Cream Puff Read online

  He would one day realize that avoiding his tormentors eventually led to his lifetime calling, and the irony was not lost on him. Bullies made him a baker. Charlie spent the rest of his hitch baking for Uncle Sam and loved it, but he was forced to put his passion on the back-burner once his enlistment ended.

  “Time to get a real job,” many back home told him.

  Chemical engineering was where the real money was back then, so he went for it. He’d made good grades in high school and had excelled in Chemistry. It also appealed to his meticulous nature. The G.I. Bill got him the schooling he needed, his brains got him the job, and the salary got him Pearl Granville.

  The benefits ended there.

  He landed a position at Gother Chemical, but as good as they were to him, Charlie grew to hate the tedious work. It provided a more-than-comfortable living and he knew that Pearl wouldn’t stand for him chasing a dream (unless it kept her in the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed), but the place was crushing his spirit.

  Regardless, he stayed with it for years. It was just easier. Conflict had never been his strong suit anyhow, and the good salary kept Pearl off his back.

  When the company finally began laying-off due to cutbacks and he found his position in jeopardy, he’d had all he could stand. For the first and only time in their marriage, he stood his ground with Pearl and told her what he had in mind.

  “Ya gotta be kidding me,” she’d said, laughing in his face.

  Until she found out he wasn’t.

  “I am going to—we are going to do this,” he said.

  Her mouth fell open. “Okay.”

  He’d expected an all-out fight and was prepared to counter every argument she might have, but the fight never came.

  Instead, she joined her entire family in ridiculing his efforts every step of the way. Charlie was undeterred. Despite all their barbs and laughter, he single-handedly started and ran his bakery, a business that would become one of the most lucrative and well-known in the Deep South. Even then, Pearl’s family wouldn’t acknowledge the accomplishment. They just criticized him less.

  Ransom, Louisiana sits barely twenty miles north of Shreveport. His hometown was renowned for its own style of delicious, Cajun-influenced dishes full of fats and salt. The Baker’s Dozen provided the sweet counterpart everyone craved. One of his customers once said that if bayou recipes were the soul of Ransom, Charlie’s bakery was the religion. If only he’d been able to keep his own wife from worshipping at the altar as much as she did.

  Pearl adored the baked goods. Cookies, cakes, pies, doughnuts, éclairs; she sampled them all with regularity, but her craving for the puffs topped them all. Every item he produced in the bakery sold well, but his powdered, custard-filled cream puffs were the stuff of legend. And they were Pearl’s favorite.

  Problem was, Pearl never believed in getting too much of a good thing.

  With her increase in weight came an equal dislike for the people around her, and her husband was no exception. In fact, he found himself the main target for her anger on a daily basis. Anything he did or said always seemed to get under her skin.

  He tried to fix things. At one point, he even begged her to tell him what was wrong (or what he could do to make things right), but was rebuffed for being silly and stupid. For Charlie, the idea of leaving Pearl had never crossed his mind. While their marriage might seem a joke to others, he simply accepted it as two people who needed each other. Besides, he still loved her.

  Her bitterness continued to increase along with the digits on the bathroom scale, causing Pearl to stay at home more often. By the time her larger size and behavior became common knowledge, most folks just blamed it on losing Tommy.

  Poor thing, they all gossiped. Mourning herself into an early grave. But Charlie knew better. Her nastiness had been around long before their boy died.

  ****

  “Hiya, Chuck,” Grady Granville said, coming out of the sporting goods store and startling Charlie from his walking daydream.

  He was carrying packages and almost bowled Charlie over. Pearl’s younger brother by five years, Grady was tall, with a thick face and the personality of a tree stump. He had a reputation for questionable business ethics—a real wolf in wolf’s clothing. Only this wolf drank bourbon like a fish and owned the largest farm equipment dealership in the state.

  “So how’s my favorite brother-in-law?” Grady said, extending his hand.

  “Doing well, Grady. You?”

