Always the Baker, Finally the Bride

by Sandra D. Bricker

  times and a foundation of prayer for the new union.

  “A threefold cord is not easily broken” is a verse out of

  Scripture that can be the basis for a segment of the ceremony.

  Three strands of string or rope attached to a metal ring

  are braided by a beloved family member, symbolizing

  the union of the bride and groom, with God in the

  middle of their marriage.

  12

  Jackson checked his watch as he exited the elevator and made his way down the corridor. He might just have time to call and check on Emma before his conference call, if he hurried.

  An odd scent accosted his nostrils as he closed in on his office.

  “What is that?” he asked right out loud as he paused to sniff the air.

  Musky. Sweet . . . heavy!

  He’d just turned the corner and stepped into Reception, when he stopped in his tracks. Seated behind Susannah’s desk, an unfamiliar woman smiled at him. Long, straight, bleached hair past her shoulders, and he wondered if her very suntanned face gave a fair representation of middle age or whether all that sun had created the premature cowhide texturing of her skin.

  She rose to her feet and extended her hand to him across the desk, the butterfly sleeves of her paisley smock grazing two full rows of framed photographs arranged on the desktop.

  “Mary Troutman,” she offered. “I’m the new temp. You must be Jackson Drake.”

  He shook her hand weakly as he looked around the office. A long blue scarf draped the window, and two smaller versions capped the beaded shades of the floor lamps in opposite corners. A large stuffed elephant stood guard over the credenza, and a plant with enormous green leaves occupied a woven basket next to the desk where the trash can used to sit.

  His nostrils stung again, and Jackson looked around. “Mary? What is that smell?”

  Her over-whitened smile widened as she nodded at the brass incense burner tucked into the corner of Susannah’s completely unrecognizable desk. Her sharp-pronged red fingernails bordered on dangerous as she pointed at it.

  “Patchouli,” she said, as if imparting some universal wisdom. “I love that you responded to it, Jackson. Patchouli usually appeals to the enlightened. It’s especially effective before meditation to ground and center the mind. Its fragrance heightens strength and passion.”

  Jackson massaged his temple for a moment before he told her, “Mary, I don’t think my particular response to it is what you hoped. It actually gives me a bit of a headache. That being said, lit substances like cigarettes and patchouli . . . not allowed here at The Tanglewood. So I’ll need you to put that out.”

  “Oh.” Mary’s leathery face fell a little. “All right. The good news, Jackson, is that the scent will linger in the area for up to twenty-four hours!”

  “That’s the good news?” he muttered on his way into his office.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and opened up a text box as he lowered himself into the chair.

  I think I’m asleep. Please call and wake me. Quickly.

  A moment later, Emma replied. Day’s going that well, is it?

  You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

  Aunt Sophie fell. Mother took her to the hospital.

  Jackson stared at the message for a moment before picking up the receiver of his desk phone and dialing.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said the moment Emma answered.

  “The assisted living nurse found her and called my mother. She took her over to the hospital, and they ran a battery of tests. Aunt Sophie seems fine, no broken bones or anything, but Mother says she’s a little disoriented and out of sorts.”

  “That’s a shame,” Jackson answered. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m going over to visit with her in a bit to see for myself.”

  “Give her my love?”

  “Of course,” Emma replied. “So what’s your nightmare?”

  “A middle-aged hippie sitting at Susannah’s desk.”

  “Oh, no. Another bad one?”

  “Emma,” he whispered into the phone, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand, “she’s kind of scary. She’s got scarves hanging everywhere, a stuffed elephant on the table, and she’s burning incense.”

  “Incense!”

  “Yes,” he vowed. “She must have rented a U-Haul truck to get it all up here! A little over-the-top for a temp job, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What kind of incense?”

  He thought about it for a few seconds. “It starts with a p.”

  “Patchouli?”

  “It frightens me that you know that.”

  Emma’s laughter rang like music in his ears. “Dinner tonight?” she asked him.

