Wedding Girl (12 page)

“I see, so we've established that I am neither trying to get in your dad's pants nor oust you as favorite child. So tell me,
Junior
,” I say with deep emphasis, “exactly what about me worries you so damn much?”

He peers down his nose at me and lowers his voice. “You're making it better.”

I throw my hands in the air. “God forbid! I am so sorry. Shall I make it crappier?”

He sighs. “Look, Sophie, I'm sure you're a very nice girl with
perfectly good intentions. And my dad says he's known your people forever, so I believe you genuinely think you are doing a good thing for a family friend. But here is the reality. I had almost convinced my dad to sell this place, the whole building, to move into a really spectacular retirement community, where he could rest and relax and make friends and enjoy the time he has left. But now the business is picking up, and you are revitalizing things, and new customers are coming in, and it is getting him excited.”

“And this is bad because?”

“Because he is eighty-three years old and has a heart condition, and because
you will leave
. Cake Goddess is coming in
six months
; they announced it in the trades this week. Once she is spitting distance? This place already is barely worth the price of the bricks it's made of.” Now he seems to be getting mad.

“This isn't my fault.”

“It's not
not
your fault.”

“That's unfair.”

“You're not kidding!”

“How on earth could I possibly know that the goddamned Cake Goddess was going to plunk herself down around the corner?”

“How on earth could you possibly
not
know that my dad's business is a dinosaur in a changing hipster neighborhood? How could you not know that how this place runs and what it sells is none of your business, and certainly not your place to change!”

“All I did was try to help your dad make more money!”

“Did you? Or did you try and change things to your own taste and sensibility?”

This makes my blood begin to boil. The unmitigated
gall
of this pompous, self-important poopweasel. “Look,
Junior
, I didn't come in here begging for a job; I came in for rye bread. And your dad put on a full-court press to get me to accept his offer. I told him not to take the sign down!” I gesture towards the front,
where the faded, dusty “Part-Time Baker Wanted” sign still sits on a shelf. “I told him that I would be temporary and part-time till either he or I found something permanent. So don't get all up in my grill about what a terrible person I am and how I screwed everything up around here. You might want your dad to sell and move and go live in some retirement community for your own convenience, but I'm pretty sure he is a grown-ass man and can make his own decisions about his life and livelihood. And while he might be slowing down a bit, his mind is sharp as a tack from what I've seen, so if that mind has weighed his options and wants to stay here? Then I do consider it both my business and my
job
to help him make it as lucrative as I possibly can.”

“Thank you, darling girl.” I hadn't heard Herman come back into the room, so intent was I on putting Mark in his place.

“I'm sorry, Herman. I . . .”

“Shush. Don't ever be sorry for speaking your mind or defending someone you think needs it. I am deeply grateful for both the sentiment and that you have the courage to express it.” He takes my hand and kisses it before patting it solidly with his own; when he gives it a tight squeeze, he doesn't let go. “Junior? I love you, my son. I know your heart is in the right place, and you want what you believe is best for me, and so I am willing to listen to whatever crap you care to sling in my direction. But you may not harass my partner here. Ever. Clear?” His voice is low and steady, and sends a very distinct message.

“I give up.” Mark throws his hands in the air. “And, Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“Something's burning . . .”

I run to the oven and retrieve the two enormous pans of charred cake, tears prickling at my eyes at the stupidity of not setting a damned timer, as Herman escorts Mark back out to the front.

“So, now that we have announced our crazy idea to Mark, what next?” Herman says, bringing me a steaming mug of tea.

“I dunno, Herman. I don't like the tone he used or the way he said what he said, but Mar . . . Herman Jr. isn't exactly wrong. He said the Cake Goddess has only six months before she opens her doors over there.” I wave in the direction of the future site of our downfall.

“Six months.”

“If we're lucky.”

“Six months to become indispensable. Will you give me six months? If I shift you up to full time, can you promise me that you'll stay the full six months to see what we can do together, to see if we can save ourselves? I know it is a lot, I know this isn't where you want to end up, but I can't move forward without you.” His blue eyes are extra-shiny, not quite welling up with tears but full of both determination and worry.

I look him right in the eye and, with my whole heart, say, “You got me.”

He smiles and nods. “We are going to need a plan.”

“Yeah.”

“And some new offerings.”

“That too.”

“I'm too old. I don't know what to do or how to do it. When all the cakes changed and everyone stopped coming, I just didn't know how to shift gears, how to bounce back. But you will know. Do you think you can do it? Do you think you can come up with a plan?”

“I can certainly try.”

“Okay. Do this. Redo your burnt cakes. And then go home. And take tomorrow off. I can handle the challahs. Come back
Saturday, and after we close, we'll have dinner upstairs, talk about the plan. And bring your grandmother. She's a very smart lady; I will want to hear her thoughts about the plan as it relates to the old neighborhood regulars. Whatever we do, I don't want to leave them out in the cold.”

“Okay. On one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You let us bring the dinner.”

Herman laughs. “Deal.”

