Wedding Girl (17 page)

Jake—

I'll be the girl with the red carnation reading Jane Austen ;)

S

S—

I'll be the guy with the bad comb-over and enormous gut. (Just kidding!)

J

This makes me laugh, and I get back to answering emails. I feel good. It isn't a date, not a real thing; he might not end up being available that night. But if he is, it seems a safe and casual way to connect in person. Just to see. And if nothing else, making the offer feels like the kind of thing the pre-Dexterbacle me would do.

It's a big night and I'm feeling very productive, having told three people to do various edible take-home gifts; two to skip expensive flowers in favor of potted succulents or flowers; three to not do an expensive open bar but instead to have wine, beer,
sparkling water, and one signature cocktail; and six to suck it up and invite their future mothers-in-law to the bachelorette party. I've suggested to one woman that she ask her fiancé if perhaps they could take the lovely stones out of his mother's ghastly engagement ring setting and reset them in something more her taste. I've gently told one bridezilla that she cannot ask her bridesmaids to lose weight, one that she can't make hers change their haircuts, and a third that she can't ask them to sign a contract promising not to sleep with any of the groomsmen. I've offered one mother of the bride with a nervous stomach some wisdom about the effective use of pre-wedding Imodium.

I'm just gearing up to log off when my email pings.

Peanut—

Just got done with a long brief and realized I wanted to ask you something the other night, but couldn't get you alone.

I'm thinking if your mom and I are going to do this thing, she deserves something shiny to make it officially official. Would you be available next week sometime to go ring shopping with me? You know I'm useless with this kind of stuff, and if you wait forty-some years to propose, the ring better be the right one.

Love, Dad

Dad—

I'd be honored to come shopping with you. I'm free Thursday during the day, why don't I make us an appointment with Ruth's client, the diamond broker? That way you can actually design the perfect ring, and we'll get a good deal. Would 11 work for you?

Sophie

Soph—

11 would be perfect, and then maybe I can take you to lunch?

Dad

Dad—

Only if we can go to Eleven City Diner.

XO

Soph—

NOW you're talking! Go to bed, it's very late.

Dad

Good. Now I can make sure of three important things. One, I will not someday inherit some horrible clunker of a ring. Two, I will have some distraction on Thursday to prevent me from being too nervous about my maybe-date with Jake. And three, I can eat a club sandwich the size of Wyoming with a chocolate phosphate, and really, that is always a good thing. Thinking about a chocolate phosphate suddenly makes my willingness to go to bed less interesting than a snack. I put on my robe and pad downstairs.

“What are you doing up?” I say when I discover Bubbles in the kitchen, cutting thick slices of the new challah test I brought home yesterday. The rich eggy dough is rolled with cinnamon, dried golden mulberries, and toasted pumpkin seeds.

“Sometimes the salad that seemed like a good idea for dinner disappears when you've peed five or six times.”

Bubbles believes in certain food truths. You will be hungry an
hour after you eat Chinese food, there is always room in the dessert compartment, and any and all salad consumed, no matter how large or full of goodies like cheese or chunks of ham or chicken, is completely eliminated through urination. And since, as she loves to say, she has the bladder of an incontinent flea, salad disappears quite quickly around these parts.

“I see. So what are you bolstering it with?”

“Well, I was going to just make some toast with your wonderful new bread, but now that you're up . . .”

“French toast with ice cream?” One of our traditional favorite late-night snacks. Sort of a faux bread pudding.

“It seems appropriate?”

I start getting out the ingredients. “I told Jake I would meet him next week.”

“Good. It's the right thing to do.”

“We'll see. I'm a little nervous.”

“That's natural. But it's good for you. To get out. Meet new people. I'll buy you an outfit.”

“Bubbles . . .” I love her impulse but hate to think of her spending money on me.

“Bubbles nothing. I can buy my only grandchild a new outfit if I want. You could use something that makes you feel good, strong. We'll go this weekend.” She has her no-nonsense tone on, so I know arguing is no use.

“Thank you; that will be fun. A big shopping week for me. I'm going with Dad to help him find an engagement ring.”

“Oy, thank goodness. Don't let him get some mood ring, or some horrible colored stone or weird shape. Your mother needs a proper white diamond, in a proper platinum setting. You promise me.”

