Wedding Girl (6 page)

“I love it. It sounds perfect.”

My heart is beating fast, as it always does when I'm getting into a groove. “I'm so glad.” I make a bunch of notes on the form, keeping things to shorthand, since while I am technically working within the allowable restrictions, there are some changes I'm going to make in the execution that are not quite “Herman approved.”

“The other places said we would be looking at about fifteen dollars per person, so by my math, we are somewhere in the $2,500 ballpark, is that right? I can give you a credit card or a check for the deposit, whichever.”

I look down at my notes. Based on Herman's pricing structure, she is coming in just around six dollars per person. Part of me wants desperately to just say yes; she seems totally prepared to pay that much. I'm ashamed to admit that my first sick impulse is to take it and pocket the difference. Herman would
never know, and sending an extra $1,500 to Visa would certainly feel good. But thankfully the larcenous thought leaves almost as soon as it comes. “Well, those other places are charging you for extra-fancy ingredients and complicated assemblages, and their very posh overhead.” I gesture around the store. “We here at Langer's keep things a little more reasonable. How does $1,000 all-in sound?”

Amelia's little rosebud of a mouth makes a tiny O. “Really?”

I nod. “Yep. Tax and delivery included. You will have to provide your own toppers.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You know that I was fine with $2,500.”

I shrug. “I know. But this isn't a $2,500 cake. It would be highway robbery to charge you that much for something so simple. And I know how quickly the expenses pile up on these things.”

“You're going to go out of business if you turn down good money when it is offered.”

“We might go out of business anyway, but it won't be saved by gouging our customers.”

“You're a good person, Sophie.”

I think about thirty seconds ago when I was toying with the idea of overcharging her and stealing from Herman. “I'm working on it.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a couple of other questions? I mean about the wedding. I get it if you don't want to talk about it, in light of everything, but Brian keeps saying he doesn't care, it should be whatever I want, and there are so many decisions to make . . . and you seem so great at it all.”

“Ask away. My brains are mush, but you are welcome to pick them. But you have to do it while I'm kneading rye bread.”

Amelia follows me back into the kitchen and perches on a stool next to the kneading table, a long antique wooden table that
is covered in a heavy canvas sheet. I flour the table and dump the large batch of proofed dough onto it. I separate the dough into two large mounds and one small mound. I start kneading the first big mound, my movements smooth, the dough coming together under my hands.

“Shoot,” I say to Amelia.

“So, we are doing the party at our office.”

“Your office?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I know, it sounds bizarre. Brian and I both work at a digital software company, and even though we aren't quite a start-up anymore, the building we bought to house the office was, let's just say, purchased with an eye on the future. It's a huge warehouse space, and the actual offices only take up half of it, so we put up temporary walls, and we leave the other half open for shenanigans. You know programmers; they go back there and skateboard or play basketball. It's just a huge open room, about six thousand square feet, and it's free, so we figured blank slate, have the party there.”

I'm starting to understand why the prospect of a $2,500 cake on her own dime didn't faze this girl. “Okay.”

“But I was in there yesterday and got to thinking. It's just a huge room. Twenty-foot ceilings and polished concrete floors and blank walls. What on earth do we do with it?”

I can feel that the dough has come together properly, so I quickly portion it into two-pound chunks and form them into the traditional oval shape. I grab three large sheet pans and give them a liberal covering of coarse cornmeal. After gently transferring the loaves to the pans, I slash the tops with Herman's homemade lame, a slightly curved razor blade duct-taped to an old toothbrush handle, and slide them into the proofing box for the final rise. Then I grab a large cup of caraway seeds, sprinkle them over the second large mound of dough, and begin the process again.

“What sort of vibe are you going for with the event? I mean, I know the cake will be retro because of Brian's personal taste, but is the whole party going for that feel?”

Her face lights up. “I hadn't thought of that, but some sort of theme might help narrow down decisions. I swear, if I spend one more minute on Pinterest looking at faux farm-to-table, mason-jar hipster weddings, I'm going to poke my eyes out.”

