people know this up front), she also overheard enough to give good advice. She was like a lawyer who had never been in a car accident or subject to a lawsuit themselves. Just because she never actually made Amish Friendship Bread didn’t mean that she couldn’t tell people how to do it right.

Then the owner had come in a couple of days ago, his mouth agape at the bevy of chatting ladies poring over recipes and sipping the free coffee as they folded their laundry. He seemed genuinely sorry to tell Connie that he was giving her two weeks’ notice. He had sold the business to a man from the city who already had ten successful Laundromats throughout the state. He was going to convert the Avalon Wash and Dry into a 1930s-themed Laundromat with laundry debit cards instead of coins. Dry cleaning pick-up and drop-off. Open twenty-four hours. It would be a complete overhaul using a proven formula. He was going to bring in a manager from one of his other operations to oversee the change, and they wouldn’t be needing Connie anymore.

“I’m really sorry,” the owner said to Connie. He handed her a card that said
THANKS FOR A GREAT JOB
and inside there was a hundred-dollar bill. Connie said thank you, but she could tell his mind was already on other things, like a vacation to someplace exotic or the new car he would be buying. He’d made his money, with Connie’s help and brilliant ideas, and he was now hanging her out to dry. Pun intended.

The new manager comes in this week with the Laundromat’s new signage and has already told Connie that the bulletin board must go.
They don’t want clutter. So today, the bulletin board and the Amish Friendship Bread boxes, which are stuffed to overflowing, must find a new home. She wants to put them some place where people can freely gather and consult the cards at their leisure. She tried to put the boxes into the safekeeping of one of the regulars, but no one wanted the responsibility.

She’ll try the library first, and while she’s there she might pick up catalogs for the community colleges in Freeport and Rockford. Connie doesn’t want to be at the mercy of a fickle employer anymore—she wants to have some options. Some real responsibility, with opportunities to grow. A career maybe.

She tries not to be angry at the owner for selling. After all, it was a good job while it lasted, and she learned a thing or two. More important, she had fun. She saved a little money, got to watch all the latest releases from Netflix, met a lot of good people. The customers are livid on her behalf but she tells them not to be. She knows they need a place to do their laundry, and she doesn’t want them to feel guilty about coming to the new place.

In the three and a half years that Connie has worked at the Wash and Dry, she’s come to realize that life is a bit like doing laundry—you have to separate the darks from the lights. One’s not necessarily better than the other—they’re just different. They have different needs, require different levels of care. She knows plenty of customers who don’t give it much thought and throw all their laundry in together, and maybe that’s the chaotic part of life that just happens, that no matter how hard you try, you can’t always keep things separate. A red sock gets mixed in with a load of whites, or a delicate black top gets washed in hot water by accident. These things happen. All you can do is learn from it and move on. Tell your husband to enjoy his pink underwear, give your shrunken top to your little sister or niece. But it doesn’t mean that you stop sorting your laundry. You keep sorting—lights from darks, darks from lights—and hope for the best.

Mark pushes the grocery cart through the store, Gracie trailing beside him with her own mini version. She can only put lightweight items in her plastic cart, like tea boxes or bags of marshmallows, but that suits her just fine. It takes longer to do the shopping this way, but Gracie is happy, and it gets them out of the house so Julia can have more time to herself.

Today, however, Mark is steaming. He’s been on a low simmer ever since that afternoon he kissed Julia, when she had recoiled as if he had been a stranger. No, correct that—a stranger probably wouldn’t have evoked that response. That was clearly reserved for Mark.

Mark loads up on the bad starches, cheap carbs he knows he’ll regret later. Well, more time in the gym then, which is quickly becoming his home away from home. White bread, pasta, crackers, chips. He throws in a sour cream dip just for the hell of it, and suddenly has a craving for nachos smothered with cheese and jalapeños.

Gracie is chatting animatedly to her stuffed elephant, Troy, who’s
sitting in the doll-size seat of her grocery cart. Troy is an elephant who thinks he’s a bird. Right now she thinks it’s important to humor Troy and then, when the time is right, she’ll break the news to him gently.

Mark glances at her, worried that this imaginary play might be a mask for a more serious problem. He pictures the family therapist shaking his head and telling him that Gracie’s lost touch with reality. She is now permanently damaged, unable to function in the real world, which is full of bad things and parents who fight and who don’t know how to kiss. Even the admiring looks from other shoppers and the occasional coos don’t soothe him.

He turns the corner. Rows of Hostess snacks come into view, junk he hasn’t eaten since he was a kid. Boxes of Ho Hos, Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and Sno Balls end up in his cart. Even Gracie is frowning. But Mark doesn’t care.

Julia is gone for the next two days, having some “down time” with one of her tea shop friends. Mark doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing. As usual. Why should she tell Mark anything? He’s just the husband.

A box of powdered Donettes sails into the cart. Mark pushes on.

After the grocery store, they’re going to go to Avalon Video and rent the latest Disney movie. Some feel-good piece of la-la-land goodness that can only happen in the Disney studios. You want special effects? Try getting your wife to kiss you. You’ll have to pull the whole tech team together for that one.

