by Laura Briggs
With a grunt, she eased the toolbox onto the entry table and pulled out her phone. “Is everything okay at Nadia’s place?” she asked.
“No. I had to re-stitch part of the zip while Cynthia breathed down my neck and predicted the dress would come apart mid-ceremony,” said Natalie. “Can you believe it? I have never had a seam split, Tess. Never. Not in all the miserable years of sewing for Kandace. Even the hideous clown cape I sewed while I had the stomach flu stayed together. But not a couture gown I labored over for weeks?”
The curse was back. No. It couldn’t be real. Tessa shook off that idea. “These things happen, Nat,” said Tessa. “None of us are perfect. Maybe the thread was weak, or the zipper’s fabric was defective…”
“Nope and nope. I fixed it, but I have to say, I’ve felt better going into events other than this one. I mean, I know it’s fine, but I don’t know—you know what I mean. Nadia will probably be waiting for her skirt to drop off as she walks down the aisle.”
“She knows you’re a great designer and seamstress,” soothed Tessa. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m at Nadia’s place. Once the bridal party arrives at the wedding site, they’ll finish dressing for the photography session at the chapel. I’ll stop off at our building first to help Ama load the cake before I drive to the chapel.”
“Where is Ama?”
“She’s at the restaurant, helping the catering crew. There’s a problem with something—I don’t know what, because she didn’t have time to talk. Try calling her. Maybe they have it under control now.”
They didn’t—Tessa felt sure of it in her sinking heart without calling the baker’s phone. “I’m on my way there as soon as I load the emergency supplies here,” she said. “Probably it’s just something tiny involving the dessert table.”
She tossed the emergency supplies in the trunk of the car she had borrowed, then headed in the direction of Lyle’s restaurant. Please, please, do not let this be a big crisis. Do not let this day be ruined.
She clenched the steering wheel a little more tightly, trying not to imagine the kitchen floor littered with mini cupcakes, hand-carved radish boxes, and creamy dill dip. Already the floral delivery was down to the wire, thