How to Eat a Cupcake (9 page)

“You're sorry for being
inconsiderate
? Julia, it's not like you forgot to RSVP to my sweet sixteen party.” Annie released a sharp little laugh. “We were best friends and then you tried to ruin my life. Cal nearly revoked my acceptance!”

“That had nothing to do with me!” I refused to be steamrolled into taking responsibility for something that had been completely out of my control.

“Julia,” she said, enunciating my name as though she were speaking to a toddler. “Our senior year. Those rumors. You started them.”

I sighed. As much as I wanted to end the conversation then and there, I feared doing so would push Annie—and the cupcakery—out of my life forever. “Listen,” I began, trying again. “Senior year went by in a blur for me. I honestly hardly remember it—between working on my Stanford application and my valedictorian speech, I feel like I barely had time to breathe that whole year. But I am truly sorry for what happened and whatever part you think I played in it.”

Annie's hair quivered. “Whatever part I
think
you played in it?” she repeated. “What does what I
think
have to do with anything? This isn't some philosophical debate. In this instance, there is one truth, and what either of us thinks about that truth does not alter it from being
the
truth!”

Suddenly, as I watched her hands clench into fists and felt the icy charge in her voice, tears sprang to my eyes. I quickly blinked them away, but not before Annie looked down, alarmed. She knew me well enough to know that, unlike her, I wasn't one to wear my heart on my sleeve. Annie had always, I remembered, cried nearly as easily as she laughed—her emotions had seemed irrepressible when we were kids, every thought and feeling scrolling across her face like sun and shadows across pavement. Now, it seemed almost like we had changed places; I couldn't control my emotions, and Annie, who used to be so empathetic, eyed me coolly, as though from a distance. What role had I played in her transformation? I shuddered to think.

“I'm not that person,” I said quietly, deciding as I said it that I believed it was true, or at least that I planned to make it true. “Not anymore. I know you don't believe me now, but I'm going to prove it to you.”

Annie shook her head and stood from the table. “I can't do this,” she said flatly.

I rose with her. “Remember,” I said, wincing at the pleading note in my voice, “my involvement in the business would only be temporary. I just want to help you get it off the ground, and then I promise I'll be out of your life. I'll get married and I'll find another job and you'll be rid of me. It will all be detailed explicitly in the contract. The cupcakery will be one hundred percent yours after I get married.”

“But why?” she asked, staring at me. “Why do you want to do this?”

“I just—I think you're a good investment. You're so talented, Annie.”

I could tell she didn't believe me. “Fine,” she said finally. “But let's do ourselves a favor and keep our relationship about the cupcakery, okay? We don't need to be friends—we're starting a business, not a sorority. I'll look into spaces in the Mission, you can do whatever research you feel is needed, and we can circle back to compare notes. I'll see myself out.”

“Okay,” I said, surprised to hear the hurt in my voice. Business was exactly what I was looking for, wasn't it? “If that's what you want.”

August

Chapter 7

Annie

I
had agreed to let Jake Logan teach me how to surf. Yes,
me
, a grown woman born and raised in foggy San Francisco with about as much of a chance of becoming a beach girl as I did of becoming a Bond girl. But there was something about Jake that made me want to expand my horizons. I placed the blame fully on his damn dimples.

On a rare sunny afternoon in August, we drove through Golden Gate Park with the top down on Jake's yellow 1973 Mustang convertible (a vehicle I'd immediately christened “the Firm Banana”), two surfboards sticking up like antennae from the backseat. We pretended to be actors in some cheesy commercial promoting tourism in San Francisco, gesturing around wildly and throwing our heads back and fake-laughing with abandon as we cruised past the sparkling glass Conservatory of Flowers, the penitentiary-like observation tower of the de Young Museum, the Frisbee golf course frequented by Pabst Blue Ribbon–toting twenty-somethings, the middle-aged men racing toy boats across Spreckels Lake, the ever-fragrant bison paddock, and the Dutch Windmill at the far west end of the park. Nothing would have made me happier than if we'd just headed north at that point and pulled into the precariously perched Cliff House for an overpriced late lunch and cold beer overlooking the Pacific, but instead we crossed the Great Highway and pulled into the parking lot at Ocean Beach. I released a sigh of relief when I saw that the water was nearly lakelike that day; low, slow waves were like the doddering, geriatric version of the rough-and-tumble surf that usually pounded the shore.

