Bitter Sweet by Lavyrle Spencer

twenty-three years? Out of nowhere the thought intruded. Startled by it, Eric set his feet in motion and jogged down the hill, hollering hello to Pete Nelson through the back screen door of the bakery as he passed it and headed around the building. It was a pretty little place, set back from the street with a grassy front lawn, surrounded by a white-railed porch and beds of bright flowers that gave it a homey look.
    Inside, he nodded to two early tourists buying bismarcks, exchanged good mornings with the pretty, young Hawkins girl behind the counter and asked after her mother, who’d had a gallbladder operation, then exchanged pleasantries with Pete, who stuck his head out of the back room, and with Sam Ellerby, who was out collecting his usual tray of assorted rolls and breads to serve at the Summertime Restaurant on Spruce Street, two blocks away.
    To Eric, this ritual trip to the bakery had become as enjoyable as Pete Nelson’s pastries. He returned up the hill in blithe spirits, carrying a white waxed bag, bounded into the house and poured two cups of coffee just as Nancy entered the kitchen.
    ‘Good morning,’ she said, for the first time that day. (To Nancy it was never a good morning until her makeup ritual was complete.)
    ‘Good morning.’
    She wore a bone-coloured linen skirt and a boxy shirt with dropped shoulders, immense sleeves, and an upturned collar, covered all over with tiny green and purple cats. Who but Nancy would wear purple and green cats and look - chic? Even her belt - a twisted hank of purple sisal with a buckle the size of a hubcap- would have looked stupid on anyone else. But his wife had panache, and indubitable style, and access to the discount rooms in the most elegant department stores across America . Any room Nancy Macaffee entered became eclipsed by her presence.
    Watching her cross the kitchen in purple shoes, her hair confined in a neat, low tail, her eyes shaded and mascaraed, her lips painted one colour and outlined with another, Eric sipped his coffee and grinned.
    Thanks.’ She accepted the cup he handed her and took a careful sip. ‘Mmm . . . you look like you’re in a good mood.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘What brought the smile?’
    He leaned against the cupboard, eating a fat, glazed doughnut, occasionally sipping. Just trying to imagine you as a polyester mama - say, two hundred pounds, wearing double-knit slacks and hair rollers every morning.’
    ‘Don’t hold your breath.’ She raised one eyebrow and gave him a smirk. ‘See anybody at the bakery?’
    ‘ Two tourists, Sam Ellerby, the Hawkins girl, and Pete stuck his head out of the kitchen.’
    ‘Any news?’
    ‘Nuh-uh.’ He licked his fingers and downed the last of his coffee. ‘What are you going to do today?’
    ‘Weekly sales reports, what else? This job would be ideal if it weren’t for all the paperwork.’
    And the travel, he thought. After a full five days on the road, she spent her sixth, and often half of her seventh, doing paperwork - she was one damned hard worker, he’d give her that.
    But she loved the glamour associated with such stores as Bonwit Teller, Neiman-Marcus and Rocco Altobelli - all her accounts. And if travelling came along with the job, she accepted its drawbacks in exchange for that glamour.
    She’d had the Orlane job when they moved back to
Door
County
, and he’d thought she’d give it up, stay home and have a family. But instead, she’d put in longer hours both at home and on the road in order to keep the job.
    ‘How about you?’ she inquired, slipping on a pair of glasses, studying the weekly newspaper.
    ‘We’re full today, so is Mike. Taking three charter groups out.’ He rinsed his cup, put it into the dishwasher and donned a white skipper’s cap with a shiny black bill.
    ‘So you won’t be home till seven?’
    ‘Probably not.’
    She looked up through her oversized horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Try to make it earlier.’ ‘I can’t promise.’ ‘Just try, okay?’ He