Wedding Girl (23 page)

I'm just finishing up when I get an email notification.

Sunny—

I cannot thank you enough for your help with the bachelor party. The frat boy brothers went out of their way to say that it was the best bachelor party they had ever been to, and by the end of the night, were calling my buddy their “brother from another mother,” and saying he might be too good for their sister. A rollicking success, with no sloppy drunkenness, no naked women, and no glitter. And none of them were hungover for the wedding. I'm eternally grateful. You are a genius and don't let anyone tell you differently. The wedding was beautiful, and now I'm just packing for the big trip to London Monday. I keep meaning to ask, is the advice site your full time job or do you do something else?

Jake

I start to write and then realize that in many ways, I'm verging on breaking my own rules. I vowed not to say anything in my notes to him that could in any way reveal my true identity. He doesn't know any details about me personally, and I need to keep it that way. If I let anything slip that is specific enough that he could use it to figure out who I am, I'd be sunk.

It's really hard to be Batman.

And it isn't lost on me that the same seems to be true on his
end. As much as I've been enjoying our correspondence, he's certainly kept his cards close to the vest, which I respect. First thing he gives me that hints at being searchable, and I will be stalking him all over the interwebs. So I can only expect the same from him, and lord knows, I'm eminently Google-able. And none of it is flattering. Which is why the anonymity is so soothing. In email I'm smart and funny and charming and attractive, or I can try to be. In real life I am sad and broke and dumpy and embarrassed. Fallen from grace is not a good look on me.

I'm going to have to lie. Like, really
lie
.

This seems worse than lying by omission or not sharing, especially since he's a total stranger who is clearly doing the same thing. But it does make me a little bit sad. Because once a real lie is out there, it has to be managed; it has to be maintained. Lies are like fussy houseplants; they need the proper care and feeding or they drop leaves all over the living room and start to smell of rot.

I sit back. It would be so nice to be able to talk to someone about the whole Herman situation, but if I'm going to do that, it is going to be a work of carefully crafted fiction. I have to express that I work for someone who is elderly, that the business was something of a throwback that we've invested a lot of time updating, that there is a new business coming in that could close it all down. But it has to be something so far from the real thing that he can't put two and two together. It has to be in a different part of the city, to start; it can't be in any way connected to baking or food. But it has to be something I know something about so that I sound plausible. I think about law or psychology, since I know about those from my folks, but reject those ideas. I don't really know what Jake does; he has only ever referenced “business meetings” and “clients,” so it could be anything. If I go with something broad like law he could turn out to be a lawyer, and then I'd be screwed. It has to be some sort of random little narrow-niche business, because then the odds
of him being in that business are limited, but not so narrow that he would think of starting to look into it.

What do I know besides food and weddings?

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the Cake Goddess article, which is sitting on my desk. I can't seem to throw the hateful thing away. Because I keep adding extra details to the picture. MarySue currently has three of her precious teeth blacked out and two turned into fangs dripping blood. She is sporting devil horns, a huge hairy cheek mole, and a double chin. And a jaunty fedora. I'm a really good doodler. I think about her moving into that beautiful apartment that Anneke designed and built. And the restaurant that almost was, the details we discussed, the finishes and fixtures, all those bits and bobs that I was so excited about. I need a small business that can be pushed out by a big-box store. A lightbulb goes on. I do a quick Google search on home improvement stores opening in Chicago and boom. There it is. Home Depot is about to open a new store on the South Side, in Brighton Park. An old-school enclave of Polish, Lithuanian, and Italian immigrants—similar to my neighborhood except Catholic instead of Jewish—which has in the past fifteen years seen a massive influx of Latinos. So the local profile is similar enough: The older generation is still there but outnumbered by new, younger families that don't fit the same profile or needs. More searching reveals that there are still three old-school family-owned little hardware stores in the neighborhood, all of which must be scared about the big orange monster coming in. This is perfect.

