How to Eat a Cupcake (14 page)

“To being home for Thanksgiving,” he said, adopting the serious voice he used for such occasions, “and to the countless ways each one of you contributes to making this house a home we all want to be in today. Your efforts are always appreciated.”

I noticed Lucia and Curtis exchange an indecipherable look, and felt a stinging in my eyes that I blinked quickly away.

“Here, here!” my mother rasped, apparently oblivious to any undercurrents of discontent at the table. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

We clinked glasses and dug into what would turn out to be the one and only Thanksgiving we all celebrated together. The next year, with little discussion and zero fanfare but with much relief on my part, my mother, father, and I boarded our usual flight to Maui for turkey among the coconut trees.

Chapter 13

Annie

I
t had been a very long time since I'd baked anything in the St. Clair kitchen, but rummaging through the cabinets for the various tools I needed felt disturbingly familiar. Some of what I found in those cabinets was new—a spotless stand mixer, for example; other things, like the set of scratched steel mixing bowls Julia handed to me from an upper shelf, were objects that I remembered my mother using regularly. I was trying hard to interpret my mother's lingering presence in the room as something positive, something to be savored, but it was hard not to feel overwhelmed by darker, more melancholic thoughts. Julia and I had checked every one of the many cabinets and each corner of the pantry, but my mother's recipe book still hadn't turned up, not that I'd entertained much hope by then.

“Finding everything?”

I looked up from where I was crouched at a low cabinet to see Tad St. Clair grinning down at me. I hadn't crossed paths with him yet, having ducked out early from the Save the Children benefit that June, and I was surprised by how little his looks had changed. His hair had already turned white by the time I left for college; other than a slightly paler undercast to his perpetually tanned skin and a couple of extra inches at his waistline, Tad was exactly the same. He pulled me up into a warm embrace complete with a couple of hearty whaps on the back.

“Wonderful to see you, Annie! Just wonderful!” he boomed. “You've been sneaking in and out of here as stealthily as a cat these last couple of months. Glad I've finally caught you!”

“It's good to see you, too,” I said. I meant it. Tad was always a benevolent, if sporadic presence in my childhood, swooping into the kitchen early in the morning to tuck a newspaper under his arm and press hard kisses to our foreheads before hurrying out to the enormous black Bentley that Curtis had idling in the courtyard.

“Annie's going to bake a new recipe she's working on for the cupcakery,” Julia said from where she leaned on the white marble island at the center of the kitchen. She glanced up from the cell phone in her hands. “We're deciding on the menu today. She brought a few kinds that she baked at home earlier if you want to weigh in.”

Tad opened the box on the counter and gazed down at the cupcakes. “Weigh in, indeed,” he said, patting his stomach. Still, he pulled out a mint-chocolate cupcake with dark chocolate icing that glowed richly under the kitchen lights and took a huge bite. Few things in life made me happier than watching someone aggressively devour one of my desserts. Julia's meticulous, OCD-like manner of eating a cupcake, on the other hand, drove me crazy. By contrast, my method of eating a cupcake was quite straightforward—step one: gobble it down one large bite at a time until there's nothing left. That's it. I was forced to practice dainty nibbling all day long as I tasted various recipes and cupcake batches, so when I sat down with a cupcake to eat for the pure pleasure of eating, I meant business.

“Annie!” Tad said when he was finally done chewing. “Where have you been hiding yourself? This is a show-stopping cupcake. I don't have a clue what I'm eating, but it definitely gets my vote.”

I laughed. “You haven't tried any of the other flavors!”

“How could they possibly be better than this one? Lucia, my dear, you are without a doubt the best baker in San Francisco.”

I opened my mouth, but didn't speak.

“You mean
Annie
,” Julia said quietly, looking at her father.

“Hmm?” he asked.

“
Annie
is the best baker in San Francisco. You said Lucia.”

Tad waved the hand that held the cupcake in front of him, sending a sprinkle of dark crumbs down to the counter. “Annie! Of course I meant Annie. I'm sorry.” He seemed flustered for a moment, looking around the kitchen. “But Lucia's baking skills are . . . were . . . second to none. Do you remember that cake she made for my fiftieth birthday? I'll never forget it.” He said this in a wistful voice that did not sound at all like him. Julia and I exchanged puzzled glances.

