The Icing on the Cake (28 page)

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Mom said, and the line went dead.

I spent Saturday night sitting on the couch, dressed in an old New Kids on the Block t-shirt and a pair of grungy sweats, watching a box set of
I Love Lucy
episodes that Mom had brought over. Mom sat next to me on the couch, laughing at the funny parts. But I couldn’t laugh. Not even during the episode where Lucy tries to speak Spanish to Ricky’s mom.

I finally moved from my spot on the couch, which by then had a permanent indentation in the shape of me on it, to ride with my parents to their church meetings on Sunday at two o’clock. I went with them because I knew I couldn’t handle singles ward. I could only imagine that Rona would be all over Isaac, fighting off all the other girls who surely knew that our brief courtship had not lasted.

After church, I felt slightly better, as if the Spirit had begun to wash away the darkness. But still, I was not quite up to Sunday dinner and asked Mom to drop me off at my condo.

Silently, Mom drove me back home. Then, after she had made me enough of her famous chicken soup—using ingredients I didn’t know I had in my kitchen—to last me a week, she moved toward the front door to leave. I walked with her.

With her hand on the doorknob, Mom asked, “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. I have to be. And even if I can’t be fine on my own, the Lord will help me.” I felt a warming feeling inside as I said the words.

Mom squeezed me tightly before leaving. “Call if you need anything,” she said about fifteen times.

I thanked her for everything and said good-bye.

Seconds after Mom left, my home phone rang. It was the first call since Mom had called the night before, and I dared to dream that it was Isaac. I rushed to the phone and with a pounding heart I pushed Talk.

“Hello?” I answered hopefully.

“Why weren’t you at church today?” It was Carrie.

I released a breath and moved into my bedroom, where I plopped on my bed, which Mom had slept in the night before since I had refused to leave the couch. The bed linens smelled like Mom’s fragrance, and I breathed in the comforting smell. “Isaac and I . . . we . . . I think it’s over,” I said weakly. “So I went to my parents’ ward.”

Carrie was silent for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, her voice filled with love and consideration.

I gave Carrie the short version of what had happened.

“Maybe he just needs some time,” Carrie said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Anyway, how was church?”

“Good. Arvin, that guy from your work, he gave a talk. He compared life to surfing.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting,” I said hollowly. I then found myself desperately fighting the urge to ask about Isaac. Was he at church? Where did he sit? Who did he sit with? How did he look? Did it seem like he had been crying?

“How about I come over and we play a game and eat ice cream,” Carrie suggested. “I’ll even try that Cold Stone stuff you’ve got in your freezer that you keep telling me is so good.”

“I think I’m just going to go to bed,” I said.

“It’s not even six o’clock.”

“I know, but I’m just so tired.” I yawned a wide, loud yawn.

“Call me if you need anything,” Carrie instructed. “Anything at all.”

“I will. But I’m going to be fine. I’m going to get through this, with the Lord’s help.”

Carrie sighed. “Well, get a good night’s sleep. And call me.”

“Okay. Love ya.”

Carrie and I ended our conversation, and I sat on my bed with the phone in my hand. My thoughts turned to what I had told Mom before she left. And what I had said to Carrie. I had said that the Lord would help me. But had I asked Him to?

Instantly, I slid off the bed and fell to my knees, resting my hands on top of my bed. I prayed aloud, pouring my heart out, tears falling down my cheeks as the words fell from my lips. I asked for forgiveness for my shortcomings. I asked for help with everything that was going on in my life. And I thanked my Heavenly Father for blessing me with Isaac, even if only for a short time, because I knew I was better for having known him.

Then I told God my desire for Isaac to find out the truth about what had happened and for us to work things out, but assured Him that I would accept His will.

I ended the prayer and waited. I don’t really know what I waited for. Well, in all honesty I think I was waiting for Isaac to call. But no call came. Something else did.

I was suddenly overcome by the feeling that someone had wiped the clouds out of my mind and replaced them with warm sunlight. And I knew that things were going to be okay.

Overcome with the wonderful feeling, I took a long, hot shower and dressed in a clean, pretty pair of silky pajamas, snuggled into my bed, and slept peacefully.

L
isten, Jean-Pierre, I don’t care what Patrique told you. You assured me that if I attended two art functions with Patrique you would grant me this interview. It was a contract. I kept my end, and now you have to keep yours. In fact, a friend of mine, who is an attorney in New York City, has informed me that a verbal agreement between a journalist and an interviewee is a legal one. So with that said, shall we begin the interview?”

Pretty good speech, huh? I thought so. I particularly like the part about my lawyer friend, who, just between you and me, is a character in a mystery novel I read about a month ago. I mean, hey, a character in a book can definitely be considered a friend.

I was practicing this speech in my head as I weaved through La Bonne Violette’s kitchen at nine o’clock on Monday morning. The plan was to find Jean-Pierre, deliver my speech, and then leave the restaurant with the best interview ever.

The only problem was, after searching through the entire restaurant, I couldn’t find Jean-Pierre anywhere. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet. Or maybe he was in some super-secret chef’s room. I decided to ask someone.

I spotted a teenager mopping the floor in front of the walk-in refrigerator. He was listening to a tiny MP3 player and had earphones stuck in his ears. I could hear the music he was listening to—a very bass-heavy song saying something about “bling.”

