The Icing on the Cake (11 page)

“Just a shower, dear? Do you already have catering for the rehearsal dinner and reception?”

“The wedding and reception are going to be in Oakland actually. But the shower is going to be here. So I just need a caterer for the shower.”

“Oh, I see. If you would like, you could come by and take a look at our catering portfolio. I have an opening today at six o’clock.”

“Okay, sure.”

“What’s your name?”

“Annabelle Pleasanton.”

“Okay, Annabelle, we’ll see you at six o’clock. Good-bye”

“Bye.” I hung up the phone with satisfaction—only a teensy bit of that satisfaction due to the fact that I was going to show Rona Bircheck that I could get the best caterer ever for Carrie’s shower.

My sandwich arrived as I was writing Anna Medici and Company’s address in my planner. Feeling quite ravenous, I attacked the sandwich the second the delivery boy was gone.

“Good sandwich?” I heard someone say.

I looked up. Isaac was standing in the doorway looking handsome in a pair of slacks and a green-hued dress shirt that brought out the color in his eyes and hung perfectly on his strong shoulders. “I know it isn’t two o’clock yet, but I had a bridal photo cancel on me.”

“Mm mm?” I hummed with my mouth full, attempting to make the sound of the word “Really?” I could feel my face burning with embarrassment.

Isaac smiled. “She got her eyebrows waxed, or whatever it’s called, and she had a bad reaction to it.”

I nodded knowingly. The things we women endured. Nicked legs. Fried hair. Oompa loompa self-tanner incidents. I swallowed my bite of sandwich and spoke. “Her misfortune is my fortune,” I said sweetly.

Isaac took a seat in the spare chair in my office. “So what are you up to?”

I spun my chair around so I was facing him. “Lunch. I just called an event planning place. They’re going to help me find a caterer for Carrie’s shower.”

“That’s great,” Isaac said. “So, do you want to look through the photos?”

No, not really, I’d rather just sit here all day and talk to you
. “Sure,” I answered.

I looked through the photos Isaac had taken, and they were very good. Gorgeous shots of the restaurant. Some nice shots of Jean-Pierre at work in the kitchen. And brilliant photos of the food.

“These are really good,” I said.

“Thanks. But here is my favorite one.” Isaac showed me a picture of myself. My mouth was slightly open, a single salad green was stuck in the back of my hair, tomato juice was all over my clothes, and crumbly cheese was dotting me like snow.

I grabbed the picture. “Give that to me,” I shouted. I shoved the photo into one of my desk drawers and made an angry face at Isaac. “When did you take that?”

Isaac shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I didn’t realize I did until I had them developed. I must have snapped it by accident.”

“Well you should have ripped it up,” I said in a scolding voice.

“Why?” Isaac asked innocently. “You looked beautiful. You always look beautiful.”

I suddenly felt like someone had turned the heater in the office up. Way up. I resisted the urge to fan my face with my hand.

Isaac and I continued to chat for a while, until, unable to bear the guilt of getting paid for flirting, I looked at Isaac and said, “I should probably get to work.”

“I thought we were working,” Isaac said with a grin. “No, you’re right. I’ll call you later. We still have to arrange our tennis match.”

“Yeah I guess we do,” I responded.

Isaac stood up from his chair and looked into my eyes. “Annabelle, this is the best assignment I have ever had.” And with that, he disappeared from sight.

“Me too,” I whispered.

Anna Medici and Company was even more elegant than I had imagined. Walls the color of caramel were complimented by plush carpeting about three shades lighter. A beautiful chandelier hung in the middle of the vaulted ceiling, and heavy velvet curtains perfectly framed the windows that gave a view of the Monterey Bay, which at six o’clock was a twinkling wonder.

I approached the front desk, behind which stood a woman dressed in an immaculate silk suit.

“May I help you?” the woman asked, flashing me a toothpaste-commercial smile.

“I have a six o’clock appointment with Brenna.”

“Your name?”

“Annabelle Pleasanton.”

“Okay, have a seat and I’ll see if she’s ready for you.” The woman pointed me to a brocade couch that faced the large, spotless windows. On a table in front of the couch sat a golden tray filled with fancy chocolates. I eyed the chocolates eagerly. I wondered if they were free. I almost asked the woman at the desk, but I didn’t want to sound tacky.

I leaned my back gently into the couch and gazed out at the bay. I watched as the white-capped waves crashed into the sand. It was absolutely gorgeous, a gift of beauty from a loving God.

“Annabelle, Brenna is ready for you,” the woman at the desk informed me. “Just go up the stairs, and hers is the third office on your left.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I walked up the plush stairs toward the office. It was marked with an engraved name plate. I knocked softly on the door.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice said from within the office.

As I walked inside, I smiled at the woman who was probably in her mid-thirties and had full hair and small blue eyes.

She stood up and offered me her hand to shake. “You must be Annabelle,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied, extending my hand.

“Brenna Lockman. Nice to meet you, dear.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I echoed.

Brenna sat back down on what looked like the most comfortable office chair I have ever seen. “So, you’re throwing a bridal shower for your best friend?”

I took a seat. “Yes.”

“And you’d like to look through our catering portfolio?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Brenna said, rising from her chair. She plucked a portfolio from a bookcase and sat back down. “How large is the party?”

“Probably about twenty people,” I answered.

“Okay.”

“I do have one question though,” I informed Brenna. “What is your fee for arranging catering?”

“It’s very minimal,” Brenna assured me. I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing that Brenna had said “minimal” instead of giving me a number.

“Would you like to go ahead and take a look at the portfolio?” Brenna asked.

