The Memory of Lemon (18 page)

JUNE

Apricot and Lavender

Neely

I hoped the message in the latte foam, like the oracle at Delphi, would have an interesting message for me that morning. From what I knew about oracles, they always spoke in cryptic symbols that at first led you to a wrong conclusion. If you were lucky—or good at symbols—you eventually figured it out.

“Why do you have your eyes closed?” asked our Saturday barista, as he made my latte.

“I want to be surprised by the design you make in the froth,” I said, eyes clamped shut.

“Well, see what you think of this.”

I opened my eyes. He held up my favorite mug, then slowly and dramatically pulled it down to eye level.

I took it from him, careful not to jiggle the coffee and change the pattern. I peered into the foam. A wagon wheel.

“Is there something wrong, Neely? A bug in your coffee?” Maggie asked, coming back behind the counter with used cups, plates, and silverware from a now-empty table. She bent to put them in the gray plastic bin, now almost overflowing. Justin was busy with the coffees. I'd have to ask Jett to come up to the front and deal with the dishes.

June marked the end of high thinking-about-a-wedding season, and we were busy with mothers and daughters making the rounds of bridal gown shops, honeymoon travel agents, wedding paper goods stores, and florists. From what my fellow bridal business owners told me, the “season” was characterized by a flurry in January that built to a peak in June. The summer months were slower. And then things picked up again in September, tapering off during the holidays.

Happily, during the peak season mothers and daughters stopped to refuel at Rainbow Cake, but crumbs and coffee residue wouldn't give them the Parisian tearoom feel I wanted the bakery to project. I'd have to get Jett out here right away.

“Neely?”

“Oh, sorry, Maggie. I was just figuring out our dirty dish problem. And now this.” I slowly passed my coffee mug toward her so as not to disturb the design in the froth. “Look. I have a wagon wheel in my latte this morning. I don't know what to make of that.”

“It means you're going to be hauling a lot of pie down to Kentucky today,” Maggie said. “Bet you didn't realize that I was psychic.”

I rolled my eyes, took a sip to make the design go away, and walked back to the workroom to get Jett.

Wagon wheel. Wagon wheel.
Maybe if I chanted it enough, like a mantra, a lightning bolt from the blue would hit me and reveal the answer.

“What's with the wagon wheel?” Jett asked, looking up from her work. She was brushing the last of the tartlet shells with egg wash and sprinkling them with sparkle sugar before they were baked.

“Oh, it's the design in my latte foam this morning. What do you think it means?”

“Easy.
Heart Like a Wheel
. My mom's favorite movie. It's about a woman drag racer going against society's expectations.”

Having met Jett's mother, I wasn't surprised. She looked like an aging biker babe, one who had lived through a lot of disappointment and heartbreak. I wanted a better life for Jett, and I'm sure her mother did, too. But this morning, the mother/daughter penchant for going against society's expectations was colorfully evident.

Jett looked like she was auditioning for the sequel to
Edward Scissorhands
. Spiky hair dyed a delectable “Deadly Nightshade” color that dripped brownish purple if she got caught in the rain. Venom green fingernail polish, leather jacket, a nose ring, multiple piercings in each ear, and ripped jeans. Pale face, purple lips. From the earbud of her iPod escaped a dark tune I wasn't sure I recognized. Maybe that was just as well.

Maybe I should also rethink having her come out to the front, even to get the dirty dishes. Chic Parisian tearooms didn't usually feature servers with raccoon eye makeup.

I stood for a moment and watched her.

Jett went to such lengths to appear tough on the outside, but
I knew better than anyone how fragile she could be. At least she got to channel that delicate side in her work here at Rainbow Cake. The fern fronds, lavender flowers, and rosebuds she had hand-painted on each of the iced lavender and lemon sugar cookies were little works of botanical art. We had boxes and boxes of these wedding favors, in cellophane bags tied with ribbon, to take to Kentucky later that day as well. She had also piped out tiny chocolate lines on the cutout pastry log cabins that would go in the middle of rich Derby tartlets. Every week she took on a new skill and excelled at it.

“Jett,” I said, waving my hand in front of her face so she would notice me over the gloom and doom music. Her eyes widened in alarm. She used to jump if she was startled, back in the days when she was stalked by an abusive ex-boyfriend. I judged how well she was recovering by how calmly she took interruptions. This was a small improvement. “Could you help with the dishwashing today? We're slammed.”

She took both earbuds out and I could hear guitars that sounded like sirens accompanying the dark, halting beat of a zombie walk. “My heart is stone,” Jett sang in her best mournful vibrato.

“I'll take that as a yes.” I smiled. “And we need you sooner rather than later.”

“One minute,” she said to me, finishing the last row of tartlets as she sang another lyric, “‘In the refuse of the city, I stalk the night bird's lair . . .'”

I walked back to the front of the bakery to see a knot of people stalking our display for June. Apricot and lavender might seem like an unusual pairing, but it made perfect sense to me.
Luscious, sweet apricots taste best when they're baked and the flavor is concentrated. On the other hand, lavender likes it cool; the buds have a floral, almost astringent flavor. Lavender was a line drawing that I filled in with brushstrokes of lush apricot.

The apricot-colored curtain showed off our little upside-down apricot cakes with a hint of almond garnished with little lavender sprigs, Jett's hand-painted lavender cookies, and our polka-dot meringues in apricot and lavender. We would put out apricot tartlets with an almond frangipane filling the following week.

At the moment, with the Ballou wedding front and center, we had nary a tart pan to spare.

