How to Eat a Cupcake (15 page)

“Why don't I talk to her later?” Lainey said hurriedly, pulling out a notebook. “Besides, you're the one our readers know. You've been gracing our pages since your debutante days. Julia St. Clair opens a cupcake shop! What a story, right?”

I shook my head. “Annie's the pastry chef. She's the heart behind this place.” I glanced over to where Annie still stood beside Jake, laughing flirtatiously with him as if they were alone and not in the midst of her business's launch party.
Ungrateful
. The word flashed in my mind, followed almost instantly by a feeling of guilt.
But why should I feel guilty when I have done nothing but behave generously toward her for months now?
Guilt was the last thing I should feel.

Lainey smiled at me encouragingly, pen poised above her notebook.

“I do see your point,” I said slowly. “Let's give your readers what they want.”

A
n hour later I was enjoying that holy-grail state of inebriation: appropriately high energy paired with a comfortable, manageable plateau of dulled nerves. Considering the amount of champagne I'd imbibed, I felt I was handling myself admirably, and chatting easily, but with the proper modicum of restraint, with everyone who approached me. I didn't even mention that kiss I had witnessed when Jake came over and wisecracked about how someone must have slipped a Mickey in my cupcake. Despite his comment, I remained sure I was holding myself together quite well. I felt illogically pleased by this, like being able to run a business while sloshed was some adult rite of passage and I had come out the other side unscathed.

The party was starting to thin out, and for the first time all night, I began to feel I could breathe again. Wes reappeared at my side—where had
he
been all night? The man could talk to anyone.

“I met Annie,” he said. “She's a riot, isn't she? You didn't tell me that.”

“Oh sure,” I said. “She'll joke you right out of your pants. The original man-eater.”

Wes looked at me strangely. “Julia,” he said, “I think you might be a little drunk.”

“No, I'm fine.” I looked down, picked a piece of lint off the bodice of my black cocktail dress, and held it out to Wes as though it was evidence of something. After a moment, he took it from me and let it drop to the floor.

“Why don't I take you home? My car is parked right up the street. I'm sure Annie can handle closing up.”

“What are you talking about? I can't leave! This is
my
shop.” The irritation I'd felt earlier swiftly returned. It was a feeling, I realized, I'd been experiencing a lot when I was with Wes lately. I was alone for weeks at a time, suffering in silent anguish, and he expected to swoop in and take care of me whenever it was convenient for his schedule? The fact that he didn't actually
know
I'd been suffering all that time was no excuse.

Wes was saved from the full force of my anger by the approach of a man I had noticed mingling all night with the crowd of chefs and bakers that Annie had invited to the opening. The man was sandy-haired and burly, out of place but self-possessed among the bespectacled, skinny-panted crowd.
Another journalist?
I doubted it, but summoned my most charming smile just in case.

“You're Julia, aren't you?” he asked.

“I am. Julia St. Clair. And this is Wesley Trehorn,” I said. Not introducing Wes as my fiancé was a covert jab that I noted with satisfaction hit its mark precisely.

“Nice to meet you both. I'm Ogden Gertzwell.” After a night of shaking hands with sycophantic strangers, I noted that Ogden's hand felt uniquely huge and warm and solid.

Ah
, I thought.
The organic farmer
. I clicked my smile wattage down a notch. Annie had told me all about her day at Gertzwell Farm. In her particular Annie way, she'd described Ogden as a self-righteous bore who would be well served to figure out how to convert his long-winded orations into energy to fuel his farm. What Annie hadn't told me was how handsome he was. Or, if not
handsome
exactly, then hunky in that way guys could be when they had big noses and thick biceps.

“It's not every day I meet an Ogden,” Wes said, giving the farmer's robust handshake a run for its money.

“Ogden of the delicious pears,” I said, taking in his wide-wale corduroy pants rubbed bare at the knees, his plain black T-shirt hugging his broad chest, his calm, thoughtful eyes. “I hear we should be quite honored you selected us as the middlewomen between your fruit and the public.”