Jake—

For the moment I work part-time for my uncle at his hardware store. The business has been in the family for generations. But he is old, and the place isn't exactly completely up on the times, despite best efforts. His inventory is limited to items he considers proper quality, so not always the cheapest options or
biggest selection. And now there is a Home Depot coming in a little too close for comfort. He has enlisted me to help him update and modernize so that he can compete, and I'm not sure if I'm doing it right. Or even if we should be trying. Any advice?

Sunny

This feels specific enough that if he does his own bit of research, he will find the general neighborhood; what he might do with that information I have no idea. But at least it will keep him away from the truth, which is all I can think about right now. I hit Send.

It doesn't take long for him to reply.

Sunny—

You must help your uncle fight, of course you must. Full stop. And I'll help you, if I can. None of the women in all of these movies you have recommended to me would sit back and let something special die on the vine. If you fight and lose, you can still stand tall. But if you give up you'll never stop wondering. Just think about the different elements of the problem as if it were a wedding you need to take from horrible to perfect! And take the problems one at a time, or it will be overwhelming.

If you get stuck or need to bounce specific ideas off someone, send them my way!

Jake

Jake—

Thank you. Fight it is. This is good advice. I owe you $4.99.

Sunny

Sunny—

You don't owe me a thing, but I'm glad you think it is useful. Keep me posted. I expect that by the time I return that little hardware store is going to be the hottest place in the city to buy a hammer. I really think you'll turn it around. I wouldn't know a washer from a nut, I do not come from a handy people, the joke around my family was always that we liked to make sure that the local handymen really earned their keep, so anytime there was a small problem, we would turn it into a big problem trying to fix it ourselves, so that when the trained professionals came, it was really worth their while!

Jake

This is a relief; if he isn't handy, he'll have no need to try and support my “uncle's” store with his business.

Jake—

We all have different skills. Luckily I don't need you for home repair advice. Now go finish packing! And safe safe travels.

Sunny

Sunny—

Thank you. I'll send a report from Merry Olde England when I can.

Jake

I'm suddenly pumped with energy and ready to really kick it into high gear to help Herman. I feel like I got a halftime
pep talk from Ditka himself, and my heart says that the efforts we are making are worth it, the choice to stay and fight is right. For the first time since I can't remember when, I feel strong and confident. The way I used to. And it feels really, really good.

(1947)

You know I'd die for you, only sometimes it's so hard living with you.

•
MYRNA LOY AS MARGARET TURNER
•

I'm just filling the last of the tart shells with pistachio pastry cream when Herman floats into the kitchen. After my rah-rah email session with Jake, I realized that if we are going to survive, we have to find the magic eureka moment, that Cronut
®
thing, that totally perfect, drive-the-foodies-insane item that will keep our doors open beyond Halloween. We either need a single genius item that people will line up for or a generic basic thing that everyone in the neighborhood will want to come grab every single day. Now if only I knew what that was.

“Good morning, sweet girl. What are you working on there?” he asks as I top each tart with a flower of sliced fresh figs.

“Fig tarts with pistachio cream.”

“That sounds wonderful. I do love figs.” He reaches over and pops one of my unsliced figs into his mouth whole. I swat at him with my side towel.

“Cut that out!”

He giggles like a little boy. I swear the man has gotten younger these past weeks. There is practically a skip in his step, and he is smiling all the time. I consider that perhaps dementia is beginning to set in; after all, business is decent, but still not anywhere near compete-with-Cake-Goddess great. Then again, if I knew the actual date of my death, I wonder if I wouldn't just find as much joy as I could between now and then. For sure I'd eat more pie.

“Okay, you look like the canary that swallowed the cat. What gives?”

“My dear, your talents are about to be tested. Your
real
talents, the ones that have languished since your arrival.”

“Herman, did you get into the schnapps this morning?”

“No, my dear, although that is a good idea! We should drink a toast!”

“
Herman!
We are not drinking schnapps at six thirty in the morning. What on earth is going on with you?”

“Oh, just this.” He slides an envelope over to me. The return address is from the French Pastry School of Chicago. Inside is a letter.

