A Pinch of Ooh La La (26 page)

Coffee and muffins forgotten, we moved to the floor. He looked at me briefly as though I might change my mind, but he was wrong. When he pressed his body into mine and I felt my body tense, I tried to relax. I tried to remember all the things I liked about Samuel, his eyes and smile, how responsible he was. His intelligence. I tried to remember those early days when I was crazy about him. I squeezed my eyes shut until it hurt and kissed his neck, then bit his ear. I did my best to try to relax and remember. When the note Jason had written came to mind, I told myself not to think. But then I gave up and imagined that Samuel's lips were Jason's, Samuel's hands on my hips were Jason's. Feeling guilty, though, I forced him out of my mind and focused instead on moving in ways I knew that Samuel liked.

I rested my head on his chest afterward and thought briefly of Dad. He once told an interviewer that the difference between
a real musician and someone toying with the idea was that a real musician followed his or her gut. A real musician wasn't afraid to go there, to feel the music and leave all the rest behind. A real musician followed his or her gut, which was real quiet-like. Pianissimo. The gut doesn't have to go on with a lot of nonsense because the gut knows it's right. It's just waiting for the player to have the courage to listen.

Samuel helped me up and we dressed. He picked up a scone and took a bite. “We should go somewhere today. A drive or something.” He took a sip of my coffee. “This is cold.” He went to the kitchen and I heard him dump the coffee down the sink and pour more. “What do you say to a drive?” He came back out with jam and butter. “We could go to Santa Cruz. It's kind of tacky, but why not?”

I was on my feet now and zipping my sweater. “Samuel?”

He went back to the kitchen and returned with my coffee and set it on the table.

“Samuel.”

“Yeah?”

“I want a divorce.”

Sneakin' Around

“W
e want one cake shaped like Beauty and the second like the Beast.”

“It's our favorite movie, you see. Jane is my Beauty.”

“And Burt is my Beast turned into a handsome prince.”

Burt and Jane were in their mid- to late fifties and hailed from the moneyed land of Danville. Burt was a computer software engineer who had worked for HP in the early days. Now he enjoyed fishing and his mineral collection. After thirty years of searching, he had met the love of his life, his Belle, Jane. They told me about all the songs they knew from the movie and all the Disney resorts they'd been to.

“We're going to the Disney Polynesian resort for our honeymoon,” said Jane. “For our wedding we're going to sing a medley from
Beauty and the Beast.
”

Rita stole a peek my way:
Are they serious?
She had stopped by to pick up surprise treats for Aiko and the boys, but in her own Rita-like way, she'd managed to join the consult after explaining
to Burt and Jane who she was, and—“I would love to know what you two are planning. Mind if I sit for a moment?”

Burt explained that they'd met on a Disney cruise last year while they were both watching the live musical version of (drumroll, please)
Beauty and the Beast.
Burt said they wanted a gazebo on top of the cake with little Beauty and the Beast figures kissing underneath.

“The Beast should have on a blue tux,” said Burt.

“And Belle has to wear white with a blue ribbon,” said Jane.

I pulled up images of the cartoon characters on my tablet, then took out my sketch pad. Rita placed her hand on mine before I could start drawing and looked at Burt and Jane. “I cannot—I absolutely refuse to let you do this. You don't want to look back on your wedding day and see Beauty and the Beast.”

“Yes, we do,” said Jane.

“We do,” said Burt.

I kept a strained smile on Burt and Jane while muttering: “Rita, Burt and Jane can have whatever they want. It's their money.”

“I don't care whose money it is,” said Rita. “I can't let them do this. No. Draw them something else, Abbey. Anything.”

I turned, keeping my smile in place. “You can't tell people what cake to order. It's their wedding.” Granted, I agreed with her fully, but every so often I had to deal with a couple with bad taste. Tacky happened.

“But, Abbey, they're trusting you to help make their special day beautiful. You can't possibly let them have a Beauty and the Beast cake. It's beyond ridiculous.”

Smile still plastered, I asked if I could speak to Rita alone, then promptly dragged her off.

“They are allowed to do whatever they want. If they're paying me for Beauty and the Beast, that's what they'll get.” I
glanced back at them, happy-go-lucky in their matching khaki shorts and tennis shoes. “They're obviously in love. Who are we to judge? Isn't that what Dad would say?”

She frowned. “It shouldn't be allowed.”

“Everyone heard you.”

She studied me while fussing with the collar of my chef's coat. “How are you? Samuel all moved out?”

