If Bread Could Rise to the Occasion Read online

  As for the money from the big corporations, her answer had been less anti-establishment than Gram thought it would be. Shelby said that the second she started doing something more for money than for enjoyment, she’d have known she’d have chosen the wrong path. She admitted that the money sounded wonderful and tempting, and she didn’t begrudge anyone their financial success, big corporation or not, but when that initial company approached her and gave her a figure, the first thought that came to her mind was what she could do with the money, not what they would do with the product. It wasn’t the type of person she wanted to be so she declined.

  When Shelby arrived, it wasn’t surprising to see her arms covered in colorful tattoos, her hair short and dyed a bright blue, and a number of interesting piercings in her nose and ears. She also had the biggest, brightest, and friendliest smile I’d ever seen. I thought Roger and his clearly conservative ties and button-up shirts would be put off by the much more free-spirited Shelby, but they seemed to hit it off the second they met when Roger asked her for details about the significance of the wolf tattoo on her right upper arm. They’d sat next to each other since class introductions, and I could tell they’d be just fine.

  So far, those were the students who stood out the most, but it was only the second day so who knew how things could continue to unfold. The most intriguing feature of the two days had been how easily Freddie had fit in. I really hoped his references panned out well.

  “That’s not too unusual,” Roger said to Shelby. “If you haven’t been exposed to starters, you haven’t been exposed. I suspect Miz and Betts like us to be honest about those things.”

  “You bet,” Gram said. “Okay, so here’s the thing about making a sourdough starter—first you have to know that your goal is to create a bacteria, or more specifically make a bacteria that’s already part of the flour—the wheat—that you use. When it’s time, we’re going to do our darndest to each create our very own starters.”

  “Starters are difficult to make, uh, create?” Freddie asked.

  “Well, you have to go into it with the right attitude at least.”

  “A positive outlook?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You all enjoy cooking, and no matter what you’re cooking, there’s nothing like baking your own bread, right? Kneading the dough, watching it rise, the smell?” I added.

  “Of course,” Roger answered as everyone else nodded.

  “This just adds another element to the tasty and complex artwork you’re creating. Starters are leavening agents. Making your own starter adds to the entire satisfaction of your bread-making projects,” I added.

  “You know what, let’s go ahead and jump in and do that now,” Gram said because it seemed like the right thing to do and, again, switching gears to fit with the students’ needs and desires was comparatively easy at the beginning of the year.

  Gram’s decision was crowd pleasing; the group rumbled with anticipation. Those were the types of moments that she and I lived for.

  I handed out the supplies: small plastic containers with lids, a few tablespoons of flour each, and a half cup or so of unsweetened pineapple juice per student.

  “You can use water, but the citric acid in the pineapple works to ward off another type of bacteria, a type that could kill your starter, so I use this trick,” Gram said.

  “Does it change the taste?” Shelby asked.

  “That’s the thing about a starter, you don’t really know what it will taste like, or what taste it will give your food, that is. That’s one of the fun things about it. It’s a mystery, I guess,” Gram said.

  “It’s a simple process to begin,” I added. “Flour in container, juice in container, and stir. You need to stir a few times a day. If it’s going to work, you’ll start to see bubbles after about forty-eight hours, maybe a little longer. No bubbles usually means it didn’t work. We’ll move on to step two in a couple days, which is just adding more flour and juice.”

  “That’s it?” Roger asked.

  “Yeah, it’s a pretty easy thing to begin,” I said.

  “But there are no guarantees it’ll work, are there?” Brenda asked, no notebook in sight.

  Gram laughed. “There are never any guarantees about anything.”

  A few minutes later, each student had combined their flour and pineapple juice and had given their mixtures a good stir. They wrote their names on the outsides of their containers and stored them on a shelf.

  “We’ll go back and stir them again later,” Gram said.

  The day passed quickly and messily. After the starters were created, we moved our focus back to the other breads. In the years I’d been teaching with Gram, I’d never seen so many students spill so much flour and break so many eggs. There was usually a “theme” to each year, or a nickname of sorts that encompassed the students, that Gram and I came up with, a word or a phrase that in our minds described the group as a whole. She and I hadn’t discussed it yet, but I sensed that klutzy would be considered this year.

  It was a great day, nonetheless. The students worked hard with lots of enthusiasm and encouraging words for each other. They really got along, even if Brenda was, in my opinion, somewhat standoffish. I didn’t catch her making more notes after Freddie’s first flour spill, and she had a decent conversation or two with the other students.

  And it turned out that Freddie was everyone’s biggest cheerleader. I thought he might be putting on an act or trying too hard to please us, but he was genuine and he and Gram really hit it off big that day. They “got” each other’s humor and started to bounce jokes off each other.

  It was one of the best and most exhausting days I could remember at Gram’s Country Cooking School.

