Armando gave me a curious look, then went back to work, now carving the Coliseum into shape. Within minutes he’d created a form so breathtaking, so perfect in structure, that the cameraman headed back our way for another shot. I gave him an admiring nod and whispered, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He took a step back to examine it. “Now what?”
I directed him to the fridge to get the first tray of hardened chocolate arches. He pulled it out and his nose wrinkled. “Those are the arches?” he asked.
“Yeah. The first batch, anyway.”
“They look more like the windows on the Titanic. Shouldn’t they be rounded on top?”
“I . . . I guess.” I stared at the printout of the real Coliseum, the room now spinning. Had someone turned up the heat again?
I heard Bella holler out another encouraging cheer. I squinted to see her, but with the lights in my face, I couldn’t quite make her out. Then again, I couldn’t quite make out anything. Weird. They must’ve done something with the lights.
“Scarlet?” Armando flashed me a concerned look. “Are you all right?”
“Huh?” Was it just my imagination, or was the room spinning? I pinched my eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. Probably nerves. Or the heat. I tugged at my collar and prayed for a cool breeze to float by.
It didn’t.
I could feel Armando’s stare, even with my eyes closed, so I opened them and peeked at him.
“Again I ask . . . are you all right?” He took hold of my arm. “Your face is really red.”
I put my hands on my cheeks and could feel them burning. “It’s just so hot in here. It’s hot to you too, right?”
“Yeah, it’s warm, but not the kind of hot you’re describing.” He gestured to a chair in the back of our little area. “I think you need to sit down, Scarlet.”
In spite of the spinning room, I could not—would not—sit. Not with a wedding cake to bake in front of millions of people.
Wedding cake.
We are baking a wedding cake, right? Not a birthday cake?
Wait. I think we’re baking a turtle cake for a little boy, right?
No. A baby shower cake. That’s why I have blue fondant gel in my pocket.
But I couldn’t find the bottle of fondant gel in my pocket. Forcing myself back to the task at hand, I made a conscious decision to keep going with this Italian-themed wedding cake. No matter what.
Only one problem—the little white stars. I saw them every time I blinked. When I looked at the cake, there they were. And when I shifted my gaze to Mama’s face in the television audience, I still saw them.
After a minute or two, I felt sick. Really, really sick. My stomach did the hula, and the stars morphed into magnificent, shiny orbs floating in front of my eyes. Before long they consumed me. A surge of nausea gripped me just as the camera swung round to get a close-up of our cake. Panicked, I tried to decide what to do. If I bolted, everyone would know I was sick.
Okay, no way could I bolt. My vision—blurry as it was—had now nearly disappeared completely.
But my stomach—oh, my stomach! The cameraman, likely sensing my problem, swung the camera around to the Alvarez family just in time for me to grab a mixing bowl—an empty one, thank God—and empty the contents of my stomach, feeble as they were, in front of everyone in attendance.
A gasp went up from the audience. Not that it mattered. By now my vision was nothing but stars.
Stars, stars, and more stars.
I gave myself over to them, floating away on a cloud of white.
14
Humble Pie
When you share a cupcake, you share love.
Author unknown
There’s something rather disconcerting about waking up on a soundstage with cameras hovering over you. The room shifted in and out, in and out, and I thought—through the haze—that perhaps I’d died. The sweet, sugary smell of cake lingered in the air, and I drew in a breath, blissful. Happy. Relaxed.
Oh! There’s really cake in heaven! I knew it! So much for all those years of fretting.
Just as quickly, I faded back out again. In that foggy place, I had the strangest dream. I dreamed a handsome Italian man hovered over me, calling me back to earth once again, back to a place of torment and pain, bright lights and fiery ovens, filled with temptation.
Oh, what handsome angels you’ve created, Lord! Fabulous surprise!
“Scarlet! Scarlet!”
The angel’s face faded from view, along with his broad shoulders and muscular arms.
