The Cake Therapist (6 page)

When I brought in the tray with the French press coffeepot, the thin china cups, and the dome cake on a small glass cake pedestal, she visibly relaxed.

“It’s so nice just to be waited on a little bit, you know?”

I knew.

I passed her a slice of the tiny dome cake, an ombre of dark coral mousse, lighter coral cake, and pale pink glaze.

I poured her coffee and waited while she ate every bite.

She put her plate and coffee back on the tea table in front of us and leaned back into the cushions. “This is perfect,” she sighed.

Maybe everything was going to be all right.

•   •   •

That night Gavin, Roshonda, Mary Ann, and I were all crammed in a booth at the House of Chili. Everyone who lived in the Queen City area had to get a chili fix at least once a week, and this was our local parlor. But I knew, from serving this tangy, fine-textured, cinnamon-spiced concoction at football parties in New York, that Queen City chili was an acquired taste.

“Here’s to the institution of marriage, God bless it,” Roshonda said. The other two looked at me, then back at her as if she had said something off-color. “Nah, you got that all wrong. I’m proposing a toast.” She raised her glass of diet cola. “Here’s to the bridal district that keeps us in business. Here’s to my clients who want me to plan their extravagant weddings. Here’s to Neely’s wedding cake customers. And if those newlyweds figure it all out,” said Roshonda with a throaty chuckle, “Mary Ann eventually gets a new crop of preschoolers.”

“And what do I get?” Gavin asked, faking a pouty expression.

“More design business from the rest of us,” I said.

“Hear, hear.” We all clinked glasses.

“And another toast to Neely’s big day,” Mary Ann added and we clinked again.

“What have I missed?” Gavin asked from across the table, tearing open a small bag of oyster crackers. “Hey, I designed your bakery and do your marketing. I’m supposed to know this stuff.”

“It just happened late this afternoon,” I explained. “Matters of Taste catering has decided to put Rainbow Cake on retainer for all their society functions.”

“Woo-hoo!” Gavin raised his glass of iced tea and we clinked yet again. I noticed his gaze stray to the door. “And look who’s here,” he said quietly, and looked meaningfully at me.

The old wooden booth was high-sided, so I couldn’t see who it was until he was standing in front of our table and practically blocking all the light.

“Big Ben.” Gavin started to get out of the booth and offered a handshake.

“Nichols,” Ben said, shaking Gavin’s hand and firmly putting his other on Gavin’s shoulder. “Don’t get up. Good to see everybody.” Ben nodded to us all, his eyes lingering on me.

Ben Tranter. Everyone called him Big Ben for obvious reasons.

The two of us had known each other since grade school. We had been in college prep classes together, but had hung out with friends who liked to have fun rather than study on weekends. Shortly before high school graduation, our constant good-natured sparring had turned flirtatious. We were both planning to attend Queen City University in the fall, so it seemed only natural—like banking a healthy fire—when my feelings for Ben suddenly felt like romance. But I hardly ever got to see him. Ben was always at football practice or meetings or labs or drills. And I had a job as a waitress in the evenings. He had to be up early. I needed to stay up late. He dated around and I just worked, studied, went to class, and collapsed at the end of each long day.

Ben had won a football scholarship to QCU, and it was there that he became Luke’s go-to receiver, quarterback to tight end. We’d heard about Luke before college, of course—he was already famous to us for being a superstar athlete at neighboring Fairview High, first scouted by the NFL when he was only sixteen. But both of us got a lot closer to Luke in college than we’d ever expected.

By our sophomore year, I had managed a combination of student loans and a scholarship, so I didn’t have to waitress anymore. Once again, Ben and I were on the verge of romance. We were on our first date at a keg party when Luke finally noticed “that girl from the bakery” and I was starstruck. When Ben took me home that night, we hugged a little awkwardly, and he said, “Our timing sucks, Neely. You know that?”

I knew that now, thirteen years later.

“I heard you were back,” Ben said, giving me a look I couldn’t quite read.

“Bakery start-ups cost too much in New York,” I replied. This was true, but of course, it was not the whole truth.

“You must be busy,” he said.

I took in his crisp blue shirt and khaki pants under a down parka. Fleece-lined leather gloves stuck out of his pocket. The parka made him look even more imposing. A Bluetooth hovered over his ear.

“You’re working this evening?” I asked.

“Yeah. We’ve got a private fund-raiser in Fairview. I’m just here picking up dinner for the guys working on the grounds.” After Ben’s shoulder surgery ended his NFL career, he started his own private security business.

