Wedding Girl (18 page)

“Thanks for your help today, sweetheart. I really appreciate it.”

“It was fun, Dad. She's going to really love it.”

He smiles broadly. “I think so too. Just funky enough for your Mom, and just normal enough for you and your grandmother!”

“True enough.”

A waiter whisks away our plates and agrees to wrap up my last quarter of a sandwich, and my dad orders cheesecake with two forks and a coffee. The leftover sandwich will be the perfect thing to eat before I head out to meet Jake, just a little something in my tummy so that if we decide to drink alcohol, it won't hit me on an empty stomach.

“And what about you? Bubbles says things are really getting exciting at the bakery. Your mom and I are both trying to keep Saturday afternoon a bit open, so we can swing by.”

“It's a lot of work, but things are definitely picking up. One of the local food bloggers called about doing a feature, so Herman is meeting with her today to give her a tour of the kitchen and do a little interview about the relaunch. We have probably seen about a twenty percent increase in weekday business, and weekends are just hopping, so if that can continue, there's a fighting chance.”

“Your words sound positive, but I know those eyes, pumpkin. What are you worried about?”

“Foodies are fickle. It's always about the next big thing, the
hot new item. It's great that the business is picking up, and we don't seem to have lost any of our old regulars, but I'm not yet noticing many new regulars—just a stream of new faces, people checking us out. Plus it's beautiful weather; people are out and about. But winter? With no designated parking? People have to really be craving our products specifically to get through those slow times.”

“So you're worried that this uptick is just people being curious and following the latest thing, and that they won't become a solid customer base you can count on.”

“Exactly. Especially when Cake Goddess opens. Then she'll be the hot new thing in the neighborhood, with her parking lot and her massive inventory and specialty items for dietary restrictions, and I just don't know if we have enough time to get under the skin of enough people in the neighborhood to keep them once she's open.”

“You're doing everything you can; that's all you can do. And you don't know what will happen once that new place opens. After all, isn't supporting local small businesses a faddish trend right now too?”

Bless his heart. “Yeah, Dad. It is. Who knows? Maybe we'll survive!”

“If you do, you do. If you don't, you'll know you gave it your all. Isn't that what counts?”

“Of course it is.”

The waiter arrives with a massive slab of cheesecake and two clean forks. I thought I wouldn't have room for more than a bite, but after that first taste of dense, rich, tangy cake, I know that between us we'll clean the plate.

“Anything else going on? I know this is all a lot for you to process, us selling the house, moving, getting married.”

If he only knew. All of those things are really back burner
on my list of stressors. “It's all great. I'm very happy for you on both accounts.”

He nods and chews another huge bite of cheesecake thoughtfully, in a way that lets me know he isn't going to poke at me further but he doesn't fully believe me either. “Well, get ready, because now that we've finalized most of the decisions for the house, your mom is about to really get into wedding-planning mode, and I'm afraid you're going to bear the brunt.”

I laugh. My mom was always something of a terror when it came to event planning. It just was never in her natural wheelhouse, and anytime they decided to have a party, whether it was a Cinco de Mayo celebration or New Year's Eve, or even the one year they hosted a party for the Super Bowl, it always turned my mother into a crazy person. Or a “dirling whervish,” as I mispronounced it as a kid. “You tell her to bring it on. I'm ready when she is.”

“Careful what you wish for. Last night I found her making lists and muttering to herself at two in the morning about canapés.”

“Oh no. It's going to be like Obama election night all over again,” I say.

“Probably worse,” my dad admits. In 2008, my mom planned a big election-night party, figuring their friends would want to be together to either celebrate or commiserate. For a month she obsessed over the food, waffling between getting it catered or making it herself and unfortunately deciding on making it all herself. Then the menu choices became the thing waking her in the night. When my dad said it didn't matter what she served, she literally yelled at him that she was not going to
jinx the election
by choosing food that was either too celebratory or too comforting, somehow having decided that if they either bought champagne or made mac and cheese, they could alter the course
of history. When the day rolled around, the crowd got a strange combination of canapés and crudités, hot dogs, roasted chicken, spaghetti and meatballs, brisket, and beer, and my mother spent most of the party hiding in her room with a tension headache.

“We'll have to keep her in check. And frankly, we'd better get a move on if we're looking at sometime soon after Labor Day. That's only a couple of months off!” I say.

“Well, we're thinking of moving it back a bit, maybe mid to late October. The new place is going to be done right before Labor Day, and your mom thinks it will be easiest to move first, so that the wedding is its own thing.”

“Seems smart. You don't want to be pulled in two different directions. Better to focus on one thing at a time. Plus you'll get a better deal on wedding stuff not connected to a holiday weekend.”

“Aren't you full of excellent advice!”

If he only knew. “That's me, your source for all things wedding.” Truer words were never spoken.

“How lucky for us. We also wanted you to know that even though my dad left her well provided for, we have put some extra money in Bubbles's trust, and plan to do so every year, so her monthly income should get a nice increase. And we've created a new trust that will cover anything hers doesn't in the eventuality of her needing to either move to assisted living or hire some in-home help.”

“That is so great, Dad. I know she will really appreciate it.”

He laughs. “You know no such thing. The only way we got her to agree was by telling her that it was to our advantage taxwise and that she was doing us a huge favor by accepting the money and the annual gifts. We didn't even tell her about the second trust. I manage her stuff, so she doesn't need to know.”

“Papa Sol would be very proud.”