A slow flush worked its way up Ogden's neck. He looked at Wes. “Ogden Nash,” he explained. “My mother is really into punny poets.”

“ ‘I think that I shall never see / A billboard lovely as a tree. / Indeed, unless the billboards fall, / I'll never see a tree at all,' ” Wes quoted theatrically.

As the two men eyed each other appreciatively, I worked hard not to roll my eyes.

“Have you seen Annie yet?” I asked.

“Seen but not spoken to,” Ogden said. “She's quite the belle of the ball. It's been hard to get her attention.”

We all looked toward the bar in the front window where Annie was laughing with her friend Becca. When she laughed like that, the usual sardonic posturing was swept from her face and she looked just like her mother. Growing up, it had always seemed to me that people came out of the woodwork to befriend Lucia—she'd had one of those open, sweet faces toward which people from all walks of life seemed to naturally gravitate. Annie, for all her sarcasm, had the same quality. She'd invited an eclectic group of friends and acquaintances to the party and each one—from this burly farmer with the dirt under his nails right up to my moneyed Lothario of an ex-boyfriend—seemed determined to wrangle some time with her. By comparison, my measly entourage of fiancé and parents felt pathetic. I drained the champagne in my glass quickly enough that it was possible to believe the sudden burning in my throat was from alcohol and not jealousy.

“Is there something in particular you want to say to her?” I asked Ogden, my voice almost singsong with teasing. “I'm very good at delivering messages.”

Wes shot me a look.

“Oh, it's nothing,” Ogden said. Even flustered he managed to hold himself very still. For a moment, I had a sense of the party flowing around him, like a river churning around a rock. “I just wanted to talk to her about the next delivery. We're seeing remarkable results with this new compost blend we're using. The Fuyus are coming in as big and glossy as tomatoes.”

“Ah, the Fuyus,” I said. I thought I kept the mocking tone in my head, but Wes shot me another look, his brow furrowed with disapproval.

“Persimmons,” Ogden said. He cleared his throat. “We grow Fuyu persimmons.”

“I see,” I said. “You're a proud papa. I'll pass on the news to Annie.”

Ogden was silent. He glanced again in Annie's direction. I had the distinct sense that she had been purposely evading eye contact with him all night. I felt something like pity for Ogden then, knowing firsthand just how cold Annie's cold shoulder could be.

“Well, okay,” he said. “I've got a drive ahead of me so I should get on the road. Good night.” He thought for a moment. “And congratulations. It seems like tonight was a big success.”

“Great to meet you, Ogden,” Wes said, clapping him heartily on the back. “I'm looking forward to trying those Fuyus.”

I smiled and nodded but now the grasp I'd felt sure I had on myself was beginning to slip. The room seemed suddenly dim, the beat of the music too loud for the small space now that the crowd had thinned.

“Who turned down the lights?” I said to no one in particular once Ogden had left. “I didn't tell anyone they could do that.”

“The lights are the same as they've been all night,” Wes said, sighing. “Julia, you were very rude to Ogden.” And then, almost to himself, he said, “I've never seen you like this.”

I bristled. “Well, maybe you should leave then. I'd hate to disappoint you.”

“I didn't say—”

“I know exactly what you didn't say,” I interrupted, my tongue thick in my mouth. “My behavior may be a surprise to you, but
I
know
you
inside out. You couldn't surprise me if your life depended on it.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” I said, looking away.

“How sad,” he said softly. “Maybe I shouldn't have come tonight. Didn't you say something about not mixing business and pleasure? You might have been on to something. Can you promise me you'll find your way safely home?”

“I promise.” I'd meant to sound chilly, but the words came out childlike and small.

“Okay.” He kissed my cheek, letting his hand linger for a moment on my shoulder before withdrawing it. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

And then I was alone in the tapering crowd.

