A Pinch of Ooh La La (19 page)

“Of course.”

“See there? We're fine. If you look for problems, you'll find them. You have to stay positive.” He started typing again. “You know what would really help our relationship?”

“What?”

“For you to take off those sweats.” He laughed lightly. “They remind me of gym class.”

•   •   •

P
aul stretched Jenny's head and kissed her fully on the lips. When he felt Jenny's body relax, his tongue parted her lips as though they were the doors to a great party circa 1979. Given the era, his tongue wore a white disco suit and just enough gold chains to keep things classy. Upon entering his fiancée's mouth, his tongue sought out Jenny's tongue and they began dancing to a catchy disco hit by the Bee Gees.

From my perspective, across the table from where they sat, Paul looked as though he were giving Jenny pornographic CPR.

I cleared my throat loudly.

Paul turned, his face red and marked by splotchy white imprints at his jaw where Jenny had held him. She was flushed as well. Their chests rose and fell.

“So”—
now that the porn show is over—
“shall we finish discussing your wedding cake?”

“Yes, yes. What were you saying?” Paul asked. He waved to Noel, who walked over. “Hey, man, can I get another espresso and another latte for my girlfriend?”

“Fiancée.”

“Yes, my fi-an-cée.” He started kissing her again.

Noel and I raised our brows at each other. “Sure thing,” he said. “Be right back.”

I waited patiently while they made out. I'm sure they kissed for only a few seconds, but PDAs can feel like a lifetime when you don't know the couple—and sometimes even when you do.

Paul was a good thirty years older than Jenny, give or take a decade or two. A spry five-eight or five-nine, with spiky hair and a graying soul patch, he wore yellow-tinted glasses and a thick silver bracelet on each wrist. Jenny was a pixie of a woman with a close-cropped hairdo that brought out her big, luminous blue eyes. She looked like she belonged in a land of fairies and hobbits, riding a white horse and speaking Hobgoblin.

Coming up for air, Paul tapped his finger on the table and stared at me. “I'm sorry. What was that? What were you saying?”

“We were choosing the last cake.”

“Yes, that's right.”

I didn't mind that Paul and Jenny were taking forever to finalize their order—it was their money—but I did have concerns. There was the age difference, not helped by the fact that Paul
treated her like a child, going so far as to make all the decisions about the cake in his own manipulative way:
“Are you sure you want chocolate, honey? Not everybody likes chocolate. Are you sure you want caramel filling? What about something more traditional, like, say, vanilla?”
Added to that, after Noel returned with their drinks, they proudly announced that they'd been dating for only three months.

I knew it wasn't my place to offer advice—I was there to make cakes and wish them well—but I was feeling sensitive since my conversation about couples counseling with Samuel a few weeks before—if you could call it a conversation. I had tried to talk to him about it again, but after a certain point, I knew I was wasting my breath. What did it mean, though, that he wouldn't even consider it? I was worried and I knew I had a reason to be: It was not the best situation when you wanted to try counseling and your partner refused. And once I really thought about it, we weren't all that happy. I wasn't happy. Samuel wasn't happy. Anthony had called it: Samuel was zoning out, and I was, too. I was actually looking for excuses to go in to work early and leave late. And I didn't have to look very hard, since there was always something to do.

Anyway, if Samuel and I were having problems so early in our marriage, what of Jenny and Paul? I normally didn't give advice, but now that I was on the other side, so to speak, I felt I should warn them that marriage was about a hell of a lot more than sexual attraction, something Paul should've known, given his age, but he was obviously thinking with an organ other than his brain—or heart—if you get my drift.

I looked at them both. “Three months? That's not very long.”

“Three months, eight days,” Paul said, turning to Jenny for a kiss.

“Still,” I said, “why the rush?” I tried to smile, even as Paul
began to glower as if catching on to what I was up to. “Why not get to know each other more? Take it from me,” I said, fanning my wedding ring. “Marriage comes with its ups and downs.”

“We know each other,” Paul said defensively.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” He started tapping his finger. “We know each other well enough that we're here for a wedding cake. Isn't that right, love?”