“No!” I would not go. I would not! Earth was a place of slippery frosting and cranky bosses. A place of deadlines and broken arms, chocolate arches and lopsided wedding cakes. A place where single women with broad backsides made total fools of themselves in very public fashion.
I will not go there, Sam I Am! I will not bake it in a pan!
Through the fog, I thought I saw the bony finger of Aunt Willy waggling in my face and her voice calling out, “Sticky Buns! Look what you’ve done! You’ve humiliated me in front of millions!”
Millions?
Yes, in heaven there were certainly millions. They hovered around me, singing at the top of their lungs. Certainly not the heavenly choir I’d imagined, but they were loud. My head began to swim as I tried to make sense of everything.
Lord, heaven isn’t quite what I pictured. Not at all, in fact. It’s very . . . loud.
And hot. Goodness, was it ever hot here. I’d envisioned heaven to be cooler. And not so bright. Stars, yes. Angels, yes. But overhead cameras and lights?
Really, Lord, that’s a little much.
My aching head proved problematic, and the fog began to lift. I realized I couldn’t possibly be in heaven. Wasn’t there some Scripture about no more pain or something like that? And that cameraman—the one swinging in low to catch a close-up of my face—was definitely no angel.
No, I hadn’t died. I only wished I had.
I attempted to sit up, but the stars reappeared. Ooo, pretty! Look at that one. I reached out to grab it, but nothing materialized in my hand, so I tried again. Darn! “Come here, little star! I want you! You belong to me now!”
“Scarlet, lie down.”
I turned to smile at the handsome Italian angel next to me. “Armando.” I gripped his hand. It did materialize. It also held me steady as I rested my head on the floor once again.
What pretty overhead lights. They’re so shiny. I giggled, wishing I could float away on bright, glistening clouds. Maybe if I kept my eyes closed, I could.
An unfamiliar voice rang out. A fellow I didn’t recognize leaned over me and patted me on the shoulder. “Stay calm, Scarlet. We’re calling the medics in to look at you. Then we’re sending you to the hospital to be examined.”
“Medics?” I echoed the word. It tripped across my tongue like a little song. “What are medics?”
“People who help you.”
“Help me?” Why did I need help with so many angels afoot?
The fellows with all of the equipment swept in around me, asking a thousand questions at once and forcing me back to reality.
My head took a little swimming trip over Niagara Falls, one bizarre rush of pain followed by another on its tail. In that moment, it all came back to me in a flash. The television studio. The cakes. The heat. The fainting spell. All of it.
I sat up quickly—okay, too quickly—the world now spinning faster than before. Not that I cared. I had to get up. Get busy. Build a Coliseum. Put gladiators in the center. Find a way to make my family proud. Redeem the time. Lose twenty pounds. Undo this mess!
Oh, Lord . . . help!
“Nooo!” I didn’t mean to holler the word, but there it was for all to hear.
“Calm down, honey,” one of the judges said. “Take a deep breath. You’re ill.”
“No I’m not. You don’t understand.” My mind reeled as I tried again to make sense of things. “I know what’s wrong. Why I fainted, I mean.”
/> “Why?” This voice came from my mother, who had somehow worked her way down from the studio audience to my side. “Are you sick, honey?”
“No. I didn’t eat this morning.” I sighed as the faces of both my parents came into focus. “I, well . . . I didn’t eat yesterday either.”
“Are you serious?” Armando rose and sprinted across the room. He returned moments later with a thick hoagie sandwich. “There’s a whole tray of these in the back. Why didn’t you help yourself? The producer told us to.”
“I would have, but . . .” A groan escaped my lips. “You don’t understand, Armando.” I now spoke through clenched teeth.
“Understand what? You’re hungry, you eat. That’s how it’s done in my house.” He shoved the sandwich into my hand, and I stared at it, drooling. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways!
Still, I couldn’t eat it, not in front of a television audience. And with a camera hovering over me.