  After the students left, some heading back to their temporary lodging, some to look for more permanent housing, some over to Bunny’s diner for dinner, and others to the grocery store to buy groceries to fix dinner for themselves and perhaps some of the other students, Gram and I sat on the front steps with glasses of very cold iced tea. After we’d told the last student that we’d see them tomorrow and Gram assured me that we didn’t need to have another all-nighter, I asked if she’d go with me to the bakery so I could properly meet Gent. She agreed, but only after an iced tea break.

  The almost two full days with no ghost in our lives had been good for Gram; whatever burden Gent’s appearance had given her had dissipated. Unfortunately, my mention of traveling to the bakery brought it back—it was something that dimmed her eyes and tightened a corner of her mouth.

  I hadn’t asked her more questions about him. I hadn’t had a chance to text Jake a hello, let alone talk to him about the fire. I’d decided that meeting the ghost and his family first was the best way to begin. Maybe there was a simple explanation for the things that Gram had told me, and Gent would be the one to ask; ask first, at least. Or maybe it was just the shortcut that I was most curious about pursuing.

  Gram took a large gulp of tea and said, “I’ll go with you, Betts, but you need to know that meeting Gent will be unlike anything you could have imagined. It’s going to be even weirder than everything else so far.”

  I gulped a swallow, too. “I don’t know. It wasn’t long ago that I never imagined I’d be communicating with ghosts at all. I think I’m ready for anything.”

  Gram looked at me and licked a small drop of tea off her bottom lip. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to know that for sure. Let’s go.”

  It was a good thing she stood up then or she might have seen the shiver of concern that shook me. Despite my brave words, adding something even weirder to the ghostly mix didn’t sit well with me at all, but that was the last thing I’d want her to know.

  Chapter 5

  The building was built in 1931, funded by the riches of a couple of friends from New York City. They moved to Broken Rope with the hopes of living Wild West lives. When they found that sort of living was fraught with more death and danger than they were either used to or prepare
d for, they chose to go into business instead. And what a business it was. The Kennington Bakery brought an amount of respect to Broken Rope that our deadly reputation never could.

  At one time or another, the bakery employed everyone who lived in Broken Rope, or so it seemed. Often, I’d heard people say things like, “Yeah, my great-grandfather (or some other ancestor) worked at Kenny for ten years. Made bread until he got promoted to the Puff Pocket crew.” Many people “back in the day” even braved the violent stories of our town and moved here because they knew they could find employment at the bakery, a much safer place to work than saloons, brothels, and the like. So, while the bakery offered employment in a safe environment, the Wild West still raged wildly throughout the rest of Broken Rope.

  My best friend and the town historian, Jake, had once told me that he gives complete credit to the bakery as the reason that Broken Rope thrived when other Wild West towns died.

  If it weren’t for the bakery, the one place we don’t highlight as a historical tourist attraction, we might not be here and have the chance to show off all our other, stranger parts, he’d say.

  Broken Rope was a performance town, the main street still holding pace with time from an earlier era, a hundred years ago, with a dirt main road and wooden walkways that led to the same sorts of shops that had been part of the original Missouri town. We’d added a modern flair with things like air-conditioning and ovens that were fit with knobs instead of burning wood, but we kept those technologies well hidden from the tourists.

  The condition of the bakery building and its location contributed to its stark existence even as it sat in a heavily traveled (well, heavily traveled for Broken Rope) residential neighborhood. But I always sensed there was more to why it was mostly forgotten. Jake’s wonky feelings about the building’s karma somehow made sense to me, and I suspected that those were common, shared feelings among the locals.

  There were so many things to do in Broken Rope that no one paid much attention to it anyway. Every now and then, though, I’d see someone standing in the weeds that had overtaken the long skinny front strip. They’d be pointing their camera up to the structure or toward one of the large broken-out windows. It was an eyesore to be sure, but it must have garnered some wayward tourists’ interest.

  It was dusk by the time Gram parked her Volvo behind the back of the building, and I tried to look at it with different eyes, perhaps with more of an appreciation, but I couldn’t make the leap; it was still just an unappealing old structure to me.

  “I tried to get in here a couple times when I was in high school,” I said. “It was impossible. We talked about getting a ladder so we could climb in one of the windows, but even we could see how foolish that would have been. Too much broken glass, too far a drop on the inside.”

  Gram shook her head. “There’s no way in except for Gent. He’ll let us in.”

  I blinked. “Well, that sounds downright awesome,” I said as I smiled her direction. The light from an old streetlamp came through the driver’s side windshield and illuminated her face. She’d been the Missouri Anna we all knew and loved when she was teaching the new crop of students, but the arrival of Gent had sent her off-kilter slightly. She glanced up at the building through the windshield, the light making her wrinkles a little deeper and curiously more meaningful.

  It took her a second but the corner of her mouth finally twitched at my playful tone. “I know, I know, I’ve got to shape up.”

  “It’s fine, Gram,” I said as I touched her arm. I wanted to remind her about my own ghost angst, that I still thought about Jerome and how much I sometimes missed Sally’s happy laugh and desire to always be doing something, but it wasn’t necessary to vocalize either of those things; she knew.

