Wedding Girl (20 page)

Jake

Well, I'm relieved he didn't just blow me off and seems genuinely disappointed. I'm also sort of relieved that he is heading out of the country for three months. I like the pen pal thing; it is safe and comfortable, and I don't have to worry about the whole rejection thing. In the movies, we would stay in touch and I would be witty and wise, and by the time we met, we would be inevitable.

But as we know, my life is not a movie.

And if we do continue to communicate, I'm sadly going to have to amp up my lying until I can explain myself face-to-face, which really sucks. I'm tempted to try and get myself out of the whole mess, and just tell him that I'm too busy for silly emails back and forth. I know it would save us both a lot of hassle surrounding something that isn't even a thing. Then again, deep down, I do get a little fuzzy feeling with his emails, and continuing is ultimately fairly harmless, especially if I can keep my flights of fantasy in check. So I'm going to play it cool and casual. And leave the ball solidly in his court.

Jake—

Don't think twice, you missed a lovely event, but I ran into a friend unexpectedly, and the wines and pastries were delicious, so the evening certainly was far from wasted. London sounds exciting! What a fantastic business trip. And of course,
feel free to write if you like, I'd be happy to hear from you if you have time.

Do let me know how the bachelor party shakes out!

Sunny

And with that, I head to work, hoping I won't have to think about whether I've made the best or worst decision possible.

(1942)

Success is no fun unless you share it with someone.

•
FAY BAINTER AS ELLEN WHITCOMB
•

“Thank you! Come again!” I say to the young man in skinny jeans and his sundress-clad girlfriend. They have just bought the last loaf of apricot white chocolate brioche, as well as two of each flavor of Pop-Tarts, and have taken a dog biscuit for their puggle, who is outside communing meaningfully with Snatch's rear end.

“We will!” she says gleefully, having tasted just about everything on the sample platter before making final decisions. “This place is awesome.”

“Thanks much. Please be sure to follow us on social media; there's something new every day.” Before closing their bag, I slip in a postcard, which has our links and a coupon for 10 percent off their next event cake or 15 percent off their next in-store bakery purchase.

“Cool,” the guy says, and they elbow their way back outside.

Herman looks over at me, grinning, as he handles his end of the counter. He shockingly took to the new iPad register system like a champ, so we can both ring up customers at the same
time, and the bakery has been packed since we opened this morning. The place gleams; we repainted a soft dove gray and had the old black-and-white linoleum floor polished. Today we have all of our café tables outside for customers, and a little buffet table with huge self-serve urns of iced tea and raspberry lemonade. We've got a line of dog bowls filled with water under the front window in the shade, and a small table with a big bowl of home-baked dog biscuits.

I turn to address the next customer and find myself face-to-face with my parents.

“Wow, quite the turnout!” my dad says, leaning his long frame over the counter for a kiss.

“So proud of you, sweetheart.” My mom, not nearly tall enough to get at me physically, kisses her fingers and reaches them out to me.

“Thanks, guys; what can I get you? My treat!” I wink at them.

“I would love some of those nuttery buttery cookies you made me last time,” my dad says, rubbing his tummy with glee. “They were amazing!”

“I saved some just for you; we sold out over an hour ago, and I haven't had time to go in the back and frost more.” I reach behind me and grab the box where I was hoarding half a dozen for him. “Mom?”

“You know what I want.”

“Chocolate babka.”

Her whole face lights up. “Yes, please!”

I grab one off the shelf, wrap it up, and hand the goodies over to them. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you, honey. This is just great what you are doing here. And your grandmother is having the best time!”

I look through the window to where Bubbles is holding court outside under our big oak tree, doing a cookie story time for the
neighborhood kids, who are seated around her on picnic blankets, eating free organic chocolate chip cookies and listening to her read from the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle book. I think she's already done three chapters, and they won't let her stop. Snatch is preening in a new sweater that has a huge cupcake on the back, meeting every dog in the neighborhood, and, I believe, has already eaten his weight in dog biscuits.

