Friendship Bread (6 page)

Madeline Davis doesn’t know what it is that draws her to the small town of Avalon. After all these years it’s apparent that Chicago is too cold for her old bones, and not the temperature so much as the people. She never considered herself a Chicagoan anyway, and once Steven was gone, Madeline suddenly felt like the transplant she really was.

She hadn’t meant to come here originally—that wasn’t the plan. But when she saw the sign welcoming her to Avalon and the canopy of dogwood and buckeye trees shading the wide streets, she thought,
I could live here
. The next thing she knew, she was signing papers.

Madeline arranges some lemon scones on a porcelain cake stand then covers it with the fitted glass dome. Steven loved her scones, especially the ones made with chocolate chips. It’s been over twenty years, but she still misses him terribly.

She wipes her hands on her apron then looks around her empty tea
salon with longing, wishing she had more customers, more traffic.
Madeline’s Tea Salon
. That was certainly ambitious. She didn’t have a business plan, hadn’t really a clue as to what she was doing. The whole business had been born more from what she was given, a six-bedroom, yellow-and-white stick-style Victorian that had been built in 1886 by a wealthy egg merchant. In its last incarnation it had been a bed-and-breakfast. The grounds were well-maintained and the previous owners avid gardeners. There was a vegetable patch; several rows of basil, rosemary, thyme, and mint; and lots of colorful flowers and shady trees.

Madeline loves the spacious rooms, each with its own sweet name and personality, the generous kitchen and sunroom, the full basement and large living and dining area. There were a few surprises, too—a china closet and a root cellar out back—making the home a bit too eclectic for the average buyer but perfect for someone like Madeline. It was more house, more yard, more everything than she could possibly ever need, but it was so full of possibilities that Madeline used what was left of her savings and bought it.

Now it’s been six months, with only a trickle of business from tourists who happen to drive by. The locals regard her with guarded suspicion, holding tight to their wallets with the national economy in the pits. Despite her best efforts, she’s still an outsider in this small town. Who is she kidding? Why would a small town like Avalon need a tea salon?

Madeline shakes her head as she wipes down the teacups for the umpteenth time. Why can’t she be like other people her age who seem content to kick back and play bridge or watch daytime television? The more active ones volunteer or lunch or take in a show, talking endlessly about grandkids, which Madeline doesn’t have. It seems, in fact, that she has no one. It isn’t entirely true, but feels that way nevertheless. And it’s been that way for a long, long time.

She tries not to look surprised when the little bell above the door tinkles and a woman with curly strawberry-blond hair walks in carrying a large tote bag.

“Do you serve food here?” the woman asks.

Madeline nods, remembering the portobello-mushroom-and-spinach quiche that will be ready any minute. She should push the lunch special. Then again, it’s not quite eleven, so maybe talking up a mid-morning snack would be more appropriate. She’s been meaning to put up a sign for tea and crumpets. It’s a great deal at $5.99—a fresh pot of tea, two small crumpets, one scone, and a side of homemade raspberry preserves and lavender butter. She has such a fabulous selection of herbal teas, black teas, green teas, white teas, fruit teas …

There’s an awkward pause as Madeline realizes that the woman is staring at her. She’s done it again, her mind wandering off into la-la-land. She wishes she could say old age is to blame but it’s not—it’s just part of who Madeline is. She gives the woman a bright smile. “I’m sorry, I got lost there for a minute. Would you like a table?”

The woman shakes her head. “I just wanted to get something to go.” Her eyes scan the buffet of baked goods hungrily. “Maybe a scone or muffin.”

“Or both,” Madeline says. It’s a bold suggestion, but it does the trick. The woman lets out a small laugh, as if she’s been holding it in.

“Or both,” she agrees.

The bell over the door tinkles again. Two in one day? Madeline looks over and sees a slender young Asian woman walking in uncertainly. She’s wearing a work shirt and dungarees. There’s a refined elegance about her, the way her hand flutters to her neck nervously. “Are you open?” Her voice is soft, a hint of sophistication.

“I certainly am. Come on in.” Madeline watches the young woman choose a table by one of the large picture windows.

