Delicious! (25 page)

GENIE GRADUATED AND WE WENT
home to Santa Barbara. For the next three weeks we lived and breathed that cake. Genie and Aunt Melba fiddled with designs, while I experimented with rosewater, orange oil, and saffron, trying to figure out the precise flavor of each tiny cupcake. One morning I brewed an infusion of saffron and stirred it into the flour, milk, and eggs, watching as the color captured the batter, turning it a vivid gold. I stuck my finger in and licked. Too strong? Mesmerized by the spreading color, I called, “Somebody come taste this.”

Aunt Melba’s finger dipped into the batter and disappeared into her mouth. “You’re a genius. It tastes even better than it looks.” She dipped again.

“Where’s Genie?”

“In the bathroom. She says she’s not feeling so well.”

“She’s been working harder than either of us.” Why did I feel the need to defend her?

“She always works hard.” Aunt Melba dipped her finger in again and licked it thoughtfully. “This is fabulous.”

“What’s fabulous?” asked Genie, coming into the kitchen. I held out the spoon and she took a tentative lick. I noticed that her cheeks were flushed.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”

As the wedding grew closer, our days grew longer. Aunt Melba and I would quit, exhausted, at midnight, but Genie seemed tireless. She’d gotten us into this. We’d come down in the morning to find the kitchen filled with the fanciful flowers she’d produced while we were sleeping.

On the morning of the wedding, we stacked twenty-one hundred tiny cupcakes, each topped with a handmade flower, and the cake into Aunt Melba’s van, and I navigated the long, curving, tree-lined driveway that led to the Jackson estate. There was a steep curve at the front of the house, and I slowed to a crawl, admiring the enormous tent stretching along the far side of the property. An army of florists, caterers, and musicians was busily transforming the tent into a wedding wonderland.

It was warm for early June, and we didn’t want to risk a meltdown. We stashed the cupcakes in the air-conditioned kitchen: We would construct our landscape slowly, tier by tier, inside the tent.

“I’ll be the mule.” Genie seemed tired and edgy.

“Fine,” I agreed, beginning to lay the groundwork as she ferried cupcakes from the kitchen.

It took all afternoon, but as the garden came together, I saw that Genie had been right: The masses of flowered cupcakes were even more beautiful than her drawing had been. It was breathtaking, like a painting by Monet, and a few people gathered beneath the tent to watch.

By the time we were ready to add the final touches, the crowd had grown. The hairdressers switched off their blow-dryers, and in the sudden silence we could hear the musicians tuning up. Then the music stopped, flutes and violins going quiet as the players came to join us. There was a clatter of silver when the caterers put down the sterling spoons they’d been polishing. The bartenders came too, leaving ice cubes melting in the sun. I could hear the bridesmaids giggle nervously as I climbed onto a ladder, and when Genie handed up the first tier, there was a small whoosh, the crowd holding its collective breath. As I lowered it gently into place, a sigh rippled through the tent. The lights were bright, and as Genie handed me one tier after another, I felt triumphant, an artist completing a masterpiece.

We had come to the final tier, the one where the tiny bride stands beside her tiny groom underneath a miniature arbor. I offered to trade places, so Genie could complete the cake; it was, after all, her invention. But she shook me off. “I’ll go get the last tier. I need to use the bathroom,” she called over her shoulder, “and you’re already up on the ladder.” She disappeared into the house.

When she emerged, we all turned to watch her cross the driveway, her eyes focused on the two little figures on the cake cradled in her arms. She never saw the Jaguar come barreling around the curve. I doubt she heard the squeal as Beverly’s brother slammed on the brakes and rubber shimmied over tar. Then Genie was up in the air, the cake above her, pinned against the sky. And then they were both falling, the motion so slow it seemed she would never reach the ground.

“DID SHE SURVIVE?”
Sammy startled me. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away.

I shook my head slowly.

“So what you are telling me is that this sibling to whom you occasionally allude has been deceased for almost two years?”

I nodded. “But I’m the one who should have died. That car was meant for
me
.” My voice cracked on the last word. “Genie should have been up on the ladder. It was my fault.”

Sammy gripped my shoulder, hard. “No, Billie.” He sounded sympathetic, but I heard something else as well. Steel. “It was not your fault. It was a tragic accident.”

“Don’t you see? Aunt Melba thought up Cake Sisters so I could have something I was better at than Genie! She did it for me.”

I expected him to argue, the way Dad and Aunt Melba had, insisting I had no reason to feel guilty. But Sammy simply sat there, silently rubbing my back, letting me cry. After a few minutes I could feel my muscles relax beneath his hands as the scene began to fade.

“What moved you to tell me now?”

I thought it was something in Lulu’s letter, that feeling that everybody
was looking at her differently now, thinking she had brought bad luck. It was exactly how I’d felt since the day that Genie died. I’d run away from everyone who knew the whole awful story—and kept it from everyone who didn’t. I couldn’t admit, even to myself, that Genie was really dead. I couldn’t bear the knowledge that when people looked at me, they’d be looking past my shoulder, watching for the telegram man with his tragic news.

Sammy waited patiently as I marshaled the words. Then, tired of all the hiding, I let them go. “When Lulu said, ‘Life can change so quickly; one minute you’re happy, the next minute you’re not,’ it all came back. Because that was the minute when everything changed for me.”

“Billie, Billie, Billie.” Sammy’s hands dug into my shoulders. “How can you be so blind? Change works both ways. You must accept those moments, experience them, and let them go. Because if you allow yourself to get stuck in that minute, nothing will ever change.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am telling you that if things can change for the worse, the opposite is also true. But only if you open yourself to the possibilities. As Lulu did. It is what one finds so appealing about her.”