Jake extracted the boards from the backseat and tossed me a wetsuit (an earlier mention of which was the only thing that finally prompted me to agree to this lesson; if I'd been forced to parade around in broad daylight in only a bikini, my own less appropriately placed dimples would have put Jake's to shame). I pulled off my Hawaiian-print baby doll dress and squeezed my bikini-clad self into the wetsuit as quickly as possible, a feat made all the more difficult by the fact that the suit seemed more appropriately sized for some much smaller ex-girlfriend. Jake shot me a raffish grin as I struggled with the zipper.

“Who'd have thunk—black rubber suits you.”

“I figured that out years ago,” I said, raking my hair into a ponytail. “Halloween. College. Cat Woman.”

“Meow.”

After a brief and humiliating lesson involving jumping up and then belly flopping down on the surfboard while still on sand, Jake deemed me ready to hit the water. Even with the wetsuit, booties, and hood, the glacierlike water turned my limbs leaden with cold. I quickly learned that it took every ounce of my inconsiderable upper body strength to paddle up, over, and past those waves that had appeared so small and unassuming from the sand. When I finally caught up to where Jake sat bobbing nonchalantly on his board two hundred feet off the shore, I pulled the insulated hood off my head, gasping for breath.

“Well, that was fun,” I said. “When's dinner?”

Jake laughed. “Don't worry, you're in the sweet spot now. The waiting game is just as good as catching a wave.” The spark in his blue-green eyes flared brighter than ever as he gazed back at the shore, but I could see how the rest of his body language had mellowed to a calmer state out on the water.

I maneuvered myself around until I sat up on my board beside him, facing back toward the coast. The feeling I had then was probably a bit like waking up with your head at the wrong side of the bed—the colors and shapes of the city where I'd grown up were utterly familiar, and at the same time almost eerily different from this new perspective. I bobbed beside Jake in silence, catching my breath.

“What do you think?” he asked finally.

“Not bad,” I replied, shooting him a sidelong smile. The lift and fall of the ocean had a numbing effect on my thoughts. My mind, which all afternoon had been frenetically running over the fairly preposterous idea of myself on another date—our third now—with
Jake Logan
, finally began to quiet itself. Out there on the ocean, with the city as a distant backdrop, he was just Jake: a cute, fun guy who didn't serve as a constant reminder of a painful past I'd tried for so long to put behind me. I found myself liking this Jake, the one without the fancy surname, more and more.

Unfortunately, it turned out his thoughts were not running down quite such a history-free path. “So you and Julia,” he said. “The dynamic duo reunited. How's the cupcake business?”

I'd told him about the shop over oysters at Foreign Cinema during our last date and he'd made me promise to let him buy the first dozen cupcakes when we opened. “So far, so good,” I said. “We're working on renovating a space in the Mission with the hope to open in October. It took some convincing to get Julia to that part of town, but I think we're more or less on the same page now.”

“Julia St. Clair hard at work in the Mission,” Jake mused. “Now there's a sight I'd like to see.”

Something in his tone made my mind shift a gear or two up from its short-lived relaxed state. Or maybe it was just the mere mention of Julia, who I still had some trouble believing had managed to convince me that going into business together was a good idea. When I didn't immediately respond, I felt Jake's gaze on the side of my face. He reached over and pulled my surfboard closer to him. I nearly toppled off it in the process, but one of his arms quickly encircled my waist, righting me, while the other turned my face toward his. In a moment, we were kissing, the water lapping gently at my thighs, the lowering sun working its way down my back.

Jake pulled away after several long minutes, but kept his steadying arm around my waist. “Lesson adjourned,” he murmured, his breath shallow. “I've taught you all I know. Let's go home.”

It was the best news I'd heard all day.

