How to Eat a Cupcake (4 page)

“Is there someone I can find for you in the waiting room? Let them know you're awake?” the nurse asked, patting my hand. She was a blur of floral-patterned scrubs and long dark hair, her eyes drooping and sad.

I shook my head, unable to speak. What the nurse really wanted to know was if there was someone else who could comfort me, but the person in the waiting room was just a paid caregiver, a large woman named Yvette or Yvonne or maybe Ivana, who I had hired to drive me to and from the hospital.

The nurse's brow furrowed with concern as I pressed my trembling lips together. She had stopped patting my hand and now just gripped it, squeezing it tightly every so often. “Do you want to sleep a bit more?” she whispered, bending near my ear. I closed my eyes and in her Spanish accent, heard Lucia's. “I can give you something to help.”

I nodded, grateful for her kindness, the sympathy in her voice. Hot tears snaked down my neck and into my gown and there was nothing I could possibly do but let them fall.

On the patio, my eyes fluttered open. I looked at the clock on my phone. Nine a.m. I sank back against the chaise and sighed, pressing my palms into my eyes.
Is this what the next year is going to be like? Lying around crying on the patio at all hours of the day?
Anyway, could it really take that long to plan a wedding with Lolly St. Clair, Master Party Planner, at the helm? What the hell had I been thinking, quitting my absolutely perfect job? Well, I knew exactly what I'd been thinking about when I'd given notice three weeks earlier, and it had only been in part about the wedding.
Anyway
, I thought, admonishing myself,
I need to stop obsessing over
why
I did it
. All that mattered was that I
had
done it; I'd packed up and left New York and was here now. Living in my parents' Pacific Heights house. Crying on the patio.

I tried to look on the bright side. I had plenty of time to take the long runs I loved through the Presidio and down by Marina Green and Crissy Field and up in the Marin Headlands. And there was always yoga (but, to be honest, I hated yoga—all that
om
ing and
light within
gobbledygook).
Okay
. So then there were the parties. Already since my return, the party invitations had been piling up on the desk in my bedroom—cleverly designed invitations from people I had known a lifetime ago, or who knew my parents, or hardly knew any of our circle at all, but desperately wanted to. My life was full of these sorts of
circles
, but, I wondered, since Annie Quintana, had I really had a true best friend?
Wes.
He was a true friend. My best friend. But now he was halfway around the world, overseeing the opening of a manufacturing plant in China.

Wes
. I had to tell him what had happened. He'd been away the entire month surrounding my hospital stay and had barely been in town two consecutive nights ever since. On the few occasions I had seen him, the timing just hadn't seemed right. But he was going to be my husband, for God's sake.
Well
, I thought, indulging in a rare moment of procrastination
, I
will
tell him. Of course I will. I have to. Later.
But right now? Right now, it was clear that I was in desperate need of another cupcake.

It takes a person with a serious sweet tooth to hide desserts in secret stashes. Mine is that serious. The previous night, after trying one of Annie's cupcakes, I'd immediately walked into the kitchen, taken a mocha-flavored cupcake from a tray awaiting circulation, and hidden it behind a jar of wild-grain rice on a lower shelf in the pantry. Now, I walked to the kitchen, shut the pantry door behind me, retrieved the cupcake from its hiding place, and, feeling only the slightest twinge of mortification for my little covert cupcake operation, took a large bite.

I had, I'll admit, effected a certain style—a method, if you will—of cupcake eating. To begin, you remove the cupcake liner carefully so as not to unnecessarily crumble the cake, and set it aside. You then turn the cupcake slowly in your hand, taking bites along the line where cake meets icing, your mouth filling with a perfect combination of both components. Once you've come full circle, you gently twist off the bottom half inch of cake, a move that takes considerable finesse and leaves a delicate sliver of cake—the ideal size for lying flat on your tongue and allowing it to slowly dissolve, building anticipation for that final bite. To finish, you are left with the center cylinder of cake and icing, the cupcake's very heart, sometimes filled with a surprising burst of custard or jam or mousse, sometimes not, but always,
always
, the most moist, flavorful bite of the entire cupcake. Take a breath before diving into that final, perfect bite; it is to be savored for as long as possible. Finally, of course, you scavenge the crumbs from the cupcake liner you set aside during step one, then ball the liner into your fist and overhand it into the nearest receptacle. Make the shot? You get another cupcake.

