Wedding Girl (28 page)

It is a lot of very exacting work, and I really hope that whoever is coming today will have some artistic skills to offer. I'm really good at all the fussy bits, but I won't be able to manage it all alone, not in six hours. At the very least, I hope my new right hand can handle the big fondant sheeting work, and the roof tiles and structural details, so that I can deal with the small stuff, some of which will likely get screwed up and need to be redone.

I make a list of every individual component, determining which ones can be prepped ahead and delivered to the contest venue completed, and which will have to be managed on-site. I created a calendar of when each component can be made, working backwards from the contest to figure out what can be done when.

All of this is making me hungry, and my groceries are still at least an hour out. I go to the computer and log in to Philly's Best, order myself a large cheesesteak and onion rings, and then hunker down to deal with as many Wedding Girl emails as I possibly can before I have to go downstairs. I'm just eating the last onion ring when my groceries show up, and I stock Herman's fridge and cabinets with everything I'm going to need for the next few days. I still have over an hour before I have to be downstairs, and that claw-foot tub is calling my name. I run the water as hot as I will be able to stand it, and strip, grateful that this tub is deep and wide. The tub at Bubbles's is on the small side, and not really terrific for getting a good soaking. But this one is almost oversized, and when I get in, the water covers my shoulders, and I sink in gratefully. The quiet is amazing, and I realize I haven't really been alone like this since I moved into Bubbles's house.

This might need some tunes.

I have a killer 1980s playlist in my phone, and suddenly all I want is to be soaking in this lovely hot bath and singing along to some serious New Romantic pop music.

I get out of the tub, the cool air feeling amazing on my skin. I skip the towel and scamper out in my wet altogether to the living room to get my phone from the charger.

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!”
I scream and fling myself behind the couch.

“Um, hi,” says Mark.

An afghan comes flying over the top of the couch and lands on me. I awkwardly wrap it around myself and stand up.

“What. The.
Fuck
,” I say. “Don't you
knock
? Or ring a bell? Or announce your presence when you come into a place? What are you doing here anyway?” The afghan feeling prickly against my damp skin.

“I had no idea anyone was here; my dad is at your house, and the store is closed today, and I was early, so I thought I should come upstairs and see what sort of state the place was in. What are
you
doing here?”

“Your dad said I should stay here while he is at my grandmother's place, since it is a little nuts over there.”

“Oh, well, that makes a lot of sense, really,” Mark says.

“Will you give me a moment? I'm going to go get dressed.” I sidle out of the living room, and once I'm in the semi-protected space of the hallway, I run to the bathroom, pull the plug on the drain, and grab a towel to finish the job the afghan couldn't handle. I get dressed, throw my wet hair into a bun, and head back into the front room.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, looking at Mark, who has one hand in my bag of Fritos and is eating a massive sandwich made with my freshly procured provisions.

He holds the bag out to me, and I wave it off.

“So, did you want to talk up here or downstairs?” he asks, plucking a piece of salami from the side of the sandwich and popping it in his mouth.

“About what?”

“About the contest.”

Great. Now he's going to be all involved. Super. I check my watch; it's twenty to three. “The assistant won't be here for another twenty minutes. I think we should wait.”

He grins at me, with a bit of mustard in the corner of his mouth. “The assistant is here.”

“Downstairs?”

“Right here, baby.” He winks at me and grins like a game show host.

This has got to be a nightmare. “You?”

“Yep. I have made arrangements to leave work early every Monday, and you can have me three other nights per week after the store closes, and I'm taking vacation time for the Thursday and Friday of the competition weekend. Will that be enough?”

My head is spinning. “But . . . you . . . can't . . .” I sputter. If I didn't have high blood pressure before, I do now. In fact, this might be sending me right into atrial fib.

He nods. “I thought you might feel that way. I brought my bona fides.”

He gets up, walks over to the door, and picks something out of his briefcase. He comes back and hands me a couple of papers. I shuffle through them.

“You went to culinary school,” I say.

He looks smug. “Yeah.”

“At the freaking CIA.”

“True.”