“Thank you. I think he would.” He pauses. “Your mother and I also wanted to do something for you.”

“Please tell me I'm not getting a baby brother; it would just be too much.” My heart stops. This is it.

He laughs again. “I think we are safely beyond that possibility. No, we know that you are staying with Bubbles to help her out, and also to save up some money. But when it is time for you to move on, whenever you decide that is, we wanted you to know that we have also set aside some money in a trust for you so that we can help you buy a new place. It isn't enough probably to buy something outright, but it is enough that you will have a really good down payment.”

My eyes prick with tears. “Oh, Daddy.”

“Now, now, none of that; this is happy! Bubbles is doing great, but eventually either she will need more help than you can provide, or you will find a different job that will make it less convenient to live there, and we want to help you get that new start whenever you are ready for it.”

“That means the world to me. Thank you so much.”

“In the meantime, it doesn't hurt to have a little extra
pushke
,” he says, using the Yiddish word, which we always use to describe a little mad money you have stashed around. He slides over an envelope. Inside is a check for $2,500. “Just between you and me.” He winks. I notice the check is from his personal account, not the joint one he shares with my mom.

“I won't tell.” I think about the fat check I am about to send to Visa, and the fact that even though I didn't make any money on the sale of my condo, I will someday be able to afford a real place of my own again, and I suddenly feel ready to take on the world.

He raises an eyebrow at me as we both glance down at the last bite of cheesecake. I narrow my eyes at him, fork at the ready, and we both pounce at once.

I'm going to call that last sweet, delicious bite a solid victory, although considering his generosity and the current tightness of my waistband, good sense might have recommended I let him win.

“You look wonderful, schnookie,” Bubbles says when I come downstairs. “A vision!”

After I got home I had a big thank-you call to my mom, carefully leaving out any mention of dad's extra bonus. She was glad that I was excited and reminded me that I should only take into account my own needs, and not worry about Bubbles, when considering moving to my own place. I assured her that where I am is very much the best place for me to be right now, and if that changed, I would be sure to let her know. Then I took an epic nap, sleeping the sleep of the dead for nearly three and a half hours. The side of my face still bears a faint shadow image of the pillowcase; apparently my skin doesn't bounce back the way it once did. I'm hoping the lighting at Café Nizza isn't too bright.

“I'm glad I pass muster.”

“Oy. Stop licking that, Snatch. That is very rude,” she scolds the dog, who is having a spectacular buttmunch at our feet. “I have something for you.” She walks over to the side table in the hallway. When she turns around, she is holding a leather-bound copy of
Sense and Sensibility
and a red carnation.

“Oh, Bubbles, you are so funny. I was joking about the book and the flower. I don't think he would expect it.”

“I know, but I think it's good luck. Plus it looks much better to be sitting alone reading a lovely book than scrolling through your iPhone.”

I think about this for a moment and realize she's right.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it. What are you up to tonight? Hot date?”

She blushes prettily. “Just a quiet dinner out with a friend, and maybe the free concert in the park; it's such a nice night.”

“Well, that sounds lovely. Enjoy it.” I kiss her cheek, take a deep breath, and head for the car. I'm lucky and find a legal parking space just up the street from the café, a magical freebie spot that is blocked for loading during the day, so it can't be part of the egregiously expensive metered system we have here in Chicago.

Café Nizza is charming, and fortunately not crowded. I get a small two-top in the window, place my red carnation in full view on the table, and order a tea from the waitress. She tells me about the Tokay tasting, a six-dollar flight of three wines, or ten dollars for six, and hands me the menu of daily specials. I check my phone; I'm fifteen minutes early. I emailed Jake a couple of days ago just to say that I would be at the café around seven. He replied that he still didn't have his schedule for the day, but thanked me again for the heads-up. Even though it is possible he won't come, I figured it is always better to be the early one, the one seated and settled and calm, instead of walking through a strange place looking for an unfamiliar face.

My tea arrives, and I look over the menu while it steeps. A short list of sandwiches and salads, a daily soup special, a daily quiche special, and a long list of classical pastries, napoleons and éclairs and opera cakes. The Hungarian ownership is evident; there are Dobos tortes, several kinds of strudels, cream cake, and walnut cake. Traditional cookies and sweet breads. It all looks fantastic, and suddenly the last quarter of my sandwich, which I ate in my bathrobe while trying to apply makeup in a “natural” way that made my skin look decent and not like I'd troweled on buttercream, is gone and my stomach rumbles. And there is the description of the tasting wines, all Tokaji, from dry wines that would pair well with savory items to the very sweet dessert wines.

I add milk and sugar to my tea and take a deep draught, hoping it will stave off my hunger a bit. I check my phone again; it is 6:59. Jake could be here any second. I open my book and am immediately immersed in Jane Austen's wonderful language, and the world of the Dashwoods. It's only when I turn a page and realize I've hit chapter two that I think to check my phone again. 7:12. It isn't like we had a set meeting time; I had just said that this is when I would be here. The waitress refills my teapot with hot water. I return to my book, grateful for Bubbles's insistence, and wondering why I haven't read this one recently when I remember loving it so much in high school.

“Are you cheating on my father?” A voice comes from above my head.

“I'm not dating your father, Junior,” I say to Mark, who is hovering over me. He's dressed in a pair of gray pants and a lightweight cotton shirt in a blue that seems very familiar. I look down. Same color as my new shirt. We look like the Bobbsey Twins.