Heartbreak Cake (3 page)

Bam! You are in the eye of the gossip storm, and it ain’t easy coming back from it all.

So, I arrive to make my rounds, hug and kiss all the right people and do my best to stay on top of the
chisme—
as Pedro calls it—and out of it.

This afternoon, I’m looking for a little gossip of my own and head straight to the white canopy in the center of the market that belongs to Crystal Cove Resort.

A group of blue-hairs from Oceanside Senior Apartments watch the free cooking demonstration, nibble on yellowtail ceviche and ooh and ahh as the young sous chef slides an enormous knife down the belly of gorgeous glistening piece of fish.

I smile and remember how I used to be in charge of the cooking table under this same big white tent every Monday, for years.

“You came,” his voice says behind me.

“Well, why wouldn’t’ I? Fruit tarts don’t happen without fruit,” I volley back, while sniffing at a Meyer lemon, inhaling the sweet and tart smell of its ripeness.

As much as I hate myself at this moment, I smile when I hear him behind me—he’s always had the same magnetic effect on me.

I close my eyes for a brief second, then turn around with the same anticipatory feeling he’s given me since I met him years ago. Same big grin and aqua-colored eyes that crinkle at the sides belong to Josh Oliver, Director of Food and Beverage at Crystal Cove Resort.

He’s a compact man who measures in at five-foot- eight, but never suffers from a lack of command, or attention. At 49, he still has a head full of hair, but it’s a lot more salt than pepper these days. And he’s rock solid. Something that comes from daily surfing, a busy power yoga schedule, and a profound love of piloxing.

“Indira, I’m about to introduce the new chef to the reporter for Beach City News cable show.” Josh clears his throat nervously and tries to fill the awkwardness between the both of us. “Did you want to meet him?” he asks timidly. “This year we’re inviting chefs from all over the world to come in for three month increments and create menus. He’s our first.”

“This should be great for the hotel.”

“Thanks. He’s our first guest-chef, and we are having a media party for him on Saturday.”

“I suppose my invitation is in the mail?”

“Always the funny girl,” Josh artfully weaves as I not- so-subtly verbally jab.

“So what’s his background?”

“His family owns a vineyard and they are established Italian peach farmers from the Central Valley. He took over their roadside diner, The Peach Keeper. You heard of it?”

“Of course. Everyone has. He’s making that place famous,” I say impressed.

“That’s him. Everyone loves him.” Josh gestures toward the crowd of women circling a tall figure. “The women here love him, too. Apparently, he’s
adorable
. Come.”

Josh grabs my hand and pulls me toward the crowd. Our hands curl warmly into one another’s, and neither one of us say anything about it. As I edge my way through the small crowd of gorgeous beach housewives, wearing their form-fitting Acne jeans and UGG Boots, I emerge from the sea of boobs and the smell of coconut sun block.

“Noah,” Josh announces. “Meet Indira Aguilar. She’s our former pastry chef and now runs Cake Pan Bakeshoppe on 4th Street.”

I extend my hand and am pleasantly surprised by the hazel-eyed man standing in front of me who is tall and lean like a swimmer, but looks more like a sexy librarian with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose. “I love your bakery. I’ve been here three days and have stopped by twice already.” Noah slides his hand easily into mine for a shake, and I notice that his are surprisingly soft and fine like sifted flour. “I came in this last weekend and tried your ginger and date quinoa muffin...I can tell you aren’t afraid of butter.”

“Not even a little bit,” I say laughing and immediately notice the chef groupies surrounding us move in closer and narrow their eyes at me.

I’m suddenly acutely aware that I washed my face in my car less than four hours ago.

“The Peach Keeper is on my list of places to try this year—sounds magical, nestled in the middle of your family farm and vineyards.”

“It’s home,” Noah shrugs modestly. “But I can still feel its magic. Although, I forgot how amazing it is to live beachside.” Noah points to the sparkling seaside that glitters from the rays of sun.

“Just another day in paradise, right girls?” he asks, and the OC women coo in agreement, some of them offering personalized tour guide services just in case he needs it.

I look at my watch and realize it’s nearly an hour since I left a suspicious Pedro.

“Oh damn, I’m sorry, but I better rush off.”

“Pedro got you on a timer?” Josh quips. “Something like that.”

“Nice meeting you, Indira. Hope to see you at the party this weekend,” Noah says and gives my shoulder a squeeze. There’s a collective sigh from the housewives, who I am sure are eager to have me leave.

“Well, I’ll see if I can give myself the time off. I have a pretty big wedding I am working on, but I may be able to stop by for a bit.”

“That would be great. I can have someone to talk to, since everyone is coming with their spouses. Even this one.” He nudges Josh. “He’s bringing his wife, who apparently never comes out because she’s some famous soap opera starlet in Italy.”

Josh titters nervously. “She’s a busy lady.”

“But you got to celebrate your eighth wedding anniversary, right?” I ask innocently.

“Yes, we stayed at the hotel” he says simply. “Sounds romantic.”