“I know what you mean. Well, for what it is worth, I think embracing the old-school idea might be fun. And might make Brian feel really comfortable, especially since it's his birthday as well. Plus, it could let you literally get through the cocktails before the ceremony without letting the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”

“That would be amazing.”

“So here is what I'm thinking . . .” I start to let the ideas flow with the rhythmic kneading. “Think about it like those old-school family-style banquets from the seventies; maybe almost treat it like a family-reunion vibe. Right? Keep the décor simple. Find great pictures of the two of you, your whole lives, you as kids, with your families, great memories, your times together, and have them printed in black-and-white on big foamcore boards. You can stick them to the walls all the way around the room, almost like a photographic exhibit at an art gallery. Maybe some uplights on the floor to make them pop. Put up a stage for the band or DJ that is big enough to have the ceremony on; that way you don't need to do some fancy altar thing that will tip them off.” I portion out the dough, which now has the caraway seeds fully incorporated, prep a new set of pans, and sprinkle more caraway seeds on top of the loaves before slashing and sliding them into the proofing box. I grab the smaller mound of dough and find some fennel seed and aniseed to sprinkle over it. I add some orange zest and a couple of handfuls of golden raisins, and begin to knead, the scent of orange and spice wafting around me.

“I love it. What about food?” Amelia asks.

“You do a simple buffet for appetizers, your basics like a cheese platter and a veggie platter, a shrimp display, maybe some chafing dishes with sweet-and-sour meatballs or chicken drumettes. Then long communal tables; let everyone find their own seat.” I think about my own little unused table. “Set aside a small table for just you and Brian. Cozy, and you won't offend anyone. Simple flower arrangements, maybe gerbera daisies, in a bunch of different colors, but only one color per vase. Then after cocktails you can ask everyone to find a seat at the tables, head up for what would appear to be your welcoming toast, and boom! Ceremony! Quick and simple before they know what hit them. Then do the meal family-style; have large platters of food brought out, one set of platters for every eight seats, and let them help themselves. Bottles of water and wine already open on the tables. Keep it to foods you and Brian love, maybe whole roasted beef tenderloins that have been sliced up, and simple roasted chickens with some lemon and garlic, just portioned into pieces. A great salad. Some steamed asparagus or green beans. Something whimsical or unexpected like twice-baked potatoes or macaroni and cheese.”

“I think Brian might want to marry you instead of me; you literally just named all his favorite food groups.”

I divide the new dough into a dozen small balls, and two at a time, I roll them under my curved palms on the canvas, feeling them tighten into perfect spheres. “You're going to all the trouble of keeping it secret so that it can be what you want, so I say embrace it fully.” I grab a small sheet pan, sprinkle a layer of semolina on the bottom, and gently arrange the rolls on top. I brush them with egg wash and toss on a little coarse pretzel salt before marking them with an X and adding the pan to the proofing box.

“What else?”

I brush the excess flour off the table and head over to the sink to wash my hands. “Do you and Brian have any traditions or habits that are personal to you?”

Amelia thinks about this. “Well, anytime I take a bath he brings me a glass of milk and a little plate of Chips Ahoy.”

“Awesome! So towards the end of the evening, have your servers pass platters of warm chocolate chip cookies and little glasses of milk. Maybe add some vanilla and a little bit of sugar to the milk; with straws could be cute . . .”

“Oh my god, I love that idea!”

“Is there anything else like that you do for each other?”

“He has really sensitive skin, and in the winter his hands and lips get really rough and chapped, but most of the store-bought stuff causes him to break out, so I make these custom coconut oil balms and lotions for him and stash them all over the place. And he brings me splits of champagne anytime he knows I've had a long day.”

It is clear to me that this girl has pretty deep pockets. I swallow the jealousy that is pricking my brain and keep going. “So what would you think about making a bunch of sets of your custom products to give to your guests as they leave? A little gift bag with a lip balm and some hand cream with a note encouraging hand-holding and kissing? Maybe with a little bottle of champagne with a custom label?”

Extravagant gift bags like these were absolutely a part of my madness; I'll be paying for them for the rest of my natural life, but that doesn't make them a bad idea if one can actually afford them.

