Wedding Girl (8 page)

“Of course we do.”

“Of course we do. Because no one place can be all things to all people. We do what we do. She will do what she does. There is room for everyone. The tide raises all boats.”

It does indeed. Even the
Titanic
.

“Okay, Herman, I'm here for you. So, since I'm here, shall we bake some challah?”

“Yes, we shall. You think that woman knows from
challah
?” He chuckles at the very idea, and his confidence puts me at ease. He's right, of course; what we do and what she does are so different. Why would her store affect ours negatively? Why can't the burgeoning community sustain both places? I think about other clusters of businesses: that stretch on Western Avenue with all the Thai restaurants; Armitage Ave. with a Kiehl's, L'Occitane, and Lush in a two-block stretch, all hocking their lotions and potions. Why can't there be two very different bakeries near each other. Four blocks might as well be four miles; you can't even see her place from our place.

You can't even see her place from our place.

Which also means that if you swing by her place and see lines or crowds or no parking, you have to know we are here for us to get overflow business. And as far as I can tell, only a few dozen people know we're here. My heart sinks anew. If we are going to stay, we have to figure out some way to at least get our name out there. I stop myself. Herman's name. Get Herman's name out there. After all, he's right about the build; it could take a year, depending on what she is planning. Do I really think I will still be here in a year?

Herman and I bake and bag the challahs, working in companionable silence, occasionally popping out to the front to deal with a customer. Whatever his bravado was with his son, with me Herman is still fairly quiet for most of the day, and when the skies darken around four p.m., he sends me home ahead of the storm, telling me that things will be very quiet in the rain and that I came in early and should get back so I don't have to run home in the wet. And I have to say, I'm grateful for the release.

When I come through the door, Snatch greets me with happy
barking, resplendent in a new sweater I haven't seen before, an ivory fisherman's number with traditional cabling and design. He looks like a little roly-poly longshoreman in need of a black watch cap.

“Hello, sweet boy. Is this a new sweater? You are very handsome.”

He yips in reply, and Bubbles appears in the hall, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Hello, schnookie. How is Herman?”

I head over and kiss her cheek. “He is doing great actually, not worried at all. Says that what MarySue does and what we do are so different we shouldn't even think twice.”

Bubbles nods. “And what do you think?”

“I think that I hope he's right.”

“But?”

“But he might not be. Right now we are the only game in town, so to speak. She'll be bigger and brighter and newer and more up-to-date. I don't think we'll lose our devotees, but I can't imagine how the doors are staying open now, let alone if we lose the people who use us more as ‘the only local option' as opposed to ‘our favorite place.'”

She nods thoughtfully. “Well, it is Herman's place, so all you can do is what he needs.”

“True enough. I see your compatriot here has a rugged new look.”

We peer down at Snatch, who gives a little spin as if he is auditioning for
America's Next Top Model
.

“He had one like it before, but there was an unfortunate dog park incident.”

“I'm not even going to ask.”

“Probably best.”

I give the dog a head scratch and go upstairs to get my computer, the pug staying close at my heels. Herman might be
feeling confident, but I still think my best play is to take advantage of my early dismissal to get out another round of job queries. I grab my laptop and get onto my bed. Snatch snuffles and snorts, doing his level best to join me, but the bed is tall and his vertical leap is roughly that of a small newt's. In Bubbles's room he has an elegant little staircase.

“Hey, fat boy. You wanna come up?”

He snorts in agreement. I lean over and grab the sweater, using it as a sling to haul him up onto the bed. “Damn, dog, you are leaden.”

Snatch sniffs around on the bed, finally plopping himself down next to me, resting his head on my knee, his warm weight a comfort.

“Okay, buddy. What do you think? The Ritz-Carlton or the Peninsula?”

He raises his smooshed little face and lets his tongue loll out the side.

“Yeah, okay. Both it is.” He puts his head back down on my knee, drooling slightly, and I reach out into the ether hoping upon hope that someone somewhere will want me before MarySue Adams makes me even more irrelevant than I already am.

(1945)

Ethics shouldn't even have to be considered when a man's sanity is at stake.

•
ROSALIND RUSSELL AS DR. SUSAN LANE
•

“Hello?” I don't recognize the number on my phone, but I answer anyway, hoping it is one of the hotels I sent my résumé to, calling with an interview for me.

“Hey, Sophie? It's Amelia. The wedding cake for June sixth?”

Damn. I hope she isn't cancelling. “Hi, Amelia. Everything okay?”

“Yes . . . well, yes and no. I was wondering if I might take you to lunch? Pick your brain some more on the wedding stuff?”

On the one hand, this is the last thing I want to do. It was one thing to hang with her that day at the bakery, but I definitely meant it when I said I was not up for being her wedding planner. On the other hand, since I left the restaurant having pissed everyone off, Ruth and Jean are about my only friends, and with both of them so busy with their own lives, Bubbles and Snatch are my main companions. Lovely, both; but not exactly a full social roster. Amelia was sweet and smart and funny, so it would probably not be a terrible thing to have lunch with her, just for the change of pace.

