the theory by actually baking anything.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. You need to leave.”
The man walked away. She trailed after him. “I can help. I’m a hard worker and I’m really good with my hands. There has to be something. I’m not asking to work on the famous Keyes chocolate cake or anything.”
The man spun back to face her. “You stay away from the chocolate cake, you hear me? Only Nicole and I do that. I’ve been here fifteen years and I know what I’m doing. Now get out of here.”
“Hey, Sid? Come here for a sec.”
The voice calling came from behind a wall of ovens. Sid gave her a scowl, then hurried off in the direction of the voice. Claire used the alone time to explore the inner workings of a real bakery a little more. She smiled at a woman injecting yummy-looking filling into pastry shells. The woman ignored her. Claire kept moving.
She found another woman working a machine that applied frosting to doughnuts. The smell was heavenly and Claire’s stomach began to grumble in anticipation. She took a step toward the machine and bumped into a man carrying something.
As they struggled to get their balance, the bag he’d been carrying flew up in the air. Claire instinctively reached for it. But instead of catching it, she only bumped the side, sending it tumbling, sprinkling its contents on them, the floor and onto the already frosted doughnuts moving on the narrow conveyor belt. It spun and spun before landing, open end up, in a massive vat of dough.
“What the hell did you do?” the man demanded, as he began to swear in a language she didn’t recognize.
Sid came running. “You! You’re still here?”
The woman managing the doughnuts flipped off the belt and hurried over to inspect them. “Salt,” she muttered. “It’s everywhere. They’re ruined.”
Claire wished she could slink away. “I’m sorry,” she began. “We ran into each other and—”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sid yelled. “Did I tell you to leave? Did you listen? Jesus, no wonder Nicole talks about you the way she does.” He leaned over the vat of dough and swore. “Salt,” he yelled. “There’s a five-pound bag of salt in the French bread dough. You think anyone’s going to want that? It’s our batch for the day. The day.”
Oh, no. “Can’t you make some more?” she asked in a tiny voice, feeling so awful.
“Do you understand anything about making bread from scratch? What am I asking? Of course you don’t. Get out. Just get out. We can’t afford any more disasters this morning.”
Claire wanted to say something to make it better, but what was the point? All four of them stared at her as if she was the lowest form of life they’d ever seen. They wouldn’t care that she’d only been trying to help. That she hadn’t meant to run into the other guy. That it had only been an accident.
Not knowing what else to do, she turned and left.
It was after five when she arrived back at the house. Claire checked on Nicole, who was still sleeping, then went down to the kitchen and made coffee. The first pot smelled funny and tasted worse. She threw it out and started over.
The second batch was drinkable. She poured herself a cup and sank into a chair at the table.
How could her day have started so horribly? How could she have messed up so badly without even trying? It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t a bad person. Okay, yes, she lived a strange, twisted life that most people couldn’t relate to, but that didn’t change who she was on the inside.
But it seemed existing outside of her gilded cage was going to be harder than she’d first realized.
“I’m not giving up,” she said aloud. “I’m going to figure this out.”
She didn’t have much choice. If she couldn’t play the piano anymore, she was going to need to have a life without music.
No music. The thought of it made her sad. Music was everything to her. It was her reason for breathing.
“I’ll find another reason,” she told herself. “I have unexplored depths.” At least she hoped she did.
A little after six, she went looking for the toaster. There was plenty of bread in the freezer. She managed to burn the first three slices she put in before getting the adjustment right. She was digging around for a tray when the back door opened.
She straightened and saw Wyatt walking into the kitchen. Wyatt, who hated her nearly as much as Nicole. Wyatt, who’d made her hand tingle so strangely the previous day.
But before she could wonder what that all meant, she saw the pretty little girl who trailed behind him.
Wyatt set several grocery bags on the counter. “Something smells bad.”
“I burned some toast.” Claire couldn’t look away from the girl. “Your daughter?” she asked. Wyatt had a daughter? Which meant he had a wife.
The realization caused her to take a step back, although she couldn’t say why. Still, she wanted to meet the girl. Claire had always liked children and dreamed of a family of her own.
“This is Amy,” he said, moving his hands as he spoke. “Amy, this is Claire.” He used his fingers in an odd way. “Amy’s deaf.”
“Oh.” She looked at the child and noticed hearing aids in both ears.
She’d never known a deaf person before. No sound. What would that be like? Never to hear a Mozart concerto or a symphony? No melody or rhythm. Her whole body clenched at the thought.
“How horrible.”
Wyatt glared at her. “We don’t think so, but thanks for sharing your enlightened and sensitive opinion. When you see a one-legged guy walking down the street, do you kick it out from under him?”
She blushed and glanced at his daughter. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was thinking about music and how …” There was no recovery from this, she thought as guilt swamped her. “I didn’t mean anything bad.”
“People like you never do.”
He wouldn’t understand, mostly because he didn’t want to. He assumed the worst about her and she seemed to do nothing but prove his point.
He began taking groceries out of the bags. She thought about offering to help, but knew he would refuse. Instead, she retreated to the living room and wondered if she should simply hire a nurse for Nicole and escape back to New York. At least there she fit in.
She sank onto one of the sofas and did her best not to cry. Why was everything going so wrong? How could she make things better? Because as easy as escaping would be, she didn’t want to be a quitter. She’d never quit. Not once—no matter how hard things got.
But this situation was impossible.
Amy walked into the room. Claire started to apologize for what she’d said, only to realize the child probably hadn’t heard her. Which meant she would have to explain why she was apologizing, assuming she could even get her point across. She sat there, feeling both stupid and awkward, not sure which was worse.
Amy didn’t seem to pick up on any of that. Instead she walked over to a bookshelf in the corner and picked up a large picture book. She carried it back to the sofa and handed it to Claire.
“You want me to read to you?” Claire asked, looking at the book. “Aren’t you too old for this book?”
Amy waved her hands to get Claire’s attention, then touched her chin. She motioned to her lips, then her eyes.
“See you speak.”
The words were spoken slowly, with exaggerated pronunciation.
Claire’s eyes widened. “You can talk?”