The car chugged and sputtered to a stop in the middle of traffic in front of the elementary school, exhaling with a sigh. The girls hopped out with a quick Bye and ran. I cranked the key, but the engine refused to turn over. Switching on my flashers, I waved people around, enduring the looks of angry parents who were trying to get to work on time.
Dad arrived five minutes later to find me sitting alone in front of the school blocking the fire lane. Together we pushed the car into an empty parking space. He was pretty sure it was the battery, but when he hooked up the jumper cables, it wouldn’t hold a charge.
The secretary in the school office said we could leave the car there for a few hours while he got a new battery. She wasn’t particularly agreeable about it, and made sure we understood that it would be towed if not moved by the end of the school day.
I couldn’t report to work until it was taken care of. The added expense of a battery put a real dent in my grocery budget, which was already crunched by getting to work late that day.
I wondered if my express trip to Redding had shortened its life.
Dad had spotted a leak of some kind while he worked on the car. I spent the evening in a lawn chair handing him tools as he fooled with the transmission. He finally got around to the subject of Julian’s visit to the market.
“What kind of trouble you in with the health inspector?” he asked, his words muffled from his position under the hood.
I picked at a loose thumbnail. “I’m not in trouble. Not unless I do it again. I’m so stupid. I knew better.” My acrylic nail flicked off onto the garage floor. “I don’t know what made me think I could make a go of it.”
“You were making a go of it. That’s the problem, far as I can see. Hand me that filter.”
I handed it over. “Dropping that cake was a complete accident. Believe me, I was tempted to throw it. But that thing took me two days to decorate.”
“’Course you wouldn’t throw it. County official and all. You were just upset.”
I crossed my arms and my legs and jiggled my foot. “He was so … smug. Telling me I’m breaking the law selling my little goodies, like I was some mafia boss.”
He came out from under the hood and stretched. “You know you need permits, girl.” He dug around in his toolbox for a funnel and dove back inside the hood.
“Gosh, Dad. Couldn’t you just say ‘he done me wrong’?”
“Man’s just doing his job protecting the public. Can’t say as I’ve seen him before. Must be new.” He reached a hand toward me. “Hand me that tranny fluid.”
I handed it over carefully so that it didn’t drip onto my clothes. “It was just a few cookies and cinnamon rolls and biscotti. I mean, it’s been years since the health department showed up at the drive-in.”
Dad poured transmission fluid like cherry cough syrup into the funnel.
“Farmers market’s a different kettle of fish. We’ve just been lucky. Or maybe the old health inspector got comfortable. We’ll have to cowboy up before we open the drive-in. In case this new fella takes notice.”
“It’s my fault if he does.” I stood up and wrapped my arms across my chest against the chill.
Dad emerged from under the hood and wiped his hands on a rag he kept stuffed in his pocket. “You know him? I recall you using his given name.”
“I don’t know him. I met him at the school carnival,” I said while folding up my lawn chair and leaning it against the garage wall. “And I’ve seen him at church a couple times.”
He got in the car and turned on the ignition, letting it idle. Then he got out of the car and reached back under the hood, pulling out the dipstick. “If you want help gettin’ your bakery set up, call the man. He seems willing.” He wiped the dipstick with a rag and reinserted it to check the fluid level. He frowned at the results. “May need a flush.”
“I’m not up for more humiliation, Dad.”
He looked over the top of his bifocals at me and lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t think humiliation’s what he’s got in mind.”
I blushed. “Oh, Dad.”
He opened the trunk and put an extra bottle of transmission fluid and the funnel into the box with the garden gloves and the spade.
“Baby her along,” he said, closing the hood. “We got to get a few more miles out of her.”
I called Dr. Shafer’s office about the results from my blood work, and the nurse told me to come in. I refused the antidepressant he wanted to prescribe. After taking my blood pressure, he insisted that I take a little red pill once a day to stabilize it, and I knew it would be foolish to refuse. I’d need to control my blood pressure if I ever faced Julian again.