  “Can’t. I’ve got a late meeting, and Miguel organized a basketball game tonight at the rec center.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Well, call my office because I’m coming back to work tomorrow.”

  “Emma, you can take a couple more days, you know. I’ll put in a good word for you with the owner.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. That guy is a piece of work,” she teased. “And you won’t want to get too close, anyway. I hear he smells like patchouli.”

  Her aunt didn’t respond well to sugar these days, so Emma had carefully chosen treats from the tearoom shelf with the lowest sugar content and packed them in a small pastry box tied with white string. Shortbread cookies, zucchini bread, and just two brownie bites—minus the frosting.

  “No latte cookies?” Sophie asked as she peered inside. “I love those little chocolate-dipped delights.”

  “None on hand,” Emma told her with an apologetic shrug. “But I think you’ll find something in there that you like.”

  “I adore everything you bake. You know that.”

  Emma slipped out of her sweater and draped it across the back of the chair at the small dinette set in the corner. Slipping her arm through her aunt’s, she led her to the sitting area by the window and helped her into her favorite chair before sitting down across from her.

  “I want you to tell me how you’re feeling, Aunt Soph. You gave us all quite a scare.”

  “Did I?” she asked, and her lovely eyes glazed over a bit. “What did I do?”

  “You fell. You don’t remember?”

  Sophie squinted slightly, and Emma watched her scan the air for some memory of her accident. At last, she simply shrugged and shook her head. “I think you must be mistaken, dear heart. But thank you for worrying about me. Your aunt Sophie is just fine. No need to fret.”

  Emma reached over and stroked the paper-thin skin on the back of her aunt’s hands. “You’re a treasure to me. You know that, don’t you?”

  “And you to me,” Sophie responded. Her eyes lit up as an idea occurred to her. “Can you stay for dinner? They’re serving pot roast in the main dining room downstairs. Helen says it’s the kind with the little red potatoes and baby carrots with rosemary. That sounds much better than anything I could make for myself, don’t you think?”

  “I think it sounds scrumptious!” Emma exclaimed with a wide grin, broadened just for her aunt. “I’d love to be your date.”

  “I just need to take a little nap before we head downstairs. Is that all right, dear?”

  “It’s quite all right. I can use a little quiet time myself. Let me help you to your bedroom.”

  “No, no. I’m fine right here in my chair,” she said. “If you’ll just help me put up my feet.”

  Emma nodded, and she nudged the ottoman toward her. With extreme care, she gently lifted Sophie’s legs, one at a time, until she felt certain of her aunt’s comfort. Easing her head forward, Emma nudged a small pillow behind her neck and spread a daisy afghan over her body.

  With a kiss on the woman’s cheek, Emma whispered, “I love you so much, Aunt Soph. Sleep well.”

&n
bsp; “Wake me in an hour? I want to get downstairs before all of the pot roast is gone.”

  “One hour,” she promised with another gleaming smile, again widened for Sophie’s benefit.

  While her aunt dozed, Emma padded into the bedroom, gathered a small mound of dirty clothes into a laundry bag, and tugged on the drawstring to close it. She tossed it to the floor beside the door so she wouldn’t forget to take it with her. Gathering half a dozen bottles of prescription medicines from the shelf in the bathroom, along with a large plastic pillbox with section dividers for each day of the week, Emma spread it all out on the bed.

  She proceeded to replenish the box for the coming week as her thoughts bounced around like a large rubber ball . . . from the whimsical cake in the shape of a teapot she planned to start the next day . . . to Fee and Sean’s ongoing hunt for a house big enough to consolidate his workout equipment and the contents of Fee’s massive closet . . . to poor Jackson’s administrative assistant train wreck of one animated disaster after another.

  Audrey would return to town next week, hopefully with J.R. in tow. She wanted to talk to him about the cabinetry work he’d done in Anton Morelli’s kitchen. If he had some time available, she’d love to have him take a crack at her office.