The woman with the strawberry-blond hair is hovering between the pecan sticky buns and toffee chip bars. She suddenly seems anxious to leave, her eyes darting to the door as if she’s afraid someone else might come in. “I’m not sure what to get …”

Madeline gives her a reassuring pat on the arm. “Take your time.” The oven timer dings. “That’ll be my quiche.” She’s about to head
into the kitchen when she adds, “Portobello mushroom and spinach. Side salad of organic greens with sliced strawberries, walnuts, and shaved Parmesan, tossed in a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Eight dollars and ninety-nine cents. Comes with your choice of tea afterward.” She hurries off, hoping she hasn’t scared anyone away with her impromptu sales pitch.

When Madeline returns, quiche in hand, she’s surprised to see that the woman with the tote bag is still there, standing by an empty table. “You’re welcome to sit if you’d like to get off your feet,” Madeline offers.

“What? Oh no, I’m just …” She eyes the quiche in Madeline’s hands, fragrant with herbs, the caramelized mushrooms gently browned, the spinach a dark, delicious green. “That smells wonderful.” Her voice is hesitant.

“It tastes wonderful,” Madeline says. She isn’t boasting. Madeline knows she’s an excellent cook and she’s not afraid to own it. She begins to cut the quiche, six fat wedges instead of eight.

The woman looks at her, blinking, then to Madeline’s delight she drops her bag onto a chair and sits down. “Okay,” she says. Her voice is agreeable but cautious. “I’ll try the special.”

“Me, too.” The young woman is staring out the window at a moving van making its way down the street. She turns to look at Madeline, a mix of uncertainty and determination on her face. “Do you by chance have anything chocolaty for dessert?”

The smell of quiche catches Julia by surprise. Even though it’s only 10:30
A.M
., she’s starving.

The woman behind the counter introduces herself as Madeline, which Julia should have figured out seeing how the place is called Madeline’s Tea Salon. Madeline looks to be in her seventies, friendly and vibrant, wearing a clean apron over her slacks. She’s clearly a masterful baker given the delectable spread of baked goods on the antique buffet. Scones, cookies, cakes. Shelves are filled with teapots,
tea cups, tea saucers, tea cozies. And then there’s the vast selection of every tea imaginable, loose and bagged, tin after tin after tin.

“This used to be a B and B,” Julia says, more to herself than anyone, but Madeline overhears her and smiles. “The Belleweather. Frank and Jan Morgan used to own it. But you probably already know that.”

“That’s pretty much all I know, too,” Madeline says. “I stumbled onto this place. I was actually on my way back to Chicago after twenty years in California. Berkley.” She serves the women their quiches then sits down at an empty table with a pot of tea. “I pulled over on the side of the road to take a little break and stretch my legs, and that’s when I saw the
FOR SALE
sign. The minute I stepped inside I knew I was home.” She stirs some milk into her tea.

“Really?” For Julia Avalon has always been home, even when she went away for school, and that was what kept her grounded when everything fell apart. Change—a new location, a new job,
a new life
—never held much appeal for Julia the way it had for others, so she’s surprised by an unexpected stab of envy at hearing Madeline’s words. What would it be like to stumble onto your future and recognize it so clearly? Was it really as simple as opening a door and seeing it before you? Then what?

The Asian woman is listening intently, too, her fork poised in midair. “But how did you
know
?” she asks. Julia has never seen her before, so she’s either new or just passing through. Julia can see that her arms are toned, her posture tall and erect. She’s slender and willowy, but not weak. If she were taller Julia imagines she’d be a ballet dancer.

Madeline shrugs, stirring some milk into her tea. “I just had that feeling of certainty. You know how there’s that moment when you’re sure of something? Even if it makes no sense?” She gives a commanding wave of her teaspoon.

“No.” Julia and the other woman say this simultaneously, then stare at each other for a moment.

“Jinx,” the other woman says, and Julia finds herself grinning. There has to be at least ten years between them, maybe more, but she
feels a dangling thread of possibility and reaches for it. “I’m Julia,” she says.

“Hannah.” There’s a pause as the women consider each other politely. “Are you from Avalon?”

