Twisted Family Values Page 19

  * * *

  At thirty-six, Biz was the manager at the local bakery—in the same town she grew up in and always assumed she’d leave. She was also a single mom to an eleven-year-old daughter, father unknown, an apparent mystery. All but one dream had fallen short, but her wish for a child had come true.

  Around the time of Charlie’s wedding, Biz was working in the city, still sewing during the day and waitressing at night. Then weeks after Charlie’s wedding, she discovered she was pregnant. She was shocked, devastated, and unfathomably livid. How could this happen again?! There were two possible fathers: Finn, whom she’d bumped into at a street fair; and Charlie, in the stupid tree house after they went out for ice. Before that she hadn’t been with anyone in many, many months, which was why she felt entitled to enjoy a soupçon of sex. And, yes, her drinking might have factored in, but it wasn’t only her fault. Sometimes the guys had condoms on them and sometimes they didn’t—and remembering to use her emergency condom turned out to be one thing, but replacing it in her purse was another. And, yes, her pill prescription lapsed that one time over a three-day holiday, but either guy could have pulled out. I’m just unlucky, Biz had always convinced herself, lost in unaccountability and the idiocy of denial.

  As she grew more pregnant, the world moved forward swiftly without her. Career success, she felt the universe was saying, was for others to enjoy. So she gave up Outlandish Couture, moved home, and lay low. She couldn’t imagine running her own business as a single mother. Who in the world did that in 1990? Keeping her baby was, in hindsight, a pointless retaliation. It didn’t stop the sands of time nor Charlie’s growing up and moving on. If she’d had a second abortion.… sure, she might live in California, be a married entrepreneur, but she wouldn’t have her daughter. Ruby Chadwick was her world now, and she chose to raise her among family. So her daughter’s world would be Larkspur, New Jersey.

  Her small town seemed even smaller after living in New York City. There were endless questions of paternity and the compartmentalizing of what-ifs. “It wouldn’t change anything” became Biz’s party line. Plus she felt not discussing the father gave Ruby mystery and control. The bigger secret Biz harbored was her deep-seated desire to have Charlie be the one, to keep their connection alive. Yes, it was unconscionable, but what was more alive than a baby? It was supremely selfish but brutally honest—if only to herself. Though, she knew knowing the truth would bring misery to her family, so she abstained from DNA testing so she wouldn’t have to lie. When Ruby turned six she started to ask about her father—needing the full story and demanding to know. Her insistence weakened until she gave in to her mom’s refrain: “It just didn’t matter” was all she ever heard. Ruby grew up to be mischievous like her mother, someone who enjoyed messing with her friends. Sometimes she confided her dad was on the lam. Sometimes he was a space alien or Nicolas Cage.

  Eventually it was a nonissue; their town and friends stopped caring, and everyone moved on in the best possible way. Biz was glad she’d ridden out the storm and dug in her heels.

  Throughout, her Aunt Cat was her greatest defender.

  * * *

  Bernadetta’s was Larkspur’s local family-owned bakery. It went up for sale the same year Ruby toddled off to preschool. Nana Miggs convinced her Dunny to buy the bakery for Biz to manage; then all she had to do was convince Biz. Nana Miggs felt strongly that as an unmarried woman, Biz should be where the townspeople were to increase her chances of meeting a man. “It’s a well-oiled machine,” Nana Miggs said, “practically runs itself.” “But I don’t bake,” Biz said because it was true. “No one will care,” which was as well.

  Bernadetta’s Bakery—or “Bernie’s” for short—had been a staple for generations. It served as the town’s hearth and made money hand over fist. The old guard were suspicious of Biz and her fatherless daughter. They speculated how she came to move back home from the city and why. But even the most salacious rumors faded when they learned she had no intention of making changes. They were thrilled Biz kept the same recipes and staff. The espresso stayed legit and the coffee cake crumb-y. Bernie’s would continue to be beloved, cozy—for the older folks as well as the hip.

  Biz couldn’t bake—it was a running joke—but none of her employees minded. Her years of waitressing paid off; she was a natural behind the counter. Her employees liked that she was organized and communicated clearly, and those with a sense of humor appreciated hers as long as she stayed out of everyone’s way. Two of them became her first close girlfriends. Anna-Maria Theresa—Annie Mae for short—age sixty-none-of-your-beeswax, was as tart as a pippin apple pie. Muriel had burned out on teaching “grubby fourth graders” by her late thirties, though she confided, actually by thirty-one. Biz delighted having these funny female compatriots. Both women were hard workers, loyal employees, and gems.

