A Second Bite at the Apple Page 4

  “They serve food here,” I say, now invoking the stubbornness of a three-year-old. At this rate, I’ll be on the floor in the fetal position by the time we leave.

  Heidi pats my shoulder. “I think you’re more in the market for Taco Bell tonight.”

  “I thought you hated fast food. I thought you only ate organic.”

  “Tonight, for you, I will make an exception.” She reaches into her pocket and throws twelve dollars on the counter. “Thanks,” she says, waving at the bartender as she lifts me out of my seat. She smiles at the guy in the vest, who is staring at the two of us. “And thanks to you for the offer.”

  “Yeah, thanks for ruining everything!” I shout, fighting Heidi as she tries to stuff me into my gigantic coat.

  He lifts his hands defensively. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Yeah, well, mission un-accomplished.”

  I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point.

  Heidi grabs me by the elbow with her pale, bony fingers and pulls me toward the front door. “Come on, lady. Let’s get some food in you.”

  I whip my head around as Heidi pulls me through the front door and stick my tongue out at the man in the vest. He smirks and shakes his head and offers a small wave.

  “Jerkface,” I mutter under my breath.

  Heidi drags me out the door and onto Fourteenth Street, but I slow my step as I stare at the man’s figure disappearing through the closing door.

  “What are you staring at?” she asks, her hand clasped around my arm.

  I wriggle free from her grasp and readjust my hat. “Nothing. I thought I recognized that guy for a second.”

  “Who?”

  “The jerk in the vest.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a state where you can recognize anyone right now. . . .”

  I teeter as I try to walk through a small mountain of snow and nearly lose my balance at the corner of T Street. “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. He just looked really . . . familiar.”

  Heidi grabs my arm to keep me from falling over. “Easy there, boozehound.” She guides me onto a cleared patch of sidewalk and wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Forget about the guy in the vest, okay? He’s an idiot. We have more important things to do.”

  “Like what? Buying a bunch of eighty-nine-cent tacos?”

  Heidi grins. “Precisely.”

  She pats my shoulder with her gloved hand and holds me tight, and together we slip and slide along the icy pavement as we make our way up Fourteenth Street.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, my cell phone starts ringing at the unholy hour of 5:45 a.m. It’s Heidi.

  “If this is some sort of joke, I’m not laughing,” I mumble into the phone.

  Heidi doesn’t answer, and I hear an aria of retching in the background.

  “Heidi?”

  “Auuuugh,” she groans.

  I sit up and rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  “Fucking gorditas,” she says, letting out another moan. “I think I’m dying.”

  “You got food poisoning?”

  Again she doesn’t answer and instead offers the sounds of her gagging and heaving into the toilet.

  “You should go to the ER,” I say. “I’ll come get you.”

  Heidi pants into the phone. “In what? Your Batmobile?”

  She makes a good point. There are multiple feet of snow on the ground, and I don’t own a car.

  “Listen, I’ll be fine,” she says. “But I need you to cover for me at the farmers’ market this morning.”

  “Cover for you?” I may not have food poisoning, but I am hungover and have no interest in standing outside in the cold at a farmers’ market. “Isn’t the market closed due to the snow?”

  More retching noises, followed by what sounds like a dying cow. “They’re open. West End market, near the Francis Park tennis courts.”

  I lie back into the softness of my pillow and race through different ways I can get out of this. “I’m sure they’ll be fine without you,” I say. “They’ll understand.”

  “Not Rick the Prick. Someone needs to show up, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”

  “But maybe if you called him and explained the situation . . .”

  Heidi lets out a burp and a long whimper. “Seven thirty, Wild Yeast Bakery,” she says. “And don’t be late.”

