How to Eat a Cupcake (20 page)

“You're right,” she said then. “It was me.”

I sucked in my breath and felt my whole body go still.

“But I never meant for it to get as far as it did,” she said. “I never wanted you to get suspended from Devon. I never wanted Cal to get involved. I never wanted your mom to find out. I made one stupid offhand comment to someone, and it got completely out of control. But it doesn't matter to you if I made one comment or twenty, does it? Because either way, I caused something terrible to happen. You're right, I was a complete bitch. And I guess . . . I guess my behavior with Jake proves that I still am. I don't feel like I'm the same person I was back then, but I guess I am. I don't deserve your trust. I certainly don't deserve your friendship. I don't deserve Wes. I don't deserve . . . a lot of things. Maybe anything.”

I stood completely still as I listened to her. I guess I thought that if I moved, this mirage of honesty might waver and fade, and I might ruin my chance of finally getting some answers. So it really had been Julia all along! I'd known it, I'd been sure of it, but I suppose some small part of me had held out hope that she would prove me wrong. Now that that hope was gone, I hardly knew how to feel about her.

“I know my apology is much too late and totally worthless. I don't expect forgiveness,” Julia said quietly. “But I am so very, very sorry. More sorry than I've ever been for anything in my entire life.” She wiped at her eyes, but they were already pretty dry. I marveled at her newfound ability to turn her tears on and off; she seemed to have taken to crying in the same way she took to everything else—effortlessly, like a fish to water. When I cried, my eyes were red and puffy for days.

I don't know what either of us would have said after that, because a turning key in the front door signaled the arrival of Tanya and the start of the baking hours at Treat. Julia nodded at me, gave a pitiful little half shrug, and disappeared into the front of the shop for the remainder of the day.

O
n my walk back to my apartment that night—I was no longer sharing rides with Julia, having decided getting mugged by Our Guy was the better of two evils—I slowed as I passed the open door of the bodega on my corner. On the news rack the latest issue of
San Francisco
magazine displayed a photo of a giant cupcake on its cover. I stepped inside and read the headline. “The Cupcake Craze: How Two of San Francisco's Native Daughters Are Leading the Charge.”

Does Julia know about this?
I wondered. The magazine had run a brief, but positive mention of Treat when we first opened, and I'd thought that was all the coverage they were planning on giving us. But this was clearly a much larger story. I paid for a copy and one of the inexpensive bottles of Pinot Noir by the counter—after the day I'd had, I figured I was showing some restraint by not moving straight to vodka.

Twenty minutes later, nestled in my couch with a large glass of wine on the coffee table in front of me, I opened the magazine. An image of Julia at Treat's opening party—her head thrown back mid-laugh, cupcake and enormous engagement ring on equal display in her hand, one black heel lifted daintily behind her—filled an entire glossy page. On the other side, mid-text, there was a small image of me that I remembered the magazine's photographer taking the week after Treat opened. Leaning against the shop's counter in my burgundy apron, I looked tired and chunky, like the eccentric sidekick of the leading lady on the opposite page.

When the daughter of one of San Francisco's most well-known families decided to open a cupcake shop earlier this year, it was not the culmination of a lifelong dream. In fact, Julia St. Clair readily admits the whole endeavor began on a whim. At a time when most small businesses close within a year of opening, starting a cupcake shop is the kind of whim that those of us who don't have a trust fund estimated in the millions can only dream of chasing.

“I just love cupcakes,” St. Clair admitted at Treat's opening party this fall. Her sleek blond hair was shiny even under the shop's seductively dim lights. “After a month of taste testing, it's a wonder I still fit into this!” she said, gesturing at the black Prada cocktail dress that hugged her trim figure.

I closed my eyes and sank back into the couch, rubbing at my temples. The article was nothing more than a puff piece about a bored, capricious socialite with money to burn. With all of Julia's resources, with all of the weird public interest in her and her family, she had had the opportunity to shine a light on how Treat was different from other bakeries, how we were special. But no, she'd simply taken the moment to show off her legs. I could have killed her.