But I've gotten ahead of myself. Back to that very first bite of hidden cupcake in the pantry: a soft cap of vanilla buttercream giving way to light, creamy mocha cake. I kept eating, turning the cupcake slowly in my hand. This was not rich, one-bite-and-you-couldn't-possibly-have-more chocolate. This was refined, complex chocolate cut with a hint of coffee and what else . . .
Currant? Salt?
A grown-up, masterful cupcake. It was perfect. I leaned back against the shelves in the cool, dark pantry and felt myself relax.

Annie could make a fortune on these things.

I straightened, licked each of my fingers clean, and snuck one last nibble out of the bottom of the delicate white cupcake wrapper before balling it in my fist and shooting it into the pantry trash can.
Swish
. There I was, out of cupcakes—but with a very good idea in their place.

Of course!
I kicked myself for not thinking of this the moment I tasted my first bite of lemon cupcake the night before. Wasn't I known for spotting a sure bet from a mile away? And here I was, taking more than twelve hours to realize the business opportunity that was staring me right in the face! Talk about going soft. One week off the job and already I was losing my edge.

I practically ran to my mother's study to find Annie's phone number.
This is exactly what I need
, I thought, pressing the number into my cell phone.
Something to distract me, something to pour myself into while I get through this . . . this year
. I walked out on the patio again and pulled the door shut behind me, listening as the phone rang in my ear.

“Hello?”

“Annie, hi! It's Julia.”

Silence.

I cleared my throat, then clarified, “Julia St. Clair.”

“Yes, I know. Hi.”

The chill in Annie's voice was impossible to miss.
Was she really still stuck on a series of events that took place a hundred years ago?
I wondered. Of course, this had been fairly apparent the night before when she'd stared at me coldly all through our conversation and then left abruptly when Jake Logan appeared. I decided to ignore her rudeness and press on.

“Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked.

“Well, I just left the bakery and now I'm headed to the park with a few dogs, so . . .”

“This will just take a minute. Really. I have an idea I'd love to run by you.”

More silence. But I was nothing if not persistent.

“It was great to see you last night, Annie,” I said sweetly, trying a new tack.

I heard her sigh. “Is this urgent, Julia? Talking on the phone while walking three dogs with bulging bladders down an incredibly steep street toward a park is like trying to race the Iditarod with one hand tied behind your back. It would be much easier if we had this little chat another time.”

I had the distinct sense that if I agreed to this, the next time I phoned Annie, my call would go straight to voice mail. It was time, I realized, for my business voice.

“Then I'll make it quick,” I said, and immediately began pacing the patio. “Your cupcakes are the best I've ever tasted, and I've eaten more cupcakes than I care to admit. That's a compliment, but more importantly, it's a fact. I'm confident that with your skill and my operations experience, together we could open a cupcakery that would have a line out the door from the time we open in the morning until the moment we close at night. I can provide the capital to get us started. This is what I do, Annie, and I do it well: I invest in businesses and I drive them to be successful. I'll be in San Francisco for nearly a year—plenty of time to get you off the ground and seeing returns, at which point I'll bow out and you can take full ownership of the shop.”

When she didn't answer right away, I continued hurriedly. “I know what you're thinking: a cupcakery? Does the world need another? The post-9/11 comfort-food era and Carrie and Miranda's little trip to Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes on
Sex and the City
definitely sparked a surge of interest—but let me tell you, I've tasted Magnolia's cupcakes and the cake is dry and the icing is practically grainy with sugar. Those cupcakes couldn't hold a candle to yours! Besides,” I stammered, feeling the hollow rush of her silence in my ear, “anyone who knows anything knows to order the banana pudding at Magnolia, not the cupcakes.” I was rambling, something I never did, or at least never used to do. Why was I trying to impress her?
It's just Annie
, I told myself
. Calm down.

