Heartbreak Cake (21 page)

“I wouldn’t say that, Dad. Come on, you loved Josh until all this. And what about Bill? You two went to El Patron’s and drank beers until I had to come and pick you both up past last call.”

“Precisely
corazon
, these men and I, we are one in the same. It’s why we get along like we do.”

My father watches my face as I retrace the steps of my dating life, which started with little Sean McGuinnes in 4th grade, who had charisma, good looks, and all the girls liked him, but he liked me. And then he didn’t. But I still carried a torch for him until Junior High where I met Garry, who was an older version of Sean. And on and on it went. One after another.

As I quickly go through my rolodex of boyfriends in my head, I can see the resemblance in each one. All handsome, sophisticated, well-read, interesting, and all of them unable to commit or give me the relationship I wanted.

I’ve spent the last year in therapy talking about Josh, but maybe I should’ve told Timothy about my one classic relationship issue.

Daddy.

I give a sideways glance at the table next to us, a group of college girls who all know my father because they call out flirtatiously, “Well, hello there, Dr. Aguilar.”

“Hi girls, hope you are here working on your paper.” He winks at them, and I think I hear one of the girls sigh loudly.

“Focus, Dad.”

“Indira, you can’t confuse friendliness with flirting. And you can’t confuse someone wanting you for someone wanting to commit to you. Two different emotions that create a different reaction.”

“I’m listening.” I finally relent because if there’s one thing my father knows, it’s what motivates a man to stay or flee.

“Josh loved you. That was obvious. And there was a point in your relationship where he nearly had me convinced that he wanted to commit to you. But when you hit year two with him, and he still hadn’t divorced Valentina? She and Eloise were always his commitment.”

I chew sadly on my steak sandwich trying not to dwell too much on the waste of years I spent on Josh. Hoping and pining that he would pick me. But I always felt transitory, and as my dad explains how he saw it, too, it only confirms my fears. That I was just a huge sucker.

“I don’t know what to say, Dad, but thanks for your insight. I probably would never have listened to any of this last year or when I was with Josh. Unfortunately, I had to get here to be able to understand.”

“That’s what poetry and great works of literature are made of. Horrible mistakes in life and love often make you stronger, wiser and…”

“Bitter?” I ask.

“And kinder,” he winks. “Let it make you kinder and more understanding. That’s the trick. Staying open to love.”

“You are such a romantic,
Papi,”
I tease. “And that sounds like great advice. But, what about the cake? Can you help me? Grandma’s, not Tia Ortencia’s either. I need
Mamita’s
. Hers has something distinct, something that gives it the wow factor. And we need that right now. To save the business.”

“It’s done. I’ll get it to you even if I have to fly to Nicaragua and get it myself.”

“I need it by tomorrow, Dad.”

Surprised at the urgency in my voice, my dad, uncrosses his legs, and motions to the server to bring our café lattes.

“It’s yours. I’ll call you tomorrow when I have it. You think this can work?”

“It has to.”

Chapter 17

“Do I look like someone who would have an affair with your husband?”

I stand in the middle of my bedroom wearing a business pantsuit that’s too big, too beige, and with a collar nearly touching my shoulders. I hold out my arms so Rebecca can get the full effect of my pathetic-ness.

“You look like someone who may have slept with my husband in 1976. Is that the look you’re going for?”

“I look like bad 70s porn? That’s just awful. Maybe I should change.”

“What do you mean maybe?”

I go back into my closet looking for anything that will help me feel better about going to the Pink Sprinkle, which I know sounds like a harmless event. I mean, it’s a sprinkle, right? A small, pink, pretty garnish for cake. But this sprinkle is actually the biggest wedding industry mixer of the year for Southern California. Thousands and thousands of people will converge in one auditorium to talk about the business of love.

Everyone attends. Florists, caterers, wedding singers, winemakers who specialize in wedding labels, companies who specialize in selling candy-coated almonds or heart- shaped chocolates. Shoe designers who make comfort wedding heels and paper companies that make personalized confetti or organic rice bags. You can find anything you’ve been looking for and everything you didn’t know you were looking to buy.

This year the Pink Sprinkle is being held at Crystal Cove resort, so when Pedro and I were asked to be the keynote speakers on “Creating a DIY Wedding,” we were beyond overjoyed. It was supposed to be an exciting moment for us, but now with everything that has happened, all it feels like is we are walking in with bull’s-eyes on our chef’s jackets.

“Can’t Pedro go without you? I get a bad feeling about this.”

“I can’t bail on Pedro. Not after everything I’ve already put him through.” I walk out of my closet wearing my favorite jeans, my buttercream yellow chef’s jacket, and a pair of clogs. “If I’m not there, everyone will know it’s because of what they wrote about me.”

Rebecca shakes her head in understanding and comes over to pick imaginary lint off of my shoulder.

“Much better. Just be yourself,” Rebecca clucks. “You don’t look tarty at all. But as your friend and attorney, I’m going to ask you to not say one word to Valentina, Josh, or those two horrible mean girls at Wedding Belles.”

“Have they answered your call?”

“Not yet, but it looks like the post was already pulled. Thanks to my screaming rant on their voicemail telling them that I was going to sue them for libel.”

