First Love

The Art of Making DoughnutsBy Linda Budzinski “You ever been in love, McAllister?” “What? Course I have.” I glance over at my patrol partner. Twelve years my senior, Officer Ed Barrow is set to retire in two months with a full Jackson County pension. “What kind of question is that?” He shrugs and switches his ever-present toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Just making small talk.” “Small talk?” In our two decades riding together, Ed has never once bothered to make small talk. The light turns green, and he winds the cruiser down Second Street, pulling into our usual spot at the Gas-N-Grub. The coffee here is just average, but the doughnuts are pure bliss. I unbuckle my seatbelt but stay put. “Seriously, Ed. What’s this about?” He removes his toothpick and twirls it. “I don’t know. I worry about you, Gina. Who will look after you when I’m gone?” I roll my eyes. Ever since my father died, Ed has served as a self-appointed guardian, texting me after our late shifts to make sure I’m home safe, shoveling my stoop when it snows, lending me his wet vac when my basement floods. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ed, I’m pushing fifty. I’ll take care of myself. You and Cathy can set sail for Punta Gorda and never look back.” I hop out and shut the car door with perhaps a bit too much vigor. The Gas-N-Grub smells of a mixture of gasoline and pumpkin spice. Maria spotted us coming and has our favorite doughnuts already plated when we take our seats at the counter—raspberry cream for me, chocolate glazed for Ed. “Anything else I can get you?” she asks as she pours our coffees. “We need to find a boyfriend for Gina.” I punch Ed’s shoulder, practically knocking his thin frame off his stool. “Don’t mind him. He thinks I’m a damsel in distress, never mind the fact that my aim is better than his at twenty yards, and I’m faster from the holster, too.” Ed grins, his teeth covered in chocolate. “Oh, you can defend yourself. No one’s denying that.” He winks at Maria. “It’s not her safety I’m worried about.” I shake my head. I have a job I love, a townhome in the historic district, and a tabby I’ve managed to keep alive for eight-plus years. Between work, puttering around the house, and my favorite hobby—jigsaw puzzles—I keep plenty busy. Last thing I need is a man screwing things up. “I’m doing just fine, believe me.” I lift my doughnut and close my eyes. A soft sigh escapes my lips as the light, fluffy dough fills my mouth and the velvety raspberry cream coats my tastebuds. For a moment, I’m transported, floating. “Mmmm. Heavenly.” I’d inject this stuff if I could. * * * Mildred greets me at the door with an angry meow. My shift ran long thanks to some paperwork on a forced entry this afternoon, so it’s past our mealtime. I spoon a can of food into her bowl, toss a frozen meatloaf dinner into the microwave, and sit down to my latest puzzle—Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. “Have I ever been in love?” I repeat Ed’s question to Mildred. “Ridiculous. You know, I was engaged once.” Granted, I was barely out of high school and Will turned out to be a controlling, cheating loser, but still, that had to count. Didn’t it? As the microwave dings, I spy the puzzle piece I’ve been seeking—a bright pink flower—and snap it into place, completing Aline Charigot’s bonnet. According to the description on the box, about ten years after he painted this scene, Renoir married Charigot. He drew her as the most colorful character at the luncheon—pretty and playful. Sweet with a side of sass, as my Grannie would say. I trace her rosy cheek with my finger. Perhaps I never have experienced that kind of love. Then again, Jackson County isn’t exactly teeming with Renoirs. * * * Something’s off when Ed and I pull into the Gas-N-Grub the next day. Maria’s car is missing, and the newspaper rack is sitting to the left of the front door instead of its usual spot on the right. I rest my hand on my holster as I exit the cruiser. Ed and I enter to find a tall guy with reddish hair and a graying beard behind the register. He has light brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. “Morning, officers.” He ambles over and wipes off the counter in front of us. “What can I get for you today?” “Where’s Maria?” Ed asks. “And who are you?” I add. He tucks his rag into his apron pocket. “I’m Pete. Pete Reilly, Maria’s cousin. She’s on her way to Missouri. Her sister took a spill yesterday and needs some help around the house.” “Oh, golly, I’m sorry to hear that.” Ed offers his hand. “Ed Barrow. Nice to meet you.” I lean back in my stool. “I don’t recall Maria ever mentioning a sister in Missouri. Or a cousin named Pete, for that matter.” The man places his palms on the counter and leans forward, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let me guess. You play the bad cop.” I glare, and the smile disappears. He straightens and lifts his hands in the air. “Fine. You caught me. I’ve got Maria tied up in the back. I’m planning to serve her customers all day and make off with her tips.” Ed laughs and slaps his hand on the countertop. “You’re funny,” he says. “I like you.” I look away as the heat rises in my cheeks. I suppose I am being silly. It’s just that we’ve come here every shift for the past few years and Maria is always here to greet us. Seeing her is as much a part of my morning routine as putting on my uniform and attending our daily briefing at the station. “I’ll have the raspberry cream,” I say finally. “One raspberry cream doughnut coming up, Officer….” “McAllister. Gina.” Pete nods and disappears into the back only to reemerge empty-handed. “Afraid we’re out of the raspberry,” he says. “Out? What do you mean, out?” “The vanilla cream is