“Anyway, girls,” Tad said, squishing the cupcake liner into a ball in his hand, “please remind me again—when is Treat's opening party? I want to be sure I don't miss it, and you know how Lolly likes to stack our social calendar.”

“Dad!” Julia said. “It's October fifth. I've told you a million times. I sent you the invitation by e-mail. And the
printed
invitation is on your desk. I even entered it on your online calendar.”

Tad looked indignant, running a hand through his floppy white hair. “Since when do you have access to my online calendar, young lady?”

Julia looked at me, rolling her eyes. “Since forever, Dad. Since the world began.”

“And on the seventh day God said, ‘Let there be online calendar access!' ” I said cheerily.

“I see,” Tad said, an amused glint in his eye. “Fine. Then I shouldn't miss it, should I?”

“You better not,” said Julia.

Tad turned to me. “She's very bossy, isn't she?”

“Oh, I know,” I said. “She should be leading armies in a jungle somewhere, bamboozling impoverished peoples into relinquishing previously untapped natural resources.”

Tad laughed. “Well, try not to let her drive you crazy,” he advised. “She is, unfortunately, often right. Which makes her more like her mother than any of us would care to admit.”

Julia watched her father silently.

“It was good to see you, Annie. We're all very glad to have you back in the fold. I'm off to lunch now, but I'll see you October sixth.”

“Fifth!” Julia cried.

“I'm kidding!” Tad said, hiking up his pants. “Sheesh!”

After he left, Julia was quiet for a bit while I finished gathering all of the ingredients I needed. I'd brought a small crate of Gertzwell Farm's Twentieth Century pears, and they glistened like Christmas balls in a strainer in the enormous farmhouse sink.

“Did he seem weird to you?” Julia asked finally.

I turned off the faucet. “Weird how?”

“I don't know. Different.”

“I haven't seen him in more than ten years, Julia. I'm probably not the best judge.” I was tempted to leave it at that, to move on to the task at hand, but Julia looked pale and I could see the shadow of bluish circles under her eyes. “Are you worried about him?” I asked.

“Maybe. He's my dad, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said, though of course I was the last person to ask about how one was supposed to feel about one's father.

The door opened then and Curtis walked into the kitchen. His step faltered when he saw me, but then he nodded and waved.

“Hi, Annie. Didn't expect to see you here.” He took in the kitchen's state of disarray, looking from one end of the room to the other, his craggy face impassive. “Hi, Julia.”

“Hey, Curtis,” we both said, and the synchronicity of our two voices in well-worn harmony, the feeling of both of us hanging out in the kitchen with Curtis, was enough to twist my stomach. All we were missing was my mother. Impulsively, I stepped forward to hug him. He still had the same smell he'd always had when we were kids—a sharp peppermint scent mixed with the faint cling of cigarettes, though I'd never seen him smoke.

Curtis gave my head an awkward little pat and then rocked back on his heels. “Have you seen Mr. St. Clair?” he asked Julia in his stiff way.
Curmudgeon Curtis
, I thought, but resisted the urge to poke fun at his formality. Some things never changed.

“He was just in here,” Julia said. “Why?”

“I've got the car ready. He wanted to go to the driving range.”

Julia's brow furrowed. “Maybe he forgot? He wasn't dressed for golf.”

Curtis shrugged. “He must have changed his mind. I'll find him.” He wandered off into the hall with a vague wave.

I looked over at Julia, but she was studying her phone. She seemed distracted and sad and, I realized, hadn't read from her ever-present cupcakery to-do list once that day.
Don't get involved
, I warned myself. A big part of me wanted to ignore her obvious sadness and pretend that everything was fine. Since when did I care if Julia St. Clair was having a bad day? I had to admit that over the past months of working together—watching her take the odd hiccups we faced (a second deep key gauge in Treat's just-repaired and freshly painted front door was our latest setback) in stride—the wall between us had slowly been coming down, one solid gold brick at a time. I figured the wall was at about shoulder height by then, low enough that I could see Julia's facial expressions, but still not the rest of her body—and who knew what sudden moves she was capable of? She'd been an athlete
and
a queen bee, after all. A dangerous combination. And so even though I was tired of carrying around that ancient grudge—bored of it, really—I still got the sense that where the St. Clairs, and Julia in particular, were concerned, I needed to be careful. Who was going to look out for me if I didn't look out for myself? I was on my own.