Julia nods as she spears a strawberry with her fork. She remembers moments like this, though barely. It hasn’t appealed to her in a long time, this meeting new people or talking about herself. She knows almost everyone in this town, but for the first time in a long time the feeling of claustrophobia, of being under the magnifying glass, is gone. “Yes. I was born and raised here. I went to college at UIC. Went back for graduate school, too.” She doesn’t mention that she never had a chance to finish her master’s degree. She’s always been okay with that decision, because something bigger and better had come up—she was pregnant. “What about you?”

“I moved here with my husband three months ago,” Hannah says. “From New York by way of Chicago.”

“I love New York,” Madeline says with a sigh. Julia wishes she could say the same, but she’s never been. “The shows, the shopping … although, to look at me now, you’d think I do nothing but spend all day in the kitchen. Which I suppose is actually true.” Madeline rubs a spot of flour from her hand.

But Hannah doesn’t respond, her attention taken by something down the street. Unease crosses her face and then gives way to a look Julia recognizes and is unfortunately all too familiar with.

Regret.

This is a mistake
.

The table by the window gives Hannah a view of her home, a sweet bungalow with a white porch swing out front. The driver of the truck looks perplexed at seeing Philippe’s possessions already stacked on the porch. His attempts to unlock the front door obviously fail. He looks at his work order again and then gives a shrug as he motions to his crew to start loading up the truck.

After Philippe’s phone call and two hours of playing Prokofiev,
Hannah found the reserve of strength she’d been looking for. She changed the locks and packed up his belongings, unwilling to let a bunch of strangers into her house to pick through their things while she was out getting “coffee.” Where did Philippe think she was? Starbucks hadn’t found Avalon yet, and the thought of being in a busy diner or getting something from the grocery store was overwhelming. And then she remembered the tea salon that always seemed empty, an elderly woman behind the counter, always dusting, always moving about in a no-nonsense sort of way.

This will show him not to mess with me
, had been her triumphant thought an hour ago as she headed toward Madeline’s. But now Hannah contemplates running into the street and telling the movers to stop so she can unlock the house and put everything back in its proper place. To be honest, she probably would have done it if Madeline and Julia hadn’t engaged her in conversation. By the time Hannah looks out the window again, Philippe’s possessions and the truck are gone.

Hannah suddenly feels sick to her stomach.

“Hannah? Are you all right?” Madeline is standing by her table, clearing her empty plate.

Hannah can’t speak.
What was she thinking?
Madeline and Julia are staring at her, a look of concern on their faces. Hannah tries to force a smile, but instead realizes that she’s going to throw up. She puts her hand to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Madeline puts down the plate and rushes Hannah to the bathroom where she promptly vomits into the toilet. Madeline’s hand is warm on her back, steadying her, her voice soothing.

When it’s over, Madeline brings out a fresh hand towel and places it on the side of the basin. “Take your time,” she says kindly. She offers a smile before closing the door behind her.

Hannah stares at herself in the mirror, horrified, and closes her eyes. He’ll never forgive her. He’ll never come home now.

What had she done?

When Hannah finally emerges from the bathroom, Julia and
Madeline are speaking in low whispers. They straighten up when they see her. Madeline guides Hannah back to her table, and there’s a slice of white toast, no crust, and a cup of tea waiting.

“Only if you want it,” Madeline says. “I thought it might settle your stomach.”

Hannah wipes her eyes. Growing up, she and her older brother would get spanked
and
grounded if they so much as shed a tear, which of course only prompted more tears, at least in the beginning. Albert ended up as stony-faced as her father while Hannah seems to cry at the drop of a hat, especially these days.
“Yǒng zheě wú wèi,”
her father would snap, the Chinese equivalent to,
Suck it up
.

“I’m sorry. It’s not your food—it was really delicious.” Hannah reaches for the toast and breaks off a piece. She tries to smile, but can’t. She’s scared she’s going to cry again, make a fool of herself in front of these women. “I’m just not having a good day, I guess.”

Julia has come to the side of her table. “I can understand that.” She gives Hannah’s hand a squeeze and when Hannah looks up, she sees something in Julia’s eyes that’s both sad and haunted. “I can definitely understand that.”

Madeline’s not quite sure what to do about these two women gathered in her house. Yes, it’s a tea salon, but it’s first and foremost her house, her home, and Julia and Hannah are essentially in her dining room, both looking tearful. She doesn’t know what has happened to these two women, but something has.