  Grady shifted the bags in his arms.

  “Great, great…just getting a glove and other stuff for my grandson. Wanna make sure he’s got all he needs before next season. Starting pitcher.”

  “Sounds like a good kid,” Charlie said.

  “Best. Say, how’s your kids?”

  One living, one dead. Thanks for asking.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Grady said, smacking himself in the forehead with his free hand, “one of ʼem’s getting married, right?”

  “Ruby, yes. Day after tomorrow.”

  “Well, congrats, brother,” Gary said, patting Charlie’s shoulder a little too hard, “Say, don’t you and sis have another anniversary coming up? Forty-somethin’, right?ˮ

  A crisp breeze blew just then, causing both men to shiver. As Grady held his bags in front of his face to blunt the sting of it, Charlie tugged at his coat. What he really wanted to do was walk away. It was too cold outside to stand and chat with someone you wanted to talk to, much less somebody you didn’t. He smiled.

  “Fiftieth. Same day as the wedding. See, Pearl and Ruby decided—”

  “Well, gotta go, Charlie,” Grady said. “Still have a few things to pick up.” He turned toward the Cadillac at the curb. “You take care of my sister, ya hear?”

  Grady always had a way of making it sound like a threat. Not surprising, really, Charlie thought, when you considered that Grady had been best friends with Frankie Lane all through high school. Birds of a feather…

  Charlie really didn’t want to see Grady give his stupid signature thumbs-up that he always did, so he turned away and continued down the promenade. The sudden blare of the Caddy’s horn behind him got his attention. It was close. Real close.

  “Ya know, brother,” Grady yelled over the sound of the engine, “I gotta admit, I never thought a guy could make a decent living doin’ what you do, but you’ve done all right for yourself.”

  More than once over the years Grady had called him a ‘cook’, as if someone slinging hash at a roadside diner did the same thing he did. The idiot had also once informed him that baking was women’s work. Charlie had his own opinion about selling farm machinery, but never felt it proper to judge others by the work they do. The nicest guy he ever knew emptied his garbage cans every Wednesday morning.

  “I’m a baker,” Charlie said, walking away.

  “I know whatcha are,” Grady spat back.

  The engine suddenly revved behind Charlie and his heart slammed in his chest. He turned in time to see the Cadillac speed past; close enough that it almost jumped the curb and clipped him. He stood frozen in place and watched as the sleek sedan rolled away. Through the rear glass Charlie could see the familiar thumbs-up and could swear the guy was laughing.

  Not for the first time Charlie wondered what was wrong with that family. He waited for Grady’s car to disappear in traffic before feeling safe enough to walk on.

  This whole thing was taking longer than expected. He just wanted to find an anniversary gift for Pearl, get home, and get some sleep. Mornings at the bakery came way too soon and he had the added stress of trying to complete Ruby’s wedding cake in time for Saturday.

  Maybe he’d just close the bakery for the weekend, he thought. It wasn’t like they’d go broke or anything. Pearl had been after him the last couple years to sell the business anyway. Perhaps it was time, but boy, how he loved that bakery. Tommy had loved it, too.

  The place held a lot of memories. Besides, what else would he do with his time?

&n
bsp; Charlie passed several stores and was almost to the end of the block when a cat suddenly appeared from somewhere behind him and hustled past. Then it stopped in the walkway and stood sideways, blocking his path. He’d never cared for cats much, but the animal was a beautiful light gray with a white face and socks to match. It looked up at him and meowed, then walked back to him—right between his legs—and around behind him with no fear at all.

  Charlie turned around and was startled to see the cat standing there on the sidewalk, but several doors down and a good fifty yards away. Did it really move that fast?

  It sat on its haunches meowing at him. For some reason Charlie felt drawn to the animal, but was sure it would run off as he approached. Instead, the cat stretched as he came near and rolled over onto its back. It exposed its belly, lifted its forepaws to its chin, and began to purr.

  “Really?” Charlie said.

