"Really, you have always believed that?" Her oldest and longest-time friend was not convinced of the free-wheeling whimsy of destiny. The straw haired lanky woman ran a coffee and pastry bar. "We used to be able to call ourselves a bakery, but the public is fickle. They like to park with the trendy. So we are The Beanery." Successful in three towns within a hundred mile radius, Linda M was a third-generation baker with a head for business. Her vision was to be the best, and that was how she made her mark. The menu for coffee and tea were the marks all others reached for. They measured themselves against Linda M. Her pastry ran in three tracks: good, better, superb. Good sandwich breads. Better muffins. Superb scones. On the first weekend of every month a Special Bake had customers lined up an hour before opening, and that meant they were out there at 7 AM. Once the special was gone, they were gone. No one wanted to be in line to be told, "Sorry. We've sold out."
Over a freshly brewed cup of thick espresso made from Guatemalan beans, the ones harvested in the cool lands, not the volcanic usuals, Dumpling poured a stream of coconut milk, stirred and sipped. Her eyes scanned for the raw sugar. She sprinkled the molasses colored granules into her cup. Sipped, her smacking lips curled into approval. "Hummmmm." This respond was what her friend never got enough of. "Shouldn't it be yum? You like it right. You love it!"
"Oh yeah, I love it. But anybody can say yum. Me? This stuff turns on my Hummm." Dumpling was roaring with the laughter that was among her signatures. Deep roaring laughter.
The morning coffee chit-chat was meant to be a kind of business discussion. But, mostly it was Linda M's version of friends just mullin' things over. This was informal and loose compared to real business. "The thing about having many paths and choices. That never occurs to me. Never. When Pop said it was time to hand things over. I was fully formed, more than able and that was that!"
"You're an only child. I'm the third of three sisters, the muli ... the tail-end!" The round cheeks on Dumpling face were still as golden as Butternut though lines etched them with fine winkles like sand on a slack tide when she smiled or laughed. She did both, often. "Expectations for you were cemented, what your father wanted you wanted."
Linda M was fifty-nine, her sixtieth birthday was less than a month away. "Pop Molinas" had been dead five years. His voice, his dreams were still the directives of everything important. "Are you saying it's because I was the only child this kinda free-flowing destiny never occurred to me?" Seriously, she was considering new information here. Most people could never get this close to her to dare a conversation like this. Dumpling was a different story all together.
The espresso was working in reverse. That's the way things went with Dumpling Woman. The caffeine was relaxing her. The sugar doubled the effect. If it weren't for the coconut milk she would have been asleep. "Where else was all that verve, that talent for dough going to go but into you. Your father was a Mexican success story in this town, and your mom made service look easy. Those heels. Did she always wear them?"
"Always! She was born with 'em, I swear." The tall Blondie genes were her mother's. Dumpling had a fleeting smart ass thought about dumb blondes. She swallowed hard remembering it was her mom who kept the business crisp, and profitable. Money wasn't important to Mrs. M but that didn't seem to stop it from growing like plantain. What was important was Pop Molinas, and when he died suddenly, it didn't take long, three months, for her heart to stop beating. She passed in her sleep three months to the day of Pop's death.
"Why do ya think about these things now. What's the difference anyway. Questioning your destiny, your fate. Are you not happy doing what you're doing here!" Dumpling looked around at the comfortable tables, the cozy booths that were old-fashioned in a now sort of way. The tapestry wall hangings were real, the wooden table were truly solid maple or oak and the chairs held a body like her own with ease. "People like being in your place. Your places. Every one of them chairs you picked out yourself. You know the carpenters who make these tables.This is not Made in China. No offense to the Chinese. Everything in here was made right here."
"I'm married to this business. I have no children, and I never thought there were options other than to keep making dough." It was the closest Linda M got to a joke. Dumpling didn't let it pass. Her laughter was communicable and her fingers in her friends ribs made laughter impossible to stop. "The dough, the dough. Oh let us have some good, better, superior dough."
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