It was a little after nine a.m. Just three hours until I needed to leave for Augusta, my van loaded with the ceremonial wedding pie, trays of tartlets, boxes of bagged cookies, my pastry chef's tool kit, and my wedding uniform—the navy lace sheath dress and heels I wore to “present” the cake to the bridal couple. It was my custom, and built into my price, to stand guard at the cake—or in this case, the wedding pie—until the bride or groom took over. Mrs. Stidham was paying me to stay until Lydia and Christopher cut the pie.

Gavin and Roshonda were staying until the end; they had reserved rooms in Augusta. Gavin and his team, who would drive back in from Queen City, had to take down all the decor. Roshonda had to make sure the caterers had cleaned up and the rental companies picked up the tent, tables, chairs, linens, china, silver, and glassware on Sunday.

I planned on waiting until Ben was finished with his security duties, probably well after ten p.m. There were always a few guests, usually the younger ones, who wanted to take full advantage of
the open bar as long as possible. Mrs. Stidham had said we could hang out in the cabins if we wanted. She and her husband would be staying at the inn. The newlyweds would drive on to Covington to stay nearer the airport. Their honeymoon flight to an eco-lodge in Panama left on Sunday.

As I waited on customers, I started to worry about all the things that could go wrong. What if my van stalled or ran out of gas and I was somewhere in the hinterlands?

As each worry came up, I found a solution. Car trouble? Call AAA. What if the ferry wasn't running? Keep going down 52 until I could go over the Ohio River on the Maysville Bridge. That would take an extra hour, but I had an hour to spare built in to my timetable.

What if Ben decided that uncomplicated guy time on his fishing trip was preferable to the trouble of a relationship with me? I had no answer for that one.

At least I didn't have to worry about being tailed and photographed by the not-so-mystery guy in the black SUV.

True to his promise, Luke had called off the hounds. And just the previous day, my attorney had messengered the divorce papers to the bakery—no invoice for a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer—for me to sign, along with quitclaim deeds for my house and my bakery for Luke to sign.

I took a photo of the documents with my phone and texted them to Ben.
Good,
had been his reply.
Can't wait to see you. Tonight after the reception.

What had happened to Mr. Romantic Letter Writer?

Maggie, too, had her own worries.

The Professor still hadn't reappeared. John Staufregan had
been a regular since we'd opened in January. But we hadn't seen him since his last date with Maggie over two weeks ago.

“I miss the Professor,” I confided to Maggie when the morning rush died down. “I want one of his mini lectures about mitochondria or amoebae or whatever they are traveling up the nasal passages to register in the brain as flavor.”

“I do, too,” said Maggie. “I take back every snarky thing I ever said. I'd even be happy to go to another telomere lecture. He's kind of grown on me,” she confessed. “Roshonda was right. Here was this really good guy who seemed to like me and I let him drift away.”

“Maybe it's not too late,” I said, trying to be optimistic.

“I hate, hate, hate being back in that old high school rut, waiting for the boy to call you.”

“What boy?” Jett asked, as she picked up yet another bin full of dirty dishes. Thank goodness our industrial-strength dishwasher only took minutes to cycle through.

“The Professor,” Maggie and I said in unison.

Jett furrowed her brow. “You know, the phone works both ways. Why don't you call him?”

Maggie looked startled, as if the thought had not occurred to her.

“And you think I'm weird,” Jett muttered. “Here, give the phone to me.”

Maggie obliged.

“What's his real name?” Jett asked, and she found John Staufregan in Maggie's contacts. “You text something neutral but interesting to pique his attention, something like this . . .”
Could your telomeres use a muffin and a cup of coffee? Hope so.

We all looked at the message.

“Now send it,” I said.

Maggie took a big breath and pushed the button. She looked not once but twice that her text had gone through. Then she put her phone in her apron pocket.

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of orders, appointments, and lattes—all with the wagon wheel. I started loading up around eleven o'clock.

When I was carrying the last tray of tartlet boxes to the van, I saw a shadow to my right and felt the presence of a man. A tall man. Millcreek Valley was not a high-crime area, but a woman could never be too careful. Suddenly, I realized I was vulnerable. I hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings.

I set the tray on top of the other boxes in the back of the van and quickly rummaged in my pastry kit for a weapon. A smooth-sided palette knife was better than nothing. I turned around to confront the man.

“What do you . . . ?” I whirled and took a swipe at him with my palette knife.

The tall man quickly wrapped his big hand around my little wrist and I dropped the knife. I barely growled before my shoulders sagged in relief. “Luke!”

“Is that some new pastry chef martial arts move?” he asked. “What the hell is going on here? I would have texted you, but you're still blocking my number. Unless I use the supersecret phone, which is still at home.”

I tried to quiet my heart, beating fast in “fight” mode.

Still holding on to my wrist, he lowered my arm, tucked it
behind my back, and pulled me to him. “Look at me,” he said. And I peered up at the face I used to love.

“Luke, let me go,” I said, lowering my gaze.

“That's what you keep saying.” Luke relaxed his hold, and I stepped back.

“I'm here because you asked me. I told you I'd sign those papers,” he said. “Until then, you're still my wife. And I want to see your bakery. All your hard work. I never got to see it the last time I was here. Give me the grand tour.”

I sighed. I still had a little time before departing for Augusta and I really did want Luke to sign the papers and get this over with. I was also proud of Rainbow Cake and wanted to show him how well I had done without him.

“Come on,” I said.

He put his arm companionably around my shoulders and walked with me through the parking lot.

“I'm signing football cards at a collectors' show tonight,” he said, his voice like molten chocolate. “But I don't have any plans after that.” He turned his famous laser-beam eyes on me, but I wouldn't look at him.

“I've got an out-of-town wedding,” I said. “And we're getting divorced.”