How to Eat a Cupcake (18 page)

Chapter 19

Annie

A
week before Thanksgiving, Jake and I had one of those ridiculously perfect dates that I'd previously thought were only the stuff of romantic comedies starring Kate Hudson. We ate dinner in a tiny North Beach Italian restaurant with a back patio all cozy and aglow below crisscrossing strings of twinkly white lights and full-blast heat lamps. It was the kind of night that makes it easy to forget the guy you're dating is actually married to someone else. The expensive wine coated my throat with warm notes of fig and vanilla. Mozzarella melted like cream on my tongue and a jumble of lacy and tubular wild mushrooms lent an earthy heartiness to a glistening plate of homemade pappardelle. The dessert—my litmus test for any restaurant, of course—was a flourless chocolate cake so dense and rich that most people would have put down their forks, happily satiated, after a few bites. But Jake knew to untangle his hand from mine when the waiter set the two plates down on the table. Within minutes, I'd finished my entire slice.
Be still
, I thought,
o heart of mine
, when I looked up to see that Jake had also scraped his plate clean.
Finally
, I thought, grinning at him, not caring that my teeth were probably stained a lovely shade of dark chocolate.
A
real
man
.

Oh! The conversation? It was okay.

I kid! We joked and opined and butted heads flirtatiously tit for tat all dinner long. At the end of the meal, as we sipped our last bit of wine and waited for the check to arrive, Jake nudged my foot. I smiled at him, but his gaze had an unfamiliar, serious set to it. I felt my heart clench.

“You never talk about your mother,” he said.

I released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. “Oh, I do,” I said. “I talk about her all the time. I love talking about her. I love talking about her in a totally healthy, normal way.”

Jake grinned, relaxing, dimples firing on all cylinders. “What was she like?”

I thought for a moment. “She was very
good
. She was a hard worker—one of those people who seem tireless, like they can function perfectly well on five hours of sleep.” I drew circles on the base of my wineglass, trailing my short fingernails against the glass. “She was a wonderful mother. Of course, I never got a chance to know her as an adult, so my memory of her is probably kind of sentimental. Still, I'm pretty sure that everything she did, every choice she made, she made with my well-being foremost in her mind. She'd had a hard childhood. Her own mother was tough as nails and kicked her out of the house when she got pregnant at sixteen. That's when she left Ecuador and came here.”

“She sounds brave,” Jake said.

I nodded. “When I was young I always thought she seemed very shy when she spoke with anyone but me or Julia. Now I realize she was just a kid herself. A kid trying to navigate a new country, a new language, motherhood, being an employee. Can you imagine? Anyway, as we both got older, she started to lose that reticence. Her laugh became . . .
bigger
—not just more frequent, but louder, longer, more confident. I like to think I had something to do with that.”

“I'm sure you did,” Jake said. My heart seemed to swell suddenly and I looked down at my plate. After a moment, he reached across the table and put his hand on mine. His brown hair fell boyishly across his forehead. “How did she die?”

I swallowed. Ten years after my mother's death, it still felt like it had happened yesterday.
You should be able to talk about this without getting upset
, I told myself.

“She had a brain aneurysm. It was completely out of nowhere.” I shook my head and released a strangled little laugh. “
Completely out of nowhere
,” I repeated, sipping my wine. “I don't know why I said that. Like something can be
sort of
out of nowhere. Or just a
little bit
shocking.
Mildly
life altering.”

“I'm sorry,” Jake said, stroking my fingers. “If you don't want to talk about it, I understand.”

“No, I'm fine. Thanks.”

Our waiter deposited the bill in front of Jake and he dropped his card on it without checking to make sure they hadn't charged us for an extra bottle of wine, or three desserts, or the lobster instead of the pasta. I summoned the tiny reserve of self-control that is apparently pooled in some shadowy, rarely accessed part of my brain and managed to resist the urge to stop the waiter from taking away Jake's card before I had a chance to give the bill a quick once-over.

“Did you ever think of finding your father?” Jake asked, startling me out of an imaginary wrestling match with the waiter.

I thought for a moment. “You know, I must have at some point. Right? It would be weird if I never did. But I think I must have had the thought and dismissed it in the same moment. My mom never told me anything about him, so it's almost like he never existed. I'm just my mother's daughter. There's no one else.”

Jake smiled and leaned back in his chair, his blue-green gaze warm. “I don't meet girls like you every day.”

“What, you mean orphaned, first-generation American cupcake bakers with immaculate conception complexes? We're a dime a dozen.”

“I guess I just haven't been looking in the right places.”

“Kitchens,” I said. “We hang out in kitchens. And mangers. You know, around Christmas.”