“Excuse me,” I hollered so I could be heard over the music.

The teen looked up from his mopping, his eyes almost completely covered by the beanie he was wearing on his head. He removed one of his earphones and looked at me. “Yeah,” he grunted.

“I’m looking for Jean Pierre,” I explained. “Have you seen him?”

“Who are you?” the teen asked.

“I’m Annabelle Pleasanton. I work for
Central Coast Living
magazine.”

“
Central Coast Living
. I think I saw Missy Phat in there once. She looked hot. She came in here once, but I was on my lunch break. I was so mad, man. It would have been so tight to clean her table. She’s hot.”

“Yeah, yeah, Missy Phat’s hot. But listen, I really need to talk to Jean-Pierre.”

“I thought I told you not to come here,” I heard a voice behind me say.

I spun around and my eyes met with Patrique’s. I glared at him, trying to make myself appear fearless. “Yes, but I know Jean-Pierre is not going to refuse to do this interview simply because of the dispute between you and I.”
Wow, I sounded pretty official just now
. “Jean-Pierre and I had a verbal agreement, and I’m sure he intends to keep it. Plus, it is in Jean-Pierre’s best business interest to do this interview.”

Patrique wasn’t impressed. “Ha!” he roared. “You think my uncle cares about an insignificant local magazine. He only agreed to do the interview because he was dating Ingrid, your editor-in-chief. But he’s getting tired of her.”

I opened my mouth in shock. George had not told me anything about that. “I think I’d like to hear this from JeanPierre,” I said. Then, without another word, I began to walk away.

Patrique caught hold of my elbow and held me in place forcefully. “He’s not here,” he informed me in a nasty voice. “He’s in Reno. And don’t bother trying to get his number or anything because I called and told him that you’ve been replaced by another writer since yesterday you checked yourself into a drug rehab center.” Patrique smiled ominously to himself. “I liked that one. My uncle said that the drugs must have been why you were so clumsy and stupid. I told him that the writer who replaced you is going a different route on the article and doesn’t need an interview.”

“You, you made that all up,” I muttered in disbelief.

“Pretty inventive, don’t you think?”

“But I’m sure if I call back and explain and . . .” I mumbled, talking mostly to myself.

“There’s no point. He’ll just think it’s the drugs talking.” Patrique laughed.

I glanced at Patrique who was looking all smug, and expected myself to be upset, sad—something. But strangely, I didn’t. Instead, the peaceful feeling I had felt the night before began to swell inside of me. And I knew that somehow everything was going to be just fine.

“Well, thanks for your assistance,” I said to Patrique as if I were talking to a bank teller. “Have a nice day.”

Patrique stared at me, obviously angry that he hadn’t affected me the way he had planned. I spun on my heels and walked toward the exit of the kitchen.

“You’ll never be able to write anything decent!” Patrique called out after me. “You can’t do anything right!”

I refused to react to Patrique’s words and just continued to walk.

I had nearly reached the exit when someone holding a large stack of tablecloths ran into me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the tablecloth-carrier said from behind the pile of linen.

“Jacqueline?” I said, fairly certain I had recognized the voice.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Here, let me help you with those,” I offered.

I took a few of the tablecloths from the stack and helped Jacqueline carry them outside to one of the catering vans. As I placed my portion of the cloths into the vehicle, I saw that Amber was standing inside the van, arranging some carts.

“Are you playing hooky?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“It’s a teacher inservice day,” Amber replied. Then she looked at my pinstripe pants—a great designer pair that my older sister Cammie bought for way too much and then gave me after she had her first baby—and added, “I like your pants.”

“Thank you,” I said. Amber’s kindness was like a warm light in the dreary awfulness of my experiences at La Bonne Violette. “You know,” I added with a sigh, “you and your Mom are so sweet. If only I could write about you . . . Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed, my eyes wide. “That’s it!”

Jacqueline and Amber looked at me like I was nuts, and I continued to speak what definitely appeared to be nonsense to them. “Obviously Jean-Pierre is okay with someone doing an article that doesn’t revolve around an interview with him. Someone taking ‘a different route’ like Patrique said. So why can’t I? I mean, I can still put in stuff about him and some quotes and . . . Oh man, this will be perfect. And I even have ... oh my goodness, I even have notes, my Pink Notes! And I’m sure all those people will answer a few questions. And it’s what I’ve always wanted to write. It will be so perfect!” I was speaking very quickly, and I didn’t take a single breath until after the very last thought was out of my mouth.

“Is everything all right?” Jacqueline asked me. She sounded concerned, as if she had heard the rumor about me being on drugs and was beginning to wonder if it were true.

“Yes, everything is perfect!” I replied ecstatically, trying to catch my breath. “Listen, I have to go but, um, do you mind if I call you later? Will you be at the restaurant in say, two hours?”

“Yes,” Jacqueline said, giving me a sideways glance.

“I’ll talk to you later then,” I said, already turning to go. I needed to get to work quickly, while I had all the ideas swimming in my mind.

“Bye, Annabelle,” the two said in unison.

Then, before leaving, I hopped into the van to hug Amber, and then hopped out of the van to hug Jacqueline. “Thank you so much for being who you are,” I said to them. “And if I have anything to say about it, a lot more people are going to be blessed by knowing you.”

Without another word, I waved and dashed away.