After a long spell during which I muttered colorful death threats in between long sips of wine, I finally pulled out my cell phone and called Becca. I filled her in on the confession Julia had made that morning and then told her about the article.

“I'm seriously thinking this whole thing isn't worth it,” I told her, nearly out of breath from rambling for so long. “Why am I putting myself through this? Believe me, I love Treat. The thought of leaving destroys me. But I can open up another shop someday, can't I? Why am I doing this to myself?”

“Annie,” Becca broke in when I finally paused. “Did you read the whole article?”

“What? Well, no. Once I started imagining impaling Julia with a spatula, the page went a little out of focus. But I got the gist.”

“I read it when I got home from work,” she said. Her voice had a funny tone. “I think you should read the whole thing.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“You're not just trying to get me off the phone so you and Mike can have happy couple sex, are you?”

Becca laughed. “Hey,” she said. “There's nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone.”

“You suck.” I sighed. “Have fun.”

I picked the magazine back up and flipped to the article, rolling my eyes anew at the horrendous juxtaposition of photos. I skimmed down to where I'd stopped reading the first time and resolved to finish the article. It wasn't easy. There were more references to Julia's family, her wardrobe, her perfect highlights and impressive résumé, blah blah blah. And then.

“Annie Quintana is quite simply the most talented, most inventive person I've ever known,” St. Clair says. There is a new note of earnestness in her voice. She seems to focus when she talks about her business partner, becoming more present in the conversation than when the talk is of her family or upcoming nuptials. “I can't begin to fathom how her brain works. Her mother was a fabulous baker as well and shared a lot of her secrets with Annie. But it's more than just inherited knowledge—Annie can taste one ingredient and immediately develop an entire recipe around it. And I guarantee that that cupcake, whatever ingenious combination of flavors it is, is going to be the most delicious and surprising cupcake you've ever eaten.”

The rest of the article was about me—my training and career to date—and included a few quotes from me that I now remembered the journalist jotting down at the party. There were glowing descriptions of some of our menu's most popular cupcakes, as well as a couple of the more experimental ones. The journalist, perhaps entranced by Julia's enthusiasm, seemed to think Treat was the best thing to happen to the Bay Area's baking scene in years. I shut the magazine and sighed, feeling utterly confused.

Which Julia is this?
She had as many faces as a set of Russian nesting dolls. Still, I had to admit, she'd done exactly what moments earlier I'd been wishing she had done. She'd used her resources—in this case an obsequious journalist who was clearly enthralled by Julia's societal standing—to successfully promote our little cupcakery.

When my phone rang, I picked it up immediately, expecting it to be Becca. But it was Julia.

“It's Treat,” she said, her voice tight with what sounded like a mix of rage and fear. “I'm already in the car. Can you meet me there?”

S
omeone had spray painted the words “GET OUT” in thick black letters across the front window. From the
inside
. Whoever had done it had managed to get through the front door but hadn't been able to disarm the alarm and it must have finally driven him away. Inspector Ramirez and several other officers were already inside the shop with Julia when I arrived.

“This feels like déjà vu,” I muttered, crossing over the threshold. Everything in the shop looked normal except for those thick black letters on the window. I checked the kitchen, but nothing appeared out of place. I walked back into the shop, arms crossed tight across my chest. Just the idea of some ill-intentioned stranger in my shop made me sick to my stomach.

Ramirez was crouched by the front door shining a flashlight at the locks. “There isn't sign of a forced break-in,” he announced, a little out of breath as he hoisted himself out of the squat. “Who else has keys other than the two of you?”

Julia and I looked at each other. “Two of our assistant bakers,” I said. “But this wasn't either of them. I'm sure of it.” The idea of Tanya or Elisa yielding a can of spray paint was laughable.

“I don't think you should feel sure of anything right now,” Ramirez said. “I'll need contact information for all of your employees.”

