Wedding Girl (33 page)

“Nice to meet you, Ella,” I say, just as I'm swarmed by my family and friends, blissfully pulling me into a safe zone of love and happy.

“You stop my heart, sweet girl,” Bubbles says with tears in her eyes. “You got every brick of that building just right, it was like looking into my past.”

“I'm so glad you like it, we wanted it to be a happy surprise.”

“And so it is.”

“You did great, kiddo, just great. Your mom and I have decided we want you to replicate it for the wedding!” my dad says with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yeah, fuck you,” I say, and my mom pretends to be shocked.

“We might want you to do that Frango mint combo, though; that was delicious,” Mom says.

“I dunno, Diane, I thought the walnut one was pretty spectacular . . .” my dad says.

“They were all amazing,” Herman says. “You make me so proud, both of you.”

“You didn't tell us about the judges,” Ruth says. “You okay?”

“We couldn't believe it when we saw,” Jean says.

“You seem totally good,” Amelia says. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. It was fine. But I'm ready to break it down and get out of here.”

“Everyone is coming back to my house for a little celebration, I have a lot of champagne and we're ordering pizza!” Bubbles says. “You kids get organized as quickly as you can, and we will meet you there.”

“Will do. Thanks for being here.” I kiss her soft cheek, and then Herman's.

“Sorry, we'll have to pass,” Ella says, turning to Mark. “Surprise! I got us a room here for the night, and we have a date with room service. I even packed a bag for you. You all understand.”

Herman looks sad and disappointed, the girls look irritated, and Bubbles looks positively gassy. Mark just looks defeated.

“Well, that is very lovely, dear. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful night,” Herman says. “Junior, thank you again.” He pulls Mark into a deep hug. Mark claps him on the back and whispers something in his ear, and Herman pats the side of his face gently before turning with his walker to follow Bubbles and the rest of the gang towards the door.

Ella hands Mark a keycard. “Penthouse Suite, love, 810. See you when you're done. Nice to meet you, Sophie, you did really well, considering.”

“Considering?” I ask.

“Ella,” Mark says, almost a warning.

“Well, considering that not only were you up against some
of the best pastry chefs in the city, but you were being judged by your ex
and
his new wife
and
your competition? I'd say second place is a gift, wouldn't you?”

Suddenly every bit of guilt I've been feeling about having slept with Mark disappears completely. This woman is a raging bitch. Of course, she could only know those things if Mark told her, so he isn't exactly on the top of my list right now either.

“Ella, Sophie is also one of the best pastry chefs in the city, and she earned every point we got today. We have to clean up; I'll meet you in the room.”

“She's a doll,” I say after Ella leaves. “I can see how it would be so hard to extricate yourself.”

“Alright, no need to go all sarcastabitch on me. I didn't know she was coming, she's been traveling a lot for business. She was supposed to be in New York.”

“Yep. She must look amazing from nine hundred miles away.”

“It's . . .”

“Yeah, Junior, I know, it's complicated. Let's just get it packed in so I can go celebrate with our friends and families.” I don't know why I'm so pissed off, so hurt. I know that he didn't plan this, but I can't help being disappointed. I wanted to celebrate with him; today's showing was as much him as me, and we deserved to be with our people tonight.

Mark just nods and doesn't reply, and for the next half hour we break down our station in silence, the companionability of the day lost, the closeness we had started to feel, gone. And the near win, the almost had it, the strong showing, marred by the day ending on such a sour note. I know that I'm acting like a petulant child, and I'm sure my pouting must seem like jealousy to him. But all I can think about is him and that tall, skinny, mean girl, with her sheaf of shiny bone-straight hair, and her designer suit hanging perfectly on her pelvic bones, lying in bed talking about
the sad little roly-poly girl his dad has taken in like some urchin, ruining all his plans and making a general nuisance of herself. The girl who was so unlovable her fiancé couldn't be bothered to even tell her he didn't want her, and simply didn't show up at the wedding. The poor little baker girl who became completely unraveled by her breakup, and ended up broke and hiding out at her grandmother's house. I bet she laughed, I bet he made me sound like quite the joke.