Julia used to get on her soapbox about the Disney epic cartoons. Did Mark ever notice how almost every movie had only one parent? And that it’s the mother who’s usually missing or killed off?
Cinderella, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, Pocahontas, The Little Mermaid, Bambi
, even
The Fox and the Hound
. Mark had offered to write a letter but Julia wasn’t humored.

The next aisle is frozen foods. He’ll pick up one of those supposedly healthy organic TV dinners for Gracie and some Hot Pockets for himself. They’ve been advertising those new panini-style sandwiches—maybe he’ll try one of those.

“Mark?”

He looks up. It’s Livvy. She looks nervous at having run into him at the store, her own cart filled with groceries, too. Real food—vegetables and fruit, fish, yogurt. Surprisingly healthy food. Mark suddenly craves a salad and wishes he could just leave his cart somewhere and walk away.

“Livvy, hi.” He’s known Livvy almost as long as he’s known Julia. Julia introduced them not long after she and Mark started dating. They all used to have fun together, Livvy driving Julia crazy, of course, and always spoiling Josh, but that’s what sisters and aunts are for. Mark even misses her slacker husband, Tom, who is so predictably predictable that you can almost count on him. Mark misses all of this. He’s tired of the awkward formality every time they meet, the careful greetings. He’s so tired of all this bullshit that he steps forward without a thought.

He gives Livvy a hug.

He’s surprised at the sudden rush of emotion that comes with holding her. It doesn’t even bother him that he’s standing in the middle of the grocery store, his eyes filling up with tears and blurring his vision.
Attention shoppers! Come see the weeping husband in Aisle Six!
God, why did they let things get so bad?

He steps back, wipes his eyes with a laugh. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that. It’s good to see you, Livvy.”

Livvy’s eyes are filled with tears, too, and soon they’re spilling down her cheeks. She wipes them away quickly with the back of her hand. “You, too. Gracie, how are you?” She tries for a bright smile.

“Good.” Gracie is polite, but cautious. Troy has a candy bar in his lap and she turns her attention back to him, telling him that he can have it later if he’s extra good.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. You look just like your mother, Gracie.”

At this Gracie’s head snaps back up. “I have brown hair like my dad.”

“Yes, you do, but your eyes and nose are all Julia. Your mom.”
Livvy’s voice is kind. “You even have freckles in the exact same spots she does.” Livvy touches the bridge of her own nose.

Gracie looks between Livvy and Mark and then the widest smile breaks across her face. She’s suddenly embarrassed. “Thank you.”

Mark studies his daughter with affection and realizes that Livvy is right. Gracie has all of Julia’s fine features. He gulps, wondering why they never saw it before.

“This is Troy,” Gracie says, introducing her elephant to Livvy.

Livvy bends down. “He’s a very nice elephant.”

“He’s a bird,” Gracie says with that look that adults often give other adults when they’re talking about children in their presence.

“Oh, right. Nice wings.” Livvy has an admiring look on her face.

Gracie loves this, and beams. “How come we never see you?” she asks out of nowhere. She’s warming up to Livvy now. “You can come to our house if you want. I can show you my room. It’s pink.”

Mark has never heard Gracie ask about Livvy. Usually by now they’d already be on their way, with no more than a handful of words having passed between them. He’s composing the right response, one that doesn’t hurt Livvy’s feelings, when his cell phone rings.

It’s Vivian. She’s been decidedly cool toward him since that debacle in her apartment last month. If he walks by she conveniently turns away, speaks to him from across the safety of the large conference room table. She avoids him at the gym, pretending that she doesn’t notice him or that she’s too focused on her workout to say more than a brief hello. He feels a twinge of discomfort at this, but he’s not sure what else he can do. He wishes they could rewind, preapartment, pregift.

“Bruno wants to pull the project,” Vivian informs Mark now. Her voice is grim and there’s background static.

“What? Why?” They’ve already invested over one thousand man hours and Mark even hired another associate to help them manage their workflow. They’re on retainer and getting paid as they go, but the big payoff is at the end. Not just financially, but the potential press and media attention, something Mark has been counting on, even expecting.

“I don’t know why, Mark.” Vivian is irritated. “He called with the news so I convinced him to let us talk to him in person first. I’m on my way to Chicago right now.”

Why did Lemelin call Vivian? Mark’s the architect on this project. He glances at his watch. It’s just past four. He looks desperately at Gracie who’s chatting happily with her aunt. He can bring her, or maybe see if a neighbor can watch her. “I’ll have to call you back, Vivian. I have my daughter with me and I need to make some calls. What time did you tell him we’d meet him?”

“Now, Mark! I basically hung up the phone and got in my car. He doesn’t really want to see us. He’s playing the ‘I’m so busy card,’ so this isn’t something that can wait.” Her voice is slightly accusatory.

Mark lets out a breath. Showing up with Gracie is definitely out of the question. “Okay, okay. Let me call you back. I’ll be there.” He snaps his phone shut.