Sweet and Salty (Marshall My Heart #1)

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

L aura

Who in the heck is @EsmeLaDy? I’ve endured some hateful comments in my time online, but seriously, this woman’s vitriol knows no bounds. I click over to her account information and scroll through her photos. She’s tall and wears a lot of beige and white, her black hair loose in waves around her shoulders. I hate her and her stick-figure legs.

Free and Thriving seems a common hashtag she uses. Please.

I keep scrolling. Mostly, she’s by herself, but there are a few of her with a group of men who look custom-ordered from a Goon Squad Catalog.

Apparently she loves the racetrack and craft cocktails in colors not found in nature. I fight the urge to troll her back and make snarky comments.

Besides, it’s better than refreshing my email for the bajillionth time, looking for the audition form from America Bakes!

Four days. Four days since they called, and nothing. I’ve checked spam and their website, sent a message to their Contact Us address, and nothing.

Granted, two of those were weekend days, but now it’s Tuesday. Even if the mystery lady had been off for a three-day weekend to celebrate June, shouldn’t she be back by now? Shouldn’t she have sent the form?

I slam the roll of cinnamon roll dough on my workbench, unleashing a fine spray of cinnamon-scented flour.

“What did that dough do to you?” Mom says, walking through the back door of my bakery. She has on a light blue sleeveless top and a pair of white pedal pushers, her Day Off outfit.

“Hi, Mom.” I lean in as she kisses my cheek.

“Mhm.” She perches on one stool beside the work table and sets her voluminous purse on another chair. One time when we had gotten drunk at Christmas about five years ago, Frannie and I had looked through Mom’s bag to see what she possibly carries in there. It was surprisingly unexciting. There were a lot of pens, but the vast majority was bandage supplies and portable CPR face shields.

My computer taunts me from across the way, but Mom’s here and she never shows up without a reason. “How are things?” I ask. I roll the cinnamon roll dough out into a massive rectangle. I’d prefer to beat it into submission, but there are some things a mom shouldn’t have to see.

“Not too bad. Fish Fry was fun, wasn’t it?”

Oh, Mom. All faux innocence. “It was great. Everyone had a good time.”

“Mhm,” Mom repeats. I spread a generous amount of softened butter over my rectangle of dough and take out my tub of cinnamon sugar. “Everyone?”

“Yes, everyone.”

“Is Jesse everyone?”

My cheeks flush. I roll the rectangle of dough toward me with infinite care. “Yes. Jesse had a great time.”

“Good.” Mom settles onto her stool and doodles in the fallen cinnamon sugar. “He’s a nice man. You look happy.” She pauses. “Happier, anyway.”

A piece of dough near the ends tears in a Grand Canyon-shaped gash. Fudge nuts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mom tucks a curl of my hair behind my ear, securing it beneath my bandana. I’ve gone for full-out 70s tie dye today, with large flower-print earrings to match.

“I don’t know why, but not a one of you ever thinks I see what’s going on with you.” Mom sighs loudly, and her doodle in the sugar resembles a galaxy of heart-shaped planets. “I notice.”

“I never said you didn’t.”

“But you never told me the Drydens turned down your liquor license application. Or that you’re auditioning for America Bakes !”

“That’s not true.” I take out my packet of baking floss. That’s a lie. It’s unscented, unflavored dental floss, but it’s the world’s best tool to cut cinnamon rolls.

“Which part isn’t true? You don’t want to audition? It’s a genius idea. You’ll be fabulous on that show.” Mom examines her fingernails closely then cleans a microscopic piece of dirt from one of them. She’s never painted her nails my whole life. “Or the Drydens didn’t turn you down?”

The floss sticks in the cinnamon roll dough. I work to fix it without ruining the sweet bun.

Mom sighs. “Close your mouth, hon. You’ll catch flies that way.”

My mouth claps shut and I fetch a baking tray for the cut rolls. They clatter loudly as I gather three trays.

Mom washes her hands then joins me at the workbench, taking cut rolls and placing them neatly on the baking trays. “Are you going to re-apply?”

“No,” I say, too quickly. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yes, it is.” Mom finishes one tray and moves to a second. “I know how much it hurts to dream and have that dream never happen.”

I cover the trays with reusable wrap and set them in the proofing zone of the kitchen. “But all your dreams came true, Mom. You found the love of your life, you became a nurse, you have a grandson.”

“I have that now, but did you forget how difficult it was to get here?” Mom washes her hands again at the sink then returns to her perch on the stool. She pats the one beside her, and like the obedient daughter I am, I sit. I have a million and one things to do, but I’ll sit.

“Of course not,” I say, realizing she’s waiting for me. “I never forget everything you and Ma did for us.”

Mom plays with one of my curls. “You probably don’t remember the really early years, back when you were under five. We were still trying to find our footing in this town. Before they passed, my parents tried to help, but for the most part, Allison and I pretended we were just best friends, raising kids together. As much as we loved you all, it was no easy task, pretending. Talk about stress.”

This makes me think of Jesse, of everything he’s hiding. There are times when his face tightens, and I just know he’s lying to me. It hurts, but he has his reasons. Maybe not exactly the same as my moms had, but everyone puts on a face once in a while.

“The stress drove Allison bananas. She never wanted to be closeted.” Mom wipes a tear from under her eyes. “I would have done anything for her, so we slowly came out to people. Some took it better than others.”

This I also vividly remember. A sensation like slow-churning vanilla ice cream rolls in my stomach.

“Everyone now refers to her as my wife, but we couldn’t even legally get married in this state until after she died. It’s a good thing we did all that legal mumbo jumboing with her advance directive and whatnot before she got too sick. Or else your grandparents would have been in control.” I shiver, remembering the one time I spoke with Ma’s parents. Horrible people. “But the town grew on us and we grew on it. You all helped, of course. Children are excellent for breaking down barriers. And now this town is more accepting, which benefits everyone, believe you me.”

I do remember. When Rory and I were young, probably no more than six, there had been people in town who wouldn’t talk to us or let us play with their kids. Mostly extensions of the Dryden family. At least we had each other. Rory and I protected the littler ones at school. But our moms knew. They surrounded us with people who loved us and loved our family because we were good, kind people. To hell with the haters.

“You and Ma were trailblazers.”

“Allison was.” Mom’s voice gets dreamy and soft. “She’s the one who never wanted to give up. She’d say, ‘Marie, we can do this. We don’t have to move to Seattle or Massachusetts. We’ll chip away a little bit at their hearts. We won’t let them stand in the way of our being happy.’”

“We were happy. We are happy.” I squeeze Mom’s hand. The cinnamon rolls baking in the oven perfume the air.

Mom shakes her head. “I’m not telling this story right. My whole point is that Allison had grit. She was tenacious in making people love us. And I know you fought hard all your life to be accepted, to be loved, and to protect Frannie and Bobby, so they never had to deal with all of the prejudice you and Rory did.” I don’t realize I’m crying until she fishes through her purse and digs out a tissue. “That’s all I want to say, hon. You are so like Allison in so many ways, but Bobby has a thicker skin. Not because he has a Y chromosome, but because you protected him. Now it’s time for you to step into your light. Fight for what you want. You want a liquor license? Re-apply and we’ll get Moe and Opal and everyone on our side against the Drydens. You want to win a baking show? Yes, I say win because you are so talented there’s no way you wouldn’t go on one and come in second. Apply. You want to move to Albuquerque and be a snowbird? Well, I might have some trouble getting off work around the holidays, but I’ll do it. And if you want a man like Jesse, who brings a light into your eyes I’ve never seen before, or a family of your own to spoil rotten? Then be brave. Be like your Ma.” Mom places a hand on my shoulder and rubs my back. “You already are, Laura. You just need to see it.”

I soil the tissue with my tears and snot. Thank heavens Sasha is off today, or they’d walk in and immediately express their concern.

Mom kisses me on the side of my head. “Allison was and is so incredibly proud of you.”

“How do you know?” I blubber.

“Because I’m proud of you. Now I’m going to go out front and tend to your customers so you can have a moment. We all need one now and then.”

She stands and moves her purse from the stool into my little office.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say softly.

She glances back over her shoulder at me. “I love you, Laura. Go check your cinnamon rolls. They smell like they might be burning, and you don’t want to ruin your streak.”