Jenny tucked herself under his arm and stared at me with her big dopey eyes. “I don't think you understand. Paul and I are
soul mates
. We knew instantly.”

Paul kissed her forehead. “Yes, soul mates. She is the light of my life.” He looked at me and snorted. “And even if we aren't soul mates, this little cutie here is only twenty-three, with the body of a . . .
twenty-three-year-old
! And I'm going to marry her and keep shagging her until she matures enough to realize I'm an egotistical old prick.
Yippee!
”

Okay.
So no, he didn't say that
—
per se. But that was the gist. He added, “So as you see, we are very much in love and we're getting married and we're here to order a cake from someone who's getting paid to make us a cake.”

Point taken. I returned his chilly smile and picked up my pen.

He was right, after all. It was a good reminder that by the point the couple was at the cake-buying stage, it was time for me to wish them my absolute best and make the cake of their dreams.

I made myself a cappuccino after the couple left and sat and watched people coming and going and sitting at tables enjoying their cakes and pies, cupcakes and tarts. Several regulars smiled. It was Saturday, and since Mr. and Miss Delusional were my last appointment of the day, I didn't have any reason to stay at the bakery. There was always plenty to do, but nothing pressing, and we'd be closing in a couple of hours. I told Beth I'd be leaving and asked her
to close. I then went to my office to get my things. Samuel was at his office working. Even though I'd have the house to myself, I didn't want to go home. I was getting my purse when I saw he'd left a text:

Mother & Father coming to visit tonight. 7:00pm. See you then.

Crap. Now I definitely wanted time to myself. I checked my watch: a little after three.

The great thing about having so many stepmoms was that I could pick and choose among them depending on my mood. Shopping? Rita. A drink and live music? Bailey. Joan, though—Joan was for lazing around. Comfort, I'd guess you'd say. I called to see if she was home.

•   •   •

J
oan lived near the border of the Berkeley Hills, a few curvy miles down from Dad's house. I found her in her studio, a rectangular building separated from her house by a grove of evergreens. She spent as much time in her studio as in her home, and she'd set up a comfy corner at one end with a Persian carpet, two couches, a desk, and a small fridge and electric teapot. While lying on my back on one of the couches, I watched her work on a new piece. She was creating a series of eight statues, each about twenty inches tall and made from clay and beeswax. The statues were of little girls in various poses, all perfectly sweet except for the horns coming from their heads, the pointy devilish tails sticking out from their skirts, and the sword each girl aimed at the doll or flower she held. I could already hear the critics describing the pieces as Joan's commentary on gender inequity, but I knew Joan and guessed she simply felt like putting horns on little girls.

She walked around the table, taking time to study each
figure. She paused now and then to futz with a skirt or foot. She wore her smock and clogs; her bifocals teetered on the tip of her nose. After several moments she looked at me and allowed her gaze to linger before walking over and plopping down. “Scoot,” she ordered. I moved my legs over to give her room. She kicked off her clogs, then stretched out with her head on the opposite armrest from mine. I moved my hand over my eyes to block out the light coming through one of the large skylights. We listened quietly to the whir of the ceiling fans. The great thing about Joan—if you didn't want to talk, she wasn't going to press you.

The couches may have changed over the years, but our facing position stayed the same. I thought back to when Joan's lover Katherine was alive. She was always coming and going and chattering away. After she died, Joan spent weeks working through her grief in her studio. I tapped my foot against her shoulder. “Do you miss Katherine?”

“Now, there's a silly question.”

“You're right. Sorry about that.” I sat up. “Do you ever date?”

“Those days are over. I had two great loves. I'm not one to be greedy.”

“Why didn't you ever have children?”

“You're full of questions today.” She pulled herself up onto her elbows so she could meet my gaze. “Never wanted any. Not every woman wants children. Some of us are meant to be aunties or stepmums. I make a terrific stepmum.”

“Don't hold back, Joan.”

“I don't intend to.”