“What they wrote was true, so we have no case. We can’t sue them for not being nice to me.”

“Well, if I have to, I might.” Rebecca watches me put on my favorite cake earrings and takes a seat on the bed.

“Just try and say nothing. Blend in, okay?”

“I saw my Dad today. He seems different.”

“How so?”

“There was something about him that felt slower. Less frantic. He was more thoughtful about the things he said to me.”

“It was really nice to feel like…he was my dad. Not some frat boy telling me about his new girlfriend.”

Rebecca glances at Maggie who squeals happily, crawling after a very
un
happy Norma.

“Well, I hope he finally can be something to you. I know you love him, and it’s always been something you wanted.”

“What?”

“A relationship with your dad.”

“Are you telling me I have daddy issues?”

“I would never state the obvious.”

“He’s getting my grandmother’s Tres Leches cake recipe and coming over tomorrow so we can test it together. And if it’s as amazing as I remember, I’m going to use it as a surprise cake at Stephanie’s wedding.”

“You’re going to make her a wedding cake even though Crystal Cove is, too?” Rebecca looks confused. “Don’t you think that’s going to piss Josh off?”

“God, I hope so,” I say slyly.

“Are you finally tapping into the anger stage?”

“It’s bubbling.”

Rebecca claps enthusiastically and leaps off the bed to give me a hug.

“Do you know that I loved Benoit for months after we broke up? Months! I waited for him to come to his senses and show up at my door and tell me what a fool he was. But when he finally did, it was too late. I had stewed so long that I got angry enough to move on.”

“What did he do?”

“I had just put on a cucumber-pomegranate face mask and grabbed a glass of wine before sitting down to watch some television. I was watching a
Law and Order
marathon—you know how I love those.”

“Oh yes.”

“And he just came in and expected me to stop everything because he showed up. He turned off the television, asked me to order food, and then wanted sex while we were waiting for takeout. I realized at that moment that he didn’t care about me. Never did. Just himself.”

“And that was that?”

“And that was that. I threw him out and never looked back. I was so angry. So angry that I had let myself hold onto someone who didn’t seem to really notice me.”

“Well, you did good Becs. Look at you now. You’re a mom, vying for a position as a judge, and you and Richard are like peanut butter and jelly.”

“I’m lucky now, but it took everything I had to not just stay wrapped up in that mess. He got under my skin, even though I and everyone knew how awful he was.”

Rebecca stares off into space remembering it all and then shakes her head.

“Which is why tonight I’m advising you to go to this thing called the Pink Sprinkle, and keep it professional, okay? Do your demo, network, dazzle everyone like you do, and if anyone brings up the article, smile sweetly and brush it off as rumors. Don’t ruin your career for Josh. That’s exactly what Valentina is hoping for.”

“I can do that.” I dab some lipstick on and squelch the fear sitting in my stomach. “I’ve got to go and pick up Pedro. You’re welcome to stay here and help yourself to the cookie jar in the kitchen.”

“That was always the plan, my dear.” Rebecca grabs Maggie off the floor, follows me down the hallway, and walks me to the front door.

“You’re going to be great. Just focus on what you do best.”

“Thanks. Now please stop looking at me like you’re Susan Sarandon in
Dead Man Walking
. It’s all going to be fine. I promise.”

“Go in peace, my child.” She touches my forehead with her hand and we both laugh.

I give her a hug and text Pedro that I’m on my way. As I pull out of the driveway and head down Orziba Street, I see Maggie and Rebecca standing on my balcony waving at me enthusiastically.

“Dead Baker Walking!” Rebecca hollers, and she and Maggie dissolve into a peal of giggles.

Kids.

***

For years, I managed to avoid wedding industry parties, always more than happy to let Simon go. He prepared for the Pink Sprinkle like some did for a long distance marathon. Months and months of strategy, training, grooming, and significant amounts of intel on our competition.

“Chicken, we don’t just make cake,” he would explain. “We sell romance. We sell the promise of happily ever after in our wedding cakes. Nobody wants to buy conflict, a sexless marriage, and infidelity. That’s just too realistic. And in order for them to believe they can have wedded bliss, you have to believe it—or at the very least, you have to sell it.”

“I think I do.”

Simon cackled. “Indira, you reek of cynicism. I’m pretty sure I heard you call a wedding a prison and a funeral all in one breath.”

“And what, pray tell, are you Simon? You can’t stop chasing skirt. You call that romance?”

“I call that something to do while I wait for my perfect girl.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Get to know me, Chicken. I’ll change your mind.”

I may not have become a romantic (thanks to my relationship with Josh), but Simon did make me an incredible saleswoman. I could sell love in a mason jar layered in banana custard and angel food cake. Love was chocolate chips and the right kind of frosting. It was the simplicity of yellow cake topped with chocolate buttercream. In my years working under Simon, I had learned to convince a person that the right cake, the right dessert, could make them the fifty percent that was truly going to make it.

And sometimes when I sat on the sidelines of a particularly romantic wedding, where I could tell that the bride and groom honestly enjoyed one another, I felt the tiniest flutter of romance take over me. Although, I never told Simon that.