I pressed the sandwich back into his hand. “How can I eat a sandwich when I look like this?” I gestured to my hips, which sprawled across the floor, looking wider than ever. The cameraman zoomed in on them. Lovely.
“Like what?” Armando looked perplexed.
“Like this.” I gestured to my sticky buns, thinking perhaps he needed his vision checked.
“Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t been eating because you don’t like the way you look?” He switched the sandwich to his other hand and shook his head.
The medics continued to examine me, one listening to my heart with a stethoscope and the other pumping up the blood pressure machine. One of them, a thin fellow with a long face, handed me a glass of orange juice. “Drink up, sister.”
I fought the urge to say, “I’m not your sister,” and instead opted for, “Do you know how many calories are in this juice?”
He stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “Drink it anyway.”
Okay, now his stern voice reminded me of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Morgan.
I swallowed the juice, and the stars dissipated a little. Armando tried once again to feed me, and this time—likely because twenty-five people now hovered around me with terrified expressions on their faces—I took the hoagie in my hands and sighed. I even took a little bite.
Oh. Yum.
Tasted good. Really, really good. I’d forgotten just how yummy food could be. Especially carbs.
I took another bite. Then another. Before long I’d eaten the whole thing and was asking for another. The cameraman captured the whole embarrassing thing—every frame, every nuance—right down to the mustard on my left cheek, which Armando dabbed away using a napkin. He didn’t look at all embarrassed, which raised my opinion of him even more.
My mother continued to scold me for getting myself into this predicament—Thanks, Mama. No place like a soundstage to be chastened—and her tears flowed. My father—godly man that he was—knelt down and prayed over me. The Splendora sisters got involved, and before long we were having a full-fledged prayer meeting on the floor of the Food Network soundstage. With cameras hovering over us. And the producers looking on.
Turned out the Alvarez family members knew how to pray too. They got involved, apparently unconcerned with the outcome of the contest. The other contestants looked on, intrigued, but kept working on their cakes. Who could blame them? This was a competition, after all.
Cake!
I looked at our Coliseum cake, realizing just how much work we still had to do on it.
“Armando.” I tried to stand, and he stopped me.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re going to get this done. Help me up. Hurry.”
“Scarlet, you can’t possibly—”
“Miss, you really need to stay seated.” The paramedic kept up his first-grade-teacher voice, though it was now grating on my last nerve.
Okay, I didn’t actually have any nerves left, but whatever.
I shook my head and offered a confident “I feel fine.”
I did, actually. Funny what a little food could do for a girl who hadn’t eaten in a couple of days.
“Honey, you can’t very well get up off the floor and dive right back into the competition.” My mother’s words likely sounded like the voice of reason in her ears, but they didn’t ring true to me. “You’ll pass out again.”
I looked at my mother and asked the one question that I knew would sway her. “What would Lucy do?”
Seconds later Mama’s frown reversed itself. “She would get back up, dry her tears, and put on a show. She would prove to Ricky that she had the goods.”
“And that’s just what I’m going to do.” With Mama’s help I rose. I saw my aunt still seated in the television audience. She looked horrified. No doubt. Her niece had just humiliated her publicly. But I would make good on this. Not for her sake, necessarily, but for mine. I had to redeem the time. If the gladiators could do it, I could too.
Somehow I managed to regroup. No, regroup was too tame a word. I came back with a redheaded, fiery, belly-full-of-sandwich-and-feeling-all-right roar. With the stars now gone and my strength intact—not to mention adequate calories to fuel me for the task—I saw the Coliseum through new eyes. I would not be fed to the lions. I would win this thing.
I kept a watchful eye on Armando, who seemed more concerned about me than the cake. At least three times he asked how I was feeling. My “fine” response didn’t seem to convince him.
So he hovered.