We both had early mornings so we ended the night with a steamy make-out session in his car parked outside my apartment. Growing up as a city kid with few boyfriend prospects, I'd missed out on that whole teenagers-making-out-in-cars stage. Leaning into Jake under the moon roof, feeling his lips pressed warm and urgent against my neck, his hands tangled in my hair, the car seat heater jacked up to the level of hot embrace, I realized for the first time just how gypped I'd been.

Jake and I were still at the point in our relationship where every kiss electrified my entire body with anticipation and that greedy feeling of wanting more, more,
more
. By the time I shut the car door behind me and waved good-bye through its window, I was hopped up on life, buzzing and overheated, and not ready to return to my quiet apartment. I needed to talk to someone—not about Jake necessarily, but just to talk. I wanted to extend that feeling of connection, to take advantage of one of those fleeting moments when I didn't feel on my own in the world, but connected to everyone.
We all love! We all kiss!
my brain was ruminating at full speed.
We all bask in the glow of other humans' warmth! How pathetically wonderful!
The person I wanted to call, I realized, was not my best friend, Becca, but Julia St. Clair. Before I could overthink anything, I dialed her number. I had no idea what I planned to say.

She answered the call immediately. “You got my message,” she said by way of greeting. Her voice was low and glum. I could barely hear her.

My stomach dropped, my runaway happy thoughts slamming hard into the wall that was her tone. “No,” I said. “What happened?”

“Someone threw a brick at Treat's front window. It's cracked, but not shattered; we'll need to replace it. The alarm went off. I'm at the shop now.”

“Oh no,” I breathed. “Are the police there?”

“Yes. The inimitable Ramirez is on the scene.”

“Good. I'm walking there now—I'm just a few blocks away.” I realized I'd started walking toward the shop the moment I'd heard Julia's voice.

“Okay. Be careful.”

“Yup,” I said, and immediately cast a nervous glance over my shoulder.

“Wait, Annie?” Julia said as I was about to hang up. “You didn't know about the window? That's not why you were calling?”

“No, I . . .” I hesitated. Why had I called Julia? Whatever feelings I'd had moments earlier were now completely inaccessible. “Honestly, I have no idea why I was calling. Baker's intuition?”

Julia laughed, and the sound relieved me. Everything was going to be okay. “You're bizarre,” she said. “Now, walk faster.”

December

Chapter 20

Julia

S
ince the incident with the window, things had been noticeably calmer at Treat. Well, maybe not calmer, exactly—the shop bustled with customers each and every day, and I sometimes felt that I was working harder at this little cupcake venture than I had ever worked at any multimillion-dollar deal in all my time in New York. But the fractured front window had been quickly replaced, and other than having to step over the occasional sidewalk condom or crack vial on the walk from my car to Treat's door each morning, or having to put in a call to a painter to cover some relatively benign graffiti that appeared on the front door every so often, it seemed that the Mission had finally decided to cut us some well-deserved slack.

When I arrived at Treat that morning, Annie was already hard at work in the kitchen with Tanya, one of the shop's two assistant bakers, and Eduardo, the dishwasher with a thick coat of black downy hair on his forearms who didn't seem to speak a lick of English.

“Morning, everyone,” I said to the room at large. “
Buenos días
,” I called in Eduardo's direction.

Annie shook her head, smiling. In the warm kitchen, her skin glowed bronze against the burgundy apron she wore, and her dark ponytail was streaked with flour. “Well, aren't you feeling multicultural this morning!” she teased. “What's up?”

“Just saying hello.” I plucked an un-iced cinnamon-pear cupcake from a cooling tray and picked at it absently.

“You gonna pay for that?”

“Put it on my tab.” The pear was light and sweet on my tongue. Farmer Ogden sure grew a mean organic pear—worth every pretty penny. I leaned against the door frame and took a few more small bites. I'd been mulling an idea over, but as I watched Annie move authoritatively around the kitchen, I found myself uncharacteristically hesitant. I never ceased to be amazed at how she was transformed in the kitchen. Outside of Treat, Annie's sarcasm was like a coat of armor protecting a woman who seemed a bit adrift in the world; here, in the kitchen, she was completely at ease, brimming with confidence and happiness and admirable competency. It was clear she knew how good she was at this, and I felt a prick of envy for the uncomplicated direction and shape that baking gave my friend's life. Looking down, I saw that the cupcake was dwindling quickly in my hand. Finally, Annie switched off the drone of the huge Hobart mixer and, turning around, looked startled to see me still there.

“Uh-oh, Tanya,” she said, one hand still on the mixer switch. “I think the boss might be angling to can us.”

Tanya straightened up from the corner stove, her eyes wide.

“Annie!” I laughed. “Don't listen to her, Tanya. She's cruel.”

“Well, what is it, then?” Annie asked, hands on hips. “Did you run out of numbers to crunch?”

“Very funny, wise guy.” Still, I didn't move. Why was I drawing this out? It really wasn't a big deal. “Can I talk to you up front for a second?”

