Wedding Girl (27 page)

“Hello?”

“Mark, it's Sophie.”

“Sophie, what's up?”

“Are you in Chicago?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Um, he's okay, but your dad is on his way to the Swedish Covenant hospital. I think he took a little fall.”

“Oh god, is anything broken?”

“Not as far as I know, but he's in the ambulance, and I'm on my way there now, so, um, we'll be in the emergency room.”

“I knew something like this would happen,” he says in a tone that could either be worry or annoyance. I can't really tell which. Then he sighs. “I'm glad you were there. Thank you, Sophie; I'll be there as soon as I can.”

I shut down the lights in the kitchen, and then grab a large box from up front and take it into the walk-in. I fill it with cookies and brownies, figuring everyone will need a little something to nibble on, and I'm a big believer of bribing doctors and nurses for attention. As I'm heading out, I grab a chocolate babka for good measure, and some of the paper plates and napkins and plastic flatware we keep under the counter. Then I lock up and head for the hospital.

By the time I get to the emergency room, Herman is already in a cubicle and Bubbles is at the front desk checking him in. I go to stand beside her as she hands over his insurance card and fills out paperwork.

She winks at me. “Schnookie, why don't you see if you can find us a quiet place to sit, and I'll be over as soon as all this is done?”

“Will do.” I spot an empty corner with a couch and some chairs, and go to commandeer it. Bubbles comes over to join me.

“Quite the night, huh?” I say.

“Indeed. But it looks like he will be fine; they don't think it was a heart attack or anything serious like that.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Yes. Poor fellow. I'm glad you're here, but what on earth were you doing downstairs at this hour?”

“Had an idea for the competition cake and wanted to sketch it and make some notes and lists and things. I guess I don't have to ask what you were doing upstairs at this hour!”

She blushes. “He's mortified, you know? He's wanted to tell you for weeks. What a way for you to find out!”

“Why on earth would you keep it a secret? Did you think I wouldn't approve? I'm delighted for you both.”

“It's complicated.”

“Seriously?” How complicated could it be?

“Seriously.”

“Because you both lost spouses you loved? Does it feel like cheating?”

“Goodness no, it's not that; it's just . . .”

“Bubbles, whatever it is, you know I won't judge you.” I wonder if she felt guilty having a romantic life when I have none. Like it would be rubbing my nose in it or something.

She looks me dead in the eye. “Herman and I have been what I believe you kids call ‘friends with benefits' for about the last couple of years. Only recently, he admitted that he wanted to explore taking it to a more serious place, and I realized that I too was feeling more for him than I had perhaps allowed myself to admit, but we didn't want to tell anyone until we were sure that we were fully compatible.”

Holy shit. My grandmother and Herman were sex buddies.

I try and make my face impassive. “Well, that seems very smart. And do you think you are? Fully compatible, I mean?” I refuse to let this get weird for her.

She smiles. “I think we love each other. Which neither of us had really anticipated.”

“I'm happy for you. You deserve that.”

“So we do.”

There is a warm breeze, and Mark comes flying into the emergency room, wearing jeans and a Chicago Cougars T-shirt. He spots us and comes over, greeting Bubbles with a respectful kiss on the cheek and nodding at me.

“How is he? Can I go in?” he asks.

“Give them some time; they are taking blood and other stuff. The doctor said that they would come out and get us when they were ready.”

“But he's fine?”

“He got up from bed too fast, felt a little woozy, may have lost consciousness for a second. Took a fall. They are doing X-rays to be sure, but they don't think he has any broken bones. Looks like just bruising and maybe some things might be slightly out of alignment in his lower back; he's having pain there. But they know it wasn't a heart attack. They are pretty sure it was some sort of vaguevaso something or other, nothing scary, but obviously they will do all the tests for stroke, et cetera. But he was talking and joking with the nurses when I left him, and said he wasn't in terrible pain.”

“You were both there?”

“I was upstairs with him. Sophie was downstairs in the store and heard the thump when he fell and came upstairs to help,” she says, her face impassive, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Which in a way, I suppose, it is.