“If they want people to pony up the big bucks, they should be serving some of Neely’s cakes,” said Roshonda. “I know I’ve put on ten pounds since she opened that damn bakery.”

Ben chuckled. He and Roshonda always did get along. “You always look good, Ro,” he said gallantly.

The cashier put Ben’s order up on the counter, and Ben went back to get it. On the way out, he stopped at our booth again.

“Stop in some time,” I said, all of a sudden. “It’s not quite coffee and doughnuts, but we’ll see what we can rustle up. We’re right across from Finnegan’s Pub.”

“I’d like that,” he said. “We’ve all missed you.” Again, he gave me that look.

For a moment, I wondered what my life would have been like if I had been with Ben. He was smart, a little shy, funny in a dry-wit sort of way. Surprisingly kind and so, well, solid. When my mom and I lost our house, he helped us move in to Gran’s. He just showed up with his dad’s pickup truck, and a good thing, too, as Mom hadn’t coped very well.

When Ben kissed me, I remember it being more of a warm glow that started in my heart and spread everywhere else. When Luke kissed me, it was like an electric current that ran from somewhere I won’t mention to all points beyond. Why couldn’t I have been happy with a glow instead of a jolt?

When Ben left, the chili parlor suddenly felt much emptier.

Then my chili spaghetti arrived. The first bite was tangier than usual. A trainee cook, perhaps.

I piled on soft tangles of shredded cheese and tasted to see if that mellowed it. Nope. I piled on even more cheese.

“Does this chili taste the same to you?” I asked around the table, stirring my four-way chili with a fork.

“Mine’s fine,” said Gavin. They all nodded in agreement.

“Well, I think they went a little heavy on the sour this time.”

“You’d think everything would taste sweeter to you at this particular moment,” Gavin said slyly, slurping up the dregs of his iced tea through a straw.

Roshonda didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, especially since you just got you some big sugar, Sugar.”

DECEMBER 1932

Edie sat cross-legged, rapt with attention, in front of the bulky RCA Victor console radio-phonograph with its central, drop-down door that hid the big turntable.

“Do we have to listen to this again?” Olive complained to her mother, who looked up from her sewing and frowned. “This show is for babies!” she said, and Edie saw that narrow-eyed look Olive got when she didn’t get her way.

Edie looked pleadingly at her mother, and Grace gave her a quick smile. “You can listen to your show, Edie. And, Olive, you shush, or you’ll upset your father and get him coughing again.”

Olive crossed her arms, fuming, and dramatically stomped to the kitchen at the back of the house. “I’m going to make Ovaltine.”

“You’ll have to make it with water,” Edie reminded her. “We don’t have any milk.”

Olive flounced out of the little front room as the WGN radio show came on.

Edie heard, “And now, children, Kellogg’s of Battle Creek, Michigan, brings you the Singing Lady, with the best-loved stories and songs from all over the world.”

Once, on the back of a Rice Krispies box, Edie had seen a black-and-white photo of the Singing Lady instead of a story. Ireene Wicker looked like a movie star with her dark hair parted on the side, curling softly around her face and neck. She had long fingernails, probably painted shiny red, and a diamond-shaped pearl pin at the neck of her dark dress. In a big city like Chicago, Ireene Wicker probably had to dress up like that all the time, just like some of Mama’s Fairview ladies.

“Remember to check the back of your Rice Krispies box for a new Singing Lady story this month . . .” the announcer continued.

“What story do you have to tell all the children tonight, Singing Lady?” the announcer read from the script.

“‘The Little Match Girl’ by Hans Christian Andersen,” the Singing Lady said.

“It was late on a bitterly cold New Year’s Eve. The snow was falling. A poor little girl was wandering in the dark, cold streets. . . .”

Ireene changed her voice to that of a little girl. “‘I’m so cold, sooooo cold.’” Her teeth chattered. “‘I’ve lost my mother’s old shoes. They were too big, anyway, but now my bare feet have turned blue.’”

Edie heard the cold winter wind blow over the airwaves. She felt the snow on her own bare feet.

“‘Here’s a man who might help me. Mister, will you buy some matches?’ the little match girl asked. ‘If I go home without selling these matches, my stepfather will beat me,’ cried the little girl.

“‘Go away!’ the man’s voice thundered.”

Edie heard the padding of a child’s feet against the snowy cobblestones and the child gasping for breath as she ran away.

“‘I’m still so cold.’ The little match girl shivered, blowing on her hands. ‘Maybe if I light just one match, against the brick wall of this house, I can get warm.’”