I’d rehashed the scene a million times, wondering what rumors would now circulate at the farmers market, knowing I couldn’t face those vendors so soon after my crime. The following Saturday, I dragged Deja out of bed and sent her down in my place to help Dad set up. Forcing her to help on a Saturday morning before daylight was an ugly scene. She dragged herself back to bed when she was done, complaining that people kept hassling her for cinnamon rolls during setup.
I even avoided church, just in case Julian was there, and that did me and the girls no good.
So many doubts clouded my judgment and undermined my confidence. Where in the world could I find the money to start a business, or find a kitchen that the health department would approve? What made me think my baking was anything special?
What if my stupid antics did call attention to the drive-in? We did our best to keep it clean and rodent-free, but you never knew what a zealous health inspector would find, especially if he’d been embarrassed at the farmers market and had a bone to pick. And if the drive-in closed, or if the repairs were extensive, we’d never be able to make ends meet.
Suddenly it dawned on me. The kitchen. We had a kitchen at the drive-in. We had a sink and an oven and a freezer. And a permit. Right on our own property. Right under my nose.
It would have to pass inspection. Did I dare show it to Julian? He would either allow me to use it to bake, or find major issues with it and close us down completely.
Snagging the keys from the hook in the kitchen, I crossed the parking lot to check the condition of the snack shack. The lock gave a little resistance after so many months of disuse, but finally relented. Silence met me as I opened the door—a good sign that mice were absent. The cement block building didn’t allow many points of entry for creepy crawlies except the drains, but the stale, funereal air made their presence seem likely all the same.
I stepped inside. The deep double sink was scrubbed clean. The drain in the floor lent a leisurely tilt toward the center of the room and never backed up with icky water. The behemoth oven, an original part of the drive-in, could still simulate the surface of the sun and cook the interior of the building on a hot summer night. Although Dad needed to tinker with it occasionally, it was dependable.
It would do. That evening, I checked with Dad about my plan so he would be aware of the risk I was taking, in case he thought we had something to worry about. He shrugged and said it was better to find out if there were any problems before summer.
It still took two weeks to gather the nerve to call Julian’s office. I smoothed out his business card, which I’d dug from the trash and taped together the night of the offense. I left a brief, awkward message on his voice mail, but no phone number. Another few days passed before I gathered the nerve to try again. This time he answered, sounding pleasantly businesslike.
“Mrs. Winslow, I can’t return your calls if you don’t leave a number.”
My cheeks grew hot. Had I taken my blood pressure pill that morning?
“I was afraid you might still be angry about the cake.”
“Well, I am still picking green icing from my shoes.”
“It was a stupid accident. I apologize.”
“All right, officially I’ll call it an accident. It’s never smart to lose your temper with a county official—”
“I agree.”
“But if you had lost your temper, I think, in your case, there may have been extenuating circumstances.”
I blinked. Was he toying with me? “What do you mean?”
“Well, the last time I saw you at church, I believe you were having a difficult time.”
This was so out of context that I had to stop and think what he meant. On his end, I heard creaking, like he was shifting in his office chair. When I didn’t answer, he continued.
“I gather it had something to do with a recent loss in your family. A child, I believe.”
Ginger’s anniversary.
“I guess, under the circumstances, you might have been feeling extremely emotional. It’s understandable.”
I considered hanging up. “I have been under a great deal of stress lately.”
“I wasn’t trying to discourage you from opening a bakery. But you do have to go about it the right way.” He paused. “Is that something you want?”
My moment of truth. I stood poised on a high dive, the smooth, unbroken surface far below reflecting my fear and posing a glassy barrier to my dreams. But here was a man who wanted to help me. Someone who knew what he was doing. I couldn’t let this moment pass.
I arched and took the plunge.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “What do I need to do first?”
During the next twenty minutes I gave Julian a brief rundown of my experience as a baker for Ursula and Guy back in Elko.
He explained the application process and gave me a list of forms and permits to download. He also made an appointment for me to stop by his office one afternoon after my shift to make sure the paperwork was completed properly. If things went well, I would show him the drive-in kitchen and hope for the best.
I decided to take one step at a time, and not worry about money or a kitchen or failure in general. I sent up a prayer. If God wanted it to happen, it would.