“My point is, people clearly want cupcakes—that desire won't wane anytime soon, I promise—and yours are the best. So let me do this for you.” I paused, readying the final line of the pitch that I realized I'd already crafted in my head: “Your talent is utterly wasted working for anyone but yourself.”

I swallowed. There was a beat of silence. And then:

“Well, gee, Julia, thanks so much for swooping into town and picking up the pieces of my
wasted
life. Whatever would I have done without you?”

“What? No, that's not at all what—” I sputtered.

“I'm going to decline your generous proposal. And I really have to go. Good-bye.”

I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it, shocked.
What just happened?
Leaning against the patio railing, I searched the still-green hills of the Marin Headlands across the bay to the north, trying to make sense of the conversation I'd just had.

Annie's voice had been so hard, so remote, and so angry. If it hadn't quite contained the cold ring of hatred, it bared at least the chilly tone of strong dislike. I was sure that she had never sounded like that when we were growing up. I remembered her as brave and independent, clever and warm in a way I'd always envied. Now she sounded hardened, more sarcastic than funny; her words were clipped and designed to sting.

Of course, I had some idea of what Annie was so pissed off about. Our senior year at Devon Prep had been especially hard for her, and I knew I hadn't made it any easier. As I thought about that time, I felt myself descending swiftly through a series of emotions—defensiveness, regret, and finally, with a heavy, sandbag thud: sadness. I crossed the patio and sank back down onto the lounge chair.
Sadness!
All my life I'd been proactive in my pursuit of happiness, and now suddenly I felt dogged, cloaked even, by sadness. I couldn't seem to shake it. The whole point of the cupcakery venture was to get my mind
off
of the past—distant and recent—and move forward. Put one foot in front of the other and just keep walking until I was out of this funk. And here I was, being dragged back into the thick of it by Annie Quintana.

It was selfish of her, really. And ungrateful. I hated feeling like I needed her, but there I was practically
begging
her to take my money and my expertise so that she could finally embark on her dream career—or at least, I assumed it was her dream career. And she'd said no all because of some silly misunderstanding that had taken place a decade ago! I quickly flipped through the series of events that had corroded our friendship. By the time we'd each left for college, I remembered, we were barely speaking. And then Lucia had died; after that, complete silence.

Oh!
I thought with a start.
Is Annie's anger somehow related to her mother's death?
In the fall, after I had left for Stanford and Annie for Cal—or, no, I suppose that wasn't right, Annie's acceptance to Cal was still suspended at that point and she was living in the carriage house, waitressing, and taking classes at City College—my mother had walked into the kitchen one morning and found Lucia collapsed on the floor. She'd called an ambulance straightaway, ridden with her to the hospital, tracked down the very best doctors, and later paid for all of her medical bills. Still, despite my mother's best efforts, Lucia slipped into a coma before either Annie or I reached the hospital. She died several days later without ever waking. Her death had gutted me—I'd taken weeks off school and then slogged through finals in a stunned haze. Really, Annie should have counted herself lucky she wasn't at Cal yet and could deal with her grief at home, in private.

At the funeral, Annie and I had mostly kept our distance from one another but I do remember sharing a tearful hug at some point during the service. And then, nothing. A few weeks later, she left for Cal and basically fell off the face of the planet.
Does she blame our family for Lucia's death?
My mother in particular was hurt by Annie's chilly behavior over the last ten years. After all, Annie had lived with our family for most of her life—she was like a second daughter to my mother. A niece, at the very least.

My phone rang in my lap, startling me out of these thoughts, and I picked it up without checking the caller ID, hoping against odds that it was Annie calling with a change of heart.