Edie heard the match rasp against the brick.

A small
whoosh
. “‘Oh, the flame is so bright. It’s like I’m sitting in front of a big stove with polished brass feet and handles.’ The little match girl’s voice brightened. ‘It’s so warm. Maybe if I stretch my feet out, close to the fire, they’ll get warm, too.’”

Edie stretched her feet out toward the radio.

A hissing sound faded away. “‘Oh no!’ cried the little match girl. ‘The match has gone out. The stove has disappeared. And I’m colder than before,’ she sobbed.”

Tears sprang to Edie’s eyes.

“‘I’ll strike another match,’ the little match girl said urgently.”

Whoooooosh.
The match made a bigger sound.

“Now she was back in front of the same lovely stove, only this time there was also a table set for dinner with a large roasted goose on a platter in the center. But the fragrant meal vanished just before the match went out. When the little girl struck another, she saw a family seated around the table and behind them, a Christmas tree all aglow. And then, of course, the match burned out again.

“The wind whistled and shrieked even louder.

“‘I see a shooting star travel across the night sky. That means someone is dying,’ the little girl said in a sad whisper.

“‘My old grandmother, the only person who has ever loved me, used to say that when a star falls, a soul is going up to God. I wish I could see her one more time. Maybe if I light the rest of the matches . . .’”

Edie heard one, two, three rasps and then a large burst of flame.

“‘Oh, Grandmother!’ cried the little girl with a voice full of wonder. ‘You look so beautiful. And the light around you has so many colors.’

“‘Come here, my little one.’”

The old and tired grandmother’s voice, full of sorrow and love, despair and hope, startled Edie.

“‘There, there, my sweet girl. Everything will be all right now. I will take you in my arms and we will go where there is no more cold, no more hunger, and no more pain. Only love.’”

Edie wrapped her arms around her knees and crushed them to her chest. How could this be happily ever after?

Rainbow Cake smelled exceptionally wonderful. In the back of the bakery, Norb was infusing our browned butter with vanilla bean.

He slit several vanilla beans lengthwise and scraped the tiny black seeds into a large saucepan, which already held a quantity of unsalted butter. The scraped-out vanilla bean pods went in, too. Over medium heat, he let the butter cook until brown bits rose to the surface and the liquid butter had turned a deep golden color. He always attached a metal thermometer with a large round face to the side, so he could check the temperature even across the room.

When the butter reached 250°F, he took it off the heat and let it cool. After we took the used vanilla bean pods out, we’d use it just like regular butter, cream it with sugar until it was light and fluffy, add the flour and eggs, and make our popular yellow cake. It also made delicious browned-butter cookies. We kept a tub of it in the refrigerator that we replenished every week.

In a little while, Norb would pour the cake batter into large sheet pans to bake. Then he’d cut three-inch circles from the cooled cake and cover them with plastic wrap until later on this morning, when I would assemble twenty-four individual three-layer cakes, with both lime and tangerine mousse fillings, then spray them with an orange-scented white-chocolate ganache. As a final touch, I would add a sprig of sugar-paste orange blossoms on top—all as the sweet finale to a private anniversary party for a couple who had met and married in Florida. The wife was supposed to pick them up early in the afternoon.

“The gods on Mount Olympus didn’t breathe air any more ambrosial than this,” intoned John Staufregan, a regular customer whom Maggie had unfortunately dubbed “the Professor.” He taught in the biology department at Queen City University, but was now on sabbatical. During his time off from teaching, he was working on a project involving flies and zebrafish at the Genome Research Institute on Millcreek Valley Road. The institute’s high-tech building had replaced a sixties-era complex that once housed a big pharmaceutical firm. He had told us about this project several times, but we still couldn’t understand what fly and zebrafish genes have to do with real life.

The Professor was usually the first person in the door every morning when Rainbow Cake opened. He always ordered the same thing: a grande latte, skinny, with a double shot and a lemon blueberry muffin, which I was trying to get everyone to call a breakfast cupcake, with mixed results.

“A muffin’s a muffin,” Maggie kept telling me. “What in the hell is a breakfast cupcake, anyway?”

“A muffin. It’s got a cupcake paper around it.”

“So what? It’s still a muffin. Just call it a muffin. At least fifty percent of the people who come in here are literal-minded, and they think a muffin is a muffin and a cupcake is a cupcake. They won’t order either one if you confuse them.”

So the debate raged on.

“I’ll have one of those glorious muffin, er, breakfast cupcakes again,” the Professor told Maggie. She took a small sheet of waxed bakery paper and plucked one out from the case. Turning her head so only I could see, she glowered at me.

