Authors: Cindy Arora
On Monday morning, I make the trek out to the valley, pass Ventura Boulevard, and head into the Santa Monica Mountains where meadows and multi-million dollar homes replace the bevy of doggy day spas and Starbucks.
“Don’t Change Topanga, Let Topanga Change You,” reads a bumper sticker slapped upside down on a street sign as I ascend up the scenic hillside that takes me to Stephanie’s house in Old Topanga Canyon, which according to my GPS lady, is at the very top of this mountainous beast.
I take a right onto Canterbury Court, a private street blocked off by a wrought iron fence with an aged wood sign that reads “
Chateau Fleur De Lis
.” I press the intercom announcing my arrival, and the gate swings open. I drive through a canopy of California pepper trees—the Weeping Willow of the west—that seems to go on for miles until I arrive at a sprawling stone house covered in ivy and fuchsia bougainvillea.
“Whoa.”
I park in the circular driveway, slide out of my seat, and stand back to take in the full view of the house that looks like a postcard of a château in France. There’s even a rustic yellow bike leaning against a wall with the ever appropriate wicker basket.
“You made it!”
Stephanie skips outs of her front door wearing an oversized straw hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses. She looks radiant with flushed rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and I wonder if that’s genetic or her West Hollywood dermatologist. She chatters on about her sunrise yoga class, while I unload pastry boxes from my car and carefully hand them to her staff that wait patiently as she finishes her story before they head back toward the house.
“The boxes all have colors written on the top, can you please coordinate that to match each of the towers I’ve brought over?” I point to the huge box that her assistant is carrying, and they all give me a knowing smile, like they’re familiar with the drill of perfection.
“Come, come, I made some breakfast for us.” Stephanie tugs at my arm like a little girl eager to start her tea party. And I’m distracted by every inch of her home, from the front door that looks like an old barnyard door that involves sliding it horizontally to the wine crates that are being used as planters with tiny strawberries poking out of them.
Stepping through the entrance, the living room is drenched in morning sunlight. The home feels lived in. Comfortable, but tidy at the same time, with creamy white walls, matching fluffy carpets, and dark brown oversized leather seats that have that well-used baseball mitt look to them.
“We have a creek, direct access to hiking trails and a tiny tree house that is for guests, but Travis and I love to sleep there, too. It feels like a fort, except with a 52-inch plasma television and central air conditioning.”
“You do realize your home looks like it belongs in
Architecture Digest
,” I say while untying the shoelaces of my running shoes, afraid to step into the immaculate living space with French doors allowing a view from every angle of the house.
“Leave your shoes on, Indira, if that’s what you prefer. My home is not a museum. It’s meant to be used.” Stephanie takes off her hat and shakes her blonde hair loose. “And to answer your questions, yes, we were a feature in the Digest for its April 2010 issue. They called us Paris in LA.”
I take a seat at the kitchen nook that is set up with matching plates, cloth napkins and tangerine-colored dishware.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m a bit of a Francophile,” Stephanie explains with a glint in her brown eyes. “I went to high school in Provence and I connected to their way of life. Slow and easy, spending time making good food, lots of meals shared with friends and family. It’s the kind of life I want to lead for myself.”
“Let’s eat, and afterward, I’ll take you on a tour of the house and my garden. It’s fully sustainable with fruits and vegetables, and my pride and joy. We also have cows for raw milk, and I’m debating getting goats to make my own cheese, but Travis thinks we are too busy.”
She juts out her lip in a pretend pout and I sigh in exasperation.
“Does Martha Stewart know you are gunning for her role?”
“I’m much more of a Nigella Lawson fan,” she smirks. “How do you do everything? You are exhausting to watch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Successful career, amazing home, attractive and goat- loving fiancé, you hoe your own sustainable produce, and when you aren’t micromanaging everyone, you’re actually really nice.”
“I’ll ignore the backhanded compliment.” She pours cream into her coffee. “I’ve always been an overachiever. It’s a blessing and a curse. I’m not easy on myself, which is why Travis is such a great counterpart. He forces me to enjoy life. To sit and watch movies, get off the computer and go drink beers by the beach until I feel silly. That’s not something I’d let myself do, at all. And,” she pauses, “I have to admit that being the daughter of Martin Hemsley has given me certain privileges. I can’t pretend it hasn’t. This house,” she waves her hand like a game show host, “is a gift from my father, and a generous one at that, but it’s also a replacement for the fact that he’s never around and never really has been.”
“Your honesty is unexpected,” I say, taking in the view of Los Angeles from the kitchen table. A layer of smog hovers above the city, but I know that on a clear day, you can see the outline of the ocean and the downtown skyline all in one landscape. “Just makes me like you more. You’re good people.”
“Thanks. So are you, even if you do scowl a lot.” Stephanie dives into a plate of quinoa hotcakes and we chat easily about home décor and cooking. All of my anxiety about our meeting dissipates as I realize that maybe…I was just being paranoid.
After breakfast, Stephanie, plops her hat on her head and puts her big movie star glasses back on. “Let’s do a quick tour of the house and Anita will unpack the goodies so we can have a quick tasting when we get back. I want to chat with you about something.”
My stomach drops and I can’t help but feel that it’s just like when a boyfriend tells you “We need to talk.” It’s almost certain he’s about to become your next ex- boyfriend.
Stephanie hands me a big sunhat that she has hung up on a hook outside on her deck, and I follow her out the backyard, which is actually more of a grounds than a yard.
“Wait a minute.” I stop mid-stroll and point to a wood hand painted sign staked to the ground with an arrow and childlike scrawl that reads
Olive Oil Tasting.