“She's the best.”

“We're going to go outside and listen.” And they slip back out the door. There are only a couple of people waiting, and I zip into the back to grab some trays to replenish, winking at Herman, who is deftly handling the next customer. I bring out a new tray of Pop-Tarts and swap it with the now-empty old one, then do the same with a tray of cookies and brownies. Herman still has everything well in hand, so I quickly frost and sandwich three dozen more of the peanut butter cookies that were such a hit earlier, and arrange them on a new tray.

“My goodness, how darling!” I hear a voice with an unmistakable drawl, and all the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I walk through the door and am confronted with the Cake Goddess herself. She is flanked by two nearly identical assistants, both petite blondes with razor-sharp blowouts and Lilly Pulitzer dresses, who are making notes in twin pink leather-bound notepads. “Hello, honeypie. I'm MarySue!” She extends a hand, not making eye contact with me at all.

I shrug, not having a hand free, and lean over to slide the tray of cookies into the case. “Hello, MarySue.” She finally actually looks at me, and a flicker of recognition flies over her face. Shit.

“Sophie? Is that really you, sweetheart? My word, I barely recognized you.” She says this while looking me up and down in a way that leaves no question as to her opinion of the current state and size of my personage.

“Yes, well.” Not really sure what else to say.

“Is this place yours? I hadn't heard about you opening something new, you sneaky minx.”

“Not mine, Herman's.” Herman has walked over. “Herman Langer, proud owner of Langer's for over sixty years. This is MarySue Adams, the Cake Goddess.”

Ever the charmer, Herman reaches out, takes her hand warmly, and slips her a peanut butter cookie from the tray. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” She looks at the cookie as if it might bite her, and hands it wordlessly to one of her assistantbots.

“Thank you, you dear thing, how lovely.” She is taking it all in, and the girls are writing feverishly. “This place reminds me of Old Mrs. Jenner's, back in my hometown.”

“That's us, just the stalwart local bakery, taking you from your first cookie to your high school graduation cake to your retirement cake . . .” I say pointedly, trying to send a message of longevity and solidity. I wish my voice sounded a little bit more convincing.

“How is your construction going?” Herman asks her, and the assistant takes a tiny bite of the cookie, her wide blue eyes getting even wider as she tastes it. She breaks it in two, wolfs down the part she has already bitten, and hands the other half behind MarySue's back to the other assistant, who takes a small taste, and then, like her compatriot, nearly swallows the rest whole. Then they both start scribbling again.

“Very well, you are a dear for asking. We'll be doing the grand opening in October, on Halloween.”

Ugh. Well, that gives us our timeline, a little sooner than we anticipated. “That is fast,” I say.

“We've got them working round the clock over there,” she says.

“I bet you do.” I'm trying really hard not to imagine her on a white horse in an overseer costume on a plantation.

“Sophie, honey,” she says in a loud whisper that is anything but conspiratorial. “I was so sorry about all that business with Dexter. You know I know how cruel those tabloids can be.” This is true enough; she's fought her share of public embarrassment at the hands of the smear press. I wonder if we have more in common than I would like to admit. “But I'm glad to see you've landed on your, um, feet here. Good for you!” The tone is full of pity and condescension, and any potential softening of my heart towards her firms right back up. I put on a wide smile.

“I'm just so delighted to be back here, in a place that is genuine and authentic and serves the community. It's much better for my soul than the path I was on, and frankly, I'm awfully grateful to Dexter for giving me the opportunity to find that out.”

Behind her, both assistants are now decimating the sample tray on Herman's side of the counter as if they have not eaten in days. Which, considering the size of them, isn't unlikely.

“I'm so glad to hear that. It is nice when things can end amicably. Have you been to Abondance yet? We were there last week, and it is just spectacular. They are really doing something special there.” My stomach turns over. I knew that Dexter and Cookie were getting good press, but that is often as much about a talented PR firm as it is about what the kitchen is doing. But whatever else she may be, MarySue is a woman with a refined palate, and a lot of fine dining under her belt, and if she is raving, then it is likely great. Or she is just poking at me for the fun of making me squirm. Can't decide which is worse.

