“That’s her.”
“Haven’t seen her in years. Saved my dog Chester once. How is she doing?”
I feel a swell of pride that Angie could’ve left such an impression on a stranger that he’d remember her even after allthis time.That’s my wife.If anybody knows the kind of lasting impression Angelina Rossi leaves behind, it’s me.
“She’s good. Better if I could get the recipe for that sourdough she loves.”
“Anything for the Doc,” he says. “S’far as I remember, she used to order the avocado BLT. Comes on two slices of our signature red fife sourdough. You got a pen and paper to write this down?”
“Uh. Yeah. Sure. Just one second.” I rifle through the junk drawer until I find one of Emmy’s loose crayons and a return envelope for a utility bill. “Got it.”
Bernie rattles off ingredients and measurements, followed by a set of instructions I’ve become intimately familiar with over the last several weeks. The only major difference to the recipe is the red fife flour and sea salt.
I was so close.
I thank Bernie for the help, promising to pass along his congratulations and best wishes to my wife.
Sliding my phone into my back pocket, I stare at the untouched loaf of bread cooling on the counter. It’s almost offensive now that I have the right recipe.
First thing tomorrow, I’m going down to the market, and I’m finally going to give her a taste of Denver.
Angelina
My house smells like sourdough again. Griffin was already here when I returned home from work, and there’s another BLT waiting for me—like he timed its preparation with my estimated arrival. He looks so hopeful, and I don't have it in me to tell him I’m getting over this particular craving.
Griffin watches me with rapt attention as I bite into it. When the first taste of soft, tangy bread hits my tongue,everything hits me at once—overwhelming joy, long-awaited satisfaction, and a bittersweet pang of sadness.
It’s like I’m sitting across from Jess in our regular booth near the cafe windows, watching people come and go as she fills me in on all the hot gossip at work. I can almost hear her voice, smell the fresh bread and pastries swirling around me.
“How is it?” Griffin asks.
Tears well in my eyes, and my throat closes up. “It’s Denver.”
He wraps me in a tight hug, and I breathe him in, letting his strength hold me together when I’m so close to falling apart. Pregnancy hormones are potent as hell. I’ve cried more in the last three months than I have in three years.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against the side of my head.
“It’s Denver.” Maybe if I keep saying it, this feeling won’t be swept away with the ticking of the clock. Time is cruel and unforgiving. It often takes more than it gives, and it isn’t in the habit of returning what you’ve lost.
Grief has a funny way of finding you when you least expect it. One minute, you’re singing along to a song on the radio at the top of your lungs, and the next, you’re crying over a sourdough BLT made with so much love and care it nearly suffocates you.
It seems my grief has only amplified these last few months. With each new milestone, I grow more detached from my past. I long to sit in that cafe and tell Jess about all of it—the wedding, the pregnancy—but I can’t. I’ll never get back the time we’ll never have together.
Laughter bubbles out of me as sadness wanes, and reality sets in. I just lost it over a sandwich. Albeit a very good one.
I shift away from Griffin and swipe at my damp cheeks. “How’d you figure it out?”
He sits up a little straighter and puffs out his chest as prideblooms across his features. “Called Bernie. He sends his best wishes to you and the baby.”
I gape at him. “You called Bernie. As in… Bernie Hoffmann?”
“One and the same. Nice guy.”
“How do you know about—” Realization dawns. There’s only one other person who would know the name of our favorite restaurant. “Wilder told you, didn’t he?”
Griffin nods, biting into his sandwich. “Damn. It really is good.”
“Ok, Sourdough Daddy. Is this going to be your whole personality now?”