  Unfortunately, between the waist-high snowdrifts and my utter lack of motivation, I don’t make it to the market until 7:45, and by the time I get there, I am out of breath from trundling through the snow for a mile. The weekly market operates next to a small park with public tennis courts and playing fields, just west of Dupont Circle. Shapeless piles of snow cover the grass and dirt paths where the market usually runs, so today the vendors set up along the sidewalk, just beside the parking meters, which poke their heads through the snow mounds like little meerkats.

  I trudge along the sidewalk past a series of tents and scan the vendors for Wild Yeast Bakery. There are no signs, and I have no idea where I am going.

  “Excuse me,” I say, approaching a man about my age standing beneath a green-and-white striped tent. He whirls around and smiles, and my stomach flutters as his eyes land on mine. A red knit hat covers the bulk of his dark, wavy hair, and a few stray bits peek out above his round eyes, which are the color of black coffee. His chiseled jaw is covered by a smattering of stubble, and with his red-and-black plaid jacket, he looks a bit like a lumberjack, if lumberjacks also looked like Abercrombie and Fitch models. “Are you Rick?”

  The man smirks. Definitely more model than lumberjack. “I’m Drew,” he says. “Are you looking for Wild Yeast? They’re all the way at the end, with the red checkered tent.”

  I spot it. “Great, thanks.”

  Drew nods, studying me with his eyes. I am suddenly very aware that I am not wearing makeup and, in related news, also look like death.

  “Good luck,” he says. From his tone, I’m guessing I’ll need all the luck I can get.

  I make my way over to Wild Yeast’s tent, where I find a plump man wearing a black down parka and furry brown Ushanka unloading a stack of bread-filled crates from his truck. It’s parked across from one of the meters, in the middle of what normally serves as Twenty-third Street.

  “Rick?”

  He throws two crates onto one of the cloth-lined tables. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Heidi’s friend, Sydney. I’m filling in for her today?”

  He lets out a sarcastic laugh, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “Is that so?”

  “She got food poisoning last night. She’s really sick.” I wait for him to reply, but he says nothing and instead stares at me, the wrinkled skin around his eyes drooping like melting wax. “I thought maybe she called you about it?”

  Rick shuffles back to the truck and grabs another stack of crates. “And what if she did? Doesn’t change the fact that it’s seven-freaking-fifty, and you’re just getting here.”

  I clutch my bag closer to my body. “Sorry—the snow slowed me down.”

  “Like I care? Maybe Heidi didn’t tell you, but I’m a real son of a bitch when it comes to being on time.”

  No, Heidi never told me that specifically, but I’m guessing the epithet “Rick the Prick” didn’t come from nowhere.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I’ll give you a pass this time. But in the future, show up late and I will make your life hell.”

  I am about to inform Rick there will be no future for him and me, that today is a one-time favor for a friend, but I decide my survival over the next four and a half hours depends on my keeping my mouth shut.

  Rick grabs another stack of crates from the back of the truck and slams them onto the table. He stares at me and raises an eyebrow. “These crates aren’t going to unload themselves, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

  I rush to the back of the truck and toss
my purse inside. Grabbing a handle for support, I lift myself into the back of the truck, where the warm, sweet smells of freshly baked baguettes and pumpkin muffins waft past my nose. It’s how I imagine heaven must smell, the perfume of yeasty bread and cinnamon-laced muffins filling the air as little angels float by on pillows made of billowy croissants.

  Rick bangs on the floor of the truck with his hand. “Jesus—are you deaf or something? Move!”

  On the other hand, perhaps this is hell.

  I grab a crate of cranberry-walnut bread, and my knees nearly buckle under the weight of the glossy oval loaves.

  “Wow, these are heavy,” I say.

  Rick reaches for the crate. “Hand them over.”

  Rick and I start an assembly line: I grab a crate and hand it down to him, and he lugs it over to the table beneath the tent before coming back for another. Once I’ve unloaded all the crates from the truck, I start on the baskets and wooden cartons we’ll use to display the bread and pastries. The baskets come in all shapes and sizes—round, square, shallow, deep—and I am 100 percent certain I will fill them in a manner that is not to Rick’s liking.

