The Icing on the Cake (32 page)

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Maybe he was, but he definitely isn’t anymore.”

“How can that be possible? All I’ve heard since the day Isaac and I started working together is Annabelle this, Annabelle that, Annabelle is perfect in every way.”

“Well, he doesn’t think that anymore, that’s for sure. It’s over between us.” My voice was sad. I sounded an awful lot like Eeyore from
Winnie the Pooh
.

“I guess it’s none of my business anyway,” Rona said quickly. She picked up her smoothie and scooted to the edge of her seat. “Thanks for the smoothie. So, I guess I’ll see you next Saturday.”

“Oh yeah, about that. I’ve been meaning to tell you, the catering kind of fell through. But don’t worry, I’ll come up with something.” I grimaced, awaiting Rona’s reaction.

Rona released a breath. “That’s okay. I know Carrie will love whatever you come up with.”

That was not the reaction I expected. “So you don’t want to take care of it yourself?” I asked, referring back to when Rona had suggested just that.

Rona smiled slightly. “I know I was a little uptight about it before, and I apologize. I don’t think anyone will do a better job than you,” she said.

“I hope you’re right.”

Rona picked a napkin up off the table and put it into her empty smoothie cup. “I’m really glad that we talked,” she told me. “Not just about the shower, but about everything.”

“I am too,” I said.

Rona stood up from the booth. Then she looked me in the eye. “I may be overstepping my bounds here, but I just have to say that you shouldn’t give up so easily. You should fight for Isaac. Fight for your man.” It took only a second for Rona to realize what she had said, and the connotation it held for the two of us, and her face flushed with embarrassment.

I gave her a don’t-worry-I-didn’t-take-it-badly wave and stared at a painting of a seagull on the wall. “I don’t see any point fighting for this,” I said in my Eeyore voice.

But the thing was, deep down, I really did want to fight.

I
didn’t know what to do with myself. It was like I had gotten used to hanging out with Isaac and had completely forgotten how to be by myself in the evening. So I opted to put on my pajamas, eat ice cream right out of the carton, and watch
The Price is Right.

I was shouting at the woman on the television, telling her that she bid way too much on her showcase, when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered, shaking my head at the television when the woman stuck to her astronomical bid.

“I’m calling to see how you’re holding up,” Mom’s voice came on the line.

I opened my mouth to tell Mom the latest when I heard a loud crash on her end of the line followed by, “Stupid thing!”

I muted the television. “Mom, are you all right?” I asked with concern.

“I just dropped the mixer. I’m sorry you had to hear me talk like that,” Mom said, apologizing for her use of the word “stupid.”

I chuckled to myself. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making some hors d’oeuvres and desserts for Elise Stapleton’s pre-rehearsal-dinner party.”

My goodness, how many parties does one girl need
? I wondered. I was a bit surprised that the Stapletons had asked Mom to make any more food after, well, you know, the almost-fight. But then, of course they called Mom; she was the best.

“Of course!” I exclaimed into the phone.

“Well, yes, the party is tomorrow,” Mom responded slowly, obviously confused by my outburst.

“I can’t believe I never thought of this before!”

“I’m not sure what you’re—” Mom began.

“And all that wasted time. All that worrying over nothing. When the answer was right in front of my face.”

“What are you talking about, hon?” Mom asked.

“Mom, will you cater Carrie’s shower for me?” I asked, my mind already swirling with menu possibilities.

“Well, I’ve never really done all the food for a party. Usually I just do a few things. Unless you include your sisters’ weddings. Or Aunt Margaret’s retirement party. Or your graduation party. Or . . .”

I smiled. “Like I said, will you cater the shower?”

“When is it?”

“Saturday,” I answered hesitantly. It really was short notice. But she was Mom. If anyone could do it, she could.

“I’ll need your help,” Mom said.

“Of course, anything you need. So does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Sure,” Mom agreed. “But you’ll have to help me come up with the menu, and help me find recipes. I know Carrie has very particular taste.”

“Okay,” I promised. “Thank you so much, Mom. This is so perfect!”

“You’re welcome. Annabelle, I’m really proud of you. You’re finding your own way. Not everyone else’s way, but your own way.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t really have a choice,” I muttered.

“I better get back to the desserts,” Mom said. I heard her turn on the electric mixer. “I’m making my special white fudge squares.”

“Will you save me a few?” I asked, speaking loudly so I could be heard over the sound of the mixer.

“Sure,” Mom replied in an equally loud voice. And I could tell she was smiling.

Glad to have something to do other than sit around and watch people try and win new cars and RVs, I threw myself into the project of brainstorming for Carrie’s shower menu.

I pulled out my planner and started jotting some thoughts down. I began a Carrie likes/Carrie dislikes list, which I thought would be a good jumping off point.

I smiled as I realized that Mom was right—I was finding my own way. Not Anna Medici and Company’s way. Not La Bonne Violette’s way. But my own way.

I saved the list to my computer’s hard drive and then decided to back it up on a USB drive. Not that it was a difficult list to remember, but just between you and me, I kind of get a thrill out of using those cute little drives.