  Biz leaned on the center workspace in the cramped, bright kitchen watching the icers work their magic on cookies and cakes. This morning smelled of buttercream frosting, strawberries, and rhubarb. Yesterday it was cherries, chocolate, and mint. Heavy white bowls full of pastry bags in Easter-egg shades sat next to stacks of rainbow-colored sprinkles and sanding sugars. Biz was learning how to hold the bag and twist just so with delicate motions of surefire wrists. At first, the graceful lines she meant to leave behind came out like a rabid snail. She failed repeatedly at keeping the flower petals stiff and the spokes on a bicycle straight. She joked, “I must remember not to get wasted before work,” a silly notion, as her shift began at 4 A.M. But there were uncomfortable titters as they caught each other’s glance; Biz occasionally gave off the tangy tinge of recent pickling.

  Sometimes she went straight to work from a late night at Dickbird’s, the pub downtown officially named the Cock and Crow. Dickbird’s owner was smart enough to recognize they had plenty of family-friendly bistros. What it needed was a dark, child-unfriendly dive where locals could go to drink quietly and shoot pool. Ruby knew if her mom wasn’t home or at work, she should use the signal she had set up with the bartenders. They would find Biz and tell her Ruby needed to chat. Dickbird’s was only a few doors down.

  “So where did you end up burying it?” asked Tookie, a gullible short-term hire. She wiped away a tear Annie Mae had clearly not shed for her own dead cat. “Who said anything about burying?” Annie Mae replied, bopping to the music as she iced. “Not funny, you guys,” said Tookie with a furrowed brow. She was the perfect target for crusty Annie Mae. Muriel cackled as she swapped out beach-ball butter cookies for sailboats. She added, “I have a dead guinea pig in my freezer. We’ve been waiting for the spring thaw.”

  “It’s June already. You waiting for the next ice age?” cracked Annie Mae.

  “I keep forgetting he’s in there,” said Muriel with a chuckle.

  “No kidding. I already have a couple of gerbils in our basement freezer. I forget about them until we decide to have ribs. Now I’ve got this cat, too, and the freezer’s not that big.”

  “Well, they’re not going anywhere,” reasoned Biz.

  “Stop!” yelped Tookie, and covered her multi-pierced ears with her tattooed hands. “You guys are horrible.”

  “How ’bout a dumpster?” said Annie Mae. “I could set my alarm for the dead of night.”

  Biz said, “I get it. The ‘dead’ of night.” Tookie looked about to cry in earnest.

  Annie Mae shifted into her soothing grandmother routine. “I’m only kidding, sweetheart. Don’t cry. We’ll head out to the garden with Popsicle-stick crosses and my kid will play ‘Amazing Grace’ on his recorder.”

  Biz said, “Nice touch,” and Muriel mouthed “dumpster” and winked. Tookie said, “That sounds nice,” to which Annie Mae replied, “You’re not invited.” Biz and Muriel lived for Annie Mae’s tough broad act. Biz laughed with more gusto at the bakery than she did anywhere else. I’m lucky I ended up here, she even thought when she was alone, and wallowed in what-could-have-been far less often.

  * * *

  Eve
r since Finn, Biz’s ears pricked up when she heard an Irish accent. The lilt could transport her back to her twenties and Mongey’s endless nights. That autumn, she peered through the baking racks and inched around the giant mixer to get a full view of the man at the counter who had a familiar lilt. His short hair was conservative, yet vaguely reminiscent of punk. It had gone completely snow white, but his eyebrows were still bushy and dark, which made his sky-blue eyes pierce with even more devastating accuracy. It was Finn. In Bernadetta’s Bakery. One of Ruby’s possible dads.

  Biz grabbed an empty cupcake box and walked it over to the counter so she’d have something fake to put away, then looked up—with fake surprise. In the voice of Scarlett O’Hara, she said, “Why, Finn O’Donoghue, as I live and breathe.” She said it quietly and deadpan but could feel her eyes glistening and tried to will them to settle down. Finn twinkled as he sipped from a coffee to go cup. He’d aged in the maddening way the Irish age—with frustrating youth and undeniable charm.