“Fine,” Julia said. “Whatever you need.”

“Can you think of anyone who might not want this shop to stay open for any reason?” Ramirez asked.

I shrugged. “The Council on Obesity? Militant Mothers Against Refined Sugar? The list of enemies of the cupcake is long.”

“Annie.” Julia sighed.

“What?” I said, turning toward her. “You think someone we know did this? Come on! That's ridiculous.”

“What else can I think?” Julia asked, her voice shaken. “You have to admit this is beginning to seem calculated.”

“You'd be surprised what a disgruntled employee—” Ramirez began to add.

“No one is disgruntled,” I interrupted. “But we'll give you the contact list and you can question everyone yourself.”

Ramirez's eyes skimmed the ceiling, slowing as they reached the corner of the shop near the front door. “If you're going to stay open, I recommend a security camera. I'm sure your alarm company can install one.”

“
If
we're going to stay open?” I asked, surprised.

Ramirez puffed out his pudgy cheeks and shrugged. “It's obviously up to you. But it's clear that someone is targeting your shop. No other businesses in the vicinity have reported such a pattern of incidents. A camera could confirm if it's the guy you've seen hanging around the shop before, or if it's someone else . . . someone you know.”

“I'll call the alarm company first thing in the morning,” Julia said. She pulled out her phone and typed a note into it.

Ramirez drummed his pen against his notebook and the noise seemed to echo ominously through the shop. I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I were back on my couch with that glass of wine. “So there's nothing else I should know?” he asked. Again, he was looking at me. “Nothing else out of the ordinary that's happened lately that needs to go in the report?”

I thought about this for a moment. “There was an article that came out today in
San Francisco
magazine about Treat,” I said slowly. I felt Julia's eyes on my face but didn't look over at her. “I can't imagine there's any connection, but if someone really doesn't want the shop to be open, I guess they might be pissed about the good press?”

Ramirez jotted this down in his book. “Okay,” he said. I wished he would give more insight, but he just looked around the shop one more time, stifled a yawn, and snapped his notebook shut.

After we'd reactivated the alarm and locked the shop back up, Ramirez walked us to Julia's car. Once we were inside, the car's heavy silence took over.

“My next investment will be in a graffiti-removal company,” she said after a moment.

Humor. An unusual choice for Julia. I looked over at her, thinking of what she'd said in that magazine article. Finally, I sighed.

“Why don't you come over,” I said. “We could probably both use something sweet. I made some cookies.”

Her eyes widened. “Okay,” she said quickly, and started the car. A few minutes later, as we were driving, she asked, “Are they your mom's ginger ones?”

“Their bastard cousin.”

Julia smiled, twisting to look over her shoulder as she expertly parallel parked near my building. “Sounds delicious.”

W
e sat on the couch in my apartment, a plate stacked high with soft ginger cookies on the cushion between us. I saw Julia eyeing the
San Francisco
magazine on the coffee table.

“Why didn't you tell me about that?” I asked, nodding toward the magazine.

“I didn't know about it. I thought the little write-up they ran right after the shop opened was all they decided to do.” She hesitated, nibbling delicately at a cookie. “What did you think of it?”

“It was pretty perfect,” I said matter-of-factly. “I'm sure it will be great for business.”

Julia seemed confused by this. “Yes, but—I meant everything I said about you. About how much I admire you. I wasn't saying that stuff for the publicity.”

The weird thing was that even after everything we'd been through, even though I was still incredibly angry with her, I believed her.

“I know,” I said. I pulled my knees up to my chest and peered over them at her. “I believe you think I'm a good baker, and I believe you when you say you want Treat to do well.” I paused and took a deep breath. “What I have trouble believing is when you say you're sorry for what happened with Jake. How could you have done what you did to me and still claim you want us to be friends? Friends don't go on secret dates with their friends' boyfriends. Friends don't kiss their friends' boyfriends. Those are probably rule number one and two in the friend handbook.”