Chapter 12

The next three days passed in a blur. Felix and I did the early morning baking at Yeast of Eden while Olaya continued to recover; I worked on the bread shop’s website and blog, posting up-to-date photographs from the last Bread for Life session; and at home, I baked far too many macarons, a delicate cookie I was determined to master. Add to that a little personal time with Miguel, walks at the beach with Agatha, and visiting with my father. I’d had little to no time to think about what had happened to Ben Nader.

Or, I guess to be more accurate, I had nothing to investigate. I had no natural way to dig into his life, and so I’d waited. Let me tell you, waiting is not all it’s cracked up to be. I felt anxious and restless and useless, all at the same time.

After another early morning at the bread shop, I’d spent the afternoon in my kitchen, which was one of the things I’d loved most about the old Tudor house I’d recently bought. With its pale yellow cabinets, warm honey-colored wood floors, perfect work island, and a stovetop framed by a red brick arch, it had quickly become my happy place. I’d finished making yet another batch of macarons when my cell phone rang. It was an unknown number and for a second, my heart skittered. I hadn’t had any more road rage encounters, but I was still on edge.

The woman on the other end of the line introduced herself as Vivian Cantrell, Crosby House’s volunteer coordinator. “Oh! I figured I’d speak with someone tomorrow after orientation,” I said to her. Finally, maybe I’d have something to do in regards to Ben Nader.

“Before a prospective volunteer spends his or her time at orientation, I like to have a conversation,” she replied. She had the hint of an accent, which I couldn’t place.

“Makes sense,” I said. I imagined that she could suss out quite a bit about a person through a simple phone call. I know I could. For example, Vivian Cantrell came across as incredibly professional and no-nonsense. I supposed those qualities were important when you worked in an emotionally charged environment.

“Is now a good time?”

I’d just finished piping small rounds of the macaron meringue onto parchment-covered baking sheets. I’d lifted and dropped the trays several times, eliminating the air bubbles.

Now, I set the trays of macarons aside on the counter and turned to look out the window behind the cooktop. It overlooked the front yard, the leaves of the old tree in the center rustling from the light coastal breeze. “It’s the perfect time,” I said.

“Ivy Culpepper. That’s an unusual name. I feel like I’ve seen it before.” The woman’s voice held an almost accusatory note, but that, of course, didn’t make sense. I didn’t know her, so it stood to reason that she didn’t know me.

“My mother was a school teacher at Santa Sofia high school,” I said, “and my dad is the city manager?” My voice lifted at the end of the sentence, posing it as a question in case it triggered a recollection for her.

“Mmm. Maybe.” She paused. “It’ll come to me. Anyway . . . is it Miss Culpepper? Ms.? Or Mrs.?”

“I’m not married,” I said, adding a silent anymore at the end. “And please call me Ivy.”

“Okay then, Ivy. Thank you. Tell me, what made you complete the volunteer application for Crosby House?”

I turned away from the window and moved to one of the stools on the other side of the island. I’d given a lot of thought to how I’d answer this question. I wanted to be straightforward, but I’d decided to leave Ben Nader’s name out of it until I’d seen the place for myself. “To be honest, I just learned about the shelter recently. I did a little research and, I don’t know, I guess I felt the need to help. I’m fortunate enough to have some wonderful people in my life. Not everyone has that, I realize, but if I can be that for someone in . . . need, well, I’d . . . like that.”

My back straightened at the sound of a pen or pencil scratching against a sheet of paper. Vivian Cantrell was taking notes. “In what capacity do you see yourself volunteering?” she asked.

I knew Olaya would want to help through the bread shop, but I didn’t want to broach that subject yet. Not until I’d mentioned it to her. Instead, I focused on my strengths and what I thought I had to offer. “I’d love to read with some of the children. I can help with anything that needs doing. Laundry, cooking, cleaning. I can bring supplies, shop, or work on any special projects you have.”

“Do you garden?” Vivian asked.

I didn’t, not really, although I had a lemon tree and a pot of basil on the back patio. Still, I cleared my throat and nodded. “Absolutely.”

“That’s good to hear. We have a garden here in terrible need of tending. After the orientation—you are planning on attending that?”

“Yes—”

“I’ll show you the garden and we’ll set up a schedule that works for you.”

“That sounds great,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I spoke with too much enthusiasm, or not enough. Either way, Vivian Cantrell didn’t seem to notice. She thanked me for my interest in volunteering, told me to be prompt to the orientation, said goodbye, then hung up the phone.

I looked at Agatha, who was sprawled out on the cool floor. “I guess I passed,” I said.

She looked at me with her bulbous eyes, but didn’t bother to lift her chin. She snorted heavily as her eyelids fluttered closed again. She didn’t show it, but inside, I knew Agatha was super excited for me.