  Her thoughts flash-froze.

  Will I still have an office long enough to care whether it’s got built-in shelves and cabinets?

  Emma’s heart began to race again, the way it did every time she thought about leaving the hotel behind. Moving to Paris with Jackson induced a swoon every time she considered it. But selling The Tanglewood, moving to another country—even for just a little while—and saying good-bye to their friends and family . . . to Aunt Sophie! How on earth would they ever manage it?

  When the time came to wake her aunt, Sophie simply nuzzled deeper into the afghan and sighed. Emma phoned Helen, the nursing assistant assigned to her aunt, and asked that a dinner plate be sent up for her later rather than disturbing her now. Helen agreed, and they had a brief chat about Sophie’s medications, her follow-up medical appointments, and her recent mental decline.

  “She’s in no way completely diminished,” the woman reassured her. “But I have noticed a decline in the last week or two.”

  “You’ll keep a careful watch on her for us, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Ms. Travis. You know I adore your aunt.”

  “Well,” Emma said with a smile, “she’s hard not to love.”

  Instead of heading home after she kissed Sophie’s forehead and tiptoed out of her apartment with the laundry bag slung over her shoulder, Emma decided to stop by the hotel for a bite to eat. If she felt like it, maybe she’d get a head start on tomorrow’s teapot cake, if Fee hadn’t already begun to construct it.

  The instant she passed through the lobby doors, however, Emma’s focus on what she might order for dinner shattered into shards that spun in several different directions. While Anton Morelli’s voice in broken Italian bellows ebbed and flowed from his kitchen, a diminutive man in an expensive suit argued with the front desk manager about his bill. On the other side of the glass doors, the courtyard hummed with well-dressed guests milling about under the twinkling white lights strung through the tree branches as two violinists set the mood with beautiful classical music.

  “Dude, what are you doing here?” Fee asked as she and Kat raced past her. “There’s a cake emergency in the Victoria. Be right back,” she tossed over her shoulder as they passed the front desk and turned the corner, bound for the Victoria ballroom, where Diane and Raymond Butler had scheduled the celebration of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

  Emma realized that she hadn’t moved an inch. She just stood there, in the middle of the hotel lobby, her feet firmly cemented to the glossy floor as the world inside those glass doors buzzed around her. The goings-on at The Tanglewood seemed like a ballet to her now, choreographed dancers moving to and fro, never quite intersecting with the others, but always threatening to do just that.

  “Emma Raaa-eee.” Madeline’s unmistakable southern drawl tugged Emma’s attention toward the restaurant and she noticed that Jackson’s middle sister seemed to be floating as she approached. “What are you doin’ here, sugah? I thought I heard you were out of the line of fi-ah for a few days.”

  “Oh, I’m returning tomorrow,” she told her. “But I thought I’d come in to have a look at the schedule and see if there’s anything I need to know for the morning.”

  “Have you had your supper yet? Would you like to join Norma and me? Come on into Morelli’s and have something to eat with us, sugah.”

  “You know, I saw Kat and Fee fly through here a minute ago. I think I’m going to hang out in the kitchen until they come back so I can find out what’s going on.”

  “Oh, are you shu-ah?” she sang.

  “Yes. But give my love to Norma.”

  “I’ll do that, honey.”

  Madeline turned and headed back to the restaurant, and Emma remained planted, still somewhat lost in the evening dance of The Tanglewood.

  “Miss Travis, good to see you.” . . . “Oh, hello, Emma. How are you?” . . . “Emma, did you get my e-mail? I’d like to talk to you about moving the Hendrix bridal tea out of the courtyard and into the Desiree room on the thirtieth.”

  She blinked her eyes, and the glaze of emotion resolved into a few lone tears that wound down her face. Suddenly, Emma inhaled sharply and wheeled around, heading straight for the front door. Fee called out to her just as her hand touched the large brass handle.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Where are you going?”