“I promise.” I slip the bread, which has fully absorbed the egg and cream mixture, into the bubbling butter as Bubbles gets two shallow bowls out of the cupboard. After a moment I
check the toast, now deeply golden and crispy on the bottom, and flip each piece, hearing the satisfying sizzle. I slide another knob of butter into the pan.

“Good. Settled.”

I check the toast again and give it a poke with my finger. It is browned and crunchy on the outside and custardy within. I slide two slices into each bowl and drizzle the now-nutty browned butter over each one, then add a sprinkling of coarse sea salt. Bubbles tops them with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. We take our bowls and go sit in the Nook.

A grumbling snorting noise announces the arrival of Snatch, lured down from his bed upstairs by the scent of cooking, despite his girth making stairs a major annoyance for him. Bubbles puts her bowl, with one last small piece of French toast and a few spoonfuls of melted goodness, under the table for the dog, who snarfs it up greedily with exuberant grunts. The dog's smooshed face is covered in butter and melted ice cream, and I resist the urge to chuckle as he works his paws over the parts of his mug that he can't reach with his tongue.

Bubbles yawns as she retrieves the bowl from the floor; she places a hand in the small of her back as she straightens with a wince. I see the soft, thin, wrinkled skin of her face, without her usual carefully applied concealer masking the darker skin under her eyes. I hate these moments when her age announces itself so clearly; her personality is so full of life and fire that I am able to forget for long stretches that she is an old person.

“Let me get that. It's two in the morning. If you don't go to bed soon, how on earth will you have the energy to rattle around in the bathroom at four thirty?”

She smacks me on my tush as I clear the bowls. “Smart-ass.”

“Better than being a dumb-ass.” My standard response.

“True enough. Then I won't argue. I love you, sweetheart; thank you for snacking with me.”

“It's always a pleasure.” I lean over and kiss her, and take the pinch on my cheek. She shuffles off, the dog waddling at her heels, and I load the detritus of our little feast into the dishwasher, saying a prayer that I have many more years of these special times to enjoy with her.

And wondering exactly what kind of outfit I should buy to wear to meet Jake.

(1934)

Every woman wants love. To deprive a woman of love is to deprive her of life itself.

•
CARY GRANT AS DR. MAURICE LAMAR
•

“Sophie? What are you doing here on your day off?” Herman says sleepily, coming into the kitchen.

I hadn't slept much at all last night. I've got my ring shopping and lunch adventure with my dad today, followed by a long swath of time I plan to devote to the ever-expanding inbox full of Wedding Girl requests, followed by my could-be date with Jake. And my head will not shut off.

Bubbles and I talked about it when we were shopping for my new outfit over the weekend, a pair of flowy linen wide-leg pants in a soft gray, with a simple French blue cotton top that is a faux wrap design. The shirt shows off my small waist while masking my belly, and keeps the girls locked and loaded, while the pants do a great job of making my ever-burgeoning tush less obvious. It's the kind of outfit that a normal girl would think of as a casual toss-on for a summer evening, but for me, it feels fancy and dressed up. Bubbles is loaning me one of her antique Hermès floral scarves for a bit of oomph. But even with a new
outfit that makes me feel almost pretty for the first time since my non-wedding day, I'm awfully nervous.

“What's the worst that could happen?” Bubbles asked me over afternoon tea and shortbread cookies after our shopping. “He seems like a nice person to you, someone who could be a friend. It doesn't have to be romance.”

“What about my past?”

“What about it? We all have a past, lovey. Yours might have a few bits and pieces that are more public than others, but that doesn't make them worse, just more available. I think you should own it, all of it. After all, the only thing the world loves more than watching someone fall is watching them rise again.”

“And what if I like him?”

“Would that be so bad? I know I'm good company, but a night out here and there wouldn't exactly be the worst thing, would it?”

“Of course not. But he might not like me.”

“He might not. Anyone can be an idiot. If he doesn't, he doesn't; the next one will.”

This made me grin. “I love you.”

She winked at me and reached for another cookie.

Her words kept me mostly calm all week as I tested new recipes and stocked the walk-in with all kinds of yummies for this weekend's big party. But last night, despite being bone-tired and staying up till nearly two answering Wedding Girl queries, I couldn't sleep. So after tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I finally gave it up, threw on my clothes, scribbled a note for Bubbles, and headed to the bakery. The soft air of the summer morning was refreshing as I walked in the pale blue predawn light. I let myself into the bakery quietly and relocked the door behind me. And then I went to the kitchen.

