A Pinch of Ooh La La (4 page)

With a heavy sigh, I walked back to the front of the bakery, feeling envious of Avery and alone and lonely. A rain cloud formed above my head as I walked past Beth, rolling out piecrust; when I stepped into the bakery itself, the storm cloud burst and dumped pellets of hard rain. I donned a black scarf and continued to drag myself around tables as thunder boomed and lightning flashed. I was woman—watch me mope.

Bendrix was working on a second cup of espresso by then. He didn't bother looking up from what he was reading, even after I stood in front of him and thanked him for ruining my day with his news.

“Hey, I'm just trying to help. Just doing my part to wake you up.”

He swiped and turned his tablet toward me. I stared at a picture of Avery and the Danish Pippi Longstocking holding their son.

“Wow, you really are a jerk.”

He snickered.

Noel came over. “Your eight thirty is here.” He jutted his chin toward a couple near the front of the bakery, holding hands and grinning at each other.

“Thanks, Noel. Will you tell Beth to bring out the cakes?”

“Sure thing.”

I said to Bendrix, “I wouldn't mind if you were gone by the time I'm finished.”

“Love you, too.”

•   •   •

F
or obvious reasons I had to let go of my foul mood before talking weddings and wedding cakes with the couple I was meeting with. By chance, Rosemary Clooney sang “Pick Yourself Up” on the stereo. I listened for a few bars while willing the rain cloud over my head to go away.

The couple, twentysomething Google employees, pointed at the taster cakes Beth was setting out.

My bakery was popular, but my reputation and expertise lay in so-called wedding cake artistry. The couple I was about to meet had discovered me after seeing one of my cakes at their coworkers' wedding. Their coworkers Adhitya and Minu were more artsy than techie and had wanted an eye-popping cake with a contemporary design. They'd been to Scratch a few times, and after trying several bakeries in the Silicon Valley, they thought they'd see if I could come up with anything. I knew that having the opportunity to make a wedding cake for a pair of Google techies could be a boon if I played it right, and thanks to my background in art I felt ready for the challenge.

My first Google cake, as Bendrix and I called it, was an abstract creation based on Henry Lair's
Flamingo
. I knew Minu would be wearing a red-and-gold sari, so I'd covered the cake in a deep red fondant that matched her dress. On the top tier I created gold leaves and abstract shapes that also harkened back to Lair's work. The cake was a success and generated enough buzz that my name was taking hold not only throughout the Internet behemoth but in other tech giants in Silicon Valley as well.

Hence the Google couple sitting across from me. “So, are
you ready to discuss your wedding cake?”
I could only hope that my smile and overly bright tone hid my sense of hopelessness:
My vagina is drying up! I'm the wedding cake designer who's never had a wedding of her own!

“We're very excited!” said the future bride. She kissed the future groom in a burst of youthful happiness and Google money and optimism. “We're so in love!” she exclaimed.

“We just had sex in the car!” said the future groom.

“We have sex four times a week!”

“And we make a shitload of money!”

“In exactly one year we're going to start making a baby!” admitted the future bride.

The future groom to me: “If you want a baby, I suggest you start soon. You look
old
!”

“Yes,” agreed the future bride with added concern, “you look
very
old!”

They turned to each other and burst into laughter:
“We're so rich!”

Actually, I'm not sure what they said. Their mouths moved, but I was somewhere else. Rosemary Clooney droned on while I stared into one of the mini-cakes I'd made, a delicate yellow cake, iced in lemon rolled fondant, as if I were gazing into my future. I saw myself making wedding cakes until I was old and gray; Avery, meanwhile, would be surrounded by his grandchildren and latest girlfriend.

I mentioned something to the couple about the first cake but my head remained elsewhere. Bendrix was right. I'd given up. I'd given up on finding love because I was afraid of getting hurt. The future bride took a bite of the cake. “Oh my gosh, honey, this is delicious!”

I thanked her while thinking that they were a concrete reminder that love was possible, and even though we failed at it at
least fifty percent of the time, it was worth the effort, right? Yes! Yes, it was!

I stood abruptly. “I'm so sorry, but would you give me one second, please?” I was already backing away. “I'll be right back. Forgot something.”