It was too much to think about. I felt wrung out by the emotions of the afternoon. I didn’t want to talk about myself or my sister anymore. “Are there any more letters?” I asked.

Sammy sighed, and I knew that he was reluctant to let this moment go. He wanted to go on talking, but he didn’t push it. “Just one,” he said, peering into the folder. He put his arm around me, drawing me closer, and I leaned in so we could read together.

S
AMMY AND I NOW SHARED A SECRET LANGUAGE, AND WHENEVER
something bad occurred—the rain refused to stop, a pot boiled over, someone nabbed the taxi that was clearly meant for us—he’d look at me and mouth,
“Pazzesca!”
It was a little thing, but it made me feel safe, cozily anchored in the world. We had each other. I think that’s why I finally stopped stalling and got contact lenses.

I didn’t see much difference, but Sammy was elated. “If you would also consent to a new coiffure, you might eventually join the human race.”

“Don’t push your luck,” I warned.

“Pazzesca!”
he said, and I burst out laughing.

This new easiness helped us weather a bad time in the library: Lulu had vanished.

At first we’d been convinced the secret word was “panettone,” and we followed it for a full week, researching the background of the bread and sifting through regional variations and each of the ingredients, before admitting defeat. Bertie had become more devious, and we were trying hard to read her mind.

“What about a parallel word?” I suggested. “Maybe ‘coffee cake’?”

But that was fruitless too. We spent another week researching Christmas breads: “kugelhopf,” “la pompe des rois,” “julekage.” By the time we’d reached the unpronounceable “joululimppu,” we were both ready to admit we’d been following a false trail.

And time was running out. The weather was getting warmer, and I
could see tiny green buds on the trees peeking over the walls of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral when I walked to Fontanari’s. One day in mid-March I ran my palm across the rough brick wall, thinking how Lulu had described the Mass at St. Anthony of Padua. It gave me an idea.

“What are the most important saints?” I asked Rosalie when I got to the shop.

“You look different. Have you gotten religion?”

“No, only contact lenses.”

“Didn’t I tell you? See how much better you look!” She gave me an impulsive hug. “Maybe you could get your hair cut now?”

“Saints,” I said. “Tell me about saints.”

“Everybody has their favorite.” She frowned slightly but dropped the subject of my appearance. “When I’m in trouble, I pray to St. Anthony; he’s always seemed like the most sympathetic. But Sal’s partial to St. Jude—you know, the patron saint of lost causes.”

“Not so!” Sal was filling the case, turning each cheese until he was certain its most attractive side was facing the customers. “St. Bartholomew’s the one for me; he’s the patron saint of cheese-makers. But, Willie, you can’t go looking for clues among the saints; there are way too many.”

He was right about that. When the religious angle led us nowhere, we tried “little red wagon,” and then, in desperation, “grandmother.”

As April approached we were right back where we’d started; Bertie had definitely become more devious. For the next two weeks we went over and over the letters, unable to figure out the next clue.

The weatherman predicted a fierce rainstorm on April 1, which exactly suited my mood. I was eager for thunder and lightning, but in the end it was just a paltry burst of rain that thudded down for a couple of hours before passing out to sea. In its wake came beautiful dry weather, and the next day, when Sammy came bounding into the mansion, jubilant over the unexpected sunshine, I growled at him. “What are you so cheerful about? It’s April, and it’s been six weeks since we found a letter.”

“I propose,” he replied, “that we contemplate the possibility that we have arrived at the termination of this project.”

“No!” I was positive he was wrong. “The last letter we found was dated July of 1944. The war lasted another whole year. She must have gone on writing to him.”

“Perhaps she no longer sent the letters to
Delicious!
Or perhaps Bertie grew fatigued with the project. Possibilities abound. I, for one, require a respite. Will you indulge me for a day?”

“How?” I glanced at the calendar, wary of our shrinking window of time.

“Ask me no questions. We shall embark upon on a lunchtime expedition.”

At noon he led me north on Washington Street, detoured west on Little West 12th Street, and turned up Tenth Avenue. “Where are we going?” I kept asking, but he refused to say anything until we arrived at a small boutique tucked beneath the High Line. I shrank back, but Sammy took my arm and led me through the door.

“Is Hermione available?” he asked the woman behind the desk. In answer, a slight young woman with a mass of black curls came whirling toward us, throwing herself ecstatically into Sammy’s arms. “Where’ve you been?” she cried, hugging him.

I relaxed a bit. With her round cheeks, red lips, and wild hair, she looked nothing like the frigidly elegant saleswomen who patrolled the uptown shops. She put her hands on her hips and said to Sammy, “When I left you in Marrakech, you promised to stay in touch. And how long ago was that?”

“Far too long,” he admitted, drawing me toward them. “This is my friend Billie, who has been contemplating a makeover. Do you think you might be of assistance?”

Hermione studied me frankly, her eyes traveling from head to toe. “Do you mind?” She reached out to touch me. “Hard to tell what’s underneath those baggy clothes.” Patting me down like one of those TSA guards at the airport, she cried, “You’re so thin!” She directed Sammy to a chair. “Sit! We’re going to amaze you. What fun!” She tugged me
through the shop, loading her arms with flimsy skirts, skinny slacks, and sweaters in Easter-egg colors.

“I’m just trying to get a preliminary idea.” She nudged me toward the dressing room. “I want to see what colors work for you.” As we passed a rack of pants, I grabbed a pair. Hermione peered at the tag and gave a little snort. “Twelve?” She snatched them from my hands. “You’re kidding, right?” She replaced them with a six.

I stared dubiously at the scrap of cloth. “There’s no way these are going to fit.” I was still protesting as I pulled the zipper up.