Annie's brown eyes questioned me, but she wiped her hands on her apron and followed me into the still-dim shop. Through the window, Twentieth Street looked deceptively charming and unsoiled in the forgiving glow of early morning.

“Everything okay?” Annie asked once the door to the kitchen had swung shut behind her.

“Oh sure. No, everything's fine. It's silly.” I felt myself flush.
Just ask her already!
I was behaving ridiculously.

Annie leaned against the counter, idly sliding the cupcake case door open and shut. “Listen, Julia,” she said, suddenly straightening. “I think I know what's going on here.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, and I'm afraid the answer is no. I simply cannot lend you any more money,” Annie said, deadpan. “You've got to stop asking. It's getting uncomfortable.”

I laughed and felt myself relax. “You're really on a roll this morning, aren't you?”

“Well, out with it already. I've got cupcakes to bake.”

“Right.” I took a breath. “Do you think Tanya could handle the kitchen on her own this afternoon?”

“Today? I guess. Why? Where are we going?”

“Wedding dress shopping. You, me, and my mother.”

“An outing with Lolly dearest?” Annie grinned. “Sounds like a barrel of fun. Count me in.”

I breathed. “Thanks.” I hadn't expected her to agree so readily.

Annie shrugged. “No problem. I know how you rely on my fashion prowess. Can I get back to work now?”

T
hirty minutes before we were supposed to leave for the bridal boutique, I looked up from the register to see Wes standing before me holding up a very expensive bottle of champagne.

“Hey, there, beautiful!” he drawled. “How 'bout a little bubbly?”

“Wes!” I cried. “What are you doing here? You didn't tell me you were getting back in town today!”

“I believe this is what some people call a surprise.” His dark eyes flashed behind his glasses. “Surprise! Now are you going to make me show off my considerable vaulting skills or are you gonna come out from behind that counter and give me a kiss?”

The line was short enough that Devi could handle the customers on her own, so I untied my burgundy Treat apron, hung it on a hook by the kitchen door, and had made it halfway around the counter before Wes reached out, pulled me tight against his chest, and kissed me. Was the haven created by his arms the warmest, snuggest, most perfect place on earth? In that moment, I thought it just might have been. I kissed him back, my heart buoyant, and led him by the hand to the window bar.

“You should have called,” I said, “I could have moved things around. I have to leave to go to an appointment any minute.”

“I know. Wedding dress shopping. A little birdie with a very big mouth told me. Hence, the champagne. Thought you might need some preshopping lubrication.”

“My mom called you? Why would she do that?”

“Your mother's mind is a mysterious place,” Wes said, “but I think she was just excited. I get the feeling she's been worried about you.”

He was quiet for a moment and I sensed he was giving me an opening to speak. I looked down at the bar and tried not to think about the cruel line of graffiti that had been rubbed and lacquered out of the wood. After a moment, Wes pulled me to his chest again and kissed my temple. Then, in one swift, expert move, he popped open the champagne. A few lanky teenage girls in line for cupcakes jumped at the sudden noise and stared at Wes, twittering. He shot them a sparkly, gallant grin and then pulled two plastic cups from his coat pocket. “Cheers,” he whispered, bending his head toward me. “To my bride-to-be, the smartest, most beautiful, sexiest woman I've ever met.”

I took a sip of champagne and dropped my head to Wes's broad shoulder, gazing out at the street. “Annie's coming shopping,” I told him. “I somehow roped her in.”

“Is she?” Wes asked. I heard the surprise in his voice and wondered how much he'd figured out about my checkered history with Annie. “I'm glad. She'll make it fun. Hot damn, Jules! Does this mean I should be looking for a best man? Have you changed your mind about the whole no-wedding-party thing?”

“What? No,” I said quickly. Then I thought for a moment. “Well, maybe. I don't know. Let me think about it.”

“No rush.” Wes glanced at his watch. “I should get out of here so you ladies can get on your way. Wouldn't want you to keep Lolly waiting.” He tapped the half-full bottle of champagne. “This will make for an excellent cab refreshment, if you're in the sharing mood. You gals shouldn't let it go to waste.”

I rested my chin on my hand and watched him stand. It felt like ages since I'd seen him last, though we'd spent the night together during one of his San Francisco stopovers just a week earlier. The secret between us made me feel like even when we were together, we weren't; the memory of that day in the hospital was still lodged like a stone in my chest, making it hard to take deep breaths.
Maybe this is the afternoon I should tell him everything
, I thought for probably the hundredth time. “I don't have to go dress shopping today, you know,” I heard myself saying before I could stop myself. “I could reschedule. We could spend the afternoon together.”

Wes's face fell. “Well, shoot. I've got to catch a flight to Palm Springs to meet with some investors. I'll be back tomorrow though. Dinner then?”