Chapter 15

Annie

T
reat's opening party was turning out to be the prom I never had. I was decked out in a new dress, the music was pulsing, and I couldn't move a foot without bumping into a friend eager to shower me with a steady stream of praise. I deflected the first few compliments, but eventually I gave in and let the good vibes that were sent my way soak in. Sure, it was a decade late to aspire to being prom queen, but the people—
my
people—had spoken.

I'd invited practically everyone I knew to the party—Jake, Becca and Mike, Ernesto and Lorena and Carlos from Valencia Street Bakery, and numerous members of the interconnected circles of bakers and chefs and culinary world people with whom I'd worked and socialized over the years since college. It was the
This Is Your Life
of opening parties—everywhere I turned, there was someone from my past or present life supporting me. The only person missing, of course, was my mom. That month marked the ten-year anniversary of her death, but I tried not to dwell on that thought. Instead, I found myself imagining that she was somewhere in the room, trying each and every one of the cupcake flavors offered to her, her face radiant with pride. There was even a moment that I could have sworn I smelled her distinctive vanilla-and-citrus scent; turning around, I realized I was only catching a whiff of a nearby tray of Key lime cupcakes, but the feeling of believing, if only for an instant, that my mom was close flooded me with a warmth that I carried with me for hours.

“This must be the famous Becca,” Julia said, appearing beside Becca and me at the bar toward the end of the night. Julia's little black dress was typically classy but her words, I noticed, were atypically slurred. “I'm Julia St. Clair,” she announced to Becca, sticking out her hand.

Becca shot me a look as she shook Julia's hand. “Why, hello, Julia St. Clair,” she said, clipping her words with the hint of an English accent. “
Verrrry
pleased to meet you.” I kicked her shin under the bar.

“It's so nice of you to make it tonight,” Julia said. “This has been such an enormous labor of love for Annie and me and it's just wonderful so many people have come out to support us.”

Labor of love? People? Us?
Julia's words seemed strategically chosen to draw some line in the sand between Becca and the two of us. I would have thought Becca would have been too secure in our friendship to take the bait, but when I looked at her, I saw an angry glint in her eye.

“Oh, Becca knows I don't consider any party without her a party worth hosting,” I said quickly. “Besides, with free booze and cupcakes, you couldn't have kept her away if you tried.”

“It's true,” Becca said. “If there's one thing I like even more than Annie's company, it's freebies.”

“Well, you've hit the mother lode tonight,” Julia said, releasing one of her carefully arranged smiles. “Did you try the pink lemonade cupcake yet? It's one of Annie's best. I'll track one down if you like.”

I wondered if Julia had any idea how distantly she held herself, even when tipsy.
Loosen up!
I wanted to scream.
It's a party!
It seemed to me that she had painted herself into a corner with this persona of perfection, and she wasn't doing herself any favors. Why did she lock herself off like that? While I'd been having fun all night, she'd seemed tightly wound, her bare shoulders almost sinewy with tension.

“I'm actually more of a mocha gal,” Becca said. “But thanks.”

Looking back and forth between these two hardheaded women, I was struck by the sense that if Julia had actually been able to let her guard down and relax for a moment, she and Becca probably could have been friends. I felt sorry for Julia and the artificial life she seemed to have built for herself, but now that she had made her bed, I supposed all there was left for her to do was to lie in it.

W
hen the last guests had left, and we had paid the waitstaff and sent them on their way, Julia and I drained the final dregs of champagne and savored a few final cupcakes. For the first time all night, Julia appeared to actually be enjoying herself. I walked around, turning off the lights in the kitchen and the shop one by one until the room was lit only by the streetlamp out front. If I hadn't been so surprised by the sight of Julia genuinely relaxed and happy, maybe I would have caught some glimpse of the shadowy figure awaiting us outside, but Julia's ridiculously sloppy attempt to eat a banana-toffee cupcake in her usual methodical manner provided an inordinate level of distraction.