  “Do you think you’ll get a lot of customers today?” I ask, though immediately after I do, I realize this is a stupid question Rick will not enjoy.

  He narrows his eyes. “What do you think?”

  “Maybe people will want to get out of the house. There’s a lot of cabin fever going around. And it’s the last Saturday before Christmas.”

  “Maybe,” he says, loading a stack of chocolate chip cookies into a square wicker basket. “Hey, what are you doing over there? Never line up the chocolate croissants like that. You want a total mess?”

  “Sorry.”

  He growls and shakes his fists at the heavens. “I swear, one of these days . . .”

  I’m not really sure what that’s supposed to mean, but Rick, I am learning, is not a man one questions. He talks and sings to himself. He fake punches the air. He laughs at nothing in particular. Rick, I am learning, is completely certifiable.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” he says. “Cookies, muffins, and croissants are two dollars. Cupcakes are three dollars. Scones are a buck. Plain loaves are six dollars, ones with fruit or nuts are eight dollars, and that big one over there is sixteen for the whole thing, eight for half, and four for a quarter. Brioche is eight bucks. You can do half loaves of everything but the baguettes. And don’t come asking me every five seconds about the price on this or that. Otherwise I might as well work the stand myself. Got it?”

  I clear my throat. “I think so. Sure.”

  “Good. Now stop staring at those muffins like they’re gonna unload themselves and get them in the fucking basket. I’m running out of patience.”

  That makes two of us.

  CHAPTER 7

  One thing becomes clear very quickly: I am not good at this. I can spend hours reading and writing about pastries and bread, and I am happy to eat significant quantities of both, but when it comes to selling them, I am completely out of my element.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Rick mutters under his breath. “Offer samples. Get the bags ready. Do something.”

  The problem is, there isn’t much to do. When the bell rings at nine, the market is nearly empty. The customers milling along the sidewalk are diehards who come to this market every weekend and know what they want. No amount of smiling or cajoling from me is going to make them want to buy a lemon ginger scone, unless they wanted one already. This, combined with the numbness of my toes, makes me seriously question my need to be here.

  The traffic picks up around nine thirty, at which point a few customers pass our stand, perusing the loaves and pastries. Rick immediately turns on the charm, transforming himself from a disgruntled troll into a smooth-talking ladies’ man.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he says to a middle-aged woman who, unless my eyes deceive me, appears to be growing a mustache.

  She offers an uneasy smile. “Hello.”

  “If I weren’t a married man . . .” He trails off. “Woo-ee.”

  Oh dear God. This is painful to watch.

  Out of pity, hunger, or a combination of the two, the woman orders a loaf of brioche, two oatmeal cookies, and two pumpkin muffins, and Rick offers more nauseating flattery as he hands her the bag of goodies along with her change. From his demeanor, it is clear he fancies himself a modern day Don Juan, a perception that, as far as I can tell, is completely at odds with reality.

  As the morning goes on, Rick offers more of the same, each female interaction increasingly embarrassing and unbearable. Thankfully, around ten o’clock the foot traffic picks up, which means I can focus on the small mob descending upon our tent instead of Rick’s stomach-turning chauvinism.

  People push their way to the front of the crowd, and my eyes race up and down the table as I try to figure out who is next in line. I settle on a tall man standing directly in front of me, his gray wool hat pulled snugly over his head. Our eyes catch, and he smiles.

  “We meet again,” he says.

  “Sorry?” I narrow my eyes and study his face, and then I realize who he is. “Oh, right. From Bar Pilar. The jerk in the vest.”

  He winces. “Ouch.”

  “What can I get you?”

  He rubs his chin as he studies the table. “Good question. Anything new today?”

  “I’ve never worked here before. I’m just filling in for a friend—which, by the way, I wouldn’t have needed to do if you hadn’t ruined everything and forced us to eat at Taco Bell.”