“You do know he's right, don't you?” Ruth says, smacking Jean's hand when she tries to steal one of her fries. Jean pulls her hand back and returns to moving her spinach salad around on her plate, looking wistfully at Ruth's burger and my grilled cheese. We were having wine at Jean's and got hungry, so we walked up the block to Four Moon Tavern for some pub grub.

I narrow my eyes at Ruth, pick the largest onion ring off my plate, and hand it to Jean.

“Right in what way exactly?” I haven't been able to stop thinking about Mark/Herman Jr. All I ever thought about while working at Langer's was making some money, feeling productive and useful, and waiting for the dust to clear so that I could get a decent job and move on with my life. But the fact that I even think about looking for a “decent job” does sort of weirdly imply that I think my current job isn't decent. I don't like that Mark was so certain my departure is inevitable, despite the open-ended nature of my agreement with Herman. I hate to think of anything that would be bad for Herman. I certainly didn't know about any heart condition, and that really worries me. Which doesn't mean I'm not fully prepared to be irrationally defensive about the whole thing. Especially because I'm so in my head
about it that I've now remade the devil's food cake layers twice more, having forgotten the cornstarch in the second batch, so it sank in the middle. And while the vanilla layers came out perfectly the first time, so far the buttercream has broken on me twice, because the spinning mixer blade gets me all hypnotized and thinking about Herman and Mark, and I lose concentration. I'm committed to going back to the bakery tonight after dinner to get a batch done right, so that I can assemble and crumb-coat the tiers and get started tomorrow on decoration.

“In the way of not being wrong. Don't play dumb-ass; I hate that shit,” Ruth says.

“Don't be mean, Ruthie,” Jean says. “It's a difficult situation.”

“No, it isn't. It is a simple situation. Our darling girl over here has to decide what it is she truly wants. If she wants to turn Langer's into an amazing retro destination neighborhood bakery, as they seem to be planning, then she should embrace that and own her part in it. Or she should decide definitively that Langer's is just a placeholder for her, in which case, Marky Mark is absolutely right: She needs to stop meddling, put her head down and be a good little employee, and handle her eventual exit with grace and integrity. And, Jean, for the love of god, either eat the damn salad and ask the girl out, or order the sloppy joes you actually want and find someone less scrawny to obsess over.” Jean is still pining for Yoga Actress, who has landed solidly somewhere in the “affectionate friend” zone, but trying to maintain the healthier lifestyle she adopted as part of her wooing process has made Jean so morose that she has lost her oomph for taking things to the next level.

“It isn't as easy as all that, Ruth. You might be interested to know that Jean and I don't necessarily live in your black-and-white world of numbers that add up or don't. You might give us both a little bit of support for the stuff that falls into the gray areas.”

“Thank you,” Jean says, reaching over to my plate and taking another onion ring.

“Don't push it, lady; order some of your own if you want more,” I say, winking at her. “Look, Ruth, I get where you are coming from; I get where Mark is coming from. I'm just saying that I don't know whether I'm actually ready to be sure about the situation yet, and I don't want to make a mistake, for me or for Herman. But I do know that in the short term, I'm not going to feel bad about making him more money. Because until I hear from Herman that his goal is to sell and leave, and that it isn't just what Mark wants, then I don't see harm in his business improving. How do I know what Mark's motivations are? Maybe he just wants his dad in a facility so that he doesn't have the inconvenience of having to check in all the time, or schlepping to the old neighborhood to visit.”

“Which is both possible and none of your business,” Ruth says, taking a small handful of her fries and putting them on Jean's plate by way of peace offering.

“It's—”

“None. Of. Your. Business.” Ruth shakes her head at me. “He is a nice old man who is not related to you by blood or choice; he is your boss, and not your responsibility, and his relationship with his son or his son's motivations are not your concern. If no one is doing anything that should be reported to the police, keep your pert little nose out of it, Soph, seriously. Figure your own shit out and act accordingly.”

“While I may disagree with the tone, I do agree with that part of the message. He's a dear old thing, but Ruthie is right; you have to keep things separate. Decide what you want and need, but don't try to meddle, especially between a parent and a child; it is too complicated.” Jean's dad died when she was little, and her mom has Alzheimer's and is in assisted living near Jean's sister in the burbs.

This is the moment I decide that I am never going to tell them about WeddingGirl.com. If they think that adding some
stuff to the menu at the bakery is meddling, god knows how they would react to my giving advice to strangers on the Internet, and for money no less.

“Fine,” I say. “I get it; duly noted. I will keep you posted.” I wave the waiter over. “We are going to need a basket of chicken tenders with both ranch and BBQ sauce, and a basket of the sweet potato fries.” I stick my tongue out at Ruth and smile at Jean. What's the old saying? “Never trust a skinny chef”? I'm embracing all of my trustworthiness.

Ruth shakes her head. “And another round of drinks. Go big or go home, ladies.”

“And you can take this,” Jean says with a grin, handing him her half-finished salad with a flourish. And he leaves the three of us laughing.