Ever since I can remember, a kitchen, any kitchen, is my
place of calm and solace. Growing up, if I was stressed about school, I'd make batch after batch of brownies or chocolate chip cookies. In culinary school, despite cooking all day, if something was bothering me, I'd be back in the kitchen tweaking it or testing some new idea. So there I was, at four thirty in the morning, head spinning circles, stomach fluttery, looking for peace. By the time Herman appears at six thirty, I've done a double batch of my version of an upgraded pinwheel, making a homemade honey oat graham cookie base, a piped swirl of soft vanilla honey marshmallow cream, and a covering of dark chocolate mixed with tiny, crunchy Japanese rice pearls. I've made a test batch of a riff on a Nutter Butter, two thin, crisp peanut butter cookies with a layer of peanut butter cream sandwiched between them. My dad always loved Nutter Butters; he could sit in his office for hours working on briefs, eating them one after another. I figured he would be my best taster, so might as well try them and bring some with me later today. And I've just pulled a new brownie out of the oven: a deep, dark chocolate base with a praline pecan topping, sort of a marriage of brownie and that crispy top layer of a good pecan pie.

“Lots to do, Herman, still plenty of things for the weekend, and I couldn't sleep. So I figured I'd pop in and be productive.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.” Herman shuffles out to the front to brew us a pot, and I pull together a plate of the new offerings. Might as well do a little tasting. I make some notes on the new recipes and pack up a dozen of the peanut butter cookies in a box to bring to my dad, throwing in a few of the pinwheels and two still-warm brownies for my mother, the chocoholic.

Herman returns with two steaming mugs, both lightened with cream and sweetened with sugar. Herman still holds to the old traditions: coffee light and sweet at breakfast and morning snacks, and black and bitter from lunchtime to dinner, and
only espresso with lemon twists after dinner. He pulls a stool up to the table, and as I reach for my coffee, I push the plate of samples towards him.

“Homemade pinwheels and Nutter Butters, and praline pecan brownies.”

Herman slowly and thoughtfully tastes each one in turn, cleansing his palate with coffee between each mouthful. I take a pinwheel first; the thin chocolate layer crackles, the little rice pearls pop like a Nestlé Crunch bar, the marshmallow is so soft it is barely set but has enough body not to drip, and the cookie provides a nutty, crunchy base that has enough salt and savory oomph to prevent the whole thing from going too sweet. The Nutter Butters are a slam dunk: super-crispy cookie and smooth, luscious filling, with deep peanut butter flavor. The brownies are going to need a little tweaking; the flavors are good, and I like the concept, but the praline topping is staying too solid, and when you bite into it, it breaks in awkward shards, making the eating complicated. If something is meant to be eaten out of hand, I want it to eat easily and with minimal mess. If it is the kind of thing that ends up half down your bra after the first bite, then it is more annoying than wonderful, and the tastes get forgotten.

“Delicious, as usual, my dear,” Herman says, picking a piece of praline out of his shirt pocket and popping it into his mouth.

“I'll work on the topping for that one, so it's less messy.”

“Good idea.”

“Let's save the pinwheels for this weekend, you can sell the rest of the peanut butter ones today, and we'll cut up the brownies small just for samples, and tell people we sold out but they'll be available this weekend.”

“A good plan. And all wonderful. But why aren't you sleeping?” Herman looks at me over the rim of his little reading glasses.

I smile at him, touched by his grandfatherly concern. “Just excited for the weekend.”

“Me too. I hope everyone comes.”

“They'll come. Don't you worry.” Amelia has been helping me pump up the social media stuff, and we even got a small mention in the
Reader
and the
RedEye
. The weather is supposed to be perfect, low eighties and not humid, so people will be out and about, and the neighborhood street festival is just two blocks away, so there should be good foot traffic.

“My faith is in you, so if you say they are coming, I believe. Now, I need you ready and rested for this weekend, so will you please leave all this; I will clean it up. Go home and get some sleep.”

I can see in his face that it is important to him, and suddenly I do feel a little tired, so I nod and kiss his cheek, then remove my apron and place it into his outstretched hand.

I'm just pulling the door closed behind me when I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Mark in the Suit. Only he's not in a suit; he's in shorts and a sleeveless shirt, and is dripping with sweat.