Her eyes pop open. “You're a genius, you know that?”

“I do what I can.”

We head back out of the kitchen to the front, and I take all her information down, run a deposit of $500 on her credit card, and then write down my email address on the back of one of Herman's business cards.

“If you need anything else, just holler. Otherwise, I'll be in touch to confirm delivery details the week before the wedding.”

She grabs me in a hug, surprisingly strong for such a wee pixie
of a girl. “You are the best. Are you sure I can't hire you as my wedding planner?”

I shake my head. “No can do. I'm more comfortable in the consultant arena . . . I don't actually want to do what I propose; I just want to propose it.”

“Well, your consultancy makes me feel like I have a handle on this whole thing, so don't dismiss the value of offering good advice.”

“I'm very glad to be of help. And, Amelia?”

“Yeah?”

“Want a cupcake for Brian?”

“What do you think?”

“Something smells different in here,” Herman says, reappearing promptly at three thirty, one cheek subtly patterned in the herringbone of his couch.

“I did a little experiment,” I say, handing him one of my rolls.

He pulls the roll apart, and I'm pleased to hear the crackle of the crust. He sniffs the interior and then takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes light up.

“This is wonderful, Sophie, just wonderful! What are they?”

“Just something I was noodling with. I started with the basic rye dough and then fancied it up a little.”

“Well, it is delicious. Fennel?”

“Yes. And aniseed.”

“The orange is good, keeps it fresh and from going too perfumed. The raisins work well. But the salt is what makes it, truly. It wants butter or cream cheese most urgently.”

I laugh, always loving his very formal turns of phrase. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Well, my girl, perhaps we should put them on the agenda, since it is just using the basic dough, see how the people like them?”

I blush. I wasn't trying to get my invention into the case, just
wanted to see if it would work, but Herman's praise feels wonderful.

“That would be great, Herman, thank you. And I have some other good news.”

“Yes?”

“We got a wedding cake.”

He beams and touches the tip of my nose with the tip of his finger. “You're my good luck charm, Sophie.”

I almost believe him.

(1932)

You'd be lovely to have around, just to sprinkle the flowers with your personality.

•
CAROLE LOMBARD AS CONNIE RANDALL
•

“Can I get you girls anything else?” Bubbles asks.

“No, thank you; this is perfect,” says Ruth, wrapping her long, elegant hands around her cup of tea.

“You can get me the recipe for these muffins,” Jean says around a mouthful of Bubbles's famous lemon-blueberry streusel muffin.

Bubbles beams and places a hand on my shoulder. “Sophie can give you that anytime you like. Now, I'm going to leave you and take the dog out for a bit, but it was lovely to see you all, and I hope you'll be back soon.”

She leans down and kisses all three of us on the tops of our heads and then leaves the dining room, where we have all been visiting.

We hear her in the front room. “Snatch! Stop scratching! Oh yes, I know, my little itchy Snatch; just try and leave that alone, please. Let's go walkies.”

The three of us chuckle into our tea and then hear the front door latch.

“She cracks me up,” Ruth says.

“I just love her,” Jean says, beginning to reach for another muffin, but Ruth gives her a withering stare, and she pulls her hand back.

Jean, like me, is a curvy woman, and while she is comfortable in her body, she has recently begun to make noises about wanting to get healthier and lose some weight. We assume this is because her crush du jour is a lithe little actress/yoga instructor who is in the show Jean is currently costuming. Ruth, having never had an issue with her weight a day in her size-six life, is a big proponent of making choices and owning them. She couldn't care less if Jean or I am a size two or a size twenty-two, as long as we aren't waffling. She is always quoting a Robin Williams line from that movie
Dead Again
: “Someone is either a smoker or a nonsmoker. There's no in-between. The trick is to find out which one you are, and be that.” She takes it personally when Jean says in one breath that she wants to lose weight and then in the other asks her to pass the fries.

“How is it, really, living here? I mean, I know she's the best, and you adore her, but it's still a really big change.”