“Yep.”

“Poor thing. First your father and now a separation.”

“Divorce. There will be no trial separation. It's over.”

“Are you sure you want to make such a big decision so soon after your father's passing?”

“I think losing Dad helped me to come to my senses.”

She nodded and pressed her hand against my chest. Rita was the only wife who seemed upset about the breakup. When Joan and I had had tea, she'd shrugged: “Life goes on, dear. Keep your chin up and do things you love.” Bailey was also rather indifferent: “He was fine, I'll give him that, but he had a way about him. Kind of stiff, you know? And at least you won't have to put up with that weird-ass family of his.”
Amen to that.
When I told Mom about the divorce, she asked if I needed anything. Marriage and divorce were social constructs, in her opinion, irrelevant labels, when you got down to it. You were either happy and getting on with life or not. She supported me in moving on.

Samuel stayed at the house for a few weeks until he found an apartment, a loft, actually, in a hip pocket of West Oakland. At first he was heartbroken that I wanted to end the marriage. He told me his parents were disappointed in him and he was disappointed in himself. He was the first in generations of Howards to get a divorce and he felt disgraced.
We didn't even make it to the four-year mark. We don't have a child. Why did you marry me if you weren't going to keep your vows?
Social construct or not, I felt
guilty as hell, and there were moments when I was crazy with doubt. But my gut, that quiet pianissimo, told me I was doing the right thing.

By April, after Samuel had settled into his place, he called one night to “check in on me.” He told me he was feeling much better and he was “getting his life back on track.” He was also rather proud to announce that he was dating again. No one serious, he added, but he wanted to move on. (My internal response to that:
I feel for the woman dating a man who separated from his wife two months ago.
) Near the end of the call, he said he felt sorry for me because I didn't know the meaning of commitment, and I would end up alone.

Dad liked to say you know who a person really is when things fall apart and you see how they behave when they're hurt and upset. I managed to listen to Samuel's rant without lashing back, only because he was letting me see how mean and petty he could be.

Even so, I had to hand it to him. He swore that once we started divorce proceedings, he wouldn't go after the bakery. “I know what that place means to you,” he started. After a pause he added, “I know the bakery means more to you than I ever did.”

I gave Rita the edited version of my talk with Samuel while walking her to the door. Before leaving she told me Aiko and the boys were hanging in there. It had been three months since Dad's passing, but no matter how Aiko tried to explain to the boys that their father wouldn't be coming back, they still thought Dad was on tour and they were waiting for him to come through the door.

Rita and I said good-bye and I returned to my couple.

“Your stepmother is very beautiful,” said Jane.

“And nice,” said Burt. “It was nice of her to be concerned about our cake. We know what we want, though. We don't care what other people think.”

“Yes,” I said. “It's nice that you know what makes you happy.” These two, I thought, were going to go the distance, and I was going to make the most beautiful Beauty and the Beast wedding cake ever. “Now, where were we?”

•   •   •

T
here was some good news during the lousy months of Death and Divorce. For starters, when Phyllis called I felt no sense of obligation and hence had no problem hanging up on her.

Phyllis: “Abbey, I have to say I'm extremely disappointed in—”

Me:
Click!

When she called again and later again, I didn't bother answering. It felt so good.

On an even happier note, Carmen found out she'd been accepted to Berkeley's school of law. She was struggling with Dad's death, though, and admitted she was upset about my divorce from Samuel. We met for dinner at a popular Burmese restaurant not far from Scratch a week or so after my consultation with Burt and Jane. Carmen was especially despondent and mostly played with the vegetarian dish she'd ordered. I did my best to console her, but my heart was broken, too, and I could only hope we'd all feel better over time.

She scooped up rice and goo on her fork, but then returned it to her plate. “The thing that hurts most,” she said, “is that I feel like I was just beginning to know Dad as one adult to another. He really stepped up and I felt like I wasn't just one of the bunch, but he was really getting to know me.”

“Try to focus on that, Carmen. Dad stepped up and you had a better relationship. He loved you.”

“Yeah. I just—I feel like crap lately. I'm going to start law school in a couple of months and everything feels out of whack.”

“Your father just died. Of course things feel out of whack.”

I watched her drag her fork around her plate. She usually had
a hearty appetite, but it was clear she was losing weight, and from the dark circles under her eyes, I gathered she wasn't sleeping either. “You know, there's never any shame in talking to a professional. If you're having such a hard time, you might consider seeing a counselor, someone you can talk to about Dad and whatever else you're going through.”