“Sure, when were you thinking?”

“Um, what does your week look like? Would noon tomorrow work?”

Tomorrow is Wednesday, which I have free until I have to go in at midnight to do the challah dough. “That would be fine.”

“You like Mexican?”

“Love it.”

“Nuevo Leon?”

“Perfect. See you there.” At least the food will be great. I slip my phone back into my pocket and head out front, where Herman is sitting with Bubbles, sneaking bits of butter cookie under the table to Snatch.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” I say, walking around the counter to give her a kiss. She sips her tea and nibbles on an almond horn.

“This is very delicious.” She waves the crescent cookie at me. It's one of my new items, a chewy marzipan-like cookie rolled in toasted sliced almonds, with one end dipped in dark chocolate.

“Your Sophie is a wonder, Betty, a true wonder.” Herman winks at me. “Her talent is a bit wasted here with me.”

“Don't be silly, Herman,” Bubbles says, patting his hand. “This is a wonderful thing for Sophie; it's important to know where she came from. After all, yours were among the first cookies she ever tasted. Where else should she be but where her love of baking began!”

“Alright, now, do either of you need anything else up here? Otherwise I'm going to take my prodigious talent into the back and get a cupcake party happening.”

“We're fine, dear. I was just taking Snatch on his walk and thought we'd stop in to say hello.”

“Sounds good. You two have a nice visit. Herman, call out if you need me up here.”

“Will do. And if you are thinking of doing something new
with those cupcakes . . .” He pauses and my stomach drops as I contemplate the prep I've laid out in the back, including ingredients for a banana cupcake with peanut butter frosting in addition to our usual vanilla and chocolate. “You just go right on ahead.” He winks at me again, and I make my way to the back.

I look over the basic cupcake recipes, which, frankly, might as well use a boxed mix for all the oomph they have. To Herman's credit, they are always a great texture and have a certain bland nostalgia, but the flavors don't pop; there's not much
there
there. I've been keeping notes, and now that I have his blessing, I'm going to make a couple of changes to the usual suspects, in addition to trying the new one. Starting with the chocolate version, I swap out some of the cocoa powder with melted bittersweet chocolate and add some sour cream for balance and moistness, as well as some instant espresso powder, my secret ingredient for anything chocolate, which doesn't so much make something taste like coffee, but rather just makes chocolate taste more chocolaty. While the chocolate cupcakes are baking, I turn my attention to the vanilla recipe, adding some vanilla bean paste to amp up the vanilla flavor and show off those awesome little black-speck vanilla seeds, and mixing some buttermilk into the batter to prevent it from being overly sweet and unbalanced. The banana version uses very ripe bananas that I've been stashing in the freezer, as well as a single slice of fresh banana that has been coated in caramel and is pushed halfway into each cup of batter for a surprise in the middle of the cupcakes.

Herman's frostings are close to the frostings of my youth, simple faux buttercreams made with softened butter and confectioners' sugar. Nothing fancy. In my newer versions, the chocolate gets melted chocolate and chocolate milk mixed in, the vanilla gets more vanilla bean paste and a tiny hit of lemon zest, and the peanut butter gets a blend of butter and cream cheese for some tang.

“It smells good in here,” Herman says, pushing through the door. He walks over and peers into my bowls. He grabs three of the small teaspoons we keep in a jar on the worktable for tasting, and one by one he tries the frostings.

“These are good, Sophie. Better than mine.” His voice is a little sad, and I worry that I've gone too far, pushed too hard.

“Not really better, Herman, just more of what people expect. Flavors are much more intense for people these days, so some of the old recipes don't stand up the way they used to. Think about what people are eating now, all kinds of hot sauces and spicy foods. Intensely spiced global cuisines. Bitter kale instead of buttery spinach, funky goat cheese instead of mild cheddar.”

He tilts his head at me, pondering. “So what you are saying is that because people are much more exposed to these things, the original recipes taste different to them?”

“Exactly! Sriracha is as common as ketchup in most houses these days, so people's palates are used to more oomph in their flavors. Think about how it all used to be basic caramel, and now salted caramel is everywhere! When I was a kid it was all about milk chocolate, and now the darker and more intense the better. I just took your recipes, which work so well, and brought in the little extras that make them compatible with the way people eat today.”

“Do you think it will help?”

“Help?”

“With the business. To bring in more business?” I see the look in his eyes and realize he isn't as confident as he might want me to believe. Maybe it is beginning to sink in that his days here may, in fact, be numbered.

“I think it won't hurt.”

He nods. “They are very good. You'll show me how?” he asks, sounding a little defeated, but resigned.

“Of course.”

He pulls over a stool and sits while I take him through my changes to his recipes, and when the cupcakes are cooled, he and I frost them together, giving each pillowy cake a generous swirl of frosting on the top. Despite the arthritis in his hands, his touch with the little offset spatula is graceful and deft, and his frosting ends in perfect little curls every time. We talk about some of the other bakery offerings that might be up for a revisit, and when we put the finished cupcakes in the case, he smiles at me.