“They’re still warm,” I told him brightly as I gave him back his change.

“Well, my compliments to you ladies,” he said, taking the muffin and latte over to his table.

“Just our luck he’s picked here to hang out,” Maggie muttered.

“He’s here, what, maybe thirty minutes?” I reminded her.

“Well, it seems like thirty hours.”

Our morning business had become so intense that I’d had to hire a barista, a graduate student who was working on his thesis and needed a part-time job. Part of his job description was suffering through the Professor’s early-morning lectures.

“As Immanuel Kant once said”—the Professor’s baritone reverberated as our barista frothed the milk for his second latte—“‘All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to understanding, and ends with reason.’”

“Who cares?” sniped Maggie, under her breath. “
Kant
he mutate on over to White Castle and spare us, just one morning?” She bent down to retrieve a half dozen breakfast cupcakes from the case for another customer.

The Professor ambled across the bakery—with his latte and breakfast cupcake in hand—to check out our February display. Framed against the sunset-colored curtain, he looked pale and drab, the combination of his comb-over, sallow skin, wrinkled gray shirt, and old-man pants not doing him any favors. I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if he was only in his early forties, maybe ten years or so older than Maggie and me.

“You know, he could be much better looking if he’d shave his head, wear a little color, and knock the cobwebs off his ironing board,” I whispered back to Maggie, who shot me an “Are you nuts?” look. Not that I was in the market for a fortyish professor—that was for sure.

Neither was Maggie. She had enough trouble as it was with Mark, who seemed to think he was still in his glory days as our high school basketball hero. He wasn’t even that good back then. If he didn’t show up to take Emily on his scheduled weekends or pay his child support on time, it was because he had more pressing things to do. Like play golf with his buddies or bed a barmaid.

With straight blond hair cut in a bob, blue eyes, and a smooth complexion, Maggie could pass for a Swiss milkmaid. She wore little makeup, although her raspberry T-shirt made her eyes look really blue today. She had put on a little weight since the divorce and looked worried sometimes, but was holding up well, considering she was raising a child by herself and living with her mother.

She nodded over at our Professor. “He needs more than just an Extreme Makeover. Even if you spiffed up his looks, there’s still the fact that his personality is beyond dead boring,” she said quietly out of the corner of her mouth. “Why can’t he just stuff that muffin and get out of here?”

“Breakfast cupcake,” I reminded her.

“Whatever.”

The cold wind cut through the warm coziness in the bakery as more customers came in, wafting a fresh current of vanilla-infused brown butter around.

“Well, ladies, you’re certainly using all of your olfactory enticements today,” the Professor said in an attempt at humor. “You know—”

“We don’t have ‘factory’ anything here,” Maggie replied, cutting him off. “Everything we do is made from scratch. You want factory, you’ll have to go to the Wonder Bread outlet.” And then she stomped off to the back of the store.

“I, uh, I said ‘olfactory,’” he sputtered. “I know I said ‘olfactory.’”

I held up my hand to let him know he didn’t have to explain, but he still looked pained.

“I was going to comment on the mystery of how scent triggers a memory, then a feeling.”

Oh no, another lecture. And that was not quite how it worked with me, but I wasn’t going to get into that.

He carried on in full Professor mode, undeterred. “The aroma travels up the nostrils about seven centimeters.”

At this I began to cringe and hoped I didn’t show it.

“It then dissolves in mucus . . .”

Oh no, not mucus,
I thought. I tried to draw him farther away from where people were trying to eat their breakfast cupcakes.

“. . . within a membrane called the olfactory epithelium . . .” he droned on.

I saw one lady grab her purchases, shoot him a dirty look, and hurry out. ‘Mucus’ is never a good word to hear when you’re eating.

“. . . areas of the brain that are part of the limbic system—the oldest instinctual, primitive portion of the brain. So, scent, and the flavor/scent combo, really hit us where it counts,” he finished, rocking back and forth on his heels.

He paused and got a faraway look in his eye. Suddenly he looked vulnerable to me, like a lost little boy. What had our bakery scent touched in him?

I knew if I focused on him, I’d begin to get the answer, but I didn’t have time for that today. And while I was dimly aware of his potential, I had too much going on right now to embrace a fixer-upper side project.

The moment passed and he returned to full Professor mode. “No one knows what actually causes the olfactory receptors to react to a scent—is it the size, shape, or electrical charge of the scent molecule? Maybe one day we’ll find out.” He looked at his watch and made for the door. “Please tell that pretty girl I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

The bell on the door jangled again as he left. I could see the skimpy strands of his comb-over stand straight up in the cold wind. Yes, Maggie was right. Extreme Makeover.

