Chapter 3

If I was a natural in front of the camera, I didn’t know what that made Zula. That woman was born to be a reality TV show host. As she led us through the history of hembesha, a traditional Eritrean food, she had an animated conversation with the camera Ben Nader held. Her personality blossomed with each word she spoke.

Sandra walked up and looked at the ingredients on the counter in front of Zula. “Tell me more about this . . . hembesha.”

Zula adopted a serious air. “It is an East African bread. Soft. Fragrant. Very earthy. I know you will like it very well—”

Sandra bent at the waist to look at the collection of ingredients at Zula’s station, examining each container, picking one up to look at it before putting it down again and replacing it with another. “I’m sure we will.”

Zula’s eyes were wide and uncertain as Sandra abruptly walked away from her and came over to where I stood. “Ivy, you’re what Olaya has called an apprentice baker at Yeast of Eden. You’re here helping out today?”

I smiled at her, trying to tuck away a few wayward strands of curls that had slipped from my topknot. I was going to be on national cable television representing Santa Sofia and Yeast of Eden. Of course my hair hadn’t cooperated. It felt strange rehashing the same story we’d talked about just a short time ago during my interview, but I launched into it nonetheless. “That’s right. I took a bread making class from her and—”

“Right. Interesting. And today you’re all making. . . what’s it called again?”

“Hembesha,” I said, my smile becoming strained. Sandra Mays was clearly going through the motions. She didn’t seem to have much real interest in what we were making or the group of women here. “It’s an Eritrean bread.”

“Yes, of course. Hembesha. What can you tell us about it?”

Aside from what Zula had already shared? Not much. “Zula can tell you more about it than I can.” I looked at her instead of at Sandra. “You ready?”

“I am ready,” Zula said, meeting my gaze with more composure than I was feeling. She turned to the other women. “You have everything you need, including ground coriander, cardamom, and fenugreek.”

Mack came up next to Zula. Ben turned his body and directed his camera at the two of them. “Tell me about this . . . fenugreek,” he said amiably. His demeanor was night-and-day different than Sandra’s and he’d asked the obvious question given that most of us probably had never heard of fenugreek. I knew I hadn’t. As Zula unscrewed the cap of one of the jars at her station, I did the same. As she held the jar out for Mack to smell, I put the jar of ground seeds to my nose and took a whiff. I tried to put my finger on what it reminded me of when Mack exclaimed, “It’s like curry!”

Ah, exactly!

Sandra elbowed her way back into the frame, crowding Zula on her other side. “These are spices specific to Africa, I assume?”

Zula shook her head. “No, not to Africa. Asia, I think. The fenugreek seeds were discovered in Iraq, too.”

“Fascinating,” Sandra said, although her fascination didn’t feel authentic. Looking back to Ben and his camera, she continued. “Learning about different cultures is a big part of the Bread for Life program here at Yeast of Eden. Where else would you learn about—” She looked at Zula. “What’s it called again?”

Mack answered instead. “Fenugreek.”

Claire pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. She and Amelie listened intently, but Esmé stretched one hand across her forehead and rubbed her temples with the thumb and middle finger like she was fighting a headache. I watched her as she slipped her cell phone from her back pocket and quickly texted someone. She put her phone away again and went back to massaging her temples. Her expression was pained, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A moment later, when she looked at Sandra again, she looked calm and collected.

Odd, I thought. What was wrong with her?

Zula began mixing the ingredients together, talking through each step as she added all-purpose flour, wheat flour, dry yeast, the mixture of spices, crushed fresh garlic, one egg, and warm water to the bowl. She dug her hands in, combining it all together.

Each of the women did the same, myself included. In seconds, my hands were covered in the sticky mess of dough, but as I incorporated more flour, it became less sticky.

“Keep kneading,” Zula said. “You must mix in every last bit of the flour. After a short while, it will become soft and smooth.”

For a minute I doubted her, but she was right. It took some time, but the dough formed a smooth ball. After she instructed us to cover it and we each set the dough aside so it could rise, she called “Cut!”

Mack laughed, but Sandra scowled at Zula usurping her reality TV authority. Or maybe she was irritated at Mack for indulging Zula. If Sandra had called Cut! I imagined Mack would have been testy about it. Those two had some issues to work out if they were going to make America’s ’s Best Bakeries a success. TV viewers wanted to see chemistry between the hosts, not tension.

We all followed Zula’s lead and covered our bowls. “Oh! Uncut!” She looked at Ben and rolled her finger. He counted down with his fingers and pointed at her. Mack bit his lip, holding in his burgeoning guffaw. Sandra, however, didn’t have any mirth in her. Her scowl was back, front and center. Or, rather, it had never left.

“We must wait forty-five minutes for the dough to rise,” Zula said. “Maybe we could let it rise longer, but we will use the magic of television to show the best finished hembesha.” She crouched in front of her station, retrieving something from the lower shelf.

When she stood, I laughed. She held a tray with a fully baked, golden tear-apart round of hembesha. Impressive. I gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed, “Good planning.” She was determined to make sure her segment for this new show was as good as it could be.

Mack nodded with approval as he tore off a piece of the bread. The others gathered around and did the same. All except Sandra, who remained on the periphery. Ben swiveled the camera to face her. “And that, friends, is hembesha.”

She signaled for Ben to cut. “The bread has to rise for forty-five minutes?” she asked. Zula confirmed with a nod and Sandra continued. “So we’ll pick up then.”

“Nicely done,” Mack said. Zula beamed, her smile illuminating her face. Mack pulled her aside and they chatted. I wondered about what, but turned my attention to the camera, sound, and light people as they put their equipment in the makeshift conference room. When Ben came back into the kitchen, he held up a pack of cigarettes. “Where can I smoke?”

It was a good question. Santa Sofia was a smoke-free town in public spaces. “The back parking lot is the only place around here,” I said. I showed him the door and followed him outside. “There’s a bench over there.” I pointed out one of the flowerbeds.

He angled his head to look, raising his eyebrows at me. I led him closer. The spring blooms in the flowerbed had exploded with color. The hydrangeas, lavender, coral bells, columbine, bellflowers, and daisies flourished to the point that the little black wrought-iron bench was well hidden.

Ben made a face. “I think—”

He broke off and wandered past the bench, looking up at the building. I followed, curious about what he’d been about to say. And also to make sure he didn’t make his way all the way to the front of the bread shop to light up. No smoking in public spaces was a strict ordinance that the city took very seriously.

I needn’t have worried. He stopped beside a lemon tree. Behind it, vines climbed the brick walls. I stood beside him, watching him curiously as he adjusted his ball cap and peered up to the roofline, then straight ahead at the vines. “It used to be here.”

“What used to be here?” a man’s voice said, coming up beside me. It was a voice I recognized well.

I spun to face him, knowing that a smile had lit up my face. “Hey, you,” I said.

Miguel Baptista stood six feet, which meant he lowered his head and I arched my neck for our lips to meet. “Hey,” he said, smiling back at me.

I did a quick introduction. “Miguel Batista, Ben Nader. Ben, Miguel.” To Miguel I said, “Ben is the local cameraman for America’s Best Bakeries segment. They started taping today. He works with Sandra Mays and Mack Hebron.” To Ben I said, “Miguel is the owner of Baptista’s Cantina and Grill.” I left out that part about Miguel being my boyfriend. As a thirty-six-year-old woman, it sounded silly to phrase it that way. We’d been boyfriend/girlfriend back in high school. Now we were on a path toward a life together, but how did you work that into casual conversation?

Miguel and Ben shook hands, then both turned to stare at the vines climbing the wall. Ben had lit his cigarette and taken a few drags, but now he tossed it on the ground and stamped it out with a twist of his foot. “Me and my friends used to go up to the roof here.”

I followed his gaze. “Like climb up?”

He adjusted his hat. “Yeah. God, it’s been a long time, but I’m sure this is the spot. This place wasn’t a bakery back then. Or . . . at least I don’t think it was.” He stepped into the flowerbed next to the lemon tree and reached his hands out, pulling some of the vines apart. “There used to be a ladder here.” After a second, he moved a few steps and tried again.

“You think it’s still there?” I asked. Ben looked to me to be in his fifties, which meant high school had been more than thirty years ago. Enough time for an old ladder to the rooftop of the bread shop building to be long gone.

He made no acknowledgment that I’d spoken. Instead, he walked farther down the parking lot, looked up at the side of the building, then stopped and split the vines apart again. “Bingo,” he said, looking back at us, a goofy grin on his face. “I knew it was here.”

Miguel and I both stared. “Wait,” he said. “There’s actually a ladder there?”

Ben yanked some of the vines away, clearing them away from the ladder, then stood back to show us. “Hidden right here.”

The guy was right. A metal ladder, which looked like a rusty fire escape contraption from an old San Francisco brownstone or painted lady, had become a makeshift trellis for the vines. I peered up, shading my eyes from the glare of the late afternoon sun. “You used to climb this?”

“Santa Sofia was a lot smaller back then. Not many places to get away from life.” He grinned, remembering. “My friends and I, we used to climb up here, stare at the ocean, and philosophize as only teenagers can. We were going to save the world, you know?”

I did know. Miguel and I had both been young idealistic teenagers once upon a time. Instead of wanting to save the world, though, we’d been ready to conquer it . . . together. That is, at least, until things fell apart for us.

Ben’s voice turned a little melancholy as he philosophized. “There aren’t many places you can truly be alone, you know? If you find the right moment, you might get a little piece of the beach to yourself, but not usually. If you live alone—but that’s where you live, not necessarily where you can just think. Not enough people just think.”

“That’s why people meditate,” I said. “You can get apps that take you through guided meditation, so you can think . . . or turn off your thinking, as the case may be.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but not dismissively. It was more a that’s not for me motion. “I’m not into meditation, but . . . Christ. If only I’d remembered this place—if I’d had time and a place to think—a lot of things might have turned out differently.” He hiked up one leg, testing his weight on the bottom rung of the ladder. He hauled himself up onto the next rung, taking it slow.

“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked, stretching my hand out as if I could catch him if the rungs gave way and he tumbled backward.

He hung on to the vertical rails, moving his body to shake the ladder. It squeaked and rattled, but it stayed put. I thought he was going to keep climbing, but instead he dropped down, dug his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, knocked one free, and lit it. He looked longingly toward the roof.

“Ben!” Sandra Mays’s shrill voice sounded loudly from behind us. I turned sharply, thinking she’d been lurking, but she wasn’t there.

Ben frowned, his nostalgic moment interrupted.

“Ben, where are you?” Sandra hollered again.

He sighed and took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Over here,” he called.

Her voice came at us loudly again. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

This time the roll he gave with his eyes clearly conveyed frustration. He didn’t look like he appreciated being summoned by Sandra. “The diva beckons,” he muttered, his mouth twisted into a grimace. To her he didn’t respond.

“Ben!” she said shrilly. More insistent. “Goddammit, come here.”

He sighed, took another mighty drag off his cigarette, and stepped out of the flowerbed. “On my way,” he snapped, then followed with an annoyed, “Jesus.”

He walked toward the corner. Slowly. And taking in as much of the nicotine as he possibly could before he dropped his cigarette, grinding it out like he had the first one. After a backward wave to Miguel and me, and a somewhat longing glance in the direction of the ladder he’d rediscovered, he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.