I look back down. “You did the intensive pastry session at Ferrandi in Paris.”

“Yup.”

“You fucking staged with Jacques Torres.”

“Uh-huh. And, you know, also with my dad, since, um, birth. Will I be good enough?” he says, sarcasm dripping with every word.

“I don't understand.”

“What's that?”

“You have better credentials than I do. Why are you . . . ?”

His face changes from self-satisfied to resigned. “Not baking for a living? Because I never wanted it. None of it. I had shitty grades in high school; culinary school was an easy choice. There was a business waiting for me. I did what I was supposed to do, finished the program, went to Paris, did the course there, staged around, came home. Only took a month of working with my dad to realize I hadn't ever thought about whether it would make me happy. But I hated it. I figured I'd get used to it—it was just work; everyone has to work. It didn't occur to me it should be fun or fulfilling. And then Noah died. Added that whole ‘life is short' element to my general discomfit. Dad said I didn't have to stay, I could go do the fine-dining thing, but that wasn't it. I have aptitude but no passion. Technique but no soul. I'm really good at the technical side, the problem solving, the chemistry and math of it, and I have a good palate. But it doesn't feed me. So I applied to business school, and they liked that my background was different, and let me in. And that was that.”

I don't know what to say. “Your dad never mentioned it.”

Mark shrugs. “I don't know if he feels more guilty that I went through all the baking rigmarole essentially for him, that those years were a bit lost and wasted for me, because I wanted to please him, or disappointed that I had all the right background and still couldn't love what he loves. It was a long time ago. We don't speak of it.”

“But you are coming out of retirement for this?”

He looks me in the eye. “I'm a Langer. This may not be my dream, but it's my dad's whole life, and you and I both know that this is the last hurrah. I haven't been able to give him much, but this is something I can do, a gift I can offer. To help you make sure that Langer's goes down fighting.”

For the tiniest moment, I can see Mark's heart in his eyes, and the love he has for Herman, and it touches me.

His voice becomes softer. “For what it's worth, Sophie, I know I've given you a hard time, and I still wish that things had gone differently, but I'm glad he has had these months with you, and I am grateful for all you've done.”

“Thank you.”

“So, want to take me through the game plan for this insane project?”

I nod. “Buckle up, buttercup.”

Mark laughs, and we get down to work.

(1939)

LOUISE BEAVERS AS LILY THE COOK:
Never let the seeds stop you from enjoying the watermelon.

CAROLE LOMBARD AS JANE MASON:
That's alright if you've got a watermelon.

I don't know that I've ever been more exhausted. Life was tiring enough when I was full-time at the bakery and managing Wedding Girl responses. But with Herman gone and the whole business on my shoulders, plus cake practice four days a week, the Wedding Girl backlog getting bigger than I care to think about, and helping my parents deal with both their construction project and wedding planning? I'm hanging by a thread so thin that I'm beginning to worry I may not make it through the week, let alone the next month—three weeks till the cake contest.

My one saving grace has been Jake. We've fallen into a pretty solid routine: He still emails me every few days or so. Our communications remain fun and friendly: He might mention whatever new black-and-white movie he's watched, or the television shows he has turned me on to that I've been checking out on Netflix while answering Wedding Girl emails. Did I know that I would fall in love with totally modern and super-dark series? Nope. But I am now officially a
Luther
/
Justified
/
Sons of Anarchy
girl, thanks to Jake, and he is absolutely hooked on the
old classic films. We still seem to be keeping information mostly limited to the surface stuff, which is fine by me. I've given up feeling guilty about the parts of my emails that are supporting the web of lies I've created around my identity, and I wonder if he, like me, wants to wait for some of the deeper stuff until we are face-to-face. I do feel like I know a bit about his morals, his ethics, the nature of his governing personal code. I trust his kindness, and his humor. We've hinted at exes, but just in a funny way, enough for us both to have the comfort of knowing that we've had serious relationships in the past and understand what that is about. Often we use the movies or TV shows to express bigger thoughts, keeping that safety net of the conversations being ostensibly about the media.

I really like him.

