Jane nodded. “Let me talk to my mom. She’s got a knack for making things out of thin air.” She went back through the curtained doorway.
Reba waited for a bang or a yell, but there was none.
Jane returned within a minute. “Can you give us a couple hours?”
He exhaled and relaxed his fists. “The party’s at three.”
“It’ll be ready.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this,” the man said. He turned to leave. Jane stopped him.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Gabriel—Gabe.”
“We’ll put it on the cake.”
“My wife would like that. Him too. Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means.” He left, the wind banging the door behind.
“Now that’s love.”Jane laughed. “Man’s all aflutter trying to help his missus pull off a nice party for their kid.” She scribbled the name on a sheet of paper. “I’ve never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.”
Reba had always imagined love as wild and untamed. True love was a passionate flame that burned bright until it was snuffed out. It didn’t flicker and dim, weakened by the banalities of daily life. Reba thought about how she and Riki acted these days, every word so carefully chosen, so frustratingly polite, like actors with scripted lines. She tucked the necklace and ring back into her blouse.
“Now that we got this order, I’m not sure Mom’s going to be able to talk today. Could you come back?”
When she’d walked through the door, Reba had the goal of getting all she needed in one trip, but now, after being there only an hour, she didn’t mind returning. Actually, she thought it’d be kind of nice.
“Yes, of course. I’ll bring my camera next time. The magazine will send a photographer, but I’d like to take some photos myself, if you wouldn’t mind.”
The neat stacks and colorful sweets in the display case would make a pretty shot. Her mouth watered.
“Can do! Here.” Jane opened the back of the case. “You waited so long. Take something. Mom always says you’re never lonely with a strudel.” She picked up a slice oozing cream cheese icing.
“No, I can’t,” Reba said appreciatively. “I don’t eat dairy.”
Jane stopped. “Oh, you poor thing. Don’t they have medication for that?” She realigned the slice in its row.
Reba shook her head. “I’m not lactose intolerant. I can eat dairy. I just don’t. I was involved with PETA in college—animal rights, milk sucks, and all that.”
Jane raised both eyebrows high. “Milk sucks?”
“It was a PETA campaign,” explained Reba.
“Oh.” Jane pursed her lips together. “Well then, how about lebkuchen? They’re Mom’s specialty. She uses almond oil. No butter. That’s the family secret. You got to promise not to tell.”
Jane obviously wouldn’t let her leave without something, so Reba agreed. “I promise.”
That night, Reba sat alone at her kitchen table nibbling on the edge of the lebkuchen. Decorated with almond slices fanned like flower petals, the squares were almost too pretty to eat; but it’d been a long day and she had no remaining self-restraint. The rich molasses and dry cinnamon stuck in her throat, so she poured a small tumbler of skim milk, froth bubbling on the surface and coating the glass pearly white.
When she’d first gotten home, she’d set the German bakery box on the kitchen counter, committed not to eat any, but she was unable to throw the cookies away. The sweet smell permeated the kitchen, the den, up the condo’s stairs to their room where she sat in bed transcribing notes. Finally, after the sun melted into the desert and the autumn moon rose orange like a Nilla wafer, she gave in to the loneliness, came down, and found solace in the sugary snack.
She wondered if she ought to leave a cookie for Riki, but then he’d ask about her day and she hadn’t the energy to explain how she’d talked to Jane for an hour without getting a word on record. Inevitably, he’d want to know what they’d talked about, and she refused to open Pandora’s box. But she couldn’t seem to get Jane and the bakery out of her mind, or mouth.
She dipped the last square in the milk, popped it in, and chewed. Out of sight, out of mind—wasn’t that the mantra? She gulped the milk and rinsed the glass, leaving no evidence.
It all started as such a small lie: pretending she didn’t eat dairy. Now, she’d been doing it so long, she didn’t know how to stop.
It began in college. Reba’s roommate, Sasha Rose, the daughter of expatriates in Singapore, was a petite girl, passionate about two things: veganism and Italian art. She didn’t take part in the midnight pepperoni pizza binges or the all-you-can-eat chicken wing buffets. Instead, she nibbled dainty bowls of pebbled edamame and ruby organic figs while studying Botticelli and Titian.
On family weekend their freshman year, Sasha’s parents had flown in from overseas. Her mother looked like her twin with silver-streaked hair and a distinctive British accent.
“How I’ve missed you, darling,” she cooed, and she held Sasha so close and true that Reba had to look away. It pinched her chest.
Sasha’s father, originally from Tallahassee, was tall and tanned with an infectious smile and a happy spirit. His charisma radiated like the Floridian sun. Sasha had flown from her mother’s arms to his, and Reba had watched Mrs. Rose for the smallest flash of jealousy, fear, or resentment; but the reflection of Sasha in her father’s embrace only seemed to make her glow.
“Reba, you’re coming with us to dinner!” Mr. Rose had insisted; but when he put a gentle hand to Reba’s back, she’d flinched so noticeably that he’d made the addendum, “Of course if you have other plans, we totally understand.”
She hadn’t, but the moment was marred by a discomfort she feared would persist throughout the meal.
“I have a test on Monday,” she’d lied, and by the way his smile softened at the corners, he knew it.
Reba’s momma and sister, Deedee, hadn’t come that weekend—schedule conflicts. Momma had a Junior League reception. Deedee was busy with graduate courses. Initially, Reba had been thankful, but seeing Sasha with her perfect parents, she felt an aching desire for kin—for Momma, Deedee, even Daddy. It was a hopeless longing.
“Good luck studying,” said Mr. Rose. With his girls on either arm, the trio had strolled out.
Closing the door behind them, Reba caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror nailed to the back. The image seemed in such stark juxtaposition to the pretty Roses that she immediately threw on a hooded sweatshirt and burrowed in the blankets of her dorm bunk like a rock vole.
She’d always been melancholic and unsatisfied with nearly everything about herself. Thick in places that should have been thin, flat chested and too tall, she’d never fit in with the high school cheerleaders and Glee Clubbers—the little sisters of her sister’s friends. At sixteen, when her daddy died, she pulled away completely and spent her lunches and afterschool hours in the journalism room over quiet newspaper spreads and silent photographs.
During Reba’s first semester in college, Deedee suggested she take up a self-improvement activity: yoga, dance, swimming, art. Make a new beginning, she’d said. Reba profiled the university boxing club instead, lacing on a pair of gloves and sparring with a trainer. Everyone on campus knew her from the photographs in the Daily Cavalier: her lips bulging on the mouth guard; fuzzy, dark hair matted beneath the headgear; gloves up and ready. They thought she was an anomaly coming from the Adams family. Daughter of a commemorated Vietnam veteran and great-granddaughter to one of Richmond’s largest ironworks owners. Deedee had been a celebrated debutante. Rosy-cheeked and always smiling, smart and witty, she was already in law school. While Reba … Reba was scribbling in her notebook and playing dress-up with the boys. She felt she was always letting her momma and sister down.