Three Good Things Read online

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  Contents

  Spring

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Summer

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Fall

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Recipe for Danish Kringle

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  Introduction

  Questions for Discussion

  Enhance Your Book Club

  An Interview with Wendy Francis

  About the Author

  For Nicholas

  Kringle (krĭng'gŭl): A butter-layered pastry, introduced to the States in the late 1800s by immigrant Danish bakers. In Denmark, the kringle is traditionally pretzel shaped. In America, it is typically oval shaped, with a fruit or nut filling.

  —The Book of Kringle

  Spring

  “[The] very process of mixing, rolling, and folding layer upon layer for each kringle makes for a yoga of its own kind.”

  —The Book of Kringle

  Ellen McClarety was thinking about serendipity, more particularly about serendipitous encounters, on her way into the shop this morning. The snow fell in heavy, leafy flakes, their distinct edges outlined against the car’s windshield before evaporating on the glass. A blanket of black stretched on either side of her. It was a darkness she’d grown accustomed to with her three a.m. risings for work, but this morning, the dark had a softness to it. No wind cutting through her parka to her clavicle, just enormous flakes drifting down from the sky. The weatherman had predicted up to a foot of snow, all of this in April, but that was Wisconsin weather. Just when a person thought she was well on her way to spring, the gods of winter doled out a blizzard.

  She was looking forward to a day’s swift business. More people dropped by the bakery during a storm, the plowers who’d been out all night and those hoping for early news on the cagey weather. Plenty of serendipitous encounters to be had, a thought that made her smile as she drove along slowly, wiping condensation from the windshield with the back of her hand. She would need to make extra coffee this morning, extra dark.

  As she turned down Curtis Road, she could see that a thin topcoat already skimmed the fields, like a wide expanse of flour. A light shone from the Curtis barn, where they were well into the early-morning milking, and she could just glimpse a handful of black-and-white Holsteins gathered outside, looking bewildered by the snow. Cows were dense animals; she knew that much from her grandfather, a farmer. They would stand in a snowstorm and freeze to death if you didn’t move them to shelter. God’s saddest creatures, her grandfather had called them.

  “Look into their eyes,” he once said. “Have you ever seen a more mournful face than that?”

  And Ellen, only twelve at the time, had to admit they did look pretty depressed. But who could blame them? They were destined for the milk machine or the butcher block. No wonder they never demonstrated much enthusiasm.

  But her granddad also helped her appreciate their beauty. He bought only Black Angus cows, the stocky, sturdy bovines that typically sold for meat, and whose dark, silky coats she loved to run her hands over. It was her first lesson that in nature, as in so many things in life, there was both inexplicable beauty and sadness.

  • • • •

  She turned down the main street into town, the pavement growing slick beneath the wheels. At the third light, she turned right and pulled into the back lot. White funnels spiraled in the air as she exhaled, braced herself for the freeze beyond the door. Gingerly she let herself out and walked around the corner to the storefront, where bright green stems poking up from her window boxes greeted her. Daffodils under snow in April! It didn’t seem right. Inside she stomped the snow from her boots, flicked on the lights—and inhaled: the scent of yesterday’s kringle, raspberry and pecan, lingered blissfully in the air.

  “Good morning, store,” she called out. Such words were her mantra before beginning each day. She believed the greeting, like a yogic blessing, whisked away any demons that might be lurking in the shop’s corners. She found an old broom in the closet and used it to sweep off the front steps, then tried her best to brush the snow from the budding daffodils with her hand. She was tempted to wrap her scarf around their stems but thought better of it: She needed to get started on the kringle if she was going to be ready for the hungry masses today.

  In the back room, she removed her snowy parka, her hat, her boots and shoved them all into the closet. She tied on a fresh apron, slid on her clogs, and smoothed her hair into a ponytail. After washing her hands, she went to pull out the dough that had been chilling overnight. Before leaving yesterday afternoon, she’d rolled out the dough, shaped it into squares, and then smoothed a sheet of pure Wisconsin butter over the middle of each. After that, it was a matter of folding up the sides of each square to cover the butter, then turning the dough a quarter of the way around, and rolling and folding it again. Rolling and folding, rolling and folding, it was a delicious process, her own personal meditation as she felt her arm muscles working. She could work through any worries of the day—Had she ordered enough supplies for the week? Did her sister seem overtired yesterday? Did she pay the electricity bill?—and feel refreshed, her world righted again. By the time she was finished, each square was larded with twenty to thirty layers of scrumptious butter, while her mind was emptied, momentarily free of any burdens.

  Now, when she released the doughy cakes from their cool confines, she smiled to see that yesterday’s hard work had paid off. They had puffed up pleasingly, each a work of art. She set the oven and began the process of feeding the chilled dough through the sheeter, an industrial, steel contraption that stretched it even further, yielding a large paper-thin swath. She knew that the dough’s thinness determined whether she got a heavenly puff confection or, like a batch last week, a heavy, chewy disaster. From there, it was a rhythmic routine that she fell into easily each morning; stretch the dough across the long wooden table to yield four rows of eight narrow rectangles; add the day’s filling—today it was apple and blueberry—fold the sides over, and seal with egg, until the table was lined with thirty-two loaves, each resembling a jelly roll.

  Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, she knitted together the ends of each to create an oval-shaped kringle, which got tossed onto the baking board—and voilà! The morning’s work was nearly complete. She still had a ways to go before she was as skilled as Erik, the pastry chef under whom she’d apprenticed for three summers in Racine when she was a teenager. When Erik worked, it was as if each kringle got shaped in midair, the ends magically adhering in the short trip from the table to the baking board, the finished pastry delectably flaky and light.

  She set the timer for seventeen minutes and checked her watch. Five thirty. Soon her customers would be arriving.

  Out front she gave the counters a fresh wipe and started brewing the coffee. She pulled the bright-b
lue chairs off the tables, setting them right-side-up. On the board behind the register under Today’s Drips & Tips she wrote:

  Drips: Hazelnut; Vanilla; Almond Decaf

  Tips: Contrary to popular opinion, IRREGARDLESS is not a word. However, you might say: “Regardless of this weather, we still have plenty of delicious kringle to eat.”

  She didn’t even need to consult her edition of Fowler’s Modern English Usage, the well-thumbed paperback crammed between the cash register and her cookbooks. The news guy on the radio had said irregardless this morning, and it made her skin prickle as it did anytime she heard someone abuse the English language with such abandon. She was proud that her customers had come to expect a grammar tip from her each day, even though her sister, Lanie, chided her that it was condescending. The way Ellen saw it, she was linking the gustatory to the literary; her daily tip was her one small contribution to making the world a better place. So what if she put off a new customer every now and then?

  At the front of the counter near the register, she kept a glass candy bowl that was currently filled with bits of paper. The sign on its front read: GIVE US YOUR WORST GRAMMAR; WE’LL GIVE YOU OUR BEST! She encouraged customers to contribute their sightings of egregious usage, and once every few weeks she’d sift through the folded-over papers, like tiny fortunes, and pick one for the board.

  She had come a long way from the day she’d rediscovered her mother’s battered copy of The Book of Kringle, buried in a box of her things in the attic. For some reason she’d held on to it all these years, even though her mom had passed away when Ellen was just sixteen. What she had been searching for originally in those dusty old boxes she couldn’t recall, but when she thumbed through the book of Danish recipes and folk wisdom, the scent of her mother’s baking came wafting off the pages. And there, at that very moment, shortly after her husband had left, the first kernel of an idea for a kringle shop was planted.

  When the abandoned old pizza place went up for sale downtown shortly thereafter, Ellen knew it was a sign. Serendipity inviting her in. She could almost feel her mother brush up against her shoulder, giving her a little shove. “Go for it,” Ellen imagined her saying. “You’ve always wanted to create something of your own. This, my love, could be it.”

  And so, without further thought, Ellen McClarety, recent divorcèe, former university secretary, bought the store. She revamped the entire space, scrubbing the grease off the walls with bleach, giving the place, not to mention her soul, a full cleanse. Each swish of the sponge wiped away years of caked-on dirt and grime. How easy! she thought to herself at the time, to rid herself of a husband and most of her savings in one fell swoop. She installed new ovens in the back and transformed the storefront from a high glimmer, red-and-white pizza motif into a cozy cafè, the fake sheen of her marriage tidily tossed off for more humble beginnings.

  Perhaps the divorce would be the catalyst she needed to begin the life she was meant to live. Ten long years ago, she’d been drawn to Max like wind to a hurricane, the attraction so intense, but eventually the hurricane had hit land. She’d assumed marriage was about two people caring for each other, but Max never seemed to fully reciprocate. Whenever she’d needed him, he would perpetually come up short—or disappear. And then there had been the baby: After years of trying they’d lost their only child, just two months along, in a miscarriage. Ellen didn’t know if she’d ever recover, but Max had moved on so easily, as if it were no big deal. Maybe it was part of his happy-go-lucky nature, though Ellen had come to see it as selfishness. Max, a dreamer, could always see the forest for the trees, imagining what could be; it just seemed that after ten years of marriage, he kept running into trees.

  Ellen woke up one morning and thought, Enough.

  Her sister, Lanie, joked that she should christen the store The Midlife Crisis, but a friend suggested The Singular Kringle—and it stuck. He designed an elegant sign for above the door, festooned with a single pretzel shape—the traditional Danish kringle form—and the store’s name in swirling blue letters. Her dream made real at last.

  For the first few weeks only a handful of customers dropped by, and Ellen busied herself by rereading the classics, a lending library soon blossoming in her shop. She had forgotten how funny Nick was in The Great Gatsby, or was it just that she’d never noticed when she first read it in college? Pride and Prejudice and Little Women were still as heartbreaking as ever, and she’d rediscovered one of her favorites, Middlemarch. She couldn’t help but to both pity and be angry with Dorothea all over again.