Mark registers all of this information. “I see. Well then.” There is the tiniest hint of a kind smile playing around the corners of his mouth. For some reason, I find this strangely endearing. It also makes me feel a little sheepish about some of my stronger opinions of him.

The doctor comes out and finds us in our corner. The long and short of it is that after the exertions of the evening, Herman just got out of bed too fast and fainted. When he went down, he
gave himself a bit of a sprained knee, whiplash, a bruised shoulder where he landed on it, and some lower back spasms. They are going to keep him overnight for more tests, to completely rule out any other causes, but at the moment, all the crucial tests have come back negative for anything more frightening. He will need rest and probably some physical and occupational therapy for a bit, and he won't be able to do any heavy lifting for about a month while he heals up. The doctor says we can all go back to see him and keep him company while they wait for him to get admitted to a room.

“You go see your father, dear. We'll wait here till you're done,” Bubbles says.

“Thank you. I'll be back,” Mark says and follows the doctor back to the patient area.

“I thought I'd better let Herman do the serious talking on this one,” Bubbles says.

“Probably best.”

“What's in the box?”

I open it and slide it across the table to her. She looks inside and takes a huge brownie.

“Thank goodness. I'm ravenous!”

“I bet you are!” I say, and the two of us burst into laughter.

“So, the two of them are . . . ?” Mark asks me in the hallway. They got Herman into a room, and Bubbles is in there with him saying good night so I can take her home.

“Yep.”

“For years, apparently?”

“So it would seem.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Sophie . . .”

“Yes?”

“I am really glad you were there; I mean, I know your grandmother is a very capable woman, but it does make me feel better that you were, you know . . .”

“I know. And look, I can manage the store while he's recovering, no worries. But I think we are going to have to drop out of the cake competition.”

“You can't. You can't drop out. It'll kill him, and make him feel even worse.”

“I can't do it alone. I certainly can't do it alone and run the whole store, and I don't know where I would begin to find help.”

“What would you need? To do both, I mean.”

I think about this. “In the immediate, I need an assistant for the cake competition, to do the planning and practicing and prep work with me. For the next couple of weeks, that would be it. But then, for the last two weeks before the competition, I would need someone to help at the store, a second baker and maybe even someone to run front of house while I work on final prep, and then to keep things going the actual weekend of competition.”

“You've got it. So the assistant can be working with you after store hours and on Mondays when you're closed? And then more help full-time two weeks before the event to free you up completely?”

“That's right.”

“When do you need the assistant by?”

I think. “I can get through this weekend but would need them for at least a few hours on Monday.”

“Monday by three p.m. okay?”

“Of course.”

“Someone will be there.”

“Mark, that's . . .”

“Someone will be there.”

I sort of hate that my first impulse is to decline. I would
dearly love not to have to do the competition, and I don't know why Mark's generous offer feels so irksome to me. I guess deep down I know he is just worried about his dad. I'd be inclined to be more tolerant of him if only he weren't such a pompous douche canoe all the time.

Bubbles comes out and says to me, “Herman wants to see you, honey.”

I go into the room. Herman looks small there in the bed, all his big personality diminished.

“You aren't angry with me?” he asks.

I lean over and kiss his forehead. “Of course not, silly. I'm just so glad you didn't really damage yourself. You and my grandmother are going to have to stop going all Cirque du Bengay up there and be a little more careful.” I wink at him, and he smirks.

“What can I say? She's a heck of a woman.”

“Yes, she is. You're okay, really?”

“At the moment I'm full of drugs, but I know that the pain is coming. I'm mostly embarrassed.”

“Don't be. And don't worry. I've got the store covered, and Mar . . . Herman Jr. is going to get me some help for the cake contest.”

“He is?”

“He says he is.”

“We still need an idea.”

“I think we have one.” I fill him in on my brainstorm, the reason I was even there at all tonight.

“I love it. And I especially love that it is Betty's old house for the inspiration. She'll be so happy about that.”

“Yes, I think she will. You rest. Sounds like if you are a good boy, they'll release you tomorrow, and I'll come see you.”