excellent, if you want to try one of those.” “You’re never out. Unless….” I turn to Ed. “Do you think Maria saves one for me?” He shrugs. “She must.” I sigh. “When is she coming back?” “I’d guess in a week. Maybe two. Now, how about that vanilla cream?” Pete’s expression is eager. Hopeful. “Nah. I’ll stick with coffee for today.” Ed snorts and leans toward me, his voice low. “That stubborn streak’s a bad look. You know that, don’t you?” I ignore him and shake an extra packet of sugar into my cup. * * * Ed and I have a quiet day until a mid-afternoon call comes in. “Report of an 808 at Pet Perks,” the dispatcher says. Disturbing the peace. Ed flips on the siren even though we’re only four blocks away. He races to the scene and swerves to a squealing halt at the curb. The door to the grooming salon hangs open, revealing the cause of the disturbance: a young woman screaming at an employee. “I’ll sue you, and the owner, and.…” She rips a chew toy off a rack by the register and hurls it onto an already toy-littered floor. “Ma’am, please stop. We can work this—” The employee pauses as she notices us in the doorway. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” “The cops?” The angry customer’s eyes grow wide. “You called the cops? On me? You’re the one who should be locked up.” She reaches for another toy, but I warn her. “Ma’am, drop the Tweety Bird. Step away from the counter and keep your hands where I can see them.” Ed approaches her. “What seems to be the problem?” “The problem is that.” She turns and points to a dog lying in the corner—a poodle sporting a bright green mohawk from its head to its rump. “Duchess has a show tomorrow, and these idiots have made her utterly un-showable.” The employee shakes her head. “I’ve explained to her. The gentleman who brought the dog in specifically asked for this style.” “Well, that so-called gentleman is my ex, and he had no business telling you that.” The woman’s voice breaks. “He claims Duchess hates being shown, but he’s wrong. She loves it. You should see her strut around the arena.” Ed and I exchange glances. It’d be nice to get out of here without having to file a report. He invites the two women to take a seat with him in the waiting area to talk things out while I pick up chew toys. I’m placing the last rubber bone back into its basket when the sound of footsteps catches my attention. I turn to find Pete in the doorway holding a small white box. “They said I might find you here.” “Who’s they?” “The guys at the station. I have something for you.” He lifts the lid to reveal a doughnut—golden brown, with a hint of raspberry peeking through one end. My eyes widen and my mouth waters, but I place my hands on my hips and assume my best everything-is-under-control-here stance. “What happened? Did you find an extra in the back?” Pete appears surprised by the question. “An extra? What? No. I made it for you.” “Made it? “Yes.” “For me?” “Yes.” “You?” “Me.” Pete smiles. My heart rate, which tends to run a steady sixty beats per minute, even when Ed and I are careening through town in hot pursuit, feels as though it's doing double time, and a line of perspiration forms at the nape of my neck. This is the man responsible for my morning rhapsody? * * * “Dinner at the Hop on Inn?” Ed’s smile is as wide as the brim of Alphonse Fournaise’s straw hat in Luncheon of the Boating Party. “Sounds like a date to me.” “Except it’s not.” “Could be.” “But it isn’t.” I grab my car keys and march out of the station, ignoring the stares and snickers of my fellow officers. I was surprised when Pete asked me to join him for dinner tonight, and even more so to hear myself accept. Though, what choice did I have when he stood there holding that perfect little pastry, soft and warm and made specially for me? Half of me hoped something would force me to cancel—a massive sinkhole downtown or a bomb scare at the station. The other half kept a watchful eye on the clock, counting the minutes until my shift ended. Because, well, the doughnuts. I’ll never forget my first one. It was almost three years ago, and word spread quickly among the force that the Gas-N-Grub had upped its game. I ordered a raspberry cream on a whim and never looked back. Decadent, delectable…sweet but not cloying. It seems stupid, but somehow it never occurred to me that someone actually made them—that a living, breathing human being was behind those magnificent confections. When I arrive home, I pour myself a glass of ice water and sit down at my puzzle to collect myself before getting ready. “It’s not a date,” I tell Mildred as I complete Jeanne Samary’s gloved hand. “First of all, he’s not picking me up. We’re meeting at the restaurant. And second of all, I intend to pay for my own meal. Besides, a date would imply a certain romantic attraction. Not that Pete’s not good-looking, mind you, but he’s not my type. A ginger, and a bit thin.” Mildred blinks and turns her attention to licking her back paw. “Fine. Believe what you will.” I head upstairs to shower and change. “I plan to wear the same jeans I wore last week to the Jackson County Pig Pull,” I call down to her. “If that doesn’t say ‘not a date,’ I don’t know what does.” * * * The Hop on Inn is quiet on a Tuesday night. Aside from Sally tending bar and a guy in the corner I caught doing fifty-three on Main Street two weeks ago, I don’t recognize anyone. Perfect. Pete’s seated at a table on the Inn’s screened-in porch. He stands and pulls out my chair, which seems rather date-like, but I mumble a thank you. “What’s good here?” he asks. “You’ve never been to the Hop?” He shakes his head. I lean forward, arms crossed on the table. “What’s your story? Why haven’t I seen you around?” He shrugs. “I keep to myself. And I have a weird schedule.”