  But then, word of mouth traveled, and the next thing she knew, her local customers were joined by farmers from their outposts, their wives, and professors who commuted the twenty miles to the university but made their homes in Amelia, population 5,320. Suddenly, she could barely keep up.

  Amazing how time flew.

  A fresh cup of coffee in hand, she went out back to check the kringle and was greeted by the sweet scent of apple mingling with blueberry. She pulled the piping-hot pastries from the oven and set them on a cooling rack.

  “Perfect,” she announced to no one in particular.

  The secret to a perfect kringle, she knew, was balance: When a person bit into a true kringle, she should taste equal parts pastry, filling, and icing. So many of the imitation kringles these days were all chewy dough, laden with frosting. But Ellen understood that no one element should overwhelm or supersede another.

  When the bell on the front door jingled, she started. She’d almost forgotten she’d flipped over the OPEN sign out front; it was so easy to get lost in the wee hours in the back room while baking. Jack Singer, her punctual first customer each day, had been running the hardware store down the street since before anyone could remember. If she described a leak below her basin, he knew exactly which washer or screw she needed. She heard him stomp the snow from his boots, take a paper, and find his way to a table by the cash register.

  “Good morning, sweetness,” he said as she swung through the kitchen doors. “Looks like the weatherman got it right for once . . . that’s quite a storm we’ve got brewing out there. No pun intended.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Ellen knew she should be offended by his endearments, but over the past year they’d grown on her, like a familiar hangnail that wouldn’t go away.

  “Looks that way,” she said as she arranged the mugs into neat rows on the counter and poured him a cup of coffee. She knew such would be the opening line for every conversation today. “Can I get you apple or blueberry? It’ll be just a few more minutes, I’m afraid.”

  “Blueberry sounds perfect.” He unfolded his paper, then added, “Please.”

  After tidying up a bit more, she went back to decorate the pastries with icing. The blueberry was bursting with fat, purple fruit, and the apple looked invitingly tart. Carefully, she inched them onto the baker’s board and carried them out to the display counter, where she eased them onto delicate, pretty doilies.

  “Mmm. . . . If that doesn’t warm my belly, nothing will.” Jack winked at her as she cut him a slice. She noticed that his paper was open to the horoscopes. Lately, she’d grown tired of their platitudes, and more particularly, of their pessimism. It seemed to her that horoscopes should buoy someone first thing in the morning, not send him off in search of a life raft. Still, she couldn’t help but listen when Jack started reading aloud from the “Cancer” section.

  “Today’s forecast: ‘You may be tempted to come out of your shell, but it’s best to keep your head down for a few days. Don’t make any rash decisions as you’re bound to regret them.’ ”

  She laughed out loud. “Honestly, what kind of horoscope is that?” Jack shrugged. She wondered if astrologers—and she used the word loosely because, after all, what kind of training did you have to have to become a certified astrologer?—could be sued for dispensing bad advice. It seemed they should be.

  Slowly more customers began to trickle in, looking snow-shocked, not so unlike the cows earlier this morning. Th
ey brushed the white powder from their spring jackets and shivered their way to a table, nodding a hello in her general direction. One young woman, bundled in a navy pea coat, peeked out from behind a green scarf, her eyes seemingly frozen in a permanent expression of surprise.

  When Henry Moon came in, Ellen grabbed his coffee and kringle right away. A gardener who ran the town nursery, he was a bit of an odd duck, but Ellen maintained he was more sensitive than odd, a wounded soul. He’d seemed a tad off ever since his wife died in a car accident more than a year ago. Each day between seven and eight, like clockwork, he stepped into the store. His hair and clothes always looked disheveled, as if he’d lost not just a wife but also a mother, someone who’d iron his pants, tuck in his shirt.

  “Henry, will my daffodils survive in this snow?” she asked him while pouring a cup.

  He took a sip, rubbed his lips together. “Who was it that said: ‘And then my heart with pleasure fills / And dances with the daffodils?’ ”

  She put her hand on her hip and looked at him. “You surprise me, Henry. That’s lovely. Was it Shakespeare?”

  “Wordsworth, I believe. But your daffodils should be fine—and dancing in no time. They’re hardy plants. They expect a little snow once in a while.”

  She liked how he made it sound as if flowers had interior lives, vibrant souls. As much as she loved literature, Ellen couldn’t recite lyrics to save her life. She was a bit jealous, not to mention humbled.

  “Well, that’s good to know. Thank you.”

  Henry nodded, said, “You bet.”

  Larry and Erin came through the door just then, covered in white. Recent UW grads trying to make a living in the theater, they helped Ellen out at the store five days a week. Loyal customers, they’d come in and sold her on why she needed the help—her store was growing; the long hours were too much for one person to handle; they’d attract the younger clientele (though as far as she could see most of the young people went straight to Madison and didn’t waste their time in a town like Amelia).