The Sourdough Wars

Palermo and all.” His wife reached out and took his hand. He paused, as if he’d lost his place. Then he said, “You know? Real scared. It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever done. And I’m doing good. I’m doing real good. I’ve got this house and a beautiful wife and all the nice clothes I could want and a Mercedes. And I’ve got the second most successful bakery in San Francisco and the best bread.” He was sweating, speaking slowly. “But I’m still scared. I’m afraid I’m gonna lose it all. I’m afraid one day I’ll wake up and it won’t be there. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem like it was written for the younger Tosi kid—the dumb one—to make it like this. You know? It’s like I can’t quite believe it; like I’m afraid I’ll wake up someday and find it all gone.” He stopped and looked at us with pleading eyes. “You know?” We nodded on cue.
    “So, listen, I really need that starter. It might give me just the little edge I need—I mean, if I had it, I
know
, I just
know
that would take care of things.”
    “Take care of things?”
    “Then people would believe, see? I mean, I already have the best sourdough, but nobody realizes that because they think ‘Tosi Bakery, Tosi’s tops.’ But if I had that starter, they’d
have
to believe, you see what I mean?” He kept talking, fast, not even giving us time to nod. “So, listen, could you possibly give me a break? Just a little break? I’m willing to pay top dollar—no one’ll get cheated, that’s the last thing I want. But please sell me that starter. Please?”
    I felt embarrassed, as if we’d misrepresented ourselves. “Tony, I’m awfully sorry,” I said, “but Anita Ashton will almost certainly inherit it—you’ll have to deal with her. We didn’t mean to give you the impression we actually had any power in this. All we wanted to do was let you know there was a second batch of starter.”
    He looked crestfallen. “Oh. I guess I should have realized that. I got kind of carried away.”
    “We certainly have all the sympathy in the world for your position. But we also should tell you that we’ve just come from telling Clayton Thompson. He sounded as if he intends to make Anita an offer.”
    “Thompson? Oh yeah—the Conglomerate Foods guy.”
    “And I’m afraid,” said Chris, “it’s our job to tell the others as well.”
    He sighed, and when he spoke, he sounded bitter. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The rest of the family.”
    “And Sally Devereaux, of course.”
    “She’s family.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    Tony looked surprised. “Didn’t you know? She’s Bobby’s ex—the former Mrs. Robert Tosi. Listen, I really do bake better bread than Bobby. Why don’t you ladies come to the plant for a tour—tomorrow, say? Or next week maybe. Whenever you like—I want to show you what I can do.”
    We said we’d try to make it.

Chapter Ten
    Nothing now was going to keep us from Sally. I let Chris out to get us a snack to keep our strength up. She came back with two loaves of bread, a Tosi and a Palermo. “For the taste test,” she said.
    “But Wednesday’s no day to buy French bread.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Didn’t you know? The bread truck drivers take Wednesdays and Sundays off. So the bakeries close down on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Ergo, any bread you buy on Wednesday or Sunday is a day old.”
    “Let’s try it anyway. It’s an hour’s drive to Sonoma.” She handed me a hunk. Day old or not, it held up nicely. Good dark crust, nice tangy interior. I asked for a second piece and wolfed that one down, too.
    “Good,” I said. “Whose bread was it?”
    “Both.”
    “You mean I had bread from both loaves? I’d have sworn both pieces came from the same bakery.”
    “So much for Tony’s secret ingredient.”
    * * *
    Sally lived a few miles outside Sonoma, in the Valley of the Moon near Glen Ellen. In the daytime we could have seen the vineyards that take up every inch of available space in the wine country, but it was nearly nine and long since dark by the time we arrived.
    The house was modern and ordinary, with aluminum window frames and no shutters. Apparently, Sally didn’t live there alone—there was a bicycle out front. A small voice answered our ring: “Who’s there?”
    “We’re here to see your mom.”
    The door opened, displaying one of the prettiest children I’d ever seen—a boy about eight years old—but then, I’m a sucker for dark hair and blue eyes. Sally