“That is wonderful for them. I wish them much success. Now, is there anything I can get for you today? We have a lot of specials for the festival, plus all of our usual offerings. Please do try a sample.”
I push the tray over in hopes that if I give her something to put in her mouth, that noise will stop coming out of it. She waves me off, pushing the sample tray back with a wink.

“I would love to taste just everything! Girls, why don't you make some selections for us to take back to the office to share with the team? Put it on the card. I do have to go outside to make a call; I'll meet you in the car. Herman, lovely to meet you, and see your charming store. Sophie, good to see you, um, thriving.” She looks me up and down again, clearly taking in every bit of my bulk, smiles her blinding smile, and whisks out the door.

Blonde 1 says, “Um, give us one of everything?”

Blonde 2 says, “Yeah, but maybe a couple extra of those peanut butter thingies?”

“Oh, for sure,” the first blonde says, nodding. “Those are killer.”

“Coming right up.” I'm trying to prevent my eyelid from twitching. Usually in this business, other bakers will absolutely show up in support. So the order of “one of everything” doesn't surprise me. It's just that in this case it feels like an act of charity instead of solidarity. But I'll take every cent of her money without thinking twice. I start going through the case, grab one of each cookie, but six of the peanut butter sandwich cookies. One of each flavor of rugelach, Pop-Tart, and brownie. A pair of almond horns. A small cupcake box for one of each flavor, today a total of six: the usual chocolate and vanilla, with the new banana, plus a carrot cake version with cream cheese frosting, a strawberry cake with chocolate frosting, and, especially for the festival, a Chicago cupcake of lemon-scented white cake with white and blue vanilla icing and four raspberries making the Chicago flag across the top. I load a bag with loaves of all of our breads, savory and sweet. A bread pudding, two summer berry
puddings, a chocolate babka, and a cinnamon babka. Then I ring them up, wishing I could be more gleeful at such a large total. They don't blink at the cost, hand me a Cake Goddess Amex card, and receive the bags I hand over.

“The peanut butter cookies are on the top of that first box,” I say, trying to be happy they ate them and enjoyed them, and not hate the women by association.

“Awesome. Thanks.” And they are gone in a swirl of pastels.

I take a deep breath, let my shoulders unclench, and turn to help the next customer, attempting to ignore the fact that MarySue Adams is now standing in front of our window, blithely signing autographs and taking pictures with adoring fans, all of our customer base basking in the glow of her veneers and spray-on tan.

“You did great, schnookie, really great,” Bubbles says as we walk home after dark. She stayed the whole day, reading to the kids, schmoozing the hipsters, cooing at the mommy mafia and their nut-free, gluten-free, lactose-intolerant, organic-only offspring. She sat with the old biddies drinking iced tea in the afternoon, telling stories, and enjoying the summer breezes and shortbread cookies. As the festival wound down, she wandered over to Kolmar's and picked up some of the special sausages they had made, plus homemade sauerkraut, potato salad, and cucumber salad, and brought them back for us. We split open some of our salted rye sticks and made sandwiches that the three of us snarfed up without even talking, washing it all down with some dark beer that Herman fetched from his apartment. Then she made us tea as we cleaned up and tallied the day. It had been a huge success, and I couldn't wait to check the computer to see how our social media push had gone.

“Thank you for everything, Bubbles; you were an enormous help.”

“Pish. It was less than nothing, and a pleasure, every bit. But the poor dog may need a vacation.” Snatch is extra slow and waddly today, having consumed a zillion treats and biscuits, and god knows how many pieces of sweets snuck to him by his adoring fans of the under-eight set. Thankfully, Bubbles was there to keep a watchful eye out to make sure none of them tried to give him any chocolate, which could poison him.