I marched over to Bendrix. “Okay. I'll do it.”

“Do what?”

“Online dating! I'll give it a try.”

“Good, because I've already created your profile.”

“You what?”

He clicked a few times and turned his tablet. I stared at a picture he'd taken of me last year at my sister's birthday party. At the top of the picture I saw my profile name.

“Abbey Lincoln Ross, say hello to JazzyGirlinOakland.”

Pent-up House

I
hugged my nieces and nephew in the foyer of my dad's house. It was about a month since Bendrix had signed me up for online dating, and I was there along with family and friends to celebrate Daddy's sixty-fifth birthday.

My nephew Duncan was seven and his sister Bessie, five. Hope was three. When I picked up Hope, Bessie jumped up and down and begged that I pick her up, too. My older brother Dizzy, their father, watched from a few feet away, then told them to give their aunt Abbey some space. “It's fine,” I replied.

“Where's the cake?” Duncan asked. He thought I had cookies or cake on me at all times.

“Don't worry, Duncan, it's being delivered. It should be here within the hour.”

“Is there chocolate?” Bessie asked.

“Yep. I've got everyone covered. I made cookies, too.”

They both threw their hands in the air and kicked their feet like shadow puppets on speed.
Yay! Our sugar dealer has arrived! We want sugar!

Dizzy waved the bright red chicken leg in his hand, and the spicy scent of tandoori wafted in the air. “Hey, hey, you two, calm down. No cookies if you keep acting like you have no sense.” He bit into the chicken and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Welcome. The house is packed.”

I wiped the wet spot with my hand. “Really, Diz?”

He licked his tandoori-stained fingers. “Aw, a little grease'll do you good. Works like moisturizer.” He took another bite and rubbed his shiny lips together as proof.

I gave Hope a bounce and she threw her head back as if taking an Olympic dive off a high board, arms splayed. I supported her back until she touched water, then drew her back in for a hug. “Again!” she said.

Dizzy pointed toward the ceiling. Over the din of party noise, I heard a loud succession of chords on top of the thump of bass. The piano picked up speed and cymbals tinged and clanged. Dizzy nodded to the beat. “Dad is on fire tonight. Phin and Miles were foolin' around, and Dad sat down at the piano and started schoolin' 'em. I stood to the side and watched—I'm no dummy. They've been at it for the last five minutes. Listen to Pops go, man.” He closed his eyes briefly.

Dizzy played in a jazz quartet with my two older brothers Miles and Theo and my younger brother Phin. Dad called my three older brothers and me the full-bloods because our mothers were African American, while all of our younger siblings were biracial—a veritable “We Are the World” of races and colors.
There were thirteen of us in all, and we were all named after jazz musicians and singers. Dizzy's full name, for example, was Dizzy Gillespie Ross and Theo's full name, Thelonious Monk Ross. I was named after the jazz singer Abbey Lincoln. All my adult siblings were musicians or artists of some kind, with many living beyond the Bay Area and even out of state. Everyone had made a
point of coming to Daddy's party, though. Even when it meant canceling gigs and changing schedules.

Dizzy and I listened to Phineas strum the bass as he did his best to save his solo, but his counter was behind and he was threatening to throw the song. Dizzy laughed and shook his head. “Man, Dad is all over Phin. He sounds like an ox. He sounds like an ox pulling a cart. An ox pulling a cart uphill.” He listened for another bar. “And backward!” He laughed and bit into the chicken.

“Don't give him too much
s
-
h
-
i
-
t
about it,” I said.

“Oh, you know I will.” He grinned.

My brothers were so used to perfection, any sign of weakness gave them an excuse to tease one another. Phin's solo may not have been his best, but he was one of the top bassists in the country, and even when his playing was “off” he was damn good, and Dizzy and I knew it.

Bessie took my hand and asked for a glass of water. Dizzy told me he'd take care of it and that I should enjoy the party. I sent Hope for another free-falling dive before handing her over to her father. When she reached for Dizzy's chicken, he gave her the leg so she could help herself. Dad had trained my brothers that when they were home from the road they needed to spend as much time with their families as possible.
“Don't make the same mistakes I once made,”
he liked to say.