  Against his better judgment and the ache in his knees, Charlie knelt down and scratched the furry underside. The soft thrum from the cat became a motorboat. Little eyes closed with pleasure for a moment before opening to reveal blue feline eyes that appraised him.

  Just before rolling back onto its feet, he could’ve sworn it winked at him. Then it sat up, pawed gently at Charlie’s shin, and lifted the other paw in the direction of the closest door—the last store on the block. The cat actually pointed.

  Charlie closed his eyes to clear his head. Overwork.

  When he opened them, the cat was still at his feet and looking up at him.

  “Hey there, little one,” he said, bending and resting his hands on his knees. “Am I crazy, or did you just point like a quail-huntin’ bird dog?

  The gray turned, winked again (he was sure of it this time), and walked to the entryway of the shop. Curious, Charlie followed.

  Chapter Three

  The property that had once been host to a bicycle shop was now one of those artsy-craftsy places Charlie secretly liked to visit from time to time for no other reason than to spark his imagination. Wooden carvings, plaques with catchy sayings, beaded things of all kinds; they all served to inspire him with new ideas. After all, real bakers needed to be artists, too.

  The store-front window was framed with a satiny curtain of purple trimmed in gold that hid the interior from view. A wooden sign with matching colors hung from the simple white door. It read:

  Callo’s Curios

  An Answer for Every Occasion

  Confirming Charlie’s impressions, the gray feline padded up to the door, pressed a white sock against it, and looked back. What the heck, Charlie figured. He was running out of options for a good gift to mark their milestone anniversary and a craft shop might have just the answer.

  Then it hit him: one of Pearl’s few passions was making jewelry by hand. It was her creative outlet just as baking was his. Necklaces and bracelets to rings and earrings; she made everything from beads and colored stones and had recently mentioned an item she needed. It was some kind of wire with a goofy name, but he’d be darned if he could remember it.

  He pulled the door handle and the cat led him inside as if it owned the place. The jingle of an unseen bell announced them both.

  “Welcome,” a female voice said.

  The interior was lit by well-placed table lamps throughout; subtle and inviting, yet bright enough to see well without the cold, stark glare of fluorescents. Fat, unscented candles glowed here and there and thickened the air with the smell of melted wax. Comfortable and homey, Charlie thought. Someone loved this place as much as he loved his bakery. He shook off the cold and looked toward where he’d heard the voice.

  The woman parted the beaded curtain that separated the foyer from a rear storeroom and walked to him, extending her hand. Silver hair in a pony tail, the woman wore jeans and a simple tee on a slim frame. She smiled beneath a pair of large-frame glasses propped on a pug nose and her wrist jangled with an assortment of brilliant silver bracelets.

  “I’m Isabelle,” she said with a voice as warm as her handshake. She motioned toward the smaller, flickering lights. “Please excuse the theatrics. I just love candles.”

  Charlie made her out to be somewhere around his age, but with an ease of movement that made it hard to tell. “Me, too,” he said, releasing her hand. “Charlie.”

  Either the place was bigger than he’d first thought, or the lady just made good use of available space. She stood aside to let him take it all in and he realized he was the only customer. What he’d first mistaken for a typical craft supply store appeared to be quite a bit more.

  Books were the first to grab him. Large, cloth-bound hardcovers stood silent watch atop high shelves on either side. Their ancient appearance drew him closer, and he may have been no expert, but the bindings and leaf spoke of volumes that were much older than even he was. A respectable amount of dust whispered of secrets kept for generations and the titles and authors were too faded to make out.

  The combinations of merchandise got stranger.

  Oddities and trinkets of every kind lay on shelves next to stuffed animals. Carved wooden boxes both big and small were placed among odd-shaped glass jars of various sizes. There were crystals, various aromas of incense, even a mass of long wooden staffs held counsel in the corner—each more unique than the next and their purposes mysterious.

