Read The Baker's Daughter for Free Online Page B

her shirt.
    â€œA sparkler,” said Jane. “How come it ain’t on your finger?”
    â€œIt makes it hard to type. Too tight, I think.”
    â€œYou can get that resized, ya know.”
    Reba picked up the recorder and fiddled with the buttons.
    â€œWhen’s the wedding?” Jane kept on.
    â€œWe haven’t set a date. We’re both pretty busy.”
    â€œWhen did you get engaged?”
    â€œUh.” Reba flipped her mental calendar. “August.”
    Jane nodded. “You best start planning. These days it takes a while to get all the doodads together. I can show you our wedding cake portfolio so you can get some ideas churning.”
    Reba regretted having said anything and immediately evoked a tried and true journalism tactic: the redirect.
    â€œAre you married?”
    Jane pulled the cleaning rag off her shoulder and waved it around like a gymnast’s wand. “Ha. Not this old lady. I’m past my prime.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Never mind that nobody’d be good enough in Mom’s eyes unless he had trim on his shoulders. ’Course she’s never said nothing of the kind, but I always got the feeling she wanted me to marry a military man like my dad—US Army, the German Luftwaffe, or something. But I’m no soldier girl. All that ribbon and starch drives me batty. Don’t get me wrong; I respect what they do. I appreciate their service and sacrifice for our country. It’s an honorable profession, and each time Fort Bliss has a troop homecoming, I take all our breads and pastries over to the fort—no charge, mind you. But I
don’t
want one in my bed, and I don’t want to marry one.” A silver strand fell over her eyes, and she pulled it hard behind her ear.
    â€œI never even brought a boy home. Didn’t see the point.” She leaned back in her chair and cocked her head, looking hard at Reba. “But I got somebody. Been together for years. Since I was a skinny thing with freckles. Never asked to marry me. Now, that might not sound good but trust me, if you knew, you’d see it takes a lot for a person to be faithful when you can’t put a label on it—can’t say, this person is
mine
. Takes an awful lot.”
    Jane focused on the ring in the middle of Reba’s chest.
    Reba readjusted in her chair, trying to shake off her stare. She cleared her throat. “It sounds like we’re the same suit in a pack of cards. I’m not racing to the altar either.”
    â€œIt’s a pretty ring,” said Jane.
    The bell on the door clinked, and a man in a gray army sweatshirt entered.
    â€œCan I help you, sir?”asked Jane. She stood, picked up the lavender spray, and returned to the register.
    â€œYes.” He frantically scanned the glass display case. “My wife wants me to order a cake. It’s for my son’s birthday. She tried to make one, but it kind of fell flat. His party’s in a few hours, so I came here.” He balled his fists and rubbed his knuckles together. The talon of a bald eagle tattoo stretched over his right wrist. “I’d appreciate anything you can do. She’s from Germany, my wife. We moved to Bliss last month, and she doesn’t know anyone. All her friends and family are back in Stuttgart. She said she couldn’t find the right ingredients at Albertson’s, and she threw out the frosted sheet cake I picked up this morning. She wants the cake to taste like home.” He looked up at Jane, his blue eyes pleading. “I just want her to be happy. If you’ve got an extra German cake in the kitchen …”
    Jane nodded. “Let me talk to my mom. She’s got a knack for making things out of thin air.” She went back through the curtained doorway.
    Reba waited for a bang or a yell, but there was none.
    Jane returned within a minute. “Can you give us a couple hours?”
    He exhaled and