We finish packing up everything into our tubs and carts, and seal it all up with plastic wrap so that they can't be tampered with, and I use a Sharpie to sign my name on them.

“Since I'll be here anyway, I'll get this stuff back to the store tomorrow, no need for you to schlep all the way down here,” Mark says.

“Yeah, fine. Just text me when you are on your way and I'll meet you in the alley to unload.”

“Okay. Have a good night, Sophie, a good celebration. You've earned it.”

“I will. And same to you.”

“See you tomorrow, then,” he says, and walks away. And as much as I want to call after him, to apologize for being brusque, to tell him it was an amazing day and an amazing few weeks, and that it would always be a cherished memory, I can't seem to move my feet or open my mouth. And I stay frozen until I see his back disappear through the people who are still milling about, the other teams who are packing their stations up, the hotel staff beginning to clean. And slowly, regaining the power of movement, I take a deep breath, and shake it off. I can't think about Mark or his girlfriend or anything else, not tonight. Tonight I need to go home, and be with my family and my friends and eat a tremendous volume of pizza and drink a sea of champagne, and try, best as I can, to remember that today, despite all of the odds that were stacked against me, I did better
than just make it through. I was amazing. I haven't been amazing in a very long time, long enough that I had almost forgotten what it feels like. And whatever ick I feel about how I've just left things with Mark, it can't take away the part of me that is really, really happy to be back, even just for a day.

(1933)

RUTH DONNELLY AS THE MAID:
Is he ill?

JOAN BLONDELL AS ANNE ROGERS:
No, he's
nuts
!

I look in the mirror, taking in the full effect. My face is painted gray, with a false pink nose and whiskers; my hair is slicked back, with a pair of pink-lined gray ears on a headband. I'm wearing charcoal gray sweatpants, and a gray long-sleeved T-shirt, with matching gray gloves. I've got a white apron tied around my waist and a long, tapering pink tail is attached to the apron belt and hangs jauntily nearly to the floor.

I look fucking ridiculous.

“You are so adorable,” Bubbles says, standing in the doorway of my room.

“I look like a deranged opossum.”

“Nonsense, you look exactly like Remy from
Ratatouille
! It's wonderful! And more importantly, the kids will love it.”

“Seriously?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I think you are fantastic, and when you are standing next to Herman, with him all dressed like Chef Gusteau, the store all decorated with my copper pots
and pans, and all those little helper rats perched about, everyone will get it.”

Herman insisted we go all out for Halloween, especially since it is the Cake Goddess's grand opening, and she is having a full day of events . . . there will be “make your own monster cookie” decorating in her event space all day, and she's debuting a line of new cupcake flavors inspired by traditional candy bars. There are going to be free caramel popcorn balls for the kids, and displays of “dessert sushi” for the adults—thick rice pudding spread onto kiwi fruit leather, and topped with Swedish Fish or other gummi offerings. And apparently, with every purchase of ten dollars or more, there's an entry into a raffle to win one of five iPad minis with custom Cake Goddess covers. And “special celebrity guest stars” popping in all day, all of which will be endlessly promoted on her social media channels.

Langer's is fighting back best as we can. We've installed a television, and will be showing
Ratatouille
on an endless loop, and will be giving out traditional Halloween candies to any trick-or-treater who stops by, regardless of purchase. There will be a cauldron of spiced hot cider, and pumpkin shortbread fingers with caramel and fudge dipping sauces as our freebies, and I've done plenty of special spooky treats. Ladies' fingers, butter cookies in the shape of gnarled fingers with almond fingernails and red food coloring on the stump end. I've got meringue ghosts and cups of “graveyard pudding,” a dark chocolate pudding layered with dark Oreo cookie crumbs, strewn with gummi worms, and topped with a cookie tombstone. There are chocolate tarantulas, with mini cupcake bodies and legs made out of licorice whips, sitting on spun cotton candy nests. The Pop-Tart flavors of the day are chocolate peanut butter, and pumpkin spice. The chocolate ones are in the shape of bats, and the pumpkin ones in the shape of giant candy corn with orange,
yellow, and white icing. And yesterday, after finding a stash of tiny walnut-sized lady apples at the market, I made a huge batch of mini caramel apples.