  “Elizabeth Chapman,” he said in an Irish brogue as thick as the day he’d arrived.

  “Chadwick,” Biz corrected politely.

  “Chickwick,” he pronounced with a thumbs-up as if he’d nailed it this time.

  “Chadwick,” she repeated with a mixture of annoyance and humiliation. She thought she’d made a bigger impression the last time she’d seen him. Hadn’t they had a steamy one night stand around the time Ruby was conceived? Could she have possibly remembered that incorrectly? She questioned her increasingly spotty memory. But then the corner of Finn’s mouth curled to reveal his megawatt teeth, which had evidently been given a once-over by an American orthodontist. He was no longer a shy guy with a hesitant smile. “I’m just giving you crap,” he said, rolling the r in “crap” with a smirk, his whole body gloating. “You little shit,” said Biz. She leaned over and punched his arm. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Just then someone called from the back. “Biz, did you want me to bill the Bigelow order?”

  She shouted over her shoulder, “Yes, please. It’s on my desk!”

  “You have a desk. Manager?”

  Biz squared her shoulders. “Owner,” she said, trying to curb her own gloating. She could feel her self-control leaking out of her like water through a pinhole in a cracked rubber hose. “Huh,” he said, and looked around the charming bakery and coffee spot. He took in the sunny room with butter-hued walls where mismatched wooden chairs sidled up to retro aluminum-topped tables. “Really?” he said, drawing out the word until it lasted three syllables of disbelief. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the baking type. A real homemaker, are we? Would have guessed you’d a become more of a home-wrecker.” Biz rolled her eyes.

  The bakery’s front door opened and a crusty old man with a greasy ponytail and two sets of eyeglasses boomed, “Fuck you!” He flipped dual birds toward the crowd in an effort to reach the patrons and staff with equal aplomb. Finn let a “Ha!” escape with wide-eyed wonder, then looked to Biz for her reaction. Much to his delight, the entire staff and some of the patrons—including Biz—smiled brightly at the bedraggled man. They pointed a middle finger, and responded, “Fuck you, Carl!” like the chorus in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical. Fuck You Carl strode toward the cup of coffee Biz held out to him as if he’d done it a thousand times. He grabbed it without saying thanks, then took off out the door, the tails of his trench coat lifting slightly in the air behind him. In that small gesture Finn thought he glimpsed a Biz who was now vulnerable herself and sympathetic to others’ wounds. He saw a humbled interior where her youthful hubris used to reside. She caught Finn staring at her and returned to her composure. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Twenty Questions, eh? I’ll give ya one answer per visit.”

  “Oh, brother, really?” she said. “What are we, eleven years old?”

  “No, Elizabeth,” he said so that only she could hear, “we are no longer eleven.”

  Biz felt a pang of sexual awakening the moment Finn called her Elizabeth. She’d forgotten he’d refused to call her Biz and remembered he was gorgeous naked. She cased Finn’s left hand for a wedding ring—found no tan line, either. Somewhere deep in her body something was opening to possibility, and it wasn’t an unwelcome feeling. It had been ages since she’d had sex. The pang took her back many, many years and how he disappeared on her the way she’d done to him—no call, no encore. She dismissed him when he finally called, not wanting to become tangled in his commit-me-not web of booze and women. She wondered what he remembered now and if he was Ruby’s father. Then she reprimanded herself for wanting to know. She’d spent years instructing the world it didn’t matter. But to a secret hidden part of her it did.

  “Tah,” Finn said. He twinkled his leprechaun eyes at her one more time and left. Biz waited for him to turn around, to wave or wink, but he didn’t. He walked directly out into the glorious October morning as if he’d ordered it thusly for himself. Clearly his shyness had been replaced by the arrogance some expats accrue after living in the U.S. and gaming women. His accent hadn’t remained thick by accident. Biz watched Finn’s sweet ass recede from her, round and lovely in his perfectly worn Levi’s. His collared shirt and Carhartt jacket were squeaky clean. Construction management? Landscape architect? Hot damn, who cares, she thought, and went back to work, thinking of little else.