By the time we reached the shore, the fog had rolled in. We couldn't put the Firm Banana's top up because of the surfboards and even swathed in the plush towels Jake had brought along I shivered the whole way back to his apartment in North Beach. I barely had time to register the fact that the building's elevator opened right into his loftlike apartment, and that the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched from Coit Tower all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge—now draped in ever-thickening fog—before Jake steered me toward a large freestanding fireplace that separated the living room and dining room. He flipped a switch on the wall and in an instant the golden light of the fire danced against the dark walls surrounding us. I stared into the flames, mesmerized, feeling a heady mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion, while Jake poured out two glasses of scotch. I don't know if it was the bone chill or the booze, but I found myself in an unusually quiet, content mood. If I'd let myself, I would have admitted that it felt good to be pampered. That sort of tranquil luxury wasn't something I wanted or needed every day, but after so many years struggling on my own to make ends meet, I was not above enjoying the easy comfort offered by Jake and his swanky digs. Soon enough, I'd be back safe and sound in my own apartment, but for the moment I was just tired enough to let my guard down and enjoy myself.

Jake stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, his bristly chin resting on my shoulder as we both stared into the fire, rocking slightly. The apartment seemed to creak and yawn around us—cool and shadowed everywhere but the living, glowing swath of light in which we stood. There was brief mention of a hot shower, and then Jake's surprisingly warm hands were on my shoulders and he was peeling off my dress and bathing suit until moments later he guided me, naked but no longer shivering, into the bedroom.

Chapter 8

Julia

I
n the dream, I was running from someone or something but had been injured and too slow to escape. Or maybe I was running in mud. Or water. The sound of whatever was behind me got closer and closer. I felt its breath on my hair, and then I was falling an impossibly long distance, a horrible mournful howling in my ears. And then suddenly I jerked awake, heart racing in the dense blackness of my bedroom. The house, save for the whirring of the ceiling fan, was silent. My cell phone clock read 3:30 a.m. I could almost feel the steady, rhythmic breathing of the slumbering city. Out on the bay, a foghorn blew low and long.

I rolled to my side and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking as the familiar room with its trellis-patterned, Tiffany-blue carpet and tassel-trimmed drapes flooded with light. Circling my ankles beneath the cool sheets, I stretched the cramps from my legs. There was no way I would get back to sleep now. I swung my bare legs over the side of the bed and pulled yoga pants from where they were folded neatly on a cream-colored chaise. Immediately, I felt a little better. I liked clothing that not only showed off my figure, but enhanced it as well, and the yoga pants were ones that promised to lift and minimize my butt. They made me feel streamlined and efficient, a lean, mean, multitasking machine.

If insomnia has a perk, it's the extra work hours it adds to the day.
I might as well try to get some things done.
Cupcakery or wedding, though? I decided to check my e-mail and let any new messages make the decision for me. When I saw an e-mail at the top of my in-box from the contractor I'd hired to work on the cupcake shop, I breathed a sigh of relief. Thinking about the wedding inevitably turned my thoughts to the enormous secret I was keeping from Wes, which in turn left me a sniveling, mentally paralyzed mess; the cupcakery, on the other hand, produced no such rush of emotions. So I'd found myself leaving more and more of the wedding details in the hands of my mother—something I'd never in a million years thought I would do.

The wood bar should run the length of the front window
, I typed in response to the contractor's question, the brisk clacking of the keyboard working to untangle the final threads of the bad dream from my thoughts. It annoyed me to have to repeat these instructions (I was sure this information was crystal clear on the design plan taped to the wall of the cupcakery), but I had to admit that, all in all, Burt Vargas had proven himself to be a dependable, efficient contractor—a diamond in the rough.

A week earlier, Burt had presented Annie and me with photographs of a gorgeous swath of redwood—its pattern of rich, golden-brown wood grains almost like tiger stripes—that had been salvaged from an old Sonoma barn. Immediately, both of us expressed that it was perfect for the cupcakery's window bar where customers would belly up to nibble an afternoon treat and sip a perfectly poured cappuccino. As with every decision that was made with relative ease, I had done a little internal victory dance when we had so easily agreed.

Things had moved remarkably quickly over the past month. After the fight in the kitchen, Annie and I had forged a truce of sorts in the interest of getting things done. What else was there to do? I couldn't change the past. All either of us could do was move forward.

Within days of that first meeting, Annie had found vacant retail space on a dodgy stretch of Twentieth Street in the Mission and, despite the unease I'd felt walking around that unfamiliar, almost foreign part of the city, I'd agreed to rent it, hoping that the relative proximity of well-regarded neighborhood restaurants like Delfina and Tartine would result in some spillover patronage. A careful design plan would transform the tight space, and Annie assured me the kitchen needed only a few straightforward alterations to get it up to baking snuff.