I watched Dizzy trot off with his family, my heart sinking a little. I was officially dating again, but so far the dates had been disastrous. I'd had a drink with Ronald Reagan at a bar in SOMA and listened while he espoused the glories of the Republican Party. Marcel Marceau had showed up for my second date in a striped red-and-white shirt and red beret. He hadn't talked much, just grinned at me. Finally, there had been Mr. Throwback—relatively good-looking but instead of using my name, he
preferred to call me
dollface
and
babe
. And when other women passed our table, his head craned to follow.

Dating sucked.

I started to make my way through the living room. Since Dad loved Indian food, we'd decided on an Indian-themed party. Caterers roamed the room dressed in saris and tunics while serving the crowd platters of
chaat
and curry. Every inch of the high ceiling was covered with Indian fabric, and an ornate oriental lamp hung from the center, all of it giving me the feeling that I had accidently stepped into a massive tent owned by a nomadic tribe of artsy partiers.

I greeted, kissed, and hugged my way through the crowd. Even though many of my siblings had arrived a week before and we'd already spent time together, we still hugged and said hello like it had been months.

I noticed Bailey making her way around a server and marching toward me, her mouth contorted in its usual frown. Bailey was Dad's first wife and mother to Thelonious, Miles, and Dizzy. She'd been making the circuit as a jazz singer when she met Dad. Later, she became a backup singer; now, thanks to her early, hard-core fan base, she was having a resurgence and sang in different clubs throughout the country. She had never learned the difference between dressing for a gig and dressing for regular life. For Bailey, all the world was a stage. She liked to dye her hair one bright color or another, and that night it was the same magenta as her dress, which looked a size too small and was currently giving up the struggle to cover her thick thighs. She'd tug at the sides of the dress, but sooner or later it would inch back up.

She gave me a hug and helped me with my coat. She then motioned toward the corner of the room where I saw two of Dad's ex-girlfriends, Leslie and Dahlia, talking with each other.

Bailey started in right away. She was one who didn't avoid gossip, especially when it involved Dad's ex-girlfriends. “Leslie had the nerve to ask your father for a bigger allowance so she can switch Louis to a better school. He already goes to one of the best private high schools in Oakland. Gold diggers, every last one. And that Dahlia
Whore
deen! Don't even get me started on her.” Dahlia's last name was Wardeen, fuel for Bailey's fire.

There were four ex-girlfriends or baby mommas in the family. Dad had other ex-girlfriends, but we considered only the baby mommas part of the family. I often imagined the wives, as we called them, and the ex-girlfriends in a musical in which Dad's four ex-wives danced on one side of the stage and his four ex-girlfriends danced on the other in a Sharks-versus-Jets fashion. I didn't include his fifth (and final?) wife, Aiko, in my musical because she was busy raising my three-week-old brother, Ornette, and nineteen-month-old brother, Bud.

Who knew if the wives would have remained as close as they were if Bailey hadn't suffered from colon cancer while I was in high school. She had no family to speak of, so the wives had pitched in, transporting her to chemotherapy appointments and taking turns looking after her when she was sick in bed. Their bond became stronger than ever during the ordeal.

The wives resented the ex-girlfriends, or exes, because while they'd married Dad, for however long, and had committed themselves to him, the exes basically got knocked up and were then able to take advantage of Dad's blind devotion to his children and cash in on his money. But Dad insisted that we all get along, and for his sake, and presumably for the sake of the children, the wives and ex-girlfriends smiled and were polite—if only on the surface.

“Dahlia lost yet another job. That's right. Another job. How
many is that? I lost track. I keep telling your father he needs to cut her loose; otherwise, she's never moving out of the guesthouse. Why should she? At this rate she's gonna get free room and board till she dies.”

Dahlia turned when she felt us staring. Bailey raised her glass and smiled gaily and waved. “Hussies,” she muttered under her breath.

I stifled a laugh. I wanted to honor my father's wishes, but I had to agree with Bailey: The exes had a way of taking advantage—especially Dahlia.

Bailey turned and stared at me. “Four years, Abbey?”

“Four years what?”

“If I had known you were going without that long, I would have forced you to start dating years ago. Who goes that long without sex? I could see if you were my age, but you're still young!”

