Wedding Girl (26 page)

Brian and I are back, having dinner tonight with pal from college who recently moved to town, and would love to know more locals besides the two of us. I know it's last minute but are you available? Would love to have you join us. Just going for casual Italian over at Buona Terra. 8pm?

The bakery closes at seven, so I should have time to go home quickly to change, and I know that Bubbles is attending the symphony tonight. Plus I love that Amelia is so kind; I know if I moved here and didn't know many people, I would totally want what few friends I did have to introduce me to their circle. I'm really flattered she would think of me, and even though part of me feels like I should go home and knock out Wedding Girl replies, I didn't have any red exclamation points in the inbox. And if I do answer emails, I'll have to think about how to
reply to my mother, which is pretty much the last thing I want to deal with, either online or in person. I'm just about to accept the invite when my phone pings again.

Also, he's single and cute, so that can't hurt, right? ;)

Hell to the no. A fix-up double date? Out of the blue? With less than an hour after work to pull myself together? Thank god I hadn't finished typing my reply. I delete the part I had written about meeting them there, and instead decline as politely as I can.

So sorry, tonight not good. But thanks for thinking of me! We'll make plans soon . . . Ruth wants to do a girls night to celebrate Jean's new freedom.

Looks like it's going to be the computer and me tonight after all, but here's what I know: I'm in a far better headspace to deal with my mother than with a date.

Damn, but worth a try. And I'm not giving up on this one, he's a good guy, and I think you'll like him, so be prepared for my cashing a rain check. Girls night sounds good. Talk soon.

Bless her little meddling heart.

Herman comes through the door to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “What is that smell?”

I gesture to the pans cooling on the racks. “Milk bread. Hopefully our new signature bring-them-in-by-the-hundreds, can't-live-without-it offering.”

“That's a lot of pressure on some rolls.”

“Yep.”

He peers at them over the tops of his glasses. He pokes one gently. “May I?”

“They're still too hot. Give them fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. How are we looking on the cake? Did you read the packet?”

“Yeah, I did. I think we'll be good; we just need to start with the theme. Did you have any ideas?”

“You know me. I want a cake to look like a cake.”

“Well, then forget how you want it to look; how do you want it to represent us?”

“By being delicious!”

I laugh. “That's a given. But what are our best qualities? What are we trying to convey?”

He considers this for a moment. “I think it should just represent who we actually are. A neighborhood bakery, serving the people in our community, making simple things that are wonderful and bring joy to people.”

“Okay. And how are we specifically Chicago?”

“Chicago is a city of neighborhoods. We aren't trying to be all things to all people; we just want to be good neighbors. What's more Chicago than that?”

“You make a good point. Now we just have to figure that out visually.”

“I know you can do it!”

“Your faith is admirable.” How on earth am I going to visually depict Chicago's neighborhood feel?

Herman reaches for a side towel and the nearest pan, which he flips over deftly, releasing the four conjoined rolls onto the rack. I'm delighted to see how easily they came out of the pan, and that they are golden and crusty on the bottoms. He pulls one roll off the set, releasing a cloud of steam. I can see how the interior stretches, little shreds pulling apart, very elastic and tender. That's a good sign. Herman breaks off a piece and blows on it gently before putting it in his mouth. And then his eyes close. He chews and swallows, and when he opens his eyes, they are moist with tears.

“My mother's bread,” he says simply. I reach for a roll and pull off a bite, savoring the slight sweetness, the softness, the pop of salt on the top, and I know what he means. Whatever the recipe, the emotion behind this simple bread is home cooking; it's Thanksgiving, it's Sunday supper. It's the bread of our mothers and grandmothers and favorite aunts. It's home. I can feel my eyes well up a bit myself. Herman puts an arm around me, and we finish our rolls in damp silence.

I take a swig of my gin and tonic, and face the computer.

Dear First Time Bride—

Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, and I'm sorry for the complications that it is presenting.

I think first and foremost, you should have the day YOU want. And you can't worry about whether your daughter thinks it is wonderful or awful, it isn't her day. The best advice I can give about weddings in general is that what other people think of you is none of your business. The only opinions that matter are yours and your husband to be. If you start planning a wedding based on public perception, or crowdsourcing details, you'll end up with an event that isn't you, and the memories won't be what you want them to be.

For starters, I will say what I say to any bride who isn't 25. Only put the people in the room who you love most, who you most want to witness you saying those vows. This is not the time for old acquaintances, casual colleagues, or everyone in the Rolodex. If you've waited this long to marry this man, you want the day to be about the two of you and the family and friends around you who are the most important to the life you've built
together. That might be 20 people or it might be 200, but you should only fill the space with the people that mean the most. My rule of thumb is if it is someone you would pick up a phone and call directly to share important breaking news, good or bad, then they make the list.

As far as your daughter is concerned, I'd just tell her that you love her and that you would love for her to support you as you plan your wedding, in whatever way she feels comfortable. I think the clearer idea you have about the type of event you want, the easier it will be for everyone to communicate about it.

And there is nothing wrong with eloping if you and your fiancé decide it is the most “you.” You can always just plan a simpler party to celebrate after!

Best of luck,

Wedding Girl

I say a little prayer that the elopement message sinks in. It would be a load off everyone's mind and, I think, the best thing they could do, but even if we are still going full-bore wedding, hopefully she'll tone it down a little bit. For all of our sanity's sake.

(1934)

I want to see what love looks like when it's triumphant. I haven't had a good laugh in a week.

•
CLARK GABLE AS PETER WARNE
•

S—

Tonight I ate something called Spotted Dick. And it was delicious. I'm now wondering if I may be questioning my whole identity. I would give my left arm for a char dog or an Italian beef. I find myself dreaming of the crispy almost burnt cheese edges on a Pequod's pizza. How are things with the sassy old lady?

J

I love when I get to wake up to his emails. He tends to shoot off some little missive every third day or so. Just silly stuff usually, but sometimes he goes a little deeper. And slowly I'm revealing myself, as much as I can. I fessed up to living with my grandmother, but just said I had made some bad decisions career-wise and real estate investment–wise and was regrouping a bit. He was very kind and supportive, said I was smart to get out from under the condo before I ended up with something like a foreclosure or bankruptcy on my
record, and thinks it is sweet that I have such a close relationship with Bubbles. He assumes the Wedding Girl site is to build back up my savings and create a nest egg. I still have not been able to tell him my real name or job, or that I'm forty grand in debt on a wedding that didn't happen; he thinks I'm over at the hardware store helping good old Uncle Earl.

Considering his reaction to my being semi-unemployed and living with Bubbles, I probably should have just let the whole thing out, but it is still too tender, and now I like him too much to jeopardize it. I think it warrants a face-to-face conversation. I even thought briefly about suggesting Skype or FaceTime or one of those things, but then I tried it with Kenzie, my pal from culinary school who is doing a stage in Rome, and saw how I looked on the screen: pale, hair frizzed out. And the computer-camera angle does nothing for either of my current chins. Besides, our schedules are totally opposite. He is keeping insane hours at work, wanting the assignment to end sooner rather than later, and he spends at least half his week traveling to his company's holdings all over England. That and the time difference make anything but email a moot point. I'm at the bakery nearly round the clock, working up recipes for the competition cake after hours in addition to managing my usual load. I'm getting close to feeling good about the flavor combinations, which means I really need to amp it up in terms of the look. I still have no idea what our theme should be.

So when I saw his email this morning before I left for work, and read about how much he was missing some classic Chicago foods, it made me wonder.

J—

The old lady is a dynamo. I should have half her energy. I think a man who can order spotted dick without irony and enjoy it
thoroughly does not have anything to worry about in terms of his, um, inclinations.
But I do have a question for you. Since you are missing Chicago, if I were going to take a picture of something here, what do you think would be iconically Chicago, something that in one fell swoop would give you that sense of home that the city evokes in us?

S

While Herman went to some doctor's appointments, I spent the whole day at the bakery alone, playing with some new milk bread variations, dealing with just enough customers to keep me hopping. After closing, I stayed till nine doing prep for tomorrow, and with Jake's email in my head, I picked up a drippy Italian beef sandwich and fries from Al's and ate them in the den while watching the second half of
Lady with a Past
, which has one of my favorite movie lines ever:

“People who live in glass houses shouldn't live in glass houses.”

“They don't make them like that anymore, Snatch,” I say to the pup, giving him a belly rub. He wiggles in delight and then makes a little snorting noise. I've almost forgiven him for snarfing up the last quarter of my sandwich while I was in the bathroom. His stolen treat resulted in some truly horrific flatulence during the credits of the film, and a very scary deposit in the backyard, which I have every intention of letting Bubbles deal with when she gets home. When I go up to bed, I have a reply from Jake.

S—

This is going to maybe sound weird, I know most homesick guys would want a great picture of the skyline, or Navy Pier all lit up with the fireworks behind the ferris wheel, or a picture of
the 1985 Super Bowl Bears or something like that. But I think if you were going to take a single picture to make me feel
home
, it would be a picture of one of those classic old graystone three flats, like in Logan Square or one of those turn of the century neighborhoods, you know the ones that have the Chicago flag proudly on the porch instead of the American flag, and a Cub's W sign in the window. Maybe on a block party day, where the old people are sitting on the stoop gossiping about the neighbors, and someone is grilling Vienna Beef five to the pounds on a Weber in the front yard. That's quintessential Chicago to me, you know?

But you can also send me a picture of a pizza. I'm not picky.

J

And just like that the lightning bolt goes off in my head.

J—

You don't know it, but you are a genius.