Dear Mr. Langer—

We are delighted to inform you that your application to compete in the first annual Chicago Cake Competition has been accepted. Your team will be one of just five local teams who will be joining us for this exciting event benefitting our scholarship foundation.

Your information packet will arrive next week with all of the information you need, but for the time being, we would like for you to save the weekend of September 19th. There will be a VIP cocktail kickoff reception on Friday night with
all of the teams; the competition will take place on Saturday, with a celebration dinner Saturday night.

Congratulations again, there were over 100 teams applying for this competition, and we are thrilled that you are one of the lucky five!

Look forward to seeing you in September,

Jacquy Pfeiffer and Sebastien Canonne Co-Founders French Pastry School of Chicago

My stomach sinks. “Herman. What did you do?”

“We're competing! A citywide competition, best cake maker in Chicago! When we win, there will be wonderful press, and we will get lots of new customers. I saw the application on the book of faces when I was looking at our page, so I applied for us.”

“Herman, this is insane. How on earth could we possibly compete at this level?” This is crazypants. Any cake competition run by my alma mater is going to be much more like a world pastry competition than some Food Network special.

“Sophie, my pet, you are one of the finest pastry chefs in the city of Chicago; just because you're currently making more cookies than croquembouches doesn't change that. You
can
compete at this level, and more importantly, you
should
be competing at this level.” He comes around and reaches up to take my face in his strong, warm hands. “If we win, maybe I stay open. But even if we lose, when you compete, your options will blow right open.”

And I suddenly realize that he did this for me, not for himself. All of this, keeping the bakery fighting, pushing back, this is all for me. Which I really should have known in my heart of hearts. He believes in me. And now there's no way I can let him down.

“Old man, you'll be the death of me. Do you have any idea what we will be expected to do?”

“Not yet. But I think it is just a cake, one cake, that we make together.”

Little does he know. That cake, whatever it is, will have to adhere to a theme, will have restrictions about what components can be included, will probably require chocolate work at the minimum and, god forbid, sugar work at the maximum. I count on my fingers. We have precisely seven weeks till this debacle goes down. Last time Georg and I entered a competition together, we practiced for four months. But we won. We did win. So weirder things could happen.

“Herman, you're an insane person, but I'll follow you anywhere. Promise me you'll tell me the moment the information packet arrives?” I wish I could thank Jake. Before our conversation, the idea of going anywhere near a competition like this would have been off the table. But something about his simple belief in me, though he doesn't even know me, is giving me a bit of gumption.

“I promise,” he says, reaching over and grabbing a fig tart.

“Hey, that's not glazed yet!”

He grins and takes a huge bite. “But it's already delicious!” He mumbles around a mouthful of crust crumbs and cream, and heads out to open the doors for the seven a.m. on-the-way-to-work crowd. I turn to grab the warm glaze I've made by straining melted fig jam, focus on applying a thin layer to seal in the freshness of the figs, and try very hard not to think at all about what it will mean to be at Herman's side for this competition.

“I think it's terrific, sweetheart. What a wonderful thing for the two of you to do together,” my mom says, when I return her
calls from earlier. I spent the whole day baking ahead for the weekend; weekdays are still slow enough that I can stockpile the walk-in with prepped batters and doughs and components to keep up with the weekend crowds. Herman managed up front, except when he went upstairs for his lunch, at which point I ignored no fewer than six calls from my mother, who has taken the overseeing of the renovation of their new loft and the planning of their wedding as a unique opportunity to go completely off the rails.

“Thanks. It makes him happy, and considering we're just three months off from the big Cake Goddess opening, anything I can do to keep him happy is sort of my duty.”

“You're a good egg, Miss Sophie.”

“I come by that right. So, sorry for missing all the calls today. Lay it on me; what do we have to decide?”

“I'm thinking about Café Brauer.”

“For what?”

“For the wedding.”

I gulp. “Mom, that is a
very
expensive venue. And it is really designed for big weddings, like two hundred and fifty to three hundred.”

“Well, the list is getting a bit bigger . . . After all, we're only doing this once, and there are all of our colleagues and clients to consider.”