But really, when it comes right down to it, aren't we all on our own? Even Julia St. Clair?
As I watched her flick through her phone, pausing every so often to run her hand distractedly down the length of her glossy blond hair, I realized that in all the time we'd spent together over the past couple of months, I hadn't heard her talk to, or about, a single friend. Or even her fiancé, for that matter. Where was he, anyway? Hadn't he returned from yet another business trip recently? I'd thought his return would improve her mood, but, in the moments she let her guard down, I still saw that shadow of sadness behind her eyes. I had no desire to try on Julia's shoes, and not simply because they looked like the kind of designer flats that bit into your ankles and slowly sawed off your pinky toes. But before I knew it there I was, putting myself in her Miu Mius.

“Julia!” I said, tossing a pear at her. She looked up from her phone and caught it easily, as gracefully athletic as ever. “I think it's time.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For you to learn how to make the world's best cupcake.”

October

Chapter 14

Julia

I
was surprised to find myself jittery with nerves as Treat's opening party kicked off to a start. Work? Parties? Were there two things in the world that usually came more easily to me? After a lifetime under my parents' tutelage, I should have been the picture of calm efficiency and easy charm. Instead, I was plagued by an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. When I touched my finger to my forehead, it felt slick.
Me!
Of the perpetually matte T-zone! Maybe it was the fact that I was still mildly hung over from the night before—one too many glasses of wine at dinner with Wes, to whom I still hadn't, somehow, brought myself to tell the truth. Or maybe it was the fact that there were about fifty people crammed into a space zoned to hold half that number, and when it came right down to it, I was not a fan of tight crowds (there was a very good reason why I never jumped into the mosh pits at Pearl Jam concerts like my Devon Prep peers, and it was that I was never really in the mood to be
crushed to death
). Or maybe it was that the entire night I felt dogged by the disquieting sense that I was being watched—hunted, almost—fifty pairs of eyes trained on me, an attention that I would normally bask in, but tonight just added to my anxiety. Or maybe it was the simple fact that I was launching the first business I'd ever owned, and I hoped, mostly for Annie's sake but as a point of pride as well, that Treat would be a success.

Reasons aside, I found myself exceptionally thirsty, and the abundant champagne was doing a bang-up job of making me feel less anxious. At least at the beginning. It was only much later that I wished I hadn't drunk so much—and wondered if I would have been able to keep Annie and myself out of harm's way if I'd been sober.

Looking around at the start of the party, seeing how all the hard work we'd put in over the previous few months was paying off, I felt a surge of satisfaction crackle within me and hoped it would eclipse my nerves. I still couldn't believe how creative Annie was in coming up with the different flavors and embellishments for each cupcake; the finished products looked like huge jewels that sparkled appealingly in the counter display and on the black lacquer trays passed by the waitstaff. Annie had had her nose to the grindstone for days, as focused as I'd ever seen her, dicing apples and pears until they looked like nuggets of gold—
as well they should, considering what that fruit cost!
—and tasted like pure, sweet, warm explosions of flavor baked into the cakes. Annie's dexterity, precision, and speed with a knife had been a sight to behold. My contributions to the cupcakery's opening night were decidedly more mundane: I'd interviewed and hired the night's waitstaff, overseen the completion of the various construction and design projects, and ordered all of the noncooking supplies the shop needed. Treat glowed with sexy, low-lit energy; laughter and music filled the space; hip, beautiful people bit into cupcake after cupcake. If the shop had been in the Marina instead of the Mission, it was just the sort of place I would have visited frequently. But there was no use crying over
that
spilled buttermilk.

“Hey there, Cupcake,” Wes said, appearing by my side and wrapping his arm around my waist. “Congratulations to the boss lady!” He kissed my cheek and I allowed my eyes to shut for a moment, blocking out the crowd, the sticky-sweet air, the music that Annie had dug up from who knew where featuring a cool-as-a-cucumber Frenchman rapping rat-tat-tat over remixed John Coltrane jazz tracks. Part of me wished I could just slip out unnoticed into the night, tucked securely under Wes's strong arm. A larger part of me was disgusted and confused by this desire. If I weren't careful, before long I would find myself morphing into the type of soft-spoken, ineffectual girl-woman who was stepped on during business meetings.

“I'm not sure you should call me Cupcake anymore,” I said, opening my eyes to look up at Wes. “It's like mixing business with pleasure.”

