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Or,what if…
The text was from a daughter estranged from her cold, unfeeling mother, and by default, the father she’d been close to had been forced to cut off all contact as well. My eyes stung on that thought. “Oh, how tragic that would be.”
I set the phone aside and rose from my chair. Rising on my toes, and lifting my hands over my head, I reached for the ceiling. Being just a tiny nugget, I knew I’d never touch it. My brothers used to tell me I’d have to stand on my tiptoes to reach the underside of a snake’s belly. Truth was, Ihadto lift on my toes to tickle the bottom side of five-feet, three-inches.
Typically, I’d respond to my brothers’ teasing in some juvenile manner; sticking out my tongue and blowing raspberries their way when we were young, and flipping them off behind our mama’s back once we’d hit puberty. Mama didn’t abide vulgarity from her precious little girl.
But this stretch felt amazing after staring at the computer screen all morning. And yeah, the twenty-seven-inch monitor made for a huge display. In fact, it was almost half as wide as I was tall. But I loved that I didn’t need to squint to see the fine details of a design. However, the one on display right now, from an existing client, but a brand-new artist, made my eyes cross.
I’d gasped audibly when I read their art request form, but I’d followed the instructions to the letter. It hadn’t been easy, because they’d left so much out, including the name of the artist. Since it was a rush job, I figured I’d drop in placeholder text until someone at Bad Dog Music filled in the details.
But my instincts had been right; the design was a complete train wreck. Honestly, it looked like the cover of a bad romance novel.
Unless I came up with a better idea, the music might languish on the shelf, so to speak. Or worse, might make unsuspecting buyers angry because there wasn’t anything like Norse mythology in the product they’d spent their money on. Kind of like when a shortening company put an image of a yummy cherry pie on their can. Imagine someone’s surprise when they opened said can and found there wasn’t a single piece of pie inside.
Shaking my head, I saved the image I’d been working on, then carried my phone from my office into the kitchen.
My stainless-steel refrigerator gleamed in the natural light coming through the partially-open window over the sink. A fresh breeze fluttered through gingham curtains Naomi had insisted on hanging. I yanked open the fridge door and grabbed a diet cola from mostly-bare shelves. Hand to heart, I really can’t cook. The bottom drawer was filled with cheese and already-cooked bacon, the kind you can microwave. I’d stocked up on yogurt, and a carton of almond milk sat next to a jar of pickles. The freezer was stocked with this millennium’s version of TV dinners.
I unscrewed the cap on my soda, took a slug of it, and opened my text messages with Naomi.
Me: Hey you! How was the date last night?
I drank a little more cola and waited a couple minutes. It wasn’t like Naomi to not answer me right away, especially since this was her not-so-busy time at the bakery.
Me: Is it safe to assume that your lack of response maybe means you are still on it?
I’d just set the phone aside when theDonut Songrang out. My ringtone for my bestie made me smile every time. She was always instructing me to watch the doughnut, not the hole. We’d found the classic Aussie song on YouTube, and my delight in that discovery surfaced every time she called.
Without preamble when I answered, she said, “Catie, you should know better than to ask me stupid questions. You know it’s Wednesday.”
The middle of the week was always a little slow in the bakery, so that was the day Naomi experimented with new recipes. She’d streamThe Great British Baking Show, or some other baking program, in the background and try to recreate the recipes from the program.
“Dang, I’d actually forgotten. How did the pastry turn out today? What was it?”
“Paul Hollywood gave them Bara Brith for the technical challenge. And like so many of the contestants, mine turned out utter crap. Damn thing was so heavy I could use it as a doorstop.”
I laughed. “Well, it doesn’t sound appetizing. I guess we can count on never seeing that on the menu board.”
“Likely not. At least, not until I practice it a few more times.”
Since Naomi liked to use me as her test subject, now was a great time for a topic change. “So, how was the date?”
“Aw, you know. Just okay. I don’t think he’s my type.”
Ever since her fiancé had run away, she had a hard time opening herself up to a new relationship. She’d poured her heart into baking, protesting that the only date she wanted was of the Medjool variety. She’d only recently tried again. Which was why she was trying to get me to start dating again. And I was resisting for the same reason. My divorce had left me apprehensive about trying to meet anyone new.
I gusted out a breath and then asked, “What made him not your type?”
“When I asked him if he preferred doughnuts or doughnut holes, he answered holes. I mean, honestly, he’s missing the best part of a doughnut, only eating the tiny little middle bit. No sense of adventure.”
“At least you found out early.” Naomi liked to weed them out before they tried to claim a place in her life.
“Yeah. How’s the design going?” she asked.
I groaned. “Awful. Just… I’m sorry, there just aren’t any words for how bad the musician’s agent’s suggestions are, and the utter lack of any directions, or even pertinent information, like who the heck this is for. A Viking in a cowboy hat from Lorem Ipsum?” I mentioned the Latin words in the placeholder text, which made Naomi snort. I continued complaining, “I even added chaps and nope, that wasn’t the right move.”
“Well, you could always look at the Viking romance books at the bookstore.”