Oy, no wonder my dad is emailing Wedding Girl. She's gone completely off her nut.

“Mom, you aren't really going to want clients at the wedding, you know? Don't you want separation of church and state for this thing? Isn't that some sort of breach of ethics or something?”

“They're people, Sophie; they may not be sophisticated, fancy people, but they certainly don't deserve to be left out. I thought it would be a very nice thing to include them.”

“Okay, but since they are not sophisticated, fancy people, why would you want to do a sophisticated, fancy party? If you want to include them, and no one will disbar Dad or take your license for doing it, why not a simpler event? Besides, I thought something small and intimate and casual was what you and Dad were talking about?”

“One would think that
you
of
all people
would appreciate this, Sophie. Weren't all these sorts of special and expensive touches exactly what you couldn't live without when you planned
your
wedding?”

I take a deep breath. “Yep, and look how that turned out.”

“That's not funny, Sophie.”

“No, it certainly isn't. Is Dad on board with any of this? It sounds like not at all his style.”

“He said as long as at the end we say ‘I do' to each other, the rest is whatever I want, just tell him where to be and what to wear.”

Way to take my advice, Dad; not only has he not reached out to me for help, but clearly he hasn't done anything to even gently try to rein her in. “That sounds like Dad. But this doesn't sound like you.”

“I know you like to think of me as some barefoot peasant in a field, young lady, but I will have you know that I am just as entitled to an elegant, sophisticated event as any woman.” It sounds like she is convincing herself as much as she is convincing me, and I wonder what pressure she may have gotten from her family about getting married back in the day. It's almost like the minute she embraced the conventionality of actually getting married, she began reverting to the conservative upbringing that she always has rebelled against. Like some sort of weird muscle memory. But suspecting this doesn't make her behavior less annoying.

“I don't disagree; you are absolutely entitled to all the elegance
and sophistication you want, but then again, I return to not inviting a couple hundred juvenile delinquents and low-level criminals to the event.”

“You're the worst kind of snob, Sophie Bernstein; if you didn't have my nose, I'd wonder if there was a mix-up at the hospital.” And then, she hangs up.

She hung up on me. On purpose. Holy shit. I'm so stunned I don't know what to do. I just sit staring at the phone. Then it rings, and the caller ID is my parents' house. I pick it up, expecting to hear my mom apologizing, but instead it is my dad, hissing into the phone.

“What did you say to your mother? She's throwing books into boxes over here with a force that makes a tsunami look tame.”

“I just suggested that perhaps a smaller event at a less expensive venue might be a good idea for the wedding, and that inviting all of your combined current clients might not be the best idea, and she questioned my parentage.”

My dad sighs deeply. “Sophie, what do I do? She's going nuts. She has lists upon lists all over the house; she's met with a dozen different photographers, none of whom are good enough. I came home the other day and heard her yelling on the phone to someone about letterpress invitations. I hate to say it, but it's like her mother's ghost is doing a demonic possession.”

“Did you tell her you don't want any of this? Ask her to reconsider?”

“Of course not! I'm not insane, Sunshine. I don't want her to stab me in my sleep.”

I giggle. “Dad, you have to be honest with her.” I hear some slamming sounds in the background. “But maybe tomorrow?”

“I love you, kiddo. But if you don't hear from me by tomorrow night, send in the National Guard.”

“Will do. Tell her I love her, and that I'm sorry and I'd love to have lunch or something with her this week to talk face-to-face about the wedding stuff.”

“Okay, honey. How's Bubbles?”

“You know your mother; she's out on the town for the third night this week. I think at Theater on the Lake this time.”

“She always was the social butterfly; it makes me happy she hasn't had to give up that part of her life. So she's doing okay?”

“She's great, Dad; she's doing great.”

“It means the world to all of us that you are there with her, you know, but don't feel like it has to be forever. You're doing really well, and when you're ready to be back in your own place, don't worry about leaving her. We'll have it all taken care of, and your little nest egg will be ready for you.”