  Emma quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand and sniffed. “Sorry. I have something I have to do,” she called out as she hurried toward the door.

  “I just wanted to tell you I finally got Anton to part with his recipe for—”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll see you in the morning, Fee. We’ll talk then.”

  “—that fudge of his,” Fee finished, but the words dropped to the ground as Emma took off at a full run toward her car before the door had even closed behind her.

  Anton Morelli’s “Secret Million-Dollar Fudge”

  4 ½ cups granulated sugar

  2 tablespoons butter

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 12-ounce can evaporated milk

  12 1-ounce squares semi-sweet chocolate

  12 ounces chocolate chips

  1 pint marshmallow cream

  1 cup chopped walnuts

  Grease a 12×8×2-inch pan.

  Boil sugar, butter, salt, and milk for 6 minutes,

  stirring constantly.

  In a large bowl, pour boiling mixture over

  the remaining ingredients.

  Beat until chocolate is melted and the mixture is smooth.

  Pour into a greased 12x8x2-inch pan and cool completely.

  Let stand for several hours before cutting into squares.

  Store in a sealed container lined with wax paper.

  13

  That’s unexpected news, bro.” Huge droplets of sweat fell from Sean’s bald head as he shook it. “Does Fee know?”

  “I think so. I mean, I know it’s radical, but I think it’s the right thing,” Jackson replied, as Miguel tossed him a bottle of water before joining him and the others on the floor.

  Andy, Miguel, Jackson, and Sean leaned against the wall like a weary line-up, exhausted after two hours of nonstop basketball with their buddies from Miguel’s men’s group.

  “Emma and I have been talking about this for months now,” he said, pausing to pour a stream of cold water down his throat. “It was just a pipe dream, really, until Rod called and made the offer. There’s some famous pastry school that accepted her last year, but she never went. So we go, we live in Paris, she attends those classes, I work on the book I’ve been spouting about for two years now—”

  “You’re gonna write a book?” Sean interrupted. “What, like a novel?”

  “Nah. A how-to kind of thing about buildi
ng a business from the ground up.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s not enough of those out there,” Sean quipped, and Jackson gave him a quick punch on the arm. “Sorry, man. I’m just joking.”

  “And Emma hasn’t been feeling so great lately,” Jackson told them seriously. “I’m worried. I mean, she’s got three strikes against her anyway with the diabetes, but her doctor told her the other day that she either slows it down or her body is going to slow it down for her.”

  “I had no idea,” Miguel commented.

  “She’s funny about that stuff,” he said. “She doesn’t like anyone to think she’s less than, you know? She works hard to keep up with it, but lately . . .”

  Jackson’s words trailed off when the gymnasium door exploded open, banging against the wall behind it. They all leaned forward and looked toward the back of the gym as Emma barreled in and ran toward them.

  “Emma?” Jackson exclaimed, jumping to his feet just in time to catch her as she thudded into him. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it Sophie?”

  “No, no,” she cried, breathless. “I have to talk to you.” She folded in half, her hands propped against her knees, as she tried to continue. “I have to . . . talk . . . right now, Jackson.”

  “Okay. Relax and catch your breath. Do you want some water?”

  “No,” she replied, still struggling to regulate her breathing. “On second thought, yes.”

  He retrieved a new bottle from the cooler, twisted off the top, and handed it to her. She downed about half of it before speaking again.

  “I’m . . . sorry,” she said with a sheepish, uncomfortable stab at a smile when she noticed the others. “I interrupted. Sorry, guys.”

  “It’s fine,” Miguel said as he stood. “We were just heading in to the locker room anyway. You two stay here and talk.”

  Sean and Andy took the cue and got up as well.

  “Hey, Emma,” Andy said, and he patted her arm as he passed her.

  “Hi.”

  “ ’Sup?” Sean commented as well.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” Miguel added, and the three of them filed across the court and through the door.