“You'll have fun,” Bubbles says. “The weather is supposed to be beautiful for a change.”

“Well, that is something.” It's been a little strange since I moved back home last week. Herman is up and about and back to his usual self, so we swapped places once again. It's lovely to be back with Bubbles, but also a little strange. It's amazing how quickly one can get used to privacy and quiet and solitude; I'm a little unsettled being back here. And while we did have a hectic couple of weeks right after the cake competition, and a heavy uptick in our likes and follows, last week the weather was really crappy, and we were back to our usual level of business. I had a pretty hefty backlog of Wedding Girl emails to get through, having slacked off a bit in the weeks leading up to the competition. Despite the positive publicity of our second-place showing at the contest, we haven't gotten any event-cake orders coming up except for my parents' wedding cake for next weekend.

“I'll be by to bring you both some lunch,” Bubbles says, smiling, and I smile back, trying to put a good face on things. “Is Mark coming by?”

“I'm not sure, I think so. I know Herman invited him.” I haven't really seen much of Mark since the day of the contest. He of course was back to business as usual at work, back and forth to California, and there wasn't much of a need for him to come by the store. He came last week to help Herman move back upstairs, but I only saw him for a couple of minutes and it was a bit awkward. Whatever. I have bigger things to worry about than my brief friendship with even briefer benefits with Herman Mark Langer Jr. And bigger things to look forward to.

Jake comes home in a couple of weeks, and we have an official date planned. I got the email a couple of days after the contest.

S—

Good news! I've finally got a firm re-entry plan. In a few weeks I'll be wrapping things up here, and will be home the first week of November. Which means I have a request. Will you be my date to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation gala the second Saturday in November? I know, boring fundraising gala dinner is not exactly the thing that comes to mind for a first date, but hear me out. My company bought a table, and have asked me to attend. I can't think of anyone I would rather sit next to and be snarky with than you. Plus I figure after all these months, meeting me when I'm in my tuxedo and at my most Cary Grant has to be my best shot. We'll bid on silly stuff at the silent auction, and pick at the rubber chicken, and quietly make fun of some of the more ridiculous dance moves, and then we'll sneak out and pick up hotdogs, and go sit somewhere we can see the skyline. What do you say?

J

He's been wonderful with emailing, and we have been sharing more and more about our deeper thoughts and feelings. It's so strange. I know his politics, and his thoughts on love and marriage and children and pets and friendships. I know the foods he likes, the wines he drinks, the way he takes his coffee. I know all about his favorite books and television shows and movies and music. I know the horror stories of some of his previous relationships, the details of his best and worst vacations and dates and birthdays. But I don't know his last name, or
anything about his family or where he grew up or where he went to school.

And the same is still true for me. I still hide what I need to hide, lie when I need to lie. Part of me thinks that he will come pick me up for the gala and then slam the door right in my face. I don't ever really think that I might be the one to want to slam the door, unless of course he turns out to be married, in which case not only will I slam the door, I'll slam some available part of his anatomy in it. But for now, I'm allowing myself to be tentatively optimistic.

J—

Well of course I would be delighted to accompany you. But mostly for the hot dogs. I'm glad things are finishing well for you, and look forward to seeing you in a few weeks.

S

“Well, scoot, or you'll be late.” Bubbles pinches my tush, and heads out of the room. I can hear her down the hallway, talking in her loving voice to the dog, who she has dressed up in a little Stay Puft Marshmallow Man costume, complete with the little hat, to accentuate his pudgy rolls. “Who's a fat Snatch? Who's a great big fat Snatch?”