  Finn returned at closing. Biz waited until he walked all the way to the counter before giving him a blasé stare-down, though every cell was on high alert. “Welcome, customer,” Biz said. “We still have a few sundried tomato cheddar scones left and, it appears, half a pot of regular brewed sometime in the last week.”

  “I’ll take all the scones and the rest of the coffee,” he said with a straight face.

  “Really,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Really,” he replied, and Biz told the last two employees that they could leave. When Muriel raised an eyebrow Biz had to turn away from her quickly. She can see my inner shit-eating grin a mile away, Biz thought. Muriel took a detour to grab something inconsequential from under the counter so she could get another thorough look at Finn.

  “’Night,” Muriel sang when she reached the door.

  “Yeah-yeah,” Biz said, and locked it behind her.

  “Still Chadwick?” Finn said to Biz. She placed the scones in a bag with tongs.

  “Yup.”

  “What does your husband think of that?”

  Biz looked at Finn. It’s now or never, she thought and inhaled. She might have held her figure together, but it was a dog-eat-dog dating world in the suburbs and all the good ones, as the saying went, were taken. It would still be a few years before the second round of divorces began—at least that’s how her mother had explained it. Biz wanted more than anything to grow old with a partner and have a consistent dad for Ruby; she ached for it. She was pretty sure Finn wasn’t that guy—but for the short term, he was a known quantity. And if nothing else, a little sex was overdue.

  Biz cocked a hip, lowered her chin, and smiled. “Let’s cut to the chase,” said Biz. “I’m not married. Never was. I have a plucky, lovable, headstrong daughter, and, no, I don’t know, nor am I preoccupied with, who the father is. Yes, I still live in the town I grew up in, but it doesn’t mean that I haven’t evolved. It’s a safe, charming town, and I needed the help and didn’t have the emotional strength to raise a child by myself. I own this bakery, though I’m a lousy baker. I like dried apricots and peonies, and any movie with Genes Kelly or Hackman. I have an irrational fear of tree stumps and a rational fear of clowns. There. That about covers it.”

  Finn let her languish in her monologue, squirming until she looked away. He watched her fold the top of the bag and seal it with one staple in the middle. “I love this song,” he said, then sang, “I like coffee, I like tea, I like the java jive and it likes me…”

  Biz nervously rambled, “Annie Mae’s son rigged Napster to play only music from the thirties and forties. It’s mostly coffee-or tea-inspired son
gs.”

  “It works. Wonders.”

  The Ink Spots hummed their smooth close harmony genius in the dim, dusky light of the empty bakery. Finn wanted more than ever to take his dear old Elizabeth in his arms and shuffle her around the room in small steady steps—a prelude to seducing her—but he knew she would make him work for it. She always had. Finally he spoke. “Don’t forget the java.” Biz reddened, then circled the room turning out lights. As she reached the last switch Finn was standing there, blocking her path to the front door. For a moment she flashed to Charlie and that unforgivable dorm room episode, but this was the new millennia with new rules. It was 2002 and sensitivity training was a thing and date rape had a name. She didn’t feel unsafe but thought she should probably start charging her cell phone. Ruby thought it ridiculous her mom never had it with her. But then what? Biz had said. “Walk around with it in my pocket all day? That’s dumb.” Who did that? No one she knew.

  “Can I buy you a cosmo?” asked Finn.

  “I need to finish closing up. There’s still office stuff I need to—”

  “How about a dance, then?” And without waiting for an answer, he put his hand on her waist and moved her across the room to Helen Forrest singing “Too Marvelous for Words.” How incredible it felt to be held by someone attractive. Her whole body was alight and nearly imploded from mirth. As they danced, Finn began, “My turn. After you and I, uh, parted ways for the second time-—”

  “You mean you blew me off—”

  “—I bartended, drove a cab, then went back to Ireland. Married Margaret, my high school sweetheart, then she left me for Mary, her best friend from high school—incidentally the last girl I dated before Margaret, which makes me the only man in all of Ireland to bed not one but two lesbians.” His inflection was proud, as if he’d won a spelling bee.

  “Impressive,” said Biz.

  “I thought so. They’re now raising my daughter, and I come to the States six months out of the year to do landscaping work so that I can send money home to Margaret, some to Mom, and some to—”