“Thank you, my dear. And thank you for your blessing; it means everything to me.”

“She's been happier recently than I've ever seen her, so I think you are the one that needs thanking. Now you just have to heal quickly.”

I head back out into the hall. “He's all yours,” I say to Mark.

“Okay.”

“You talk to him, but I think you'll agree it's best,” Bubbles says to Mark.

“Only if you agree to my terms,” he replies cryptically.

“That's between the two of you, dear. You work that out with him.”

“She's a tough negotiator, this one,” he says to me.

“I wouldn't cross her,” I say.

“No. No, I wouldn't either. Thank you both again. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm going to stay here with him tonight, so I'll call in the morning when there is news.”

Bubbles and I head for my car.

“What was all that about?”

“I want Herman to come recuperate at our house. We have the guest room all set up on the first floor right next to the bathroom with the walk-in shower, and there's just the five steps up and down at the front door. He shouldn't be doing those stairs at his apartment, and his shower is in the bathtub, which isn't ideal. They said something about a residential rehab facility, but that just seems horrible, especially since he doesn't need such an intense level of care. The home health people can come to the house for his therapies. How would you feel about that?”

“I think it sounds smart. And I hate the idea of him in one of those places. It is lovely of you to want to care for him.”

“Mark says only if he can provide some help, cleaning services and other assistance, while Herman is in residence.”

“That seems fair and will be welcome.”

“You don't mind?”

I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Not at all.”

She squeezes back. “Thank you.”

I pause. “What are you going to tell my folks?”

“Crap,” she says. “I haven't the foggiest. We'll have to figure that out.”

“Yeah, that should be interesting.”

We get in the car. “Eggs and pancakes?” she asks.

“It's nearly three in the morning,” I say. “We'll also need sausage.”

“Golden Nugget?” she says.

“On my way.”

And we pull out into the night.

(1934)

WILLIAM POWELL AS NICK CHARLES:
Well, I do believe the little woman cares.

MYRNA LOY AS NORA CHARLES:
I don't care! It's just that I'm used to you, that's all.

If you've never lived with a pair of octogenarians, let me tell you. It is alternately the most hilarious thing you've ever experienced and the most annoying thing you can imagine.

For starters, as savvy and sassy as they are for their age, Bubbles and Herman are still elderly. In the past three days I've had to explain the
vast
difference between a “butt dial” and a “booty call,” I've discovered that without his hearing aids in, Herman's natural speaking voice is just shy of the decibel level of a 1972 Who concert, and I've learned about the private lives of the neighborhood biddies in excruciating detail. On the other hand, they are adorable; fully released into their public romance, they are sweet as can be, and both of them are glowing. If Herman weren't in a reasonable amount of pain, I'd be worried that there is some middle-of-the-night tiptoeing going on. Between the two of them and the fleet of nurses, assistants, cleaning ladies, and therapists who are in and out of the house like it's Union Station, what little time I have at home isn't exactly restful.

I'm trying to sneak a quiet breakfast in the Nook alone when I hear a long, resonant explosion of flatulence coming down the hall.

“Bubbles!”

“Oops. Didn't know you were about at this hour.”

“Well, goodness, if I wasn't awake before, I'd certainly be up now to see if the house was coming down!”

She swats at me. “It's your fault. You should know better than to feed an old woman ratatouille.”

I wave my hand over my nose. “Well, considering it's now like a monkey house in here, I'll make a note to never do that again!”

She curtseys. “Roses, my dear, my wind is like roses.”

“Your wind is like hell itself has belched up six-day-old sausage and onions,” says Herman, who has appeared in the kitchen with the help of his new rolling walker. “But in a good way, my love, in a good way!”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Careful, you old thing, or I'll be sure to come to
your
room the next time I'm feeling some pressure in my belly.”

“Really? Do I have to listen to all of this?” Their banter isn't exactly William Powell and Myrna Loy, no matter how clever they think they are.

“No, dear, you most certainly do not,” Bubbles says.

“Actually, I have an idea about that,” Herman says, sitting across from me at the little table.