“Oh that?” Stephanie waves her hand dismissively. “We had a tasting party a couple months back and never took the sign down. I thought it looked kinda cute.”
“You have olive trees?”
“Didn’t I mention that? I press my own olive oil, just for friends and family, a few shops carry it, and it’s not a big deal.”
I stare at Stephanie and shake my head in disbelief. “You’re insane.”
***
A basket of freshly picked cucumbers and tomatoes later, Stephanie and I sit on her deck drinking lemonade and nibbling on a few of the samples I brought over for the tasting.
“This looks beautiful.” Stephanie takes in the vintage glass cake stands in pale pinks and ice greens that I brought along for presentation.
“This is what people like about you, Indira. You understand that people eat with their eyes first. I already can’t wait to eat. Are these taquitos?”
“Yes! Pedro created a dulce de leche taquito that we will top with caramelized plantains and vanilla ice cream. I brought everything so you can taste just how we envision it. What we want to do is create a dessert table of Latin- inspired
antojitos
, or little whims.” I walk over to the center of the table. “We have a few of the classics here. Tacos, taquitos, and my personal favorite, the sweet sopes. We revamped the savory sopes, usually made with corn masa and refried beans, but we turned it into a deconstructed pumpkin pie. The little bowls of dough are made with walnut meal and puff pastry. We filled the bowl with pumpkin, sprinkled it with cinnamon, and topped it off with whipped cream. It’s really adorable and the flavor is amazing. I think your guests will gobble it up.”
Stephanie chews slowly, savoring each morsel as if she’s at a wine tasting. “I’ve never tasted anything like this. There’s something in there that I can’t place…I want to say cardamom? Or coconut extract, maybe?”
“I’ll never tell. It’s all part of the Cake Pan mystique.”
“I knew you could pull this off like no one else.”
“Thanks, we’ve really been able to push ourselves and come up with some amazing ideas.” I turn around to grab a chocolate coconut taco and I’m mentally giving myself a high-five. It’s rare when I know we outdid ourselves, but we really did. “Wait until you see the wedding cake. We’re in between ideas, but it’s going to be a show-stopper.”
“Indira, about that. Let’s have a quick chat,” Stephanie says suddenly, her mood instantly turning business-like, and I realize my celebration may have begun too soon. “I know you used to work at Crystal Cove for several years, under Simon Ford, and your creativity is one of the many things that separate you from everyone else.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know who Josh Oliver is?”
Oh, good lord.
“I do,” I say hesitantly. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but you should know…”
Stephanie holds up her hand. “Let me finish, and then we can talk. Before I chose you to make our wedding cake, I had been negotiating with Crystal Cove Resort to cater my wedding and create my wedding cake. Then Mindy referred me to you, and I was instantly taken aback by the quality of your work.”
“But?” I say with dread in my belly.
“But,” she says, “since my wedding has taken a business bent, we have been taking donations from several companies that want to be a part of the buzz. And one of them is Crystal Cove Resort. They have offered to donate $100,000 to the artist’s nonprofit, but it comes with a condition. They want to create the wedding cake and be the name and brand attached to my wedding.”
I am floored. It is one thing to be fired, but it is quite another to be muscled out of title because of money.
“I am a little surprised that you can be bought, Stephanie.” I can’t hold my tongue anymore, although I know I should. Everything Pedro and I have been working toward the last couple of months is slipping away.
“I think you know me better than that.” Stephanie bristles, but doesn’t appear offended. “I am a business woman and can see opportunity, even when it may not be a popular decision. Yet, I’m also an artist and know when I am working with one.” She softens her tone, trying to get me to understand. I’d like to keep you on completely in charge of the dessert bar, and I have no doubt that you will be the talk of the wedding on your own merit.”
“But the wedding cake?”
“The cake itself will go to Crystal Cove.” Stephanie waves at her assistant, Anita, who has been standing patiently at the French door by the deck. She opens the doors and escorts Josh out, who looks confident, friendly, and incredibly handsome. I notice he’s wearing a shirt I bought him on a day trip we took to San Diego. Did he realize that when he got dressed this morning?
“Josh, what a pleasure to see you.” We shake hands, and I wonder if he can see my eyes screaming at him.
“You look wonderful.” Josh smiles and crinkles his eyes charmingly at me, and against my better judgment, I smile back.
“So here’s how it’s going to work.” Stephanie stands between us like a coach before the big game. “The cake will go to Crystal Cove. Indira, we will make sure to alert the media that this is a partnership between the two of you, but, Crystal Cove is the big anchor and they will be featured alongside us in any press we are doing, since they’re donating a hefty chunk to the nonprofit. And we really appreciate that.”
“Sounds fair,” Josh says rubbing his hands together. “You guys are such philanthropists,” I say mustering about as much fake sincerity as I can.
“Thank you,” Josh says noting my tone and giving me a raised eyebrow, a warning that my fangs are showing. Thankfully Stephanie has no clue.
“Indira, as an apology for this latest bump in the wedding road, I am giving you complete creative control over the dessert bar. You have been a professional throughout this entire affair, and based on what I can see today, there’s no need for me to approve anything moving forward. You do your thing.”
“Okay, I can work with that,” I say stiffly, even though every part of me wants to quit and walk away from all of this. Josh, Stephanie, the stupid press and all the pressure of trying to make Cake Pan able to compete against the money bags of Crystal Cove. What was I thinking?
“I thought it would be nice for Josh to see what you’ve been doing so they can match you or at the very least stay with your theme. “
“That’s a wonderful idea,” I coo.
“Yes, Noah is so excited to be a part of this,” Josh jabs. “Wait, Noah is making the cake?”
“Well, he’s our chef on staff, so he will be directing the team. He has some really great ideas.”