Not that I minded. No, something about his nearness gave me the courage to keep going, even when the decorative pieces didn’t turn out quite as I’d hoped. He put together the cream cheese frosting, and I began the arduous task of lopping it on, then smoothing it out, layer upon layer, layer upon layer. For whatever reason, the process got me giggly. I started laughing, which really got the cameraman intrigued. He drew near and caught the whole thing on film. Still my laughter persisted. Had I really just fallen flat on the soundstage in front of millions of viewers? Why that made me laugh, I couldn’t say.
I finally got my giggles under control, at which point Armando drew close and whispered, “How are you, really?” in my ear.
I responded, “As great as a person who’s just humiliated herself in front of a television audience could be.”
“Trust me, if you want to talk to someone who knows what it’s like to bounce back after making a fool of himself, I’m your guy.” He gave a winsome smile. “I happen to have a lot of experience in that area.”
That got a chuckle out of me once again. For a moment, anyway. Things took a serious turn after that. As we worked to decorate the Coliseum, Armando told me about his humiliations—the ones he’d confessed to family members and the ones he hadn’t. He spoke from his heart, completely calming my nerves and helping me focus without freaking out at the task at hand. In other words, I got so lost in his story—his amazing, heartfelt story—that I almost forgot I was on television. Until the cameras swung in my face, I mean. But even then he shooed them away and kept me sighing over his woeful tale.
It’s funny. You can learn a lot about a person working with them—him—under stressful conditions. Some of your preconceived ideas fly right out of the window. Or, in our case, right out of the arches.
Arches!
We somehow put together over a hundred perfect little arches. As we worked to ease them into place on the exterior of the now-frosted Coliseum, the whole thing began to take shape. I could hear the cheers of encouragement from the audience members. Invigorated by their enthusiastic reception of our work, Armando and I kept going. What really kept me going, however, was the distraction of his chatter. I guess his voice had a calming effect. Or maybe it was his ability to tell a great story. Either way, he held me spellbound and even got me laughing at one point.
Half an hour before the clock ran down, I looked at what we’d done and tried to analyze our plan of action. The outside of the cake looked dreamy. Romantic. But something was still lacking. Oh yes. The gla
diators. Warriors. Fighters.
Like me.
I did my best to reshape the new half-melted little guys into the image I’d seen in my head, but it just wasn’t working. Thank goodness Armando’s sculpting skills turned out to be pretty good. No, not pretty good. Amazing. He’d even crafted slightly larger bride and groom gladiators, complete with swords in their hands, that he placed in the center. Was there anything this guy couldn’t do?
Suddenly it occurred to me why people called him a jack-of-all-trades. He really was good at a lot of things. When one excelled in multiple areas, he apparently had trouble making up his mind what he wanted to be when he grew up.
I got it. It all made sense now.
But I was only good at one thing—baking. Well, baking and decorating. And singing.
Okay, where the singing thing came from, I had no idea. Sure, I’d sung a melody or two in days gone by, but those days were behind me now.
Or not. I found myself humming a merry little tune as the cake came together. And by the time the buzzer went off, signifying the end of the event, I was in full-out songbird mode. Armando wiped his hands on his apron, high-fived me, and joined me in a rousing chorus of “Oh Happy Day.”
I glanced down the line at the other cakes. Though I couldn’t figure out what a soccer field had to do with weddings, the Scotch-Irish cake really took my breath away. So did the colorful African extravaganza, so bright it lit up the room. What really messed with my head, though, was the Alvarez family’s rendition of the beaches of Cancun. The sand was so real I wanted to take my shoes off and run through it. And the water! How did they get the colors just right? I’d never been able to create that perfect shade of aqua-blue with my fondant gels. Looked like the perfect honeymoon getaway.
Oh well. I turned to face Armando, who slipped his arm around my shoulder and gave me a big hug.
“Whatever happens,” I said, “I owe you. Big-time.”
“You owe me nothing,” he responded. “Except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
The Icing on the Cake Page 13