She popped her head out again from the back of the store.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking abashed.

“Don’t tell me; tell him the next time he comes in. You knew the Professor meant ‘olfactory,’ didn’t you?”

Maggie laughed. “I just couldn’t take him anymore.”

“Interesting. You think he’s insufferable and he thinks you’re pretty,” I said, and left her to digest that little tidbit.

The morning progressed, and soon I came out from behind the counter to greet Roshonda, who had become another regular. When no one else was in the bakery, she told me wedding planner horror stories. Like the bride who wanted her wedding party dressed in traditional German lederhosen or the bride who gained fifty pounds before her wedding, then blamed Ro when the gown didn’t fit and refused to go three sizes larger. They ended up having a seamstress make a panel in the back of her dress and squeezing the bride into a corset.

“Hey, girl,” she said, her smile always bright, as she took her complimentary Americano with a sweet lick of caramel syrup.

“Who’s jumping the broom today?” I inquired.

She leaned forward to whisper. “You can’t tell anybody, but I know you’ll love this. Tyrone Spencer, the rapper who calls himself Dime.”

I was shocked. “Your first celebrity wedding, Ro! That’s amazing. Even if it is for Dime. I have to wonder, though, who on earth would have him?”

“His baby mama, apparently.”

“Isn’t there more than one?”

Ro had a wicked laugh. “Yes! But the bride-to-be is the most recent. And let me tell you, that woman is pretty damn impressed with herself for getting Dime to commit. She kept telling me that the theme of her wedding is the theme of her life: ‘Go Big or Go Home.’ How gross is that?”

“Pretty gross,” I agreed.

“Yeah. And I know I said I needed a super-high-profile gig to launch myself to the next level, but I now fear I may live to regret those words. Dime’s girlfriend threw an honest-to-goodness fit when her driver refused to park in the handicapped spot next to my door. Poor thing was forced to walk a full twenty feet in her Louboutins.”

“How horrible for her. That chauffeur is monster,” I said, and we both laughed. “And you clearly need that coffee.”

“Actually, I have to drink and run. My next client is a corporate attorney coming in for her second consultation. She’s a lovely person, so I hope she cancels out the memory of Nickel.”

“Nickel?”

Roshonda laughed. “Dime’s fiancée, although that’s not her real name. I’ve decided to call them Nickel and Dime. Makes me feel better.”

“Fun with customers.” I winked.

“By the way.” Roshonda came up close and whispered in my ear. “I got a call from Mariah Fleetwood earlier. Luke asked her to book two first-class airline tickets from New York down to the Super Bowl this Sunday. She said she wasn’t planning on gossiping to anyone else, but if it were her husband, she’d want to know.” Ro gave me a sympathetic squeeze and a rueful smile. “So now you know.” Mariah was a buddy of Ro’s from college who now ran a luxury travel agency out of Queen City. It was part of Luke’s image to remain loyal to hometown businesses when possible, so of course he’d contacted Mariah to manage his itinerary. Either that or he was trying to get a message to me through a friend of a friend.

The whole story made Luke’s phone message from earlier this morning all the more puzzling. All I heard was a man singing that it was not your fault but mine, and a banjo thrumming. Oh, yeah, Mumford & Sons. As if that explained anything.

OCTOBER 1941

Mrs. Ellison was a Fairview lady who paid well and paid on the spot, and Lord knew, Edie and Olive needed the money. Since their mother died, they’d been on their own. What nineteen-year-old Olive earned at the bakery and Edie made from sewing after she got home from high school barely put food on the table. But Mrs. Ellison was a good customer, and Edie kept concentrating on that. Edie couldn’t afford to show Mrs. Ellison how she really felt.

Jean Ellison, that spoiled brat, didn’t know how lucky she was.

Instead, Jean complained because another girl in her class was having McCall’s pattern 4054 made into a dress for the autumn dance.

“We’ve already bought the pattern and the fabric and we’ve had Edie make up the dress, Jean,” Mrs. Ellison explained to her daughter. She played with the pearls at the neck of her burgundy gabardine dress. “It won’t be the same as Betty’s, unless she bought the same fabric and had Edie make it, too,” she reasoned. She turned to Edie. “You didn’t make a dress for a Betty Simms, did you?”

“No, ma’am.”

Then Jean wanted the neckline lower on the already off-the-shoulder dress.