Jane watched her. “Are you here about the article or …”
Reba bit the inside of her cheek. It was exhausting to be on guard every minute. Maybe Riki was right. Maybe she did need someone to help share her burden a little.
“I’m.” Reba sighed. “Hungry.”
“Wunderbar!” Jane went behind the display. “Let’s see what we got. Mom just finished making schaumkussen earlier.” She pulled out a tray of neatly lined chocolate balls.
“Truffles?” Reba’s mouth watered.
Reba’s momma made white-cherry truffles every Christmas. It was a recipe passed down from her granny, who had won first prize in the Virginia State Fair baked goods, candy truffles division. The framed blue ribbon hung in the kitchen. As the story went, Granny never entered another cooking competition, claiming it was unfair to the amateur cooks. Reba’s momma passed on the recipe to both her daughters, but when Reba took a stand for cows, she gave up the family tradition. Like everything else, she snuck one or two while everybody was distracted. Hidden in the pantry, she savored the chocolate cherry mouthfuls, though they were never as good alone.
“No—not so fancy. Foam kisses. They’re like a Mallomar,” explained Jane. “Only Mom makes them with a springerle cookie base and a foamy meringue center, then she dunks the whole shebang in milk chocolate. Lord-dee-day!” She slapped her thigh. “They’re my favorites, but we only make them in the cooler months ’cause this desert heat melts the meringue and chocolate.”
“Can I try one?” asked Reba. She rummaged in her purse for a dollar.
“Oh, honey, I wouldn’t take a dime from you, but …” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “They got milk chocolate. Ain’t that against your rules?”
Reba tapped the display glass with her fingernail. She didn’t want to do it anymore. Couldn’t she just be? Standing before the array of colorful confections, she took stock of all the butter and cheese and cream sweets she’d publicly rejected, only to eat later with a guilty conscience. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her. She was tall and sturdy with a strong, peachy pale face despite the arid sun. Her hair fell in dark, orderly waves down her back. It never did that in Virginia’s humidity. She wasn’t the overlooked, college tomboy anymore or the scared little girl in lopsided pigtails. She’d grown up and become someone. Reba Adams. When was she going to stop pretending to be what she wasn’t?
“I’ve changed my mind.” She shrugged.
“Just like that!” Jane snapped her fingers. “Well, congratulations. I was wondering when you’d come to your senses. God gave us the creatures of the earth for a purpose. I don’t believe in all that Hindu stuff—reincarnation and washing your face in cow piss.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Mom will be so happy. Now you can try all of her pudding-filled kreppels, butter breads, Black Forest cake, and … oh, gracious! The world’s opened up.”
Reba winced a moment, feeling the lie exposed, even if nobody knew it. But then Jane gave her a foam kiss and took one herself.
“The way to eat it is to not pop it in all at once like some factory Milk Dud. These are special. You take a little bite in the side.” She bit slowly. “And … you see … the chocolate sticks to your teeth and the middle gushes out.” Her mouth was full, but she kept on talking. “And lastly is that cookie crunch.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Hmm … sweet Jesus.”
Reba did as instructed, biting into the rich chocolate foam and satisfying crunch. “Oh my, that’s good.”
“Now, are you ready to eat these like a true German?” Jane winked, then ripped open the side of a brötchen, pulled out the soft middle, smooshed a kiss within and cut it in two. “We call it a matschbrötchen—a mud bread roll.”
They clinked halves as if they held champagne glasses and bit into the warm, sticky rolls at the same time. Reba couldn’t remember the last time she tasted something so real.
The bakery was busier than usual the next day. Sergio sat at his regular lunch place. Two women chatted over slices of cherry bundt cake; their three children played with dolls and racecars beneath the neighboring table. In the ordering line, an elderly gentleman squinted to read the pastry labels while a teenage girl wearing a LATINAS DO IT BETTER T-shirt texted on her cell phone.
“Mom, Reba’s back!” Jane called to the kitchen. “Perfect timing! Mom’s just put the loaves in the oven. For the next hour, she has no excuses. I wish I could visit, but like you see, we got us a full house.”
“No problem. I don’t have much new to tell,” said Reba.
She’d spent three hours at the bakery the night before, staying long after Jane had turned over the Closed sign and returning home so intoxicated with laughter and sugar that she barely noticed Riki’s absence. For the first time in a long while, she felt energized and worked late revising her résumé and cover letter to send to a handful of magazines in California. By the time she lay down, the darkness was a friend not a foe. She wondered if this was how most people felt every day and night, and if so, she was envious.
“Do you have Mozart balls?” asked the old man in line. “I had the most delicious pistachio Mozart balls in Salzburg—you ladies from there?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Jane. “My mom is from Germany, not Austria. We don’t make Mozartkugel, but I think you can buy them online.”
“All right, I guess I’ll have a pretzel,” he conceded. “But you gals really should think about making Mozart balls. There’s big money in them.”
“I’ll pass your advice along to the head baker.” Jane pinched a pretzel with her tongs and placed it in a paper bag.
“Dank-a sh-ay-n,” said the man halfway out the door.
Reba grinned. “I’m sure Mozart would be thrilled to know he’s German.”
“Most folks don’t know the difference anyhow. I tell you—we Americans are something to behold.” She laughed. “I saw this little girl on the TV—a celebrity, Kelly-something-or-another—she didn’t know that France was a country. Can you imagine! Child should have had her nose tied to a globe.”
Miss Latinas Do It Better put away her cell phone and stepped up to order.
“If they know Germany’s in Europe, they get an A for effort. Can I help you, hon?” Jane asked the girl.
“Uh, yeah, I’d like some cheese bread.” She popped her gum. “To go, please.”
“Easy does it.” Jane swiveled her tongs like a six-shooter.
Reba went to a free table across from Sergio. She felt the inkling to say hello but sat with her back to him instead, precluding any awkward contact.
“Here again you are.” Elsie’s voice boomed through the bakery. Even the three children beneath the table paused in their make-believe to look up, then resumed running over their dollies with speedsters.