And for the first time, I sort of understand some of the courting that I've been watching my whole life in those old movies. The way they show pen pals falling madly in love having never met or seen each other. How you can really feel like you get to know someone in a deep and meaningful way, and can feel attracted to them without even knowing what they look like. I feel a bit at a loss on that end; after all, I have not a clue what Jake looks like. But in my heart? I feel weirdly half in love with him already, and I don't think I care a fig about his appearance. At this point, he could be half troll; if he can make me laugh in person the way he does with his emails, then I'm his.

At least Mark has turned out to be a great help, reluctant as I am to admit it. His skills, while a bit rusty for our first few sessions, are formidable, and we've broken down the cake duties pretty well. He is great at both structure and fondant work, so he will actually be able to assemble all the tiers of premade cakes and fillings, and do the doweling internal structure. We will stack them together for control, and then he will do a crumb coat over the whole thing, and we will get it into the
walk-in to chill and firm up while he rolls out the fondant. I will be working on all of the bits and pieces, and he will be doing the bigger architectural details while the cake chills, and then I will help him apply the textured fondant to the building. I'll make the tuile tiles for the roof and do the sugar work while he gets the chocolate and Rice Krispies pieces assembled and attached, and then he will work on the shading for the stone and brick. Once the building is up, he can start installing the smaller pieces that I'm making, and we've created a priority order for those in case we run short on time. Building is most important, with the “landscaping” and Chicago-specific details next. Setting up the people and the activities in the front yard are last, since if we have to skip them, it will still look like a finished piece.

We've officially tweaked the recipes to death, and have three tiers that are ridiculously delicious. Tonight we brought samples over for Bubbles and Herman, and the four of us had a really nice dinner together. Bubbles made smothered skirt steaks with mushroom farfel and a green bean salad, and I supplied some of today's special milk bread rolls, the soft sweet dough rolled with thin slices of caramelized fennel and sprinkled with black sesame seeds. While Bubbles and I are cleaning up, Herman and Mark go into the other room for some sort of serious, hushed conversation.

“The cakes are wonderful, schnookie; you'll win on flavor alone,” Bubbles says. She doesn't know we're doing her old house, just that we're doing a classic Chicago building. I really want it to be a surprise for her.

“You're a tiny bit biased, but I have to say, I do think they are really great, and I know we'll have a strong showing in that category. I just also know that the other competitors may be doing some slick things visually that will make ours look a bit homespun,” I say, drying a serving bowl and putting it away.

“Don't knock homespun. All comfort food is homespun, and according to you and my cooking magazines, comfort food is the trend. You do what you do, do it as best you can, and if you don't win, at least you know you didn't compromise who you are in an effort to please someone else.”

I kiss her temple. “Thank you.”

She reaches up and plops a small bit of foam on the tip on my nose with a wink. “You're very welcome. How are your parents?”

“Getting worse by the day.”

“I feared as much. We're all going to have breakfast tomorrow and hash this out before things get any worse. I'm the only living parent the two of them have left, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let them behave like idiots. You'll be here.”

This is not a request. This is what we call in our family a “command performance.”

“Of course. What time and what can I bring?” Tomorrow is Monday so the bakery is closed, and Mark isn't coming till late afternoon. I'd prefer to sleep in a tiny bit, but I'm also very curious to see how Bubbles handles my folks.

“Bring yourself and a chocolate babka for your mother. Nine o'clock. I'll take care of the rest.”

Oy. That is much earlier than I would have hoped, but she did say breakfast and not brunch. “What about Herman?”

“Herman has follow-up doctor's appointments scheduled all morning.”

At this point Mark and Herman reappear, cutting our conversation short. Herman takes over drying duties and shoos me out.

“Go home, Sophie; you've got to get plenty of rest.” And tired as I am, I don't argue. Mark walks out with me.

“Everything okay with your dad?” I ask.

He pauses. “Yeah, actually, everything is really good. How about your grandmother?”

“I think she is feeling useful and happy. From all accounts, she was really good at the whole partner thing, at supporting my granddad. They apparently lived easily and well together, with lots of laughter, and I'm seeing that now with your dad, so that's really nice. It's a side of her I've never seen.”