I take a sip of my hot, sweet tea and pop the last piece of my muffin into my mouth. “It's mostly wonderful. I think it is a change for both of us; obviously, neither of us has lived with someone in a long time. And it's a new adventure to live with someone her age.” As much as I love Bubbles, she certainly has her moments. The rigid scheduling of meals, the fact that she is just hard enough of hearing not to know how loud she is in the house at odd hours. “It's difficult to watch when she gets a little bit forgetful or doesn't have the energy she used to, because I do have to face that she is slowing down, which is sad and scary.”

“Then so much the better that you have this time with her now, this quality time; what a gift for you both,” Jean says.

Ruth nods. “I agree. You'll look back on this time with her
as one of the best things you ever did. What about the job? How's that been?”

“Good, mostly. The work is constant enough to keep me busy and feeling productive, and easy enough that it isn't stressful. Herman is sweet as anything, but I worry for the business. I have no idea how he is keeping afloat. Our regular customers are solid, but they're mostly ancient. He's forever sneaking freebies to people. And the new neighborhood hipsters and stroller set aren't exactly embracing him. They'll come in once, but the minute they start asking about ‘organic' this and ‘gluten-free' that, it's over. And god forbid someone asks for a
Frozen
- or Minecraft-themed birthday cake; just forget about it. Apparently it doesn't encourage business to tell a devoted Pinterest mommy that her precious pumpkin is not going to remember his second birthday party and balloons should be enough decoration for anyone.”

“You'll never get the modern-mommy brigade, not until you start sneaking a full serving of organic, locally foraged eggplant into every gluten-free non-GMO cookie, but you'd think the hipsters would love the retro old-school vibe,” Ruth says.

“You'd think,” I say. “And actually, I'm sure that if we just up the quality of the ingredients a little bit, bring in the basic-level organic stuff, which isn't that much more expensive these days, up the ‘artisanal' factor, and maybe add just a few more items to the roster, we could get their attention.”

“You have to raise the prices,” Jean says, breaking off half of a muffin and sticking her tongue out at Ruth when she looks over.

“I think so too, but Herman is sure that his regulars would balk; so many of them are on a fixed income.”

“Maybe not the prices on the things that those people rely on, but the other stuff, the new stuff. There's a weird psychological thing about pricing; sometimes if things are too inexpensive, people assume they are bad. You think those four-dollar fancy
doughnuts are really four times better than a one-dollar glazed right out of the fryer at some dive? Nah. But the existence of the four-dollar doughnut makes the one-dollar doughnut look suspect to a certain branch of the population,” Jean says.

“She's right, you know,” Ruth says. “I can't tell you how many clients I have advised to double or even triple what they charge, and watched their businesses explode. People are weird; they perceive cost as equal to quality. And whether he likes it or not, the demographic of his neighborhood has changed and isn't going to change back. The old biddies might still need their three-dollar challahs and ryes, but the new people aren't going to come for low prices; they will only come for awesome product.”

“I know, and I do think there could be some manageable changes, but I don't want to rock the boat. After all, who knows how long I'm even going to be there?”

“You still looking?” Jean asks.

“Yeah. I check the boards; I have alerts out on stuff that is relevant. It's just all either really entry level, so I'm overqualified, or restaurant stuff, so I'm persona non grata.”

“What about teaching? Could you go back to your pastry school and see if they need instructors?” Ruth asks.

“I'd be terrible at it. You know me.” I barely had patience when Georg had people doing stages, those brief unpaid internships designed to help train chefs, which are often just annoying babysitting jobs for a bunch of kids who think they are going to be either the next Food Network star or the next Grant Achatz, and who mostly get underfoot and screw up the prep. I'm just too much of the school that if it takes longer for me to explain how to do something than it would take for me to just do it, I bail.

“Have you given up on having your own place?” Jean asks.

“I think so. At least for now. It's too big a risk, too difficult to pull together from scratch. I'd have to be the face of the business,
and my face is still a little bruised from my previous fifteen minutes of infamy. I think I just need to try and find something in high-end hotel work, something that uses my skills but doesn't make me be out front. Something second-in-command. Unfortunately, at the moment, all of those jobs are well staffed, and no one is going to let me in the door at the bottom.”

