THE BREAD ISN'T YOUR FATHER
Theo returned Tuesday for his final check.
Mara had placed the envelope beside the register.
He picked it up.
“Thanks.”
“Do you have another job?”
“Interview tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Why?”
“I'm asking.”
“You usually ask right before criticizing.”
Mara deserved that too.
“Come into the production room.”
Theo looked toward the door.
“Am I getting fired twice?”
“I don't think payroll supports that.”
He followed her.
The afternoon bake had finished.
Several racks cooled beside the ovens.
Mara had prepared one tub of country dough on the bench.
Theo noticed immediately.
“What is this?”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“The fold.”
He stared at her.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you already know it.”
“I know how my father did it.”
“So?”
“I want to see how he taught you.”
Theo looked genuinely irritated.
“I didn't come here to perform Arthur Keene for you.”
The sentence surprised her.
“That's not what I'm asking.”
“Kind of is.”
“No.”
“You fired me because I didn't do bread your way. Now you want me back in the production room because it turns out my way belonged to your father first.”
Mara had no immediate response.
Theo continued.
“I've spent ten years learning this job.”
“I know.”
“No, you know my résumé.”
He pointed toward the dough.
“Arthur showed me one fold. He taught me some fermentation. He yelled at me for cutting warm bread. That's not why I'm a baker.”
Mara looked at the dough.
“Fair.”
Theo seemed almost disappointed that she had agreed.
Mara pulled the tub closer to herself.
“I was wrong.”
“About firing me?”
“About why I fired you.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I thought I fired you because you ignored instructions.”
“You did.”
“I fired you because every change you made felt like you were changing him.”
Theo was quiet.
“My father has been dead six years,” Mara said. “I've been running this bakery like he's coming downstairs tomorrow morning to inspect it.”
Theo looked around.
“He'd hate the new espresso machine.”
Mara laughed once.
“He would.”
“And the card reader.”
“Absolutely.”
“Probably me.”
“He liked arguing.”
“Then maybe not.”
Mara touched the dough.
“You're right. The bread isn't my father.”
“No.”
“But you're still impossible.”
“That seems unrelated.”
“Show me the fold.”
Theo considered leaving.
She could see it.
Then he washed his hands.
He turned the dough onto the bench.
What followed was almost identical to Arthur's movement.
Almost.
Theo lifted the outer edge.
Folded inward.
Turned.
Pressed with the heel.
Waited.
But then he rotated earlier than Arthur had.
Mara frowned.
“My father didn't do that.”
“I know.”
“You changed it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“This flour is stronger.”
There was no defensiveness.
Just bread.
Mara touched the dough.
He was right.
“How long have you done it that way?”
“Three years.”
“And the hydration?”
“Depends on flour.”
“You really hate recipes.”
“I love recipes.”
“You don't obey them.”
“They're information.”
“My father would've thrown you out.”
Theo smiled.
“He threatened to.”
“When?”
“I was sixteen. Came back to Linden one summer and told him I wanted to make baguettes.”
“What was wrong with that?”
“He said Americans who suddenly want baguettes are usually trying to impress someone.”
Mara laughed loudly enough that one employee looked through the doorway.
That was Arthur.
Not a memorial.
Not a saint.
Arthur.
Theo finished the fold.
Mara looked at him.
“The job is still open.”
“So?”
“So I am offering it back.”
“Same pay?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I have another interview.”
“You haven't even been offered anything.”
“Neither had I here until ten seconds ago.”
“What do you want?”
“More responsibility.”
“You worked nine nights.”
“I've worked seven years.”
“For other people.”
“Exactly.”
Mara folded her arms.
Theo did the same.
It was an absurdly familiar posture.
“What kind of responsibility?”
“Let me develop one bread.”
“One.”
“One.”
“It has to fit production.”
“Obviously.”
“It cannot require fourteen obscure grains.”
“I wasn't planning fourteen.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Fine.”
Theo smiled.
“Then yes.”
Mara pointed toward the dough.
“You still follow production notes unless we agree otherwise.”
“Fine.”
“And you don't change hydration without telling me.”
“Fine.”
“And no warm bread.”
Theo looked offended.
“That was twelve-year-old me.”
“I don't trust him either.”
For the first time since Arthur died, Mara hired someone without wondering whether her father would approve.