She snorted. “That's what you'd tell Samuel. You think everyone needs a therapist—except you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just don't think I need therapy.”

“Fine.” I took a sip of my water. I already knew her answer but asked anyway. “So . . . you still talk to him?”

“Of course. And he needed
you
, not a therapist.”

“What has he told you?”

“He mentioned he had a tough upbringing, and that's all you wanted to focus on. It's like you wanted to be unhappy.”

Thank goodness the waiter showed up just then. While he cleared the plates, I took a moment to remind myself that my sister was upset about losing Dad.
Okay. Do not slap Carmen. Stay cool.

After the waiter left our table, I picked up my water. “I wasn't happy, Carmen.”

“You can't be happy in a marriage all the time. Samuel was trying to keep you happy, but you kept pushing him away.”

“You know,” I said, in a kind of exaggerated thoughtfulness, “I'm not sure I'm comfortable with you two being friends right now.”

“Too bad. You chose to divorce him. That doesn't mean he and I can't be friends. What did he do that was so horrible, anyway?”

“I'm not going to talk about this with you. Look at you and Jake. You broke up with him, but I have to respect your decision.”

“I wasn't
married
to Jake. You made a commitment.”

I took in a deep breath.
Do not slap your sister. Do not slap your sister.
I stabbed at my rice while envisioning life as an only child. I said finally, “I know you're upset about Dad, and my divorce, but that's no excuse for being rude.”

“I'm just expressing my feelings.”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

She let her fork fall against her plate and leaned far back in her chair. “Anyway,” she said. She picked up the napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “You know what Mom told me last week? She's tired of my moping and thinks I should get laid. What kind of mother says that when her child has lost her father?” She shook her head bitterly, then rested her elbows on the table and ran her hands over her ponytail. “Anyway, I'm going away for a few days.”

I took her changing the subject as a truce and was all too happy to move on. “That's good. Where are you going?”

“My friend Jasmine's parents have a place in Monterrey.”

“Time away will help, I'm sure. When do you leave?”

“Next week.”

“Try to enjoy yourself with Jasmine. It's good you're getting away. See? Everything will be okay.” When she lowered her head into her chest, I reached over and took her hand. “You'll be okay, Car. Just give it time.”

•   •   •

A
week later, I spent my entire morning working on a cake with strawberries and white chocolate. With everything going on, I was reminded yet again how much I still loved to bake; it was my constant—mix, stir, bake, decorate. Enjoy. It was also hard to be too down when I was surrounded all day by people who were smiling and happily eating the pies and tarts and everything else we made.

When I took the cake I'd been working on out to the front, I saw Jake sitting at a table covered with his math books. He'd enrolled in three summer classes so he could begin making up for lost time and would sometimes study at the bakery. He'd been showing his more serious side since the breakup, but Jake was Jake, and that morning he wore huge yellow sunglasses like a celebrity hiding out from the paparazzi. I went to say hello after putting the cake on a stand and setting it next to the cash register. That baby would sell in no time.

Jake raised his finger toward the music playing. “Betty Carter. ‘Mean to Me.'”

“You really catch on fast, Jake. How are the classes?”

“Making all As gets old, but I have to do what I have to do. I admit, I enjoy running circles around the other students; it's good for my self-esteem.”

“Don't forget the little people.”

I stood behind him and glanced at the formulas he was working on. I whistled. “That looks extremely difficult.”

He responded in a professorial tone: “‘Mathematics rightly viewed possesses not only truth, but supreme beauty.' Bertrand Russell—
baby
.”

I shook my head at the numbers and figures.
Blech.
I was about to start toward the kitchen when he asked, “Hey, is Carmen back from Yootville? Not that I think about her every second of the day or that I'm a stalker or anything.”

“Back from where?”

“Yootville.”

“I think you're mixed-up. I just saw her last week and she said she was going away with her friend Jasmine to Monterrey.”

“Who?”

“Jasmine.”

“Never heard of her. I asked her if she wanted to see a movie
this weekend—not that I'm stalking her—but she said she was going somewhere called Yootville.”

I mouthed the word silently:
Yootville.
I felt light-headed, as if I'd been holding my breath for hours. I pulled out the chair next to Jake and sat. I said, stunned, “I think you mean Yountville.”

He picked up his phone and scrolled. “Yeah, you're right.
Yount
ville.” He showed me Carmen's message: