Chapter 4
O laya scheduled a special Bread for Life class the next day so the television crew could come back and finish their filming. She had gotten to Yeast of Eden at four thirty in the morning, as usual, then had spent the entire day baking and working in the front of the shop. By the time I showed up at three thirty in the afternoon, a half hour before everyone else was due to arrive, she looked dead tired. Or maybe it was more than that. Black circles ringed her eyes and her olive skin was unusually pale.
The bread shop closed at four and, as usual, a line queued along the bakery cases. Maggie had been working for Olaya long enough to know how to work the counter. She was one of those students who had graduation credits piled up, which gave her three off-periods. She was the perfect employee and made the afternoon shifts run like clockwork. She worked through the customers one by one, quickly and efficiently.
Olaya made her way to one of the bistro tables. She sat, folded her arms, and rested her forehead on them.
I sat down opposite her. “Are you okay?”
She lifted her head just enough to peer up at me with her glassy eyes. “I never get sick . . .”
“But you are now,” I finished for her.
She nodded, lowering her head again. Even her normally vibrant silver curls looked lackluster, as if whatever virus she had had seeped into the hair follicles.
“I can run the class,” I said. “You should go home and rest.”
“They are filming this afternoon. I have to be here.”
“Not if you’re sick.” I didn’t want her to miss it, but she didn’t look like she’d be able to stand, let alone help with the class.
The doors between the front of the bread shop and the kitchen swung open and Sandra Mays and Mack Hebron strolled in followed by Ben Nader and his camera. Ben wore the same cap he’d worn the day before, loose jeans, and a button-down. He dressed like a much younger man than he was. I kind of liked that about him. He lifted his chin in a subtle greeting as he passed us by, heading through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. The other tech guys were nowhere to be seen. Sandra was dressed down in a navy blouse and jeans, but her hair was styled exactly as it was every time she was on television. It was, I surmised, part of her brand. She would have fit in well in Texas, with the back-combing that gave her hair height on the crown and the curl that lightly flipped her hair up at her shoulders. Mack, on the other hand, looked completely natural, as if he didn’t give a single thought to what he wore or how his hair looked. I knew that wasn’t the case and his effortless look, especially the careless spikes of his hair, were all by design. He probably spent a fair amount of time in front of the mirror with his hair gel, but he pulled off the carefree look very well.
He stood back, arms folded over his chest as Sandra waved jazz hands in the air, clearly ready to hold court. “Hello, hello, my darlings!”
The people in line turned. A collective gasp rose up, before the eyes of a twenty-something woman buying a dozen croissants and two baguettes opened wide and she exclaimed, “You’re Sandra Mays!”
Sandra smiled indulgently. “Guilty as charged.”
The young woman dropped her bread on the counter, whipped her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, and hurried over to the reality TV star. “Can I get a selfie with you?”
Sandra’s smile widened. It was clear that she lived for moments like this. “Abso-lute-ly.”
They stood side by side. Sandra’s groupie held her phone in her outstretched hand. I held in a laugh. They were both well practiced at the art of the selfie. They each held their eyes open—no blinking! Sandra curved her lips into a sleek, practiced smile, while her biggest fan positioned her lips in what I was sure she thought was an alluring pucker. She pressed her thumb against the button on her screen, snapping several pictures before letting her face morph back into its normal expression. “Thanks,” she said, but she was looking at her phone rather than Sandra. Already posting her story on Instagram, no doubt.
Which seemed fine with Sandra. She glided to the people who’d stayed in line but who were taking pictures with their phones or holding out pens and Yeast of Eden bread lists for her to sign autographs. She was in full star mode, even if her star still mostly shone over Santa Sofia and the surrounding areas. Mack was the real star, but nobody had noticed him yet. I snuck a look at him, half expecting him to be irritated at not being recognized, but his amused expression seemed to communicate the opposite. The guy didn’t look bothered at all by Sandra hogging the spotlight, which was interesting given their dynamic the last time they’d been together. Maybe they’d buried the hatchet, so to speak.
The clock struck four—without any fanfare—and I flipped the sign hanging in the door from OPEN to CLOSED. Maggie finished up with the last of the customers, ushering them out, and then turned the lock on the door. It was unusual to have any bread left at the end of the day, but when there was, Olaya donated it to a food closet in town. Today, there were two baguettes, an olive loaf, and a handful of plain croissants, all of which I’d pack up and drop off after filming.
With the fans gone, Sandra turned to Olaya and me. “Ready to start taping?”
“We are,” Olaya said as she stifled a cough.
Sandra spun around, her mouth agape. She took a step backward. “Are you . . . sick?”
The bags around Olaya’s eyes looked darker than they had a minute ago. She started to shake her head, but I stopped her by saying, “Yes. You are.” To Sandra, I said, “She is. Sick. Very.”
Olaya listed to one side, unsteady on her feet. Sandra put more distance between them. Her eyes were wide with horror. Actual horror. “Do. Not. Come. Near. Me. I do not want sick germs. Do you hear me? I. Can. Not. Get. Sick.”
Mack shook his head and shot Sandra a disgusted look. He hurried right up to Olaya and held her by the elbow. “Whoa there. Let’s get you to a chair.” He looked at me, his raised eyebrows asking where he should take her.
I moved quickly behind the counter and held open the swinging door, stepping aside for him to pass through. Sandra stayed far, far behind, but Mack was right there, guiding Olaya, following me to her office. He deposited her in her chair. “I’ll get her some water,” he said. I waited until he was out of earshot before I spoke. “You are sick, Olaya. You need to go home.”
“But the taping. The show.” Her voice was low and she closed her eyes as she spoke.
“I can handle it tonight, but this place doesn’t run without you. You need rest.”
Olaya managed to stand up. She opened her mouth to speak. To disagree with me, I thought, but she stopped. Her eyes fluttered, she wobbled on her feet, and she grabbed for me. “Okay. Por favor. Take me home.”