  Despite such a hodgepodge of unrelated items, the place had a feel of warmth, of balance. Charlie thought it looked like a garage sale sponsored by the Wizard of Oz.

  “What is all this stuff?” he asked.

  “You’re seeing only the trees,” she said with pride. “You need to look for the forest.”

  “Sorry?”

  She giggled. “Little joke. Just couldn’t stand the idea of opening a run-of-the-mill craft store. I tend to put things together that don’t seem to belong…at least to the eyes of some people. But I think they’re better this way. Makes them more special than they’d be on their own.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said with a nod, scanning the shelves again. “I believe it does.”

  Charlie thought he caught an admiring look from the pretty shopkeeper and cleared his throat. “But you do carry beading supplies, don’t you?”

  She let out a good-natured chuckle and blew through pursed lips. “Honey, please.” She pushed past and motioned for him to follow. “Come.”

  She led him to an aisle at the rear of the store. They turned the corner and he was overwhelmed by the amount of jewelry supplies on display. The walls to either side were covered with hundreds of tiny, clear plastic bins; each one sporting a tiny picture of the bead or clasp or gem contained within. If the wire Pearl needed wasn’t there, Charlie thought, she didn’t need it.

  He recognized the brand the moment Isabelle mentioned it, but there were just too many choices, too many lengths, thicknesses. He settled on one spool that was middle-of-the-road, and the color was perfect for the occasion: gold. Not that he was going to count this as her anniversary gift. At a nickel a foot, the whole reel cost less than four bucks.

  “Now that particular brand is nylon-coated stainless steel—a very strong wire,” Isabelle said. “Your wife has good taste in materials.”

  “Yeah?”

  She ought to, Charlie thought. Pearl liked to brag that she always had a good eye for the best. Except when it came to men, of course.

  They headed back to the register. As they went, he scanned the other aisles and shelves. Pearl would be happy to get the wire, but he might still find her anniversary gift here. He was hopeful, anyway.

  It would have to be something unique. Something special. And knowing his wife, that meant something expensive.

  Many of the items on display were definite head-turners. Hovering above the aisle of woodcarving supplies was a giant mask; a wicked looking thing that might have been carved by Mayans or Aztecs. Beautiful baskets of straw and wicker were everywhere he looked. There were woodcuttings with hand-painted, witty sayings such as You Either Like Bacon, or You’re Wrong, or classics like I D
rink Coffee for Your Protection. He had to grin at the one that declared Angel Food Cake: The Other White Meat. You had to admit that the woman’s décor and choice of merchandise gave the place a happy, pleasant feel, but nothing jumped out at him as something good enough for a fiftieth wedding anniversary.

  Isabelle rang up his purchase at the register.

  “Sorry that I can’t offer you a little more business,” Charlie said. “Three-sixty for a length of wire won’t exactly pay your light bill.”

  She took the five he offered and handed back the change. “Don’t sweat it, dear. I get by just fine.”

  Charlie made a show of looking around again. “So this isn’t the rush hour?”

  They both got a laugh out of that. Just then, a gray-and-white blur leapt from somewhere close by and landed next to one of the wicker baskets on one of the higher shelves. Both Charlie and the woman jumped. She barked a startled laugh before composing herself.

  “Yours?” she said.

  Charlie shook his head. “Came in with me. Led me here is more like it.”

  “Sounds about right,” Isabelle said, coming out from behind the counter. “They never belong to us. It’s usually the other way around.”

  She walked over to the shelf while the gray sniffed at the rim of the open basket. The cat was climbing in to investigate the wicker further when the woman’s hands gathered him up and lowered him into a comfortable ball in her arms. Charlie had expected the animal to bolt or slash at her, but the cat simply looked up into her face with a quizzical expression.

  “Hiya, handsome,” she said. “Bet you think those looks will get you anything, huh?”

  In response, the little white face disappeared into her bosom and purred.

  Guess so, Charlie thought as he averted his gaze. “Friendly little thing, ain’t he?”