“Yeah. He and my mom were like that too. And you're right; I can see that energy in him again. He's really happy.”

“Lucky for them both.”

“Indeed. Now we just have to take their example!”

“I thought you were practically engaged?” Herman always refers to Mark's invisible girlfriend as “the one we hope gets away,” but I've never met her and Mark doesn't mention her.

He waves the idea off like it is some mosquito annoying him. “Not even close. Dad tends not to believe that it is just a casual dating thing, I guess since I'm not seeing anyone here in Chicago. But it has never been a serious relationship. In fact, I'm working on an exit plan.”

“An exit plan? As in, you don't want to be with her anymore, but you haven't told her yet?”

“It's complicated.”

“Nothing is that complicated. If you are in it, and you shouldn't be, you ball up and have a difficult conversation, and everyone gets out with dignity.”

“There are some moving pieces that need to be handled delicately.”

“That smells like bullshit.”

“Well, you'll forgive me if I point out that relationship advice might not actually be something you should be doling out.” His tone is friendly, lighthearted and ball-busting, but it stings, especially since I'm headed home to do at least three hours of Wedding Girl responses.

“Maybe, but I know a little something about getting dumped,
and I can say definitively that a little honest conversation would have been most welcome.”

“Fair enough.” He pauses as I walk around my car to get in. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to poke at you like that. It was unfair.”

I shrug. I've given up trying to figure out what makes this man tick. “Whatever.”

He walks over to my side of the car. “Not whatever. I was kidding, but it was rude. Forgive me?” Something in his face softens my heart.

“Okay.”

“Nightcap?” he asks.

I look at my watch. I'd really rather just go home and work on email, but for some reason I feel like I have to say yes.

“Maybe just one.”

“I know where my dad keeps the good single malt.”

“Well, how can I say no to that?”

“I'll meet you there.”

I'm not going to turn down a good scotch.

I open one eye and see that the room is lightening, and the clock, which conveniently projects the time onto the ceiling for easy viewing, says 4:47. I stretch a bit and look up. Mark is walking towards the bathroom, with one earplug stuck to his right buttock. I can feel myself blush deeply in the dark. The night, what I can remember, comes in flashes . . . There was scotch, and then more scotch. And some laughter and some cake. And then some photo albums and more laughing. And then more scotch. And then there was kissing and undressing, and there was the couch, and then the floor, and then the bed, and then dark.

I hear the toilet flush and the water running in the sink. I'm reasonably sure he is about to do a runner, for which I'm enormously
grateful, and now I have to make an important decision. Fake sleep, or say good-bye? Fake sleep is very tempting, since I'm completely mortified. I've just had sex with my boss's son. Three times. Really good sex. I'm still not even sure I like him as a person, but I do know I don't like him the way I like Jake, and I suddenly feel like a cheater, even though Jake and I aren't technically dating. I can't take the coward's way out; I have to face him.

The door opens, and Mark comes back out into the room. I try not to look at his nakedness as he approaches. He sits on the bed beside me.

“Morning,” he says, without a hint of either regret or remorse.

“Morning.”

“Here, you might want these.” He hands me a pair of Tylenol and a large glass of water. I accept them gratefully and down the pills with the water, draining the glass.

“Thank you.”

“So . . .”

“This was lovely and unexpected, Mark.” I interrupt him before he can say anything that makes me feel worse than I already feel. “But I think we both know that it was more about the scotch and the circumstances than about either of us. You have to get your house in order, serious or not, and I obviously have some stuff I'm dealing with, so perhaps we can just chalk this up to one of those things that sometimes happens between friends, and let it be a nice memory.” This comes out in a flood.

Mark pauses, as if he is mulling this over. “If that is what you think is best, then that seems smart.” There is no discernible emotion in his voice.

“I mean, you do still have a girlfriend, or whatever, and I have someone in my life that I want to give a real shot to, and you and me are working together and have to be able to focus, and then there is the whole ‘your dad, my grandmother' thing, and . . .”