I reached into my handbag and fished out my black USB drive. I inserted the drive into the computer, and a screen naming the files that were on the drive popped up. I was about to close the screen when I saw something funny. I saw a file with the name Très Bonne: An Inside Look at Carmel’s Premier French Restaurant.

Horrified, I quickly opened the file and sure enough, there was my Missy Phat article. The one I was sure I had given to George. And if I had the Missy Phat article, that meant George had the . . .

I jumped up from the couch and started pacing back and forth, my heart pounding and my stomach suddenly feeling sick. As I paced, my mind flashed back to me asking Patty to hand me a USB drive, and me not even bothering to check the color. Why hadn’t I bothered to check the color?! By the way, bonus points for those of you who picked up on this back when it happened. But seriously, why didn’t you tell me I was making the hugest mistake ever?!

I peered at the clock on my living room wall and saw that it was eight-fifteen. George was probably at home. I could just call him, tell him I gave him the wrong drive, and arrange to give him the correct drive. Everything would be just fine.

With unsteady hands, I found George’s home number in my cell phone’s directory and dialed the number. The answering machine picked up. “Hello, you’ve reached the Kent residence. We can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you.” Beep.

Panic grew in my chest as I left a slightly frantic message. “George, this is Annabelle Pleasanton. Please call my cell phone number immediately when you get this message.”

Next, I tried George’s cell. He didn’t answer, and I hung up midway into the voicemail’s outgoing message.

Then, formulating a plan in my mind, I grabbed my jacket, slipped it on over my pajamas, and headed for the office.

My heart was pounding like crazy as I walked through the large glass doors of
Central Coast Living
, which thankfully were still unlocked.

Just inside the doors, I paused and reached into my bag to make sure—for about the fiftieth time since I left my condo—that the black USB drive was in there. When my fingers clutched the device, I released a long breath.

Suddenly my mind was filled with a whole mess of what-if-I-can’t-fix-this scenarios: me coming back to work after my “days off” to find that my cubicle had been cleared of my stuff and transformed into a game den complete with a foosball table. Me trying to walk into my cubicle and seeing a girl that looked just like me, but wasn’t me.

Stop it,
I told myself.
Everything is going to be fine.

My pace quickened as I got closer to George’s office. As I hurried along, I saw a few late workers sitting at their desks, hunched over their computers, munching on candy and granola bars. Some of them glanced up at me as I zipped past, and it didn’t even seem to faze them that I was running around the office in my pajamas.

When I reached George’s office, I pressed my face up against the glass window in the door. A small security light illuminated the room just enough for me to see everything inside. I thought that was a little bit ironic.

After a moment of visual scanning, I spotted a pile of papers. A single, red USB drive sat on top of the pile. It had to be mine. I put my hand on the doorknob, looked to my left and then to my right to make sure no one was coming, and turned the knob. I did this because I once saw a news report that said many robbers gain access to homes and offices through unlocked doors. Not that I’m a robber or anything. But even if I had been a robber, it wouldn’t have mattered because the door was locked.

Just then, I heard the sound of keys jingling in the distance. I moved my ear in the direction of the sound. It sounded like it was coming from the janitorial closet. I immediately had an idea.

Quickly, I approached the janitorial closet. A sinewy, older man with thinning grey hair was moving a supply cart into the closet.

“Hi, um, Bill,” I said, looking at the name patch on the man’s shirt.

“I’m Gilbert. Bill’s shirt fits me better than mine, so I wear it.” Gilbert’s voice was gruff. It didn’t really sound like a Gilbert voice to me for some reason.

“Oh, of course,” I said.

“Do you need something, missy?” Gilbert asked. “Is the ladies’ room out of paper?”

“Oh, no. Actually I need you to unlock a door for me.” I made sure to speak extra sweetly.

“Do you work here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Gilbert said, eyeing my pajamas suspiciously.

“Well, I do work here. In fact, my cubicle is right over there.” I pointed toward my cubicle.

“Show me your Employee Identification card.” Gilbert spoke as if he were a secret service agent guarding the Oval Office.

“I don’t exactly have it,” I said, biting my lip. That card was in my satchel, which I hadn’t thought to grab on my way out of my house.

“If you don’t have your card, I don’t think I can help you.” Gilbert grabbed a bottle of sanitizer and a rag off of a shelf in the closet and turned to leave.

“Wait. If you just come over to my cubicle for a second, I can prove that I work here.”

“I really don’t have time for this,” Gilbert said.

“Please. I really need your help.” I played the damsel in distress card.

To my surprise, it worked like a charm. “All right,” Gilbert agreed. He placed the rag and sanitizer on a small table that was covered in various knobs and gizmos, and he followed me to my cubicle.

“See there’s my name plaque.” I pointed to the fake-wood, fake-gold plaque with my name on it. I plucked my driver’s license from my bag and showed it to Gilbert. “And here’s my license. Annabelle Pleasanton. See, I do work here.”