And on that note, I head downstairs, hoping that I can make it to my car before anyone sees me looking so ridiculous.

“It'll pick up after lunch, for sure,” Herman says with false bravado. “None of those mommies want to start the day with sugar, the kids won't survive.”

“Of course it will,” I say, not believing a word. We've been
slow since we opened, and while everyone who comes in has been excited about the freebies, the specialty Halloween treats aren't exactly flying off the shelves. We've sold precisely three Pop-Tarts, one pudding, half a dozen caramel apples, and a pair of ghost meringues, but that is it. Everything else is the usual breads and pastries, typical of a Saturday morning. We've seen a couple of costumes, and once we explain who we are, people get it, but we're not exactly being asked to take pictures with the kids. I don't know what else we could have done; we are certainly giving it our all. But at least three of our customers mentioned that they were here because the “lines over at Cake Goddess were just more than I could deal with,” which doesn't bode well. When I can, I check their Twitter, which is full of postings of pictures of long lines, of kids making cookies, of the cast of
Chicago Fire
signing autographs and handing out cupcakes. It breaks my heart.

“Sophie, since it's quiet, and before your grandmother gets here, I want to ask you two important questions.”

“Shoot.”

“First, I want to know if you would give me your blessing to ask for her hand in marriage. I know it probably seems fast, but we are at a place in life where waiting seems silly. I would very much like to be her husband, if you would be okay with that.”

I grab Herman around his belly, hugging him with all my heart. It isn't like it's surprising, the two of them are so terrific together, but I love that he thought to ask me. “Of course, you old bear, I can't think of anything that would make me happier. You absolutely have all of my blessings and encouragement.”

He hugs me tight. “Thank you, my sweet girl, that is very wonderful to hear.”

“Of course! And I get to make your wedding cake.”

“Naturally. Speaking of which, that is the second question I have for you. I know that it is time for me to retire. My little
incident tells me that I should slow down and enjoy and not keep working.”

In a way, I'm glad he is coming to this realization of his own accord and not because Cake Goddess is putting us out of business, which, without a miracle, like her accidentally killing someone's kid with a cupcake, she certainly will, and if today is an indication, sooner rather than later.

“But this is a good place. A special place. So I wonder if you might want it.”

Uh-oh. “Um, Herman . . .”

“Not to keep Langer's as Langer's. But the space, the building. You could make it anything you want. I know that once we are married, I will go live in your grandmother's house, I could never ask her to leave it. And that will be less than an ideal situation for you. If you transformed this space, into whatever you want it to be, a different sort of bakery, or a small restaurant, or just an event-cake location, you could live upstairs . . .” He trails off a bit. “I could be a silent partner and landlord till you are in a position to buy it out. If you wanted.”

“That is so lovely and so generous. But what does Ma . . . Herman Jr. say?”

“It was his idea.”

This floors me. “It was?”

He smiles. “It was.”

Well holy crap. “It is a lot to think about. Can I have some time to see if it makes sense?”

“Of course, my dear, of course. And if it doesn't make sense, it doesn't. If it doesn't further your dreams and you have to say no, you will not hurt my feelings. I'm ready to let go of this place, truly. But if it can be what you want, what you need, I want you to know that I believe in you and want to help if I can.”

Tears prick my eyes. It is maybe the kindest thing anyone
has ever said to me. “Thank you, Herman, it's the most amazing offer, and I promise, I will give it long and careful consideration.”

He reaches for me and we hug again.

“What's all this then?” says an unmistakable voice behind us.

“Junior! You are here.” Herman lets me go, and walks around the front of the counter to hug Mark. “And you got my instructions,” he says.

“Yeah, I sure did,” Mark says, waving his arm over his body. He is dressed like Linguini from
Ratatouille
, with a curly red wig under a tall paper chef's toque, full set of whites, and a whisk tucked into his apron. “What can I do?”