  “Come on, Isabelle, you’re in for quite a treat. This place is amazing when Gent’s around. Step carefully. Even with shoes on, there’s lots of dangerous glass until we get inside,” Gram said as we got out of the car. We stepped forward with caution.

  “Oh, bad shoes, Betts,” Gram said. “I should have noticed.”

  I’d put on flip-flops after all the students left for the day. Gram was right, they were horrible for what we would be trekking through, but I hadn’t brought my sneakers with me.

  “I’ll be extra careful,” I said.

  Gram sighed, thought a minute, and then said, “All right, but be really careful,” before we continued on.

  The back of the building was solid wall except for a long row of windows across the top. There were also three delivery bays, each with an extra-large rolling door that was boarded up tightly. Every once in a while the boards were sprayed with graffiti, but mostly they were left alone. Each bay was at the bottom of its own downhill driveway. The bays made good hiding spots, this I knew, though they were, as Gram had mentioned, littered with glass from the vandalized windows above. She’d parked the Volvo at the top of one of the bays where the glass was still present but not so thickly.

  “You’re not afraid we’ll get caught?” I asked her.

  “Nope, you’re dating a police officer. We’ll be able to talk ourselves out of any trouble with the law. And, no one can go in there unless they can see Gent. If they can see him, we should probably know about it.”

  “Everyone knows your car,” I said as I followed Gram’s veer toward another door. I didn’t think my dating Cliff would keep him from being curious about Gram’s empty car, though she was probably right in that we wouldn’t get in too much legal trouble. We wouldn’t be arrested for trespassing, but Cliff would be concerned about our safety.

  Gram shrugged. “Never been a problem before.”

  “Okay.”

  She stopped walking and looked at me. “Betts, don’t bring up the fire. Let me do it. It’s part of the memory issue. Gent and his family need some time to find the memory themselves. I’ve tried to push it before, and it only confuses them, and confused ghosts are even more annoying.”

  I looked at her, in the dark now, the streetlight at her back. She’d already told me not to bring up the fact that the building would probably be demolished someday, and now the fire. What were we supposed to talk about? I would do as she asked, but her reasons for asking weren’t what she said they were, I could tell.

  “Sure, Gram, no problem,” I finally said.

  “Good.” She turned. “This door,” she said as she gave me her hand.

  I held it as she took a step onto a small landing up and out of the bay. I continued to hold on as I used her for leverage to get myself up, too.

  The door was just a regular solid door, similar to my front door. But this one had a thick piece of plywood nailed across its top and one across its bottom. The knob would have been exposed if there’d been a knob instead of a hole where one used to be.

  Gram leaned toward the door. “Gent, we’re here.”

  A long minute passed accompanied by only the sounds of crickets and someone starting a car somewhere in the general vicinity.

  Gram chewed her lip, knocked on the door in the space between the two boards, and said, “Gent, we’re here,” a little louder.

  Things began to change.

  The boards over the door disappeared and the knob appeared. Except it wasn’t a knob, it was an ornate handle.

  “Uh, Gram, what’s going on?” I said as I blinked at the transforming reality.

  “This is going to be weird for you, Betts. It was the first few times for me, too. But you’ll get used to it, I promise.”

  The door was now a smooth dark wood, and a small plaque at the top of it was made of shiny brass. It said: KENNINGTON BAKED GOODS.

  I stepped back. It was one thing to see ghosts, another thing to be able to communicate with them, but this was a whole new aspect to add to the already strange experience. Though my encounter with Sally had shown me that whatever was going on during the current time period could be influenced by spirits from the past, I’d never guessed that I could also step into the past, or a setting of the past, or whateve
r was happening.

  I’d sensed that I’d jumped a ride on a slippery slope when I first met Jerome. Communicating with ghosts of the long-dead might be harmless, but it also might mean that I was exposing myself—that Gram had been exposing herself—to something dangerous, something that live people as a rule weren’t supposed to be a part of.

  Mostly, though, I’d ignored any sense of danger. It had been there, though, in the back of my mind, a tiny glimmer.

  That glimmer suddenly grew larger and brighter, as the light around the door did the same.

  “Gram?”

  She stepped back and handed me her car keys. “Betts, I’m sorry. I should have prepared you better. Here, go, take the car and go. I’ll stay and talk to Gent. I want to. I’ll call you when I’m done and you can come get me. I’m sorry, sweetheart. You don’t have to do this, Betts, you don’t have to do it at all.”

  No, I didn’t have to. Given the option to go though made it clear that I truly didn’t want to leave. I was just a little scared but not enough to step off the platform. Yet. I swallowed hard as the door opened.

  The ethereal sense faded, leaving behind only light, regular old light, and Gent Cylas. But he wasn’t as I’d seen him earlier. Instead of his clothes reminding me of Jerome, they reminded me of a high school lunch lady. Gent wore a white shirt and white pants, all covered in a long white apron. Unlike the lunch ladies I knew, though, he wore a cap, something that reminded me of a sailor, and not a hairnet. The cap sat on the side of his head and made him even more adorable. But he was still barefooted.