We'd agreed—agreed!—that we didn't want to join the trendy ranks of bakeries that were decorated all pretty-pretty-princess sugary and white. Just as easily, we resolved not to go in the direction of the other ubiquitous restaurant trend toward sleek, minimal decor. Instead, we decided on a decadent, almost louche design: burgundy, threadbare carpets tossed over beat-up wood floors, damask wallpaper, an oversized lacquer chandelier, display cabinets lined in black lace. The concept was cupcake as forbidden fruit. The shop would be a haven for those looking to escape responsible adulthood, work, and the relentless whip-crack of Northern California outdoorsiness that nipped at the heels of urbanites.
Why hike the Headlands
, our shop would murmur seductively,
when you can belly up to the bar for cupcakes and cappuccinos?
It would be a den for overgrown children looking for an indulgence, something nostalgic, something simultaneously luxurious and youthful. Much like a pharmaceutical drug or being in love, Annie's cupcakes would make you feel better.

At least that's what they do for me
, I thought.

Treat.
We would call the cupcakery Treat. After all, this was San Francisco.

It hadn't all been easy. We'd had some setbacks, including an odd week when the construction crew complained of missing tools and the evening that I'd walked down the street from the shop to my Mercedes to find one of its rear tires slashed, but we were in the Mission—what did we expect? At the time, there didn't seem to be anything particularly foreboding about these small crimes. Throughout it all, our timeline remained intact and, as I'd suspected, steering our little team through a lengthy to-do list was providing much-needed shape to my days. Still, I was disappointed to find that sadness continued to burn in my chest like a sunbaked stone, that the throbbing ache inside of me could not truly be relieved by any number of delicious cupcakes. But all I could do was keep trying.

“S
pecial delivery!” my mother called, carrying a large wrapped box topped by an enormous ivory bow into the library several days after that night of insomnia. I looked up from the book I was reading and sighed. The unsubtle tactics of those hoping to obtain an invite to my wedding entertained me at times, but at other times, like this one, I felt exhausted—disgusted, even—by the whole thing.

My mother took one look at me and made a tsk-tsk noise before lowering the box down to the floor at my feet.

“It's our
way
, Julia darling,” she said. “When there's an engagement, there are gifts. And your thank-you note will be gracious and heartfelt, I'm sure. If I've taught you one thing, please tell me it is etiquette.”

Not kindness?
I wanted to ask, thinking of my treatment of Annie all those years ago.
Not how to hunt down happiness even when it's faster and wilier than it's ever been before?
I wanted to ask, thinking of myself.

When I didn't respond, my mother eyed me. “Well,” she said, her voice a touch softer. “Aren't you going to open it?”

The box contained a carving set from my great aunt Lucy. The sterling silver knife handle was intricately detailed with fussy little curlicues that would normally have made me cringe but today just made me feel lost. What life were these presents for? Holiday tables? Family dinners? How was it that so many people seemed capable of envisioning what I could not?

My mother patted my head as though I were an obedient dog. It was an oddly consoling gesture. For the first time, I wondered just how much of the truth she had deduced from my abrupt return home, my avoidance of all things wedding, my sudden passion for cupcakes.

“I'll put this with the other gifts in the guest room,” I said, standing. My mother's hand dropped back down to her side. “It's a beautiful set,” I added, summoning a smile. I knew the kind of smile I had. It was part nature, part nurture. It told the world that I was fine, I was happy, I was neat and tidy and nothing to worry about.

My mother returned it with her own dazzlingly bright version.

I
placed the box at the top of a stack of gift boxes in the guest room at the end of the second-floor hall and then lay back on the bed and held my cell phone above me, swiftly tapping in a reminder to myself about the thank-you note. When I finished typing, I checked the time and called Wes.

“Two more weeks, beautiful!” he said warmly.

“Two more weeks,” I repeated. I propped myself up on the bed so it would be easier to match his enthusiasm. Two more weeks until Wes was in San Francisco again. “I'm so excited to see you.” I knew acutely just how strange it was that I hadn't told him yet about the events surrounding my hospital stay, but with each week that passed, it seemed more and more impossible to share the news. Still, I couldn't live like this forever. And I couldn't stand up there in front of three hundred people and recite vows with this secret between us.

“Well, damn, Julia, could you make me believe it?” Wes drawled. “You sound like a coyote just snatched your puppy clean out your backyard.”