“Tough tamales. I had dibs on that endearment long before you decided to rekindle your friendship with a baker. Where is Annie, anyway? I want to finally meet this mysterious childhood best friend of yours.”

I scanned the room, knowing it couldn't take long to spot Annie, who had chosen to wear a floor-length 1960s muumuu in a deep shade of turquoise that looked, I had to admit, strikingly lovely against her honey-toned skin. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, giving her a couple extra inches of height, and spiked through with a gold, rhinestone-encrusted chopstick. Or at least I thought it was a chopstick, but who knew what you called the utensil once it pierced a mound of hair. Perhaps just a stick? Regardless, she looked stunning—like a colorful little bird that surprises everyone with its audacity and out-of-place beauty by landing right in the middle of a bustling city sidewalk.

As I suspected, Annie was easy to locate. She was leaning against the door to the kitchen, her upturned face flushed and radiant as she chatted with a man who had his back to me. Just as I was about to point her out to Wes, the man she was with planted his hand against the door behind her ear, leaned in, and kissed her on the lips. I stared at the man's back, feeling an uneasy shiver of recognition travel up my spine.
Jake Logan! Jake Logan and Annie?
When Jake pulled away, Annie's face glowed, surprised and pleased and somehow even lovelier than it had seemed a moment earlier. I turned back to Wes, irritation, anger, and then that old buzz of jealousy traveling through me in swift succession.

Isn't there some rule about friends not dating one another's exes?
I thought, blinking down into my champagne glass so that Wes wouldn't catch on to my distress. This thought was followed quickly by a pang of concern. Annie's eyes were all moony and big when she looked up at Jake, but I knew for a fact that Jake—who sailed through life on a steady breeze of charm and limitless credit cards—wasn't good for someone like Annie. Sure, Annie put on a jokey, blithe front, but over those last few months I'd learned, or perhaps remembered, that in truth she was a hardworking, focused woman. She deserved a man, not a boy. And certainly not a boy who was married to someone else.

Suddenly, my parents swooped into view, double-kissing Wes and then me in a lightning-quick motion perfected by years of practice.

“Congratulations, Julia darling!” my mother rasped. She held up a pumpkin spice cupcake from which she'd taken one tiny bite. “My compliments to the chef and her spectacularly clever business partner on a smashing debut.”

“Hear, hear!” thundered my dad, knocking his half-eaten chocolate cupcake against my mother's. He beamed at me.

“Thanks,” I said. I shook my hair back, determined not to let the sight of Annie and Jake kissing cast a fog over the entire evening. “It does seem to be going well, doesn't it?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I bet if you spent half as much time on your wedding preparations as you have on this cupcake shop, we might have things sorted out on the whole biggest-day-of-your-life front,” my mother said smoothly. “Wesley darling, did you know your bride-to-be has ducked out of nearly every wedding-related appointment I've made in the last few months? How does it feel to play second fiddle to tiny cakes?” She looked up innocently at Wes and took a nibble of her cupcake, lips curled back so as to not smear her lipstick.

“Now, Lolly—” my father began.

“Mom!” I interrupted, working to keep my voice low. Wes watched me with a bemused look from behind his black Clark Kent glasses. “This really isn't a good time to talk about the wedding.”

“Well, of course it isn't!” my mother scoffed. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. Don't you think Wesley ought to know where your priorities lie?”

I stared at her, flabbergasted. Suddenly, Wes's hand encased mine. When he gave my palm a squeeze, I turned my attention from my mother to my future husband and melted as I always did when faced with the incomparable gift that was his kindness.

“Mrs. St. Clair—apologies,
Lolly
,” Wes said, correcting himself even as my mother tsked at him. “If I didn't know I was second fiddle to cupcakes in the eyes of my beautiful fiancée, I really wouldn't know her at all, would I? The good news is that I love her sweet tooth just as much as all the other pretty white teeth in her pretty pink mouth. All I really want to do is marry the girl. Heck, we could get married right here in this shrine to sweets if that solves the problem of planning a big shindig.”

I tried not to laugh outright at the look of horror that crossed my mother's face. She took a larger, distracted bite of her cupcake, looking wide-eyed from me to Wes to me again. When neither of us spoke, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a black cocktail napkin and sighed. “I see. Well, let's not be hasty. I'll just plan the wedding on my own. There's no need to resort to justices of the peace or drive-through chapels or
cupcake shops in the Mission
—no offense, of course, Julia darling. You two can stop your flower-child scheming, if you please, and leave this in my capable hands. I just hope you feel as strongly as I do about tiered floral arrangements, Chiavari chairs, and gold damask tablecloths.”