I snorted. “You are a good stepmother.”

“I know it. I was petrified when Lincoln said he had three boys, but we got along famously, mostly because they liked coming here and making a mess of things and having me boss them around like they were my little helpers. Phineas could've been a sculptor if he'd wanted to—had a real eye, that boy.” She leaned
back against the couch. After a minute or so, she said, “You'll have kids, Abbey. You mustn't worry.”

“I'm not sure that I am worried anymore.” As soon as the words drifted from my mouth, I knew it was true: I didn't care if we had a baby together or not. I didn't like what trying to have a baby was doing to our relationship. I then wondered if it was right to blame a non-baby on our problems. Wouldn't they exist whether we had a kid or not? I still wanted to try, but if it didn't happen, I honestly didn't mind adopting.

Joan sat up again and began searching my face. Satisfied that I was telling the truth, she gave a nod. “Good. It's really not the end of the world if you don't conceive. Your father has certainly made sure that the Ross clan will go on.” She gave my thigh a slap. “What do you say we hit the rink? I wanted to go earlier but talked myself out of it. Now that you're here, I'm sure it's a sign.”

Besides her walks and hikes, Joan loved to go ice-skating. She'd been skating since she was a kid. “Can I see if Bendrix wants to come? He's off today.”

“Bendrix?”

I didn't blame her for the reaction. Over the years, Bendrix had always refused to join us for ice-skating. But since getting back together with Anthony, he was doing his best to try new things. So far he and Anthony had gone rock climbing, which didn't go over all that well; tried bowling, which Bendrix said he'd be willing to try again, if not for the hideous shoes; and tried Vietnamese cooking—too much work for the result. He'd already made a point of telling Anthony he was never going to attend gay square-dancing night. Like, never.

•   •   •

A
n hour later, Anthony and I stood on either side of Bendrix, carefully holding him at the elbows like two nursing aides assisting a patient. He wobbled across the ice, threatening to fall every few seconds.

Bendrix said, “This is the last time I'm trying anything new; I'll tell you both that much. I can't believe I'm out here trying to be a part of the damn Ice Capades.”

“If you'd stop complaining and focus, you might enjoy yourself,” Anthony quipped.

“That's impossible. I don't see what's fun about falling on my ass.”

Joan, skating backward, tried her own brand of encouragement. “I'm sure your ass can take it, Bendrix.”

His upper body began to collapse like a wilting flower. “Look up,” I told him. “You're falling over.”

“Stop pulling me and I will.”

“We're not pulling,” Anthony countered.

“We're trying to help.” I gave him a hard tug forward and giggled.

“Stop it!”

Skaters whizzed by, laughing and holding hands. Two boys raced each other. A young girl of about eleven skated past executing a perfect arabesque; once she saw she had enough room, she twirled in the air and landed in a tight spin.

“Show-off,” Bendrix muttered.

Joan slowed after her second or third loop. “Let go of him, you two. It's the best way to learn. You need to learn to stand on your own, Bendrix.”

Anthony and I did as we were told and Bendrix began rocking back and forth, as unsteady as a drunk. “Oh . . . my . . . God.” His arms jutting out one way and his butt the other, he looked like an umpire calling a play.

“You can do it, Benny!” I called.

But just then—he kicked a foot. “Whoa!” He kicked again. “Whoa!” And again. Three more speedy kicks and—“No!”—down he went.

Anthony knelt over him, doing his best not to laugh. “Are you okay?”

Bendrix gazed up at his circle of onlookers and gritted his teeth. “I'm fine.”

Anthony and I burst into laughter.

“Would you two stop laughing and help me up?”

“No!” Anthony laughed some more.

Joan extended her hand. “Don't mind them, Bendrix. Anthony, come on and help me.” They pulled him to his feet and he began dusting ice from his pants.

After making sure Bendrix was okay, Joan skated off. I joined her after Anthony said he'd look after “our charge.”

The arena played songs only from the sixties to early nineties. At that moment, Michael Jackson's “Thriller” was playing and a couple began imitating zombies.