“What?” In spite of my blue mood, I laughed. “Sorry, Wes. I really do miss you. I guess I'm tired.”

“You? Tired? I am talking to Julia St. Clair, aren't I? And here I've been under the impression you didn't get tired. That tired isn't in your DNA. Is this Julia of the six a.m. conference call? Ms. New-York-Marathon-in-Three-Hours-Twenty-Four-Minutes? My wheatgrass-slugging, kickboxing, number-crunching, business-building, sexy-ass fiancée?”

“That was back when I was busy. I have too much time on my hands now. Even with all I've been doing for the cupcakery, the day just goes on and on.”

“Sounds terrible,” Wes said, and I could tell he really meant it. We shared a distaste for unscheduled, inevitably unproductive days. “I still can't believe you just quit your job lickety-split like that. Don't get me wrong,
I'm
thrilled. Now we can be together in San Francisco. But you loved that job. I'm still shocked at how quickly it all went down. Lo and behold, I'm marrying an enigma. Is it wrong that that sort of turns me on?”

“Well, there you go. That's why I did it. To reignite your passion.”

“No need! Burning strong, baby!” Wes gave a little growl, and I couldn't help laughing again. It felt nice. Wes was good at cheering me up, not that I'd often been in need of the cheer over the course of our relationship. He was a smart, kind, solid man, and I wondered sometimes, in the rare moments when my confidence flickered for just an instant, if I deserved him. What would he say when he knew the truth? Not that anything that had happened was my fault, I reminded myself.

Unless
. Unless something inside of me—something toxic that had been festering there all along—had made this happen? There was, I realized, a distinct possibility that when it came right down to it I was not a good person. I knew Wes would deny this, but he wasn't inside my head with me. He only saw what I let him see. I hadn't told him yet that my old friend Annie apparently hated my guts, and that she probably had good reason to.

The truth was that sometimes I found it nearly impossible to keep the toxic thoughts from entering my head.
It's not like there is a finite amount of good fortune in the world
, I told myself when good news from a friend put me in a funk.
Just because something good happens to someone else doesn't mean something good won't also happen to you.
Caroline Rydell, for example, had recently called with the wonderful news that she was pregnant. But wasn't it only human to want other people's good fortune for yourself? Or did that make you a bad person? Annie, I guessed, would say that made me mean.

Maybe I should give yoga another shot. Or
—I cringed—
therapy.
I shook my head, unable to bear the thought of either.
I just need to tell him.

“Wes,” I said abruptly. “When you envision you and me in the future—what do you see?”

He laughed. “Uh-oh! Cold feet already?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I just miss you. Humor me.”

“Okay, let's see. I picture us getting married—let's start there. After that, I see us sucking down fruity drinks and baking in the sun and rolling around naked in our honeymoon suite for a good two weeks. You with me so far?”

“At your side.”

“Phew. How much further should I go?”

I swallowed. “A lifetime.”

“A lifetime? Good Lord, Julia, just how cold are your feet?”

“They're perfectly room temperature. I'd just like to hear a story.”

“A story. A little ditty about Wes and Julia. Got it. Okay, next, I see us settled into a nice house in San Francisco with a little yard. Don't worry, I see a gardener as well—I'm well aware that not one of our four combined thumbs is the remotest shade of green. But it will have to be a very ugly gardener because my ego can't handle one of those strapping, sensitive fellows that clips rosebushes and hauls enormous bags of fertilizer in the same breath.

“What else? I see us meeting up for sushi and cocktails at Umami after we've each spent long days in our respective offices . . . or bakeries, or wherever. I see a lot of very nice bottles of wine. I see brunches and the Sunday
Times
. I see us butting heads over the current state of world affairs and enthusiastically, creatively making up all over the house. I see myself dragging you to a lot of movies starring Will Ferrell, and I see you dragging me to a lot of movies that involve more reading than watching. I see myself pillaging your brilliant brain time and time again for answers to any number of business conundrums that I'll face along the way of building this company. I see us traveling—scuba in the Galapagos, island-hopping off the coast of Croatia, eating our way through Asia. I see us old and sage and happy—two clever silver foxes with full bellies and toothy grins and eyes shining with love that has lasted a lifetime.”

Wes paused. “Are you still there?” he asked.