Crap,
I thought. “You spoke with Bendrix.”

“Yeah,” she mocked. “I spoke with Bendrix. He's upstairs. You are young and beautiful and it's not right to go that long without sex.”

A man I didn't recognize brushed past. “Will you lower your voice?”

“Are you sick?”

“No, I'm not sick. I just haven't met anyone I like.”

“Like? Like? What does liking a person have to do with anything? You see somebody who looks like he can handle you, and after you make sure he's not married, you climb into bed and do what comes natural. It's easy, baby. Liking has nothing to do with it. It's a crime and a sin to be as young as you are and go without for
four long years
!”

“Bendrix has a really big mouth.”

“He cares about you. Anyway, he was just showing us that
computer dating Web site, and wait until you see who he found for you.”

“Wait a second . . .
What?
”

“Yeah, he found somebody for you. A very good-looking somebody.”

Visiting the LoveMatch site made me feel like I was shopping for a man, which I found completely unromantic and nauseating, so I let Bendrix vet profiles for me and forward any possibilities my way. I certainly hadn't wanted him to tell one of the wives—or anyone. “This is embarrassing.”

“He's upstairs waiting to show you.”

“Well, let him wait. Dad's cakes should be here soon.”

“Don't try to get out of it. Someone will let you know when the cakes are here.”

I sighed.

“You won't be making that ugly face when you see the man Bendrix picked out.”

We continued to make our way through the house. Dad had finished playing and I could hear my younger sisters, Ella on the violin and Billie on guitar. Their bandmate, Sam, played clarinet. They made a sweet trio and were enjoying a growing popularity after a recent appearance on a late-night TV show.

Rita, an ex-wife, walked up and grabbed my hand just as I snatched a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She kissed me on each cheek, European style. She was stunning in a deep purple sari with gold trim. Her hair was short and coiffed and she wore long dangling earrings. Where Bailey liked short, tight skirts and low-cut blouses, Rita was all glamour and high style. “Did Bailey tell you Bendrix found someone for you?”

“Yeah. Whoopee.”

“Oh, don't be like that. Wait until you see him. He's wonderful. Reminds me of a young Marquis Jones, a man I danced
Firebird
with years and years ago. He was so gifted. Anyway, let's all go up so you can see. And I love the Web site. Makes looking for a man as easy as shopping for a dress.”

“Hardly.”

Rita's grandparents were Afro-Cuban, but Rita was born and raised in the States. She'd danced with Alvin Ailey for several years and met Dad when he was commissioned to write a piece for the troupe. Rita was Dad's third wife and together he and Rita had Dinah. Rita was a stickler for rules and propriety. While others prayed for world peace, Rita prayed for a world that had better fashion sense and etiquette.

We joined Bendrix upstairs in the library, which was one of the best rooms in the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the bay. It wasn't a library, per se, but had taken on the genteel moniker after Dad started sending us there to read when we were being punished or making too much noise. Over time it became the wives' hangout, and the ex-girlfriends knew to keep out.

“Perfect timing,” Bendrix said. “Now, I will admit that the first three men didn't work out—”

“Didn't work out?” I turned to Bailey and Rita. “Did he tell you about the guy who showed up dressed like a mime?”

Rita crossed her long legs, and a jeweled gold sandal peeked out from beneath her sari. “Never mind all that. Show her, Bendrix.”

“I found him last night,” he said. “I thought I'd wait to show you.”

“Yeah, me and everyone else. Thanks for keeping my dating life private, Bendrix. Did you have to show them the guy before you showed me?”

“Child, hush up with all that whining,” Bailey snapped. “Bendrix is grown and he can do whatever he wants. Now, show her the damn picture.”

I sat next to Bendrix and he turned his tablet toward me. “JazzyGirlinOakland, let me introduce you to RelaxinbytheBay.”

I stared at a man walking away from the camera while laughing over his shoulder as if someone had said something funny and caught him off guard. He wore a leather jacket with a wool scarf and had nice eyes and an actual cleft chin, as deeply pronounced as Cary Grant's.

I heard Bailey: “Yeah, who's whinin' now? He's fine, isn't he? Hell, if you don't want him, I'll take him!”

Rita said, “Bailey, would you hush, please?”