“Hello, Sophie. This is a surprise.”

“Mark.” I suppress a yawn.

“I'd shake your hand, but I'm a little damp.”

Yeah. Like the polar vortex was “a little chilly.” “It's okay. What brings you here at this hour?”

“I like to mix up my runs. Can't do the same route day in and out; gets too boring. Plus I wanted to stop in and see Dad while I'm in town. Is he downstairs or up?”

“In the kitchen.” I pause. Then something occurs to me. He said it was a surprise, but he knows I work here. And probably knows my day off. “Figured I wouldn't be here?”

His already-reddened face turns a single shade darker. “It is your day off, I thought.”

“Wow. This is a lot of effort to avoid me.”

“Not avoiding, just aware, and to be honest, I just wanted to see my dad and not get into the business thing.”

“You could be supportive of him, you know? What do you have to lose? If we succeed, it will make your dad both happy and financially solvent, and if we fail, you get to be right, and nothing feels better than being right. This whole thing is a win-win for you.” This comes out a little bitchier than I mean it to.

“Well, I can't argue with logic like that. Have a good day off, Sophie, and I'm sure I'll see you this weekend.”

“I'm glad you'll be coming. It will mean a lot to your dad.”

“Oh, and just my two cents . . . The new Twinkie? The filling needs a little more structure. Right now it feels sort of like whipped cream, and it's missing that texture of the Hostess cream filling. Maybe a spoonful or two of marshmallow cream? Add some body?”

This makes my stomach tighten. I made four different batches, trying to get the right texture by adding gelatin, whipped coconut oil, pastry cream, whipped egg whites. But he's right. A little bit of Fluff might just be the ticket. And the fact that he both noticed that the pastry wasn't quite right
and
had the potential solution off the cuff . . . that really annoys the crap out of me.

“Thanks for the advice. Always appreciate having another mouth on the team. Can't make these things perfect enough.”

He smacks his stomach, which I notice looks pretty flat and tight with his wet shirt sticking to it. Not six-packy, but definitely not soft. Actually I'm now noticing that his whole body is much better than what one would have presumed was under those suits. Muscles are present but not so defined as to be ridiculous. He looks healthy and fit, not ripped, and I'm reminded of the little tingles from our first meeting. Before he turned out to be an asshole.

“Always happy to help.”

“Yeah, that's you. Mr. Helpful.” I turn back to the door and unlock it. “Here you go. Make some noise when you go in, so you don't scare him; he never puts his hearing aids in till he opens to the public.”

Mark tips an imaginary hat and opens the door forcefully, so that the bells on the back peal loudly. And I realize that whatever Zen-like calm I had achieved, however quiet my head had been five minutes ago, it's all gone with just that brief interchange with stupid sweaty Mark and his stupid smug face. I check my watch; it's nearly seven. I'm meeting my dad at eleven. Which, if nothing else, gives me a solid three hours to do Wedding Girl emails, and that should get me close to even with the inbox. As Bubbles always says, no point heading north if the path veers west. I take a deep breath, and head for home.

“I'm going to explode,” my dad says, rubbing his stomach gleefully. He's just put down a massive sandwich piled with corned beef, pastrami, chopped liver, and Swiss cheese, with a side of crispy onion strings and a vanilla malt.

“Tilt,” I say, making the time-out signal with my hands. I managed to get three-quarters of the way through a turkey club with no tomatoes and Thousand Island instead of mayo, with a pile of extra-crispy fries and a chocolate phosphate. Not to mention the bucket of pickles, and the soup, chicken with kreplach and noodles for him, sweet-and-sour cabbage for me.

“But we're still splitting a piece of cheesecake?”

“Well, of course!” It's been a lovely visit. My dad was bewildered at the diamond dealer, but he was quickly put at ease. We talked about my mom's style, nontraditional; the eventual wedding ring, to be worn separately, not stacked; and the budget, which would have paid off half of my remaining debt in one whack—a thought I forced myself to forget the moment I caught
myself dwelling on it. We ended up getting her a gorgeous two-carat oval with a lot of sparkle, which will be set lengthwise across the finger instead of in the traditional manner. The setting is a wide matte platinum band, and on either end of the center stone are three tiny round fire opals, glowing deep orange, which is Mom's favorite color. It is going to be glorious, unusual, but still very elegant, and I just know she will be blown away.