“I'm going to get one of those chalkboard things for the front. So we can tell the world about our new cupcakes.”

“I think that would be good.”

“What else would you do, Sophie, if the place were yours?”

This makes me stop cold, because whatever Jean and Ruth may think, I am definitely not here permanently, and I don't want Herman to view me as his succession plan. But his face is so open, and I can see that the idea of bringing the business back a bit is exciting to him, so I have to tread lightly. “Well, the most important thing about this place is that it is
yours
. Your energy, your family recipes, even if we are changing them a little bit.
You
are what makes the place special, Herman, always will be. Having said that, if you really want to try and get more business, you ought to think about the new people in the neighborhood and what they want, and try to give them enough of it to bring them in.”

“Oy, not all that vegan, gluten-free nonsense.”

I laugh. “Herman, I don't think you need to be a vegan, gluten-free bakery. But I do think that perhaps switching out at least your basic ingredients for organic versions would appeal to them. Having special products that are only available on the weekends, when it makes sense to have more items stocked for people who might wander in. Looking into doing some seasonal items, maybe in conjunction with a few of the local farms. Creating the kind of items that make people wait all year for the
brief time you bake that special summer berry tart or fall pumpkin bread.”

He rubs his chin. “I will think about it. It might be worth trying.”

I consider the specialty-cakes issue and decide that is a conversation for another time, and only if he brings it up. As I'm discovering by living with Bubbles, there is only so much change one can ask a senior citizen to absorb at one time.

“Sounds good.”

He checks his watch. “I'm going upstairs for a bit, Sophie. My son Herman Jr. is coming over. If he comes in down here looking for me instead of going right up to the apartment, you can send him up the back way.”

“Will do.” I wonder again about the son. Bubbles, who is a fount of all gossip, filled me in a little bit. Apparently there had been a second son who was killed in a car crash when he was in college. There is some fuzzy stuff about one of the boys maybe taking over the bakery, so I assume it must have been the one who died. Poor Herman. With his wife gone and one son lost, it would be so nice for him to have at least one family member he could connect with. And again I remind myself not to get too close, to make him too dependent. I would like to believe that it is about protecting him, for when I find my real job, but deep down, where I don't like to look, I know it is more than a little bit about protecting myself.

Herman heads up the secret stairs, and I zip into the back to clean the table with a mild bleach solution, wash all the bowls and beaters, and return the kitchen to pristine condition, ready for the next round of dirtying.

I'm wiping down the tables in front when the bells on the door peal.

“Hello, Sophie.”

I turn around to see Mark in the Suit. A different suit today,
though no less beautiful, with a lighter trench coat in honor of the sun. It's still brisk outside, but there is a hint of spring in the air.

“Hello, Mark. Welcome back. What can I get you today?”

“Anything new I should be tasting?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. How do you feel about cupcakes?”

“Generally I have no feeling about cupcakes other than the fact that they are food for children and giggly young women, and that if the craze for them ended tomorrow, the world would not suffer overmuch.”

Hmm. Mark in the Suit is sort of a grumpy goose today. “Well, I can't speak to other cupcakes, but I assure you that ours are very much appropriate for grown-ups, and while we have no intention of launching yet another cupcake empire, we do want to be sure that when our customer has a hankering for a bit of cake, that desire can be fulfilled.”

This comes out a little breathier than I intended, which makes it sound like there are double entendres embedded in my cupcake talk.

“Don't you just have chocolate and vanilla?”

“We do, newly revamped. And banana with peanut butter frosting.”

“Well, I suppose I'll have to taste them all.”

I remove one of each cupcake from the case and pull the tasting-sample platter out from underneath the counter. I cut each cupcake into six pieces, arrange them on the platter, and then place it on the counter where Mark can reach it. He tastes the vanilla first, then chocolate, then banana. After each piece, he nods.

“As cupcakes go, these are clearly superior. I doubt it will make me a cupcake fan, but . . .”

“You wouldn't kick them out of bed for dropping crumbs.” Oh good lord, Sophie, why on earth would you say
that
of all things? I clearly have lost all ability to converse with a man.

Luckily, Mark laughs. “No, I suppose I wouldn't. Why don't you give me a dozen, four of each. The girls in my office will love them.”

“Wonderful!”

I put the cupcakes in a box, with a special cupcake insert to keep them from falling over, and seal it with a Langer's sticker. I ring him up, deciding on the fly to up the cupcake price from two to three dollars each, take the cash he offers, and give him change and his receipt.

“Is the owner in back?” Mark asks. “Or do you have him tied up and gagged somewhere while you make all of these fancy new changes?”

While I love a good
9 to 5
reference, I resent the implication that somehow I'm going all rogue or something up in here. “For your information, the owner is in a meeting at the moment, but he and I are making these changes together. He's very progressive-minded, and there is more to come.”