“That being the case, would it be the worst thing in the world to do what you can for Langer's? If you know what you want, but know that it might take a while for something like that to open up, what would be so wrong about you dragging his place into the twenty-first century? If nothing else, for your own sanity?” Ruth stands up and carries the plate of muffins into the kitchen; Jean and I follow her with our plates and teacups.

“I have to think about it. I wouldn't want to set something up over there that is too dependent on my ideas or my work. But it would be nice to bring the business back a bit, just to get him more financial stability.”

“Well, I, for one, think you should turn the place around, make it hot and happening, and then take it over when the old man retires,” Jean says definitively.

“A bakery? A neighborhood bakery? Not really me, you know?”

“And why not? You too fancy?” Ruth's questions drip with sarcasm. “Honey, you know I love you more than my Birkin, and you know I hate everything you've gone through. But let's be clear. Your claim that the restaurant business is dead to you is more than a little bit of bullshit. You know very well that if you went hat in hand to Georg and were humble and contrite, and
honest
, he would probably give you a decent reference, or at least would agree to not blacklist you in the community or shame you if someone called about your work. There are plenty of off-the-rails divas in your business, plenty of people who come back from all sorts of issues; you just don't want to face those
people. You hate the idea of the whispering. You hate that everyone knows your secret shame. The world was shown your ass, quite literally, and I get that it was horrific and mortifying and all you want to do is hide. You know me; I'm going to support whatever you choose, so if you are choosing hiding, hide away! But don't hide
and
claim you aren't hiding. Don't hide
and
give up. Don't hide
and
stop dreaming. Your dream died? Fine. Give it a decent burial and dream a new dream. Take off the black armband and figure out the next thing. Be open to the universe plopping it in your lap. What's the worst thing that could happen? You make old Langer's place a smashing success so he has some financial juice in his dotage, and then let it launch you into your next big thing. Or you discover you love it and take it over when he's through and become the best neighborhood bakery in Chicago. Why would that be so bad, so beneath you?”

Jean slides her arm around my waist, not quite trying to protect me from Ruth's rant, even though it is coming at me with a slight edge of frustration peeking through, but in a way that indicates that while she might not have said it so pointedly, she isn't exactly in disagreement with the sentiment.

I hate that Ruth is right. I should be used to it. Ruth is always right; she has been our whole lives. It's fucking annoying.

“Can we put a pin in this conversation and just say that I heard you and I will not dismiss it out of hand?” I don't want to fight; I don't want to push back; I don't want to list all the many, many reasons why someone of my background and experience would be wasted trying to eke out a living in bread and cookies. And I really don't want to discuss the stomach-churning idea of my reentering the Chicago fine-dining scene. Of facing Georg, who was like an uncle to me, who was supposed to be the one leading me through my “I do's,” and who I treated so very badly, who I disappointed so much. My behavior was poisonous, and I wouldn't begin to know where to find the words to apologize, especially if any part of that
apology also had the mercenary aspect of my wanting a good job reference. Too ghastly to consider.

“I've said my piece; you do with it what you will,” Ruth says, putting the tea things in the dishwasher while Jean, winking at me, sneaks a last piece of muffin behind Ruth's back. “And leave those muffins alone, Jean,” Ruth says, without turning around.

Jean looks so shocked that it makes me giggle, and when Ruth finally faces us, Jean gives her some serious eyelash batting.

“Don't play winsome, woman; you know that shit stopped working on me in 1999.”

I walk the two of them to the door. The hugs I get are strong and warm.

“Love you, Soph, you know that,” Ruth says.

“I know. I love you back.”

“Can we have a girls' night soon? Cheap and chic?” Jean asks.

“Of course. My evenings are pretty open these days.”

“There's more ahead than there is behind. Don't let that math reverse on you,” Ruth says ominously.

I look past her shoulder and see Bubbles slowly heading back up the block with Snatch, think about where she is in her life.

“I won't.”