Bubbles puts on the coffeepot and slides some slices of bread into the toaster. “This is actually a good idea; you listen to Herman.”

“I was thinking that all of this tumult around here with me and my entourage must be making your life insane. You have little enough downtime these days with the whole bakery on
your shoulders, and goodness knows it will only get worse as you start prepping for the cake contest in earnest. So I thought, why don't you temporarily relocate to my apartment? You'll have peace and quiet. I converted Junior's old room to a very comfortable guest room a few years ago, and no one has ever used it! The bed has never even been slept in, and it has its own bathroom. You could have some privacy for a change, and you can't beat the commute!”

It never would have occurred to me; I haven't even thought about moving out of Bubbles's house at all, let alone now, let alone into Herman's apartment.

“Isn't he brilliant?” Bubbles says, sliding a cup of coffee and a plate with buttered toast in front of Herman.

“Just during my recovery, dear. Just till the contest is over and I'm back to my old self. What do you think? I know our company is fascinating . . .”

“And our wind is so delightful . . .” Bubbles adds.

“
Enough
. You people will be the death of me. Yes, thank you kindly, Herman. I shall take you up on your generous offer and house-sit for you while you are convalescing here.” It'll be weird as hell to be in Herman's apartment, but the thought of some time on my own is too good to let me focus on the other parts. And I do like the idea of being able to just live my life for a bit without someone else witnessing my every move. Even though I spent many nights at Dexter's, I still really did live alone, and much as I love Bubbles, I do miss that solitude now and again.

“Good,” Herman says.

“I'll pack a few things today and take them over when I go.”

“But the bakery is closed today,” Bubbles says.

“True, but I've got the week ahead to prep for, and my new assistant is arriving today at three to meet me and go over our plan for the cake contest.”

“Do you know anything about them?” Bubbles asks Herman.

“Nope. Junior told me I wasn't to worry about anything except my recovery, and that he had everything in hand, and I'm letting him manage. But, my dear, if you meet this person and it isn't the right person, you need to say so, and we will find someone else.” He waggles a finger at me.

I shake my head. “I'm sure it will be fine.”

I leave the two of them to their breakfast and head upstairs to pack for the next part of my adventure. My phone rings. It's my dad.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers.

“Hi, Dad. Why are you whispering?”

“Your mother is here.”

“So?”

“I'm hiding in my office.”

“Why, pray tell?”

“She was crying in the bathroom, so I went to comfort her and asked why she was crying and she said she didn't know and I asked if it was about the house and she said no and I asked if it was about you and she said no and I asked if it was about the wedding and she stopped crying and got angry and said that there didn't need to be a reason for a woman to cry, she was just crying, but if I wanted to use her emotions as an excuse to back out of the wedding, she would really appreciate it if I would tell her as soon as possible before she writes any nonrefundable deposit checks. I assured her I would never back out of the wedding, and she said fine, then I should just let her have a healthy cry without trying to be all Mr. Fix It about it, so I left before I said anything else wrong, and now I'm hiding in my office.”

“Jesus, Dad, has it ever been this bad before? I mean, I remember a couple weird meltdowns over the years. Was it just that I didn't see it?”

“Nope, it has never been this bad.”

“Do you think you should . . . ?”

“Crap!” he interrupts me. “I hear footsteps. Gotta go.” And then he hangs up.

I let myself into Herman's place and drop my bags in the living room. It's clear that Herman's late wife, Rose, decorated the place and that he hasn't really changed a thing. There is a decidedly feminine feel to it. The sofa is a subtle floral; the pillows have fringe and tassels. I give him credit, though; Herman keeps it pretty impeccably clean. I go down the hallway, trying not to think about the other night and all that was witnessed, and head right instead of left at the end. The guest room is actually quite charming, with an old brass queen-sized bed covered in a handmade quilt, the kind that is silky soft from years of use and washing. There is a small desk, a tall dresser, and a little kidney-shaped settee. One door leads to a tiny closet, the other to the en suite bathroom, with a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink. I go get my bags and unpack quickly, putting work clothes and underwear in the dresser, toiletries in the bathroom, earplugs on the nightstand. I set my computer up in the den, where the television is, and log in to be sure the Wi-Fi is working. Thank goodness Herman is a modern man; he, like Bubbles, has a decent smart TV and fast Internet, so for the hour a day I am both awake and not working, I'll have entertainment, and I'll be able to hopefully not get too far behind on Wedding Girl emails.