  “I didn’t force you to eat anywhere. And, anyway, after last night, I’m surprised you have the energy to fill in for anyone.”

  “After last night, I’m surprised you think I’d have any interest in talking to you.”

  He grins. “I’m sorry I called you a loud talker. Okay?”

  I cup my hand to my ear. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

  He juts out his jaw and holds back a smirk. “I’m sorry I called you a loud talker,” he repeats, louder this time. “Really, really sorry. Though maybe that still isn’t sorry enough.”

  I shake open a paper bag, holding back a smile. “No, I think that should do. For now, at least.”

  “Yeah?”

  I relax into a full smile. “Yeah. So what’ll it be?”

  “A loaf of the ciabatta and two pumpkin muffins. And an oatmeal cookie. Wild Yeast makes the best.”

  I grab a piece of tissue paper and start stuffing his baked goods into the paper bag. “You come here often?”

  “As often as I can. I live around the corner.”

  “You’ve probably met my friend Heidi, then. She usually works here on Saturdays.”

  “Is she the friend from last night? I thought she looked familiar.”

  I nod and glance up at his face. “Speaking of looking familiar . . .”

  But before I can finish, Rick interrupts. “This ain’t social hour, kids. Save the chitchat for the bar. Sydney? Let’s move it.”

  I roll up the top of the paper bag and hand it over the table, tallying the total in my head. “Twelve bucks,” I say.

  He leafs through his wallet and pulls out a twenty. I head over to the cashbox, where Rick is sorting through a stack of singles and cursing under his breath. I swap the twenty for a five and three ones and head back to hand the man his change.

  “Nice running into you again,” he says.

  I nod. “You too. Stay warm.”

  He lingers for a moment, but other customers are waiting for me to take their orders, so I smile quickly and turn to a young couple standing behind the basket of French boules. As they rattle off their order, I can’t shake the idea that I’ve seen the man in the vest before, but when I glance back over my shoulder to take another look, he is gone.

  I bag up a bunch of pumpkin muffins and molasses cookies for the young couple, and as I grab their money to make change, a young woman approaches me from the other end of the table.

  “The last g
uy you waited on left this for you,” she says. She holds out a folded-up piece of bakery tissue paper.

  “For me? What is it?”

  “No idea. But he left it on the table and said to make sure you got it.”

  I take it from her hands and unfold it. Inside, in barely legible writing, are his phone number and a brief message:

  Sorry again about last night. I’d like to make it up to you. Call me some time.

  —Jeremy

  I stare at the message for a few seconds, wondering if I should call him, at least to apologize for giving him such a hard time. But then I remember Zach, and how horribly wrong all of that went, and how I promised myself I’d never let anyone hurt me like that again. I crumple up the tissue paper and toss it into the trash bin.

  “What did it say?” the girl asks.

  I take a deep breath and consider my answer. Then I shrug. “Nothing important,” I say, and then I wait on the next customer.

  “Wake up, sugar,” Rick says, slapping my ass. “Time to pack up.”

  I look up from my perch behind the basket of walnut spelt bread, trying to ignore the fact that Rick’s hand just made contact with my backside, as the market manager rings the cowbell at the far end of the market.

  “It’s over? Already?”

  Rick waddles over to the cash table. “No, the chick in the parka is ringing a cowbell for kicks.”

  I follow Rick to the cash table and begin bagging up the leftover half loaves and samples, which he plans to donate to a local soup kitchen. Given my rocky start and my initial disinterest in being here, I’m surprised at how quickly the morning has passed. Last time I looked at my watch, it was 10:15, and now it’s already noon. Aside from the fact that I have lost all feeling in my face and feet, I actually had . . . fun? More fun than I had standing in the snow with Charles, at least. Rick may be nuts, but he bakes some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten. One bite of his light, feathery brioche, and I swear I heard angels singing.

  “Where else do you sell your stuff?” I ask as I box up the leftover pumpkin muffins.