“I'm sure Julia and Wesley trust your taste implicitly,” my father said, winking at me. “I'm sure that's exactly what all this absenteeism was about in the first place.” He placed his hand at the small of my mother's back. “Now you two will have to excuse us. It's our duty as both guests and guinea pigs to reacquaint ourselves with the young lady who was doling out those heavenly mint-chocolate numbers.”

Once they were safely out of earshot, Wes laughed. “Our ‘flower-child scheming'? What on God's green earth was all that about?”

I shrugged, smiling, and stopped a passing waitress to exchange my empty champagne glass for a full one. I took a long gulp of champagne, but swallowed quickly when I realized Wes was still watching me. He leaned down toward my ear.

“Baby,” he said softly. “Everything okay?”

My spine stiffened. The concern in his voice was too much. It would only take a few more words from him before the stress of the evening finally broke me down.

“I really wish you all would stop asking me that. I'm busy, Wes! I've
been
busy for months and I
am
busy tonight. My mother is driving me crazy with this wedding stuff and I really don't need it from you, too. Why does everyone suddenly think this is an appropriate time to discuss anything but cupcakes? I would like to talk about catering opportunities and marketing plans! Can you do that or not?”

Wes's handsome face darkened. “No, Julia, I suppose I can't. Not right now anyway.” He brushed his hands against his pant legs, as though he'd accidentally touched something unpleasant. “I'm going to track down a cupcake and leave you to it. You've got an event to manage.”

As if I need you to remind me
, I thought irritably as I watched him walk away. But my thoughts were starting to come more slowly now, taking a bit too long to arrange themselves into any sort of order.
Why did I just snap at him?
Already, I had trouble remembering.

When I allowed myself to glance back toward the kitchen again, Annie and Jake were still leaning against the door frame, gazing at each other and stealing little kisses. My eyes buzzed.
She should be mingling!
I thought crossly
. These people need to buy into
her
as much as they need to buy into the idea of cupcakes.
Why did it suddenly feel like I was the only one pulling my weight around here? I started to make my way over to Annie, but was quickly intercepted by a gangly, red-haired, vaguely familiar-looking woman.

“Hi, Julia?” the woman said, her apologetic smile revealing a horsey mouthful of large, unnaturally white teeth. “I'm Lainey? Lainey Pruott? From
San Francisco
magazine? We chatted at the Meals on Wheels holiday benefit last year?”

Shit!
I pressed my shoulders back, trying to shake the blurriness from my vision and thoughts. “Lainey!” I cooed, dropping two swift kisses on the woman's cheeks. I gave her elbow a familiar squeeze to seal the illusion of warmth. “I'm so thrilled you made it! How are you? How's—” I searched my memory for the name of Lainey's husband, a writer for the
San Francisco Chronicle
who I'd also met at the party that winter.
Why did I have to drink so much?
One less glass of champagne and that name would have been on the tip of my tongue. My memory was usually a steel trap, a dependable strategic weapon in business and social warfare. But now I drew a blank. I remembered only that Lainey Pruott phrased everything like a question, making you unsure—right up until the day when you saw yourself quoted in glossy print comparing the city's homeless population to “a glaring blemish on an otherwise flawless five-carat diamond”—whether you were having a conversation or being interviewed. Context, it seemed, really was everything.

“Tim?” Lainey said helpfully. I could tell she was happy to supply the information, and flattered that I remembered either of them at all. I stole another sip of champagne to cover my relief.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Is Tim here as well?”

“Unfortunately, no. He had another obligation. But I promised to do reporting for the both of us. I know he's planning to stop by sometime in the next few weeks.”

“Wonderful! We'll keep on our toes. Have you had a cupcake yet?”

“Um, three?” As Lainey giggled nervously, her lips spread back to her pale pink gums and revealed a smudge of chocolate lodged at the top of her right canine. “I know it's a very exciting night, but do you have time for a quick interview?”

“An interview?” I repeated. “Now?” Apparently, Lainey's irritating question marks were contagious. I cleared my throat. “Of course. Just let me grab my business partner, Annie Quintana.”