A quick check of the kitchen and cupboards reveals for the first time that the place is inhabited by a bachelor of a certain age. Plenty of canned and frozen prepared foods, lots of cereals, most with a hefty bran component. The fridge is a wasteland of condiments, olives and pickles, plus a bag of desiccated baby
carrots, some various sliced cheeses, and a couple of beers. With so much to do today, I'm not really up for a run to the store, so I log in to our Instacart account and place a grocery delivery order for some staples. Bubbles has got plenty of spunk, but errands like grocery shopping can sometimes take it out of her, so I taught her how to use the online delivery service, and she loves it. I've added my debit card as one of the payment options, so once I enter Herman's address, I've got groceries headed my way within the next two hours. I check my watch. It's just after eleven, so I have plenty of time to get everything sorted here and prep for meeting my new assistant downstairs at three.

Herman and I have been doing a lot of talking about the cake the past couple of days, and we think we have a good plan for the three tiers. The bottom tier will be the chocolate tier and incorporate the dacquoise component, since that will all provide a good strong structural base. We are doing an homage to the Frango mint, that classic Chicago chocolate that was originally produced at the Marshall Field's department store downtown. We're going to make a deep rich chocolate cake, which will be soaked in fresh-mint simple syrup. The dacquoise will be cocoa based with ground almonds for structure, and will be sandwiched between two layers of a bittersweet chocolate mint ganache, and the whole tier will be enrobed in a mint buttercream.

The second tier is an homage to Margie's Candies, an iconic local ice cream parlor famous for its massive sundaes, especially their banana splits. It will be one layer of vanilla cake and one of banana cake, smeared with a thin layer of caramelized pineapple jam and filled with fresh strawberry mousse. We'll cover it in chocolate ganache and then in sweet cream buttercream that will have chopped Luxardo cherries in it for the maraschino-cherry-on-top element.

The final layer will be a nod to our own neighborhood, pulling from the traditional flavors that make up classical Jewish
baking. The cake will be a walnut cake with hints of cinnamon, and we will do a soaking syrup infused with a little bit of sweet sherry. A thin layer of the thick poppy seed filling we use in our rugelach and hamantaschen, and then a layer of honey-roasted whole apricots and vanilla pastry cream. This will get covered in vanilla buttercream.

We figure this gives us a chocolate layer, one that is fruit forward, and one that is more nut based, so something for everyone. The focus will be on getting the tiers, all of them rectangular and the same size, stacked on one another and then covered in the stonework fondant in a base color of gray. Gray is the hardest color to achieve with fondant—it can go blue or lavender really quickly—but I have a secret formula for it, so hopefully that will be fine. Once the thing is built, we'll go back and do shading and details with powdered food colors for depth and realism. All of the extra structural components attached to the building, like the porch, balcony, and roof detail, will be made of Rice Krispies treats and then covered in fondant. They're easy to cut into blocks and shapes, or mold free-form, and if you leave them uncovered, they firm up pretty well. And they are lightweight, so hopefully they won't fall off even when they're covered in fondant.

We'll do the tiles for the roof out of tuile cookie batter cooled on a special template to give them the form, and then will glue them on with chocolate. All of the carved stonework for the columns, the urn on the front staircase, and the detail work on the roof will be molded and carved chocolate sprayed with white chocolate colored gray. The windows will be panes of clear sugar mounted in chocolate window frames made to look like wood, the wooden front door will be composed of chocolate with sugar windows embedded, and the transom and sidelights will be made of designs baked in cookie dough and filled with colored sugar to create edible stained glass. And all of the other details,
the people, etc., will be made of fondant or gum paste or marzipan.