Page 39 of Saving Bonnie

“It looks like a lot of work.”

And here we go.

“It can be.” I draw in a breath, ripping a piece of masa with a little more force than I’d normally do.

“Kinda reminds me of my mom making bread.”

“Oh…” Seconds pass, but he doesn’t add anything else. So what, that’s it? I glance at him as I roll the masa into a ball to fit my palm. The exact size I need for the oversized tortillas.

But there’s nothing about the fact I could still be in bed? At least this guy wouldn’t be asking if I wouldn’t rather be making him breakfast.

“Yeah, she’s homemakery,” he adds, breaking into my mental rant. I catch his wistful smile, and I’m chagrined. “Got my sister baking, too.” He scrunches his nose. “Not that Becky likes it any.”

“And you?” I asked, half expecting a dismissive comment.

“Guess she never gave much thought to teaching me.” He shrugs.

How unfair. “Why wouldn’t she teach you?”

His cell rings, and he reaches to answer. “Likely, ’cuz, you know, I’m a guy.”

The reply brings me to a dead stop midway through forming the next ball. Throughout my life, I’ve had to deal with what they thought I shouldn’t do because I’m “a girl.” I never thought about what guys weren’t taught because “they’re boys.” His mother assumed he didn’t want to or didn’t need to learn because he’s a man. She never bothered to ask or to take his feelings into account. I’ve made my own assumptions about a man at this very table twice this week.

I place the ball next to the others on the table. Gram would never have allowed the ball to pass. Ball sounds so plain. When Gram taught me how to make tortillas, she made sure I called it atestal. Smiling at the memory, I palm thetestal, tucking the edges under while creating the perfect little dome.

“’Course she didn’t do this every day.” He takes in the mountain of masa and stifles a yawn. “And she certainly wasn’t going to start this early, especially on a Sunday.”

“You get used to it.” I pull away to turn on the flat top. “After a while, you don’t think it’s any different from anyone else getting up to go to work every day.”

“I suppose.”

“Need me to put on a pot of coffee?” I offer, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction. I don’t usually set coffee this early because I need it to be fresh when we open at seven.

“I can make myself useful.” He pushes away from the window, pausing at the last second. “If that’s okay, I mean.”

“Sure.” I nod, going back to portioning the masa. “Help yourself.”

We work in silence for a few minutes as the smell of coffee fills the room. Never thought I’d miss being alone in this place, but with what’s happened lately, I’d welcome a minute to myself.

“Would ya like a cup?”

“Sure.” I manage a smile. “With three of the Italian Creme, please.” He approaches with the two cups in hand. “Thank you.” I take a sip of the hot liquid then, setting the cup on the counter, I start rolling out the first batch of tortillas.

Cord walks over to the sink, looking out the window toward the parking lot then the entrance. “I guess I would have expected you to make some extra tortillas yesterday so you could sleep in this morning.”

Of course he would. “We serve our food fresh.”

He resumes his place, settling in at the doorway to the dining area. With a shoulder to the frame, he wraps his hands around the cup, quietly watching as I work.

I put the rolling pin to thetestal, turning it to make the large circular shape I strive for. “Tell me about your mom’s bread making. Did she bake every day?”

Cord scoffs. “No. Definitely not.” He smiles.

“She made several loaves, to last the week?” I ask, working on the next tortilla.

“Naw.” He shakes his head, a crooked smile on his lips. “She wasn’t going to put time and effort on what she could buy for less than a dollar.”

“Oh.” So much for making small talk.

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