“Yes,” I answered, pushing my worries about the fee aside.

“Here is a list of the caterers we usually use, and some photos of their fare, but if there is something else you have in mind, we can usually arrange just about anything. In fact, just this past Saturday I had a local sushi place set up a mobile sushi bar in the shoe department at Macy’s.”

“Wow,” I said. I began flipping through the glossy pages of the portfolio. My mouth watered at the sight of the delicious food. “This all looks great. Maybe we should talk about price now.”

“Just remember, anything can be worked out,” Brenna said. I was beginning to get worried at the way she seemed to dance around the subject of price.

“Well,” I said, “I need to keep it right around two—”

Brenna smiled broadly and cut me off. “With that amount, you can pretty much have your pick from all of these places.”

“Really?” I asked, my worry suddenly replaced by excitement. The food at Carrie’s shower was going to be incredible.

“Yes, definitely,” Brenna assured me, a smile on her face. “Here are the price lists.” Brenna withdrew a stack of papers from the back of the portfolio.

Eager to get the catering all set up and find a caterer who could provide the all-natural foods that Carrie liked, I took the papers from Brenna.

As I looked at the price lists, I decided that Brenna really should have let me finish telling her what my budget was, because the caterers in the portfolio could cater a party of twenty for
two thousand
dollars, not two hundred dollars.

I began to feel incredibly dumb for coming to Anna Medici and Company. I should have known. People who came to places like this were looking for extravagance, not bargains. “Brenna, thank you for your time, but I really don’t think I’ll need your services after all,” I said.

“What is the problem, dear?”

“I can’t afford this.” I stood up to go.

“Tell me your rock bottom price,” Brenna instructed without budging from her chair.

“Okay, about two hundred dollars. Two zero zero, the end.”

“Oh dear,” Brenna said slowly. “That is quite a problem. I can only think of one place that could possibly cater for two hundred dollars.”

Brenna flipped to the back of the portfolio to a picture of a beautiful restaurant called The Blue Wave. On the next page, there were photos of the restaurant’s food; it all looked delicious.

“Wow, this looks great. They could cater for two hundred dollars?” I asked, feeling hope well up inside of me.

“Oh, no, not The Blue Wave,” Brenna said. She pointed to the corner of the photo. “I can get you
that
for two hundred.”

I squinted, trying to make out what she was pointing to. There were two golden arches in the back of the photo.

“Oh,” I said, forcing a laugh.

Brenna stood up slowly. “I wish you luck in finding a caterer.” She walked toward the door as if to cue my exit. I thanked her and left.

As I walked down the stairs, I kicked myself for being so naïve. I should have known the second I set foot in the place that I should turn my sale-rack shoes right around.

I glanced at the tray of chocolates in the waiting area as I made my way to the door. And just to spite the place, just to say “I am frugal and proud of it,” I asked the desk lady if the chocolates were free.

Sure enough, she looked at me like I was the tackiest of the tackies. “Yes, they are . . .” She tried to force the word “free” out of her mouth, but she couldn’t. “They are complimentary,” she said finally.

I walked over to the chocolates and popped one of the treats into my mouth. Then, because I have never been able to turn down free chocolate, I put two more in my bag. I think I heard the woman at the desk gasp at my terribly un-classy move.

As I strolled out to my car, I began to feel a little worried about the whole finding-a-caterer thing. It certainly wasn’t off to a very good start. I sighed heavily when I reached my car and slowly got inside. Then I started the engine, turned the radio up really loud, and headed somewhere I knew I would find some comfort. Hopefully in the form of something home-cooked.

M
om,” I called out as I walked through the front door. “In here,” Mom hollered from the kitchen.

I walked into the kitchen and found Mom decorating a two-tiered cake. Mom makes the most amazing special occasion cakes. They have the rare combination of being both good to look at and delicious. People are constantly asking her to make cakes for this or that occasion, and she gladly accepts. Then when she is offered cash for her creations, she graciously declines.

“What’s the cake for?” I asked, taking a spoon to a bowl of Mom’s famous buttercream icing.

“A bridal shower tonight,” Mom answered. She bent down slightly and continued to ice the cake, which had been decorated to look like a white basket. Fresh flowers sat on top of the cake, adding to the basket affect.

“On a Monday?” I asked, my mouth full of icing.

“It’s the only evening the bride has off work,” Mom answered.

“Do I know the girl?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What’s her name?”

“Elise Stapleton,” Mom replied. “I actually don’t know her at all. She’s Bev Stapleton’s daughter. Bev goes to the same church as Maria. You know Maria; she’s in my exercise group. Anyway, Bev saw the cake I did for Maria’s fiftieth birthday, and asked me to do a cake for her daughter’s shower.”

I suddenly had a great idea. “So you’re going to a bridal shower tonight?”

Mom shrugged. “I’ll probably just drop off the cake.”

“Can I go?” This could be the perfect opportunity to check out the menu at someone else’s shower. Do a little research.

“Sure. I could actually really use your help.”

Good. We would both get something out of my going. “What time do we have to leave?”

“In an hour or so,” Mom replied.

I freshened up in the bathroom, and when I was through, I found Dad in the kitchen with Mom. He was home from work, where he does something I’ve never really understood—investments or investing or something like that.

“Hey, Dad.” I smiled when I spotted the spoonful of icing in his hand. Like father, like daughter.

“Hi, Bellie. Will you be around for family home evening tonight?”

“Aren’t I always, Dad?” Since the first Monday after I graduated college and moved back to Monterey, I have had family home evening with my parents. Usually, I go to the one at singles ward and then go to my parents’ house afterwards.