“Pleasure, Noah,” I say turning my attention away from Josh. “Hopefully I’ll see you Saturday night. Until then, stop by Cake Pan anytime. I’d love your feedback. Tomorrow, I’ll be making Meyer lemon and thyme hand pies. Come by.”

“I can’t refuse that. See you soon, Indira.”

I flounce off with a nod to Josh, and avoid his stare that I know is trying to send me a message. By the time I get into my car, my cell phone is ringing.

“What?”

“Why would you ask me about my wedding anniversary in front of everyone?”

“It’s not an unusual thing to bring up, Josh.”

“It is from you.”

“Well, who cares? I don’t think anyone realized I was being sarcastic.”

“I did.”

“That’s what I was going for.”

“You aren’t really coming on Saturday, are you?”

“Why not? I cannot stop my life for you. I’ve already done that for years. This sounds like a fun event, and I may even have a date.”

“With Noah? He’s a child.”

“He’s my age, and no one asked you. You don’t get to be jealous. Not ever.”

Silence on the line as I gasp air trying to keep myself from crying, which seems to be a daily occurrence lately.

“I’m coming over tonight.”

“I have nothing else to say to you,” I reply weakly.

“Yes you do. See you at nine,” he says stubbornly and hangs up the phone.

I sit there and stare out into the ocean trying to squelch the feeling of fear, unease, anticipation, excitement and self-hate that I’ve always felt when it comes to having an affair with Josh Oliver.

Chapter 3

My therapist’s name is Timothy Leary.

No relation to the acid-dropping activist who drove a bus around America encouraging everyone to, “Turn On, Tune in and Drop Out.”

But, as the proud owner of an impressive salt and pepper ZZ Top beard, a collection of 1970s terry cloth shirts and the ability to perform chakra aura healings with a straight face, I’d easily say he’s a close second to the real thing.

I rap my knuckle on the door waiting for the familiar pair of childlike white sneakers with Velcro strips that have greeted me every week for the last year.

“Hi Indira, come on in,” says the voice that belongs to the shoes.

“Hey Timothy, good to see you.”

I take a seat on the oversized corduroy couch and grab a pillow and pull it close for something to hug during my session.

“So, catch me up.”

“I had a one-night-stand and it was horrible,” I blurt quickly, hoping to purge the icky feeling I’ve had all day.

“Was the sex any good?” Timothy says asks without a flicker of emotion on his face.

“Are you for realsies?”

“Yup.”

“Well, he was 24, intoxicated, and overly confident, so, no. It was sloppy, vigorous and pretty damn selfish. Although, a point goes to Team Youth since he was able to go another round right after.”

“That’s fine,” Timothy says and jots something down in his notepad. “Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.” I fold my arms protectively around myself.

Timothy waits for an answer, jots something down in his notepad again, and then looks back up and waits for me to answer.

“Deadline passed, and you know it,” I say with a lump in my throat that is going to evolve into a maniacal teary sob if I don’t pull it together.

“That’s right. You gave him a year to decide to stay in his marriage and give you the relationship you want—and one he’s continuously promised you. And he didn’t deliver, as usual.

“So now what?”

“You get on with your life like you said you would, or risk wasting years on empty promises.”

“It’s not that black and white.” I scoot to the corner of the couch, suddenly feeling a strong need to defend myself.

“It is that black and white. There’s a right and a wrong here. And you’ve been in the wrong for a while now, which is why you are unhappy. Be right. Be happy.”

“I feel incapable of letting him go.” I slump back down on the cushion and grab the lime green chenille blanket wanting to swaddle myself.

“What will I do without him? I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. But I can’t do this anymore; it’s a crazy making situation that has made me incredibly insecure. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be with someone who repeatedly doesn’t pick you? Who tells you they love you and then turns around and gets up and leaves in the middle of the night? Someone who doesn’t return your calls or has to text you discreetly a one word reply?

“That sounds heartbreakingly awful,” Timothy says, but I know what the look on his face is telling me. Only I can stop it.

“Do you like being someone’s mistress?”

I let the feeling of shame sear through me. It’s not often I let myself dwell on the reality of what I’m doing. I don’t like to visualize his wife, his little girl, and the way he can seamlessly weave in and out of both our lives. “You are this man’s secret. Someone that he claims to love. Yet you have compromised yourself and your values more so than any relationship deserves. What does that tell you?”

Timothy is in rare form tonight, pushing me with words that always make me cringe at their rawness: adulterer, affair, mistress and cheater. All your basic warm and fuzzies.

He leans back and peers at me with his big St. Bernard eyes and takes a second to unwrap a lemon-mint Ricola and tosses it into his mouth as he waits for me to speak.

I touch the dry ends of my hair nervously with my mouth slightly open, trying to form words I need to say.

“Indira, you are dying on the vine here because you don’t think you can live without him,” he explains to me gently.

Good lord, am I really this pathetic?

“Why are you settling for this?” Timothy pushes. “I don’t know.”

He’s right, in all the years I’ve been with Josh, he has never actually chosen me, but here I am sacrificing everything I am in order to get any kind of crumb I can from him.

“He didn’t call or text me all weekend long. I was frantic,” I explain nervously. “He celebrated his anniversary last night, and I was never even a thought.”