“Why, Julia St. Clair, I do declare you're drunk!” I said, laughing.

Julia paused and frowned, but a split second later began giggling uncontrollably. “I am,” she said, coughing and laughing as she looked down at the crumbs that had fallen on her dress. “Drunk as a skunk.” As if her body had been waiting for this cue all night, it suddenly lost its rigidity. She slumped forward, barely catching herself on the bar at the front window.

“Oh boy,” I said. “You really are.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe you should spend the night. I don't live far. Can you walk?”

This stoked another burst of laughter from Julia. “Can I walk? Can I
walk
? Can pigs fly?”

“Well, no, actually,” I said. My shoulders, it turned out, were the perfect height for wearing her limp arm. “Let's go, Piglet.”

“Heave ho, Pooh,” she mumbled.

When we stepped outside, the cool night air seemed to revive her and I felt her straighten a bit at my side. Both of us must have seen the man at the exact same moment; our steps simultaneously faltered and then quickened in sync as we neared him, the only other person on the street at that late hour. Stocky in a black zippered sweatshirt and jeans, a dark cap shadowing his eyes, the man leaned against the shuttered bodega storefront next to the cupcakery and silently watched us hurry by. His footsteps immediately fell into an echoing rhythm behind us, the hard soles of his shoes crunching loudly against the sidewalk. My blood suddenly felt like it was pumping through my veins at twice its normal pace; my thoughts jumbled together indecipherably in my head.

“Hey!” the man called gruffly.

My heart leaped. I half turned around to face the man, but as I did Julia grabbed my arm and broke into a run. A group of twenty-somethings loitered on the corner at the end of the block. Julia sprinted toward them, dragging me along with her, apparently forgetting that we didn't all train for marathons in our spare time.

“Help!” she yelled. We didn't stop until we reached the group, and when we finally looked back, the empty sidewalk behind us glowed eerily below the flickering streetlight.

“Holy shit,” I said, breathing hard. “That was scary.”

The cluster of people on the corner had turned toward us. “Are you okay?” one of the guys asked, eyeing my flowing turquoise dress with an amused expression and swaying slightly as he lit a cigarette. The cloud of smoke and beer that clung to them turned my stomach.

Cars whizzed by us on this street, which was much busier than Twentieth. Even at that late hour, the sounds of traffic were punctuated by the laughter and chatter of people heading out, or in, for the night. “Yeah, we're fine. Thanks,” I told the guy. At my side, Julia had turned a sickly shade of gray. “Let's go,” I said to her. “My apartment's just a few blocks up the street.”

As we walked, I couldn't help thinking of the graffiti that our contractor, Burt, had scrubbed out of the tiger-striped redwood bar.
You don't belong here
. After feeling so elated with the party, I now felt shaken and exhausted and confused all at once.

“You set the shop's alarm, right?” Julia asked in a strained voice.

“Locked and loaded.” I usually followed up any discussion of the alarm with a comment about how I felt as safe in the Mission as in any other neighborhood in the city, but now I fell silent.

We walked the final blocks to my apartment in tense silence. It was only once I'd shut the locked steel gate at the front door behind us that I realized my teeth were chattering. The familiar carpeted flight of stairs now seemed impossibly long and I had to fight a strong urge to curl up right there at their base and fall asleep.

“I didn't know they had high-rises in this part of town,” Julia said when we'd looped around what seemed like the tenth landing.

“I'm on the fourth floor—the top,” I said. “You have a generous definition of a high-rise. I'll have to tell my landlady she should call my apartment a penthouse next time she lists it on Craigslist.”

Once we finally reached my apartment, Julia made a beeline for the emerald-colored velvet couch steps from the door. She was sound asleep within seconds, not stirring even when I slipped a pillow below her cheek. I collapsed on my bed and tried to regain some of the exhilaration I'd felt an hour earlier, but a feeling of unease kept me tossing and turning all night.