S

I jump up from my bed and strip off my sweats, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and twist my hair into a more secure bun. It's so weird. Mark's birthday was last week and he was in California, and Herman asked me to help him freeze and ship a Pequod's pizza for him as a birthday treat. He also mentioned something about Mark going to an old friend's wedding a couple of weeks ago. If I didn't know better, I'd almost be tempted to think that Mark and Jake are one and the same. You know, if Mark weren't the total opposite of Jake in every possible way. It's kind of sad, really. Mark could be an actual decent human being with just a
little effort. I make a mental note to suggest Jake do his own website of advice for guys to make them likeable.

I hop down the stairs, toss a treat to Snatch, and scribble a quick note to tell Bubbles that I'm at the bakery and not to worry when she gets home and finds me gone, and that I've already walked the dog. I head out into the muggy night and jump in my car. I drive two blocks over and three blocks up, and there it is. A house Bubbles and I have walked by a million times in my life. The house where Bubbles grew up.

She's a beauty, a three-story graystone, one of those typical limestone mini-castles that are all over our fair city, with a turret and a wide stone porch, a Juliet balcony on the second level, and a little red tile roof. I take my phone out and snap a bunch of pictures, hoping the homeowners don't catch me.

Then I get back in my car and head for the bakery. I unlock the door quiet as can be, reach up to silence the bells, and relock it behind me. I walk through the dark store and back into the kitchen. I turn on the lights and wince as the bright fluorescents blare to life, reflecting off the steel worktables and white tile walls. I grab the big drawing pad that Herman and I have been using to sketch out ideas, and start to do a rough line drawing of Bubbles's old house. Once I have the basic structure down, with some key features, I start adding details. The Chicago flag on the porch. That Cubs W sign hanging off the balcony railing, and a Chicago Bears logo in the little third-floor window. I give it a front yard, with a guy in a “Hawks Fans Don't Give a Puck” apron manning a Weber kettle grill, and a table off to the side filled with the toppings for classic Chicago hot dogs, just like Jake said. My pencil is flying over the page. I put in some stick figures on the front stoop. A tall black iron fence with an orange “No Parking/Block Party” sign tied to it. A bag toss game set up in the front yard. I start to laugh. It's perfect. A three-flat, so
each level of the building will be its own tier. I can do some simple sugar work to make all the windows, and chocolate for the tile roof details. The people and other accessories can all be molded from fondant and gum paste and marzipan. We won't have to worry about it toppling over, since it is a huge, solid structure, but we'll have to get the look of the stone just right. I remember a technique I saw for brickwork, where you use slate tiles and a glue gun to actually make a template for rolling fondant into. You take the rough slate, make the brick pattern on it with the glue gun, and then make a silicone mold of the whole thing. Ends up with great texture, and you can roll fondant right over it and pull it off in large sheets. Much easier than trying to texturize flat sheets.

I start making a list of supplies I'll need for us to begin creating the molds and templates for the various components, when suddenly I hear a massive crash upstairs. My heart leaps into my throat. Herman!

I run from the kitchen into the store and grab the key to his secret door from its hiding place behind the counter. I unlock it and take the little rickety staircase two steps at a time, and open the door at the top of the stairs, into Herman's tidy little kitchen. I'm down the hall in a flash and into the bedroom, where I see something I will never be able to unsee.

Kneeling next to Herman, who is lying on the floor, is Bubbles, her hair a wild nest. She is putting a pillow under his head and murmuring to him in a soothing way.

And they are both exceptionally naked.

“The ambulance is on its way,” I say to Bubbles once she is in Herman's bathrobe and he is covered with the afghan from the foot of the bed.

“Okay, he's conscious, and his breathing seems fine, so I'm going to get dressed.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just a bit shaken, dear; that's all.”

“Well, that's to be expected.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm, um, just . . . surprised.”

“That makes three of us. Will you go downstairs and wait for the ambulance, honey?”

“Of course.”

I head back down the stairs, relocking everything behind me, and go out the front door of the store just as the sirens approach. I meet the paramedics outside and lead them up the front stairs to Herman's apartment. Bubbles is fully dressed, re-coiffed, and Herman is magically wearing a velour tracksuit but is still on the floor. Figuring they don't need me to hear any more detail than I've seen, I wait in the living room while Bubbles explains what happened.

Bubbles and Herman. It is at once the cutest thing imaginable and the most horrifying. I hear the words “was on top” come out of my grandmother's mouth, and decide I cannot stay up here. I head back downstairs. A few neighbors have wandered out to see what is going on, but so far they are all keeping a respectful distance.

There are some loud clumping noises, and pretty soon the paramedics reappear, with Herman in a strange contraption that looks like a chair on a two-wheeler, Bubbles right behind.

“Honey, I'm going to ride with him; we're going to Swedish Covenant. They'll bring him into the emergency room.” She hands me a slip of paper. “Can you please call Herman Jr. and have him meet us there?”

“Of course. I'll see you there.” I head back into the store, into the kitchen, and dial the number.