“Okay,” I said, that stone in my chest settling deeper between my ribs. I hugged Wes and inhaled the scent of his neck—a reassuringly familiar combination of coffee and leather and something sweet I always had trouble putting my finger on. What was it? Butter from his morning toast? A package of chocolates left over from some hotel stay? Maybe a hint of the honey he liked to drizzle on apples. I smiled, allowing myself a moment to believe in the possibility of a shared life full of sweet things.

A
t the bridal gallery, a saleswoman led Annie and me to a little waiting room where my mother sat perched on the edge of a white damask settee in front of a huge, three-panel mirror. She rose when she saw us, smoothing her powder-blue tweed suit.

“Oh good, you've actually materialized,” she said, kissing my cheeks. She nodded to the saleswoman. “You can bring those dresses we discussed now.” She turned back toward us and seemed to notice Annie for the first time. “Hello, Annie! What a delightful surprise. I'm sure you'll have a very interesting take on all of the dresses.”

Inwardly, I grimaced, but Annie seemed to take the comment in stride. I breathed out, realizing that Annie knew my mother well enough to know that below her cool exterior beat a very warm heart. Or maybe Annie's tolerance had something to do with the fact that we were both a little loopy from finishing that bottle of champagne on the cab ride over.

“You know me, Lolly,” Annie said, pulling the skirt of her red paisley shirtdress out to perform a little curtsy. “I'm not one to avoid making a fashion statement.”

“Good. If there's one thing this wedding better not be, it's dull,” my mother said. She pulled Annie close for a hug. “I'm so glad you've joined us.”

When the saleswoman returned with several gowns, I followed her into the dressing room, leaving Annie and my mother in the waiting room outside. I looked at the dresses my mother had picked for me and was not at all surprised to find that they were beautiful, and exactly what I would have selected for myself. Classic, strapless, luxurious. My mother knew my taste well. I undressed and pulled the prettiest gown on, listening to it rustle around my legs as the saleswoman zipped up the side. I swayed a moment, feeling the effects of all the champagne I'd drunk.

“Oh,” the saleswoman breathed. “How will we do better than Vera Wang? You make such a beautiful bride. As perfect as a cake topper.”

Suddenly, I felt my throat tighten. My voice sounded clipped when I asked for a moment alone. Once the door had clicked shut behind the saleswoman, I turned back to face the mirror. A bride stood before me—tall and beautiful and blinking back tears.

In that dress, there was nowhere to hide. As much as I'd been trying not to face the reality—the uncertainties, really—of the future, the future was fast approaching. I tried to picture myself walking down the aisle toward Wes, but could summon only a black, gaping hole. I closed my eyes and tried to see Wes's face. Why was he so hard to conjure? I'd just seen him! If I could visualize his eyes—clear and loving and valiant—I would feel better. Or would I? I'd been keeping this terrible secret for so long that it was starting to feel more like a lie than anything else—a lie of omission, perhaps, but a lie nonetheless. How would Wes ever trust me again?

At twenty-eight, I felt damaged beyond love.
Am I going to feel this way, raw and exposed, for the rest of my life?
I desperately missed the old me. I sank down on the bench in the dressing room, wishing I could tear the dress off, wishing I hadn't drunk so much champagne.

The door clicked open and shut before I could say anything, and then Annie was looking down at me with her hands on her hips.

“Oh, Julia!” she said, her eyes widening. “What's wrong?”

I stood quickly and brushed my hands briskly down the gown, a move that made me feel exactly like my mother. “Nothing's wrong,” I said. “I'm just so happy.”

Annie cocked her head, a droll half smile playing on her face. “Tears of joy don't usually come with so much snot.”

I laughed despite myself. It was better, I realized, not to be alone. Snatching a tissue from a dupioni-covered box on the table, I looked in the mirror and dabbed expertly at the mascara that had trailed below my eyes. Watching my appearance improve made my spirits improve, too. “Well,” I said, glancing at Annie in the mirror. “Are you going to stand there all day gaping or are you going to tell me I look gorgeous?”

“You look gorgeous,” Annie said without any hesitation. I heard the warmth in her voice, the utter absence of envy or bitterness or anger. It was the voice of my old friend Annie, the voice of the best friend I'd had before I managed to ruin everything so many years ago. I breathed out, smiling at her through the mirror, and sniffling just a little, tried to be happy.

Annie plucked the price tag from where it dangled along the side of my dress and raised her eyebrows, laughing a little. “Remember that game we used to play with your mom's magazines?”

I shook my head and did a half spin before the mirror, letting the gown's lush silk skirt swish and fall back into place.

“We'd pretend that we could have one thing from every page,” Annie said. “But we couldn't look at the price or the brand or anything, we just had to do a quick pick of what caught our eye first. I was like a bird. I always picked the sparkliest, most colorful thing on the page.”

“Just what you needed.” I laughed. “Another lime-green vest with bedazzled pockets.”