It took a moment to realize he was talking to me. I shook my head. “I didn’t think of baking as a job until very recently,” I confessed. But I liked the possibility of formal training. There was so much more I wanted to learn. “I think, if I had life to do over,” I said thoughtfully, “I’d start baking professionally much sooner, and I’d open a storefront.”Instead of working in secret and dodging bullets from Virginia Bonnie Black.
I imagined this alternate life, and I fell in love with the vision that rolled out before me. “I wouldn’t have gotten married,” I said, too harshly. “And I never would have given up all my dreams.”
The table went quiet, and I recognized my faux pas.
Camilla’s expression tightened, her energy deflated.
Jeff squirmed across the table, probably itching to reach for her, but was stopped by three feet of wrought iron.
Lucas appeared equally aggrieved.
I spluttered and backpedaled, but the damage was already done. “But I’m thankful for every choice that brought me to this moment,” I added. “Being Camilla’s mother and friend is the greatest joy of my life.” I reached for her hands, but she pulled them off the table.
She offered a sad smile. “I get it,” she said. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I misspoke,” I said. “I only mean that marrying young is a huge risk, and we never know if the person we marry is going to be the same a year later, or ten. If they let us down, we’re just stuck. I don’t want you to be stuck. Either of you,” I added, jerking my gaze from Camilla to Jeff, then back.
Her lips drew into an impossibly deeper frown. “Nice, Mom.”
Lucas excused himself, and I wished for the ground to open and swallow me.
I stared apologetically into my beautiful daughter’s eyes, but I couldn’t bring myself to say sorry. I wasn’t sorry. Camilla was too important to me to pretend that marriage would guarantee happiness. Or that she definitely wouldn’t become her husband’s second mother, cook, cleaning service, mental load carrier, and potential kicking post. Because I didn’t know that, and neither did she.
Camilla finished her wine quickly and made an excuse to leave within minutes. She offered me a limp, one-armed hug, then walked away with Jeff’s hand in hers.
I’d messed up. My heart broke with the knowledge that I’d hurt her. I’d let the stress of the day interfere with my better judgment, and I’d been harsh when I should’ve bitten my tongue.
It was ironic, really. The amount of time I spent fearing Camilla would wind up just like her mother, only to open my mouth and realize I was becoming mine.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I dragged myself downstairs the next morning, exhausted from a long night of kicking myself for upsetting Camilla. I’d gotten carried away at the restaurant and let the thoughts in my head pour freely from my mouth. The things I said were absolutely not okay. I’d wrestled with my poor behavior until the first rays of dawn climbed my windowsill.
I wanted so much better for Camilla than the life I’d chosen at her age. If she and Jeff were truly in love, wouldn’t they still be in love a few years from now? Why couldn’t they agree to enjoy their young lives without the emotional and financial weight of a marriage? Why did they have to get married right this minute? What was the rush?
I rubbed my forehead over a cup of steaming coffee.
Pictures of my mother, Sébastien, and me covered the refrigerator now. I’d hung all my favorites as a reminder that my childhood wasn’t always awful, even if Mom’s marriage to Dad was consistently shit and built on a lie. Nonetheless, I could see now that Mom had shielded me from his anger, as much as possible in an eleven-hundred-square-foot cottage, and from the aftermath of her emotions by keeping me at arm’s length. She and I had grown apart as a result, but Dad had never once laid his hands on me.
The long hours I spent outside with neighborhood kids after dinner and on weekends took on a new perspective as well. Dad washome during those hours. She’d managed him while encouraging me to get fresh air and sun. I’d made memories, racing other kids down the sidewalk and later playing truth or dare in nearby parks. Mom had battled Dad alone, then nursed her wounds privately.
It was harder to understand why we hadn’t grown closer following Dad’s death, but maybe by then I’d pulled away too. I’d buried myself in raising my daughter and managing my own bully.
I hadn’t been perfect at the job either. One of my worst memories was when Camilla was in middle school. She needed help with her math homework, but I was running late with dinner. I suggested she ask Robert, who was playing on his phone, unhappily waiting for his meal. I assumed the time would pass more quickly for him if he had something to do, and she’d get the help she needed. Two birds, one stone.
Twenty minutes later Camilla ran past me, crying and screaming that she’d never ask him for help again. I later learned that he’d done everything he could to make the interaction awful for her, by talking in circles, never giving straight answers, and making each step as convoluted as possible, until she’d given up in distress and defeat.
She’d approached him with hope and trust. And he’d destroyed both because he didn’t want to be bothered. That was the lesson she learned that day. Asking Robert for anything resulted in a punishment.
For Camilla, at least, as long as she asked nothing of him, he was kind. So she’d found a way to live in his world under his terms. And I became a single, married parent.
I hated that I couldn’t change any of it now.
But I could apologize to Camilla and promise us both that I would do better. I thanked my stars daily for the relationship I had with her, and I wondered if the bond we shared came from my parenting. She’d endured my unhealthy marriage with her father, but she also saw me protect, guard, and prioritize her above all else. I hoped that as an adult she’d understand why I didn’t leave the marriage sooner. I wished I’d understood Mom’s reasoning before she died.
I finished my coffee and opened the mail I’d left on the counter after my evening walk.
Bills, bills, bills. I was barely making ends meet on my paychecks. The Invisible Baker was going strong, but the price of ingredients to make all the fancy French pastries ate up the profits faster than I liked. And I hadn’t anticipated the time it took to fill all the orders. Before, when I baked one or two nights a week, I’d found the process therapeutic and enjoyable. I’d only considered the outgoing costs and incoming profits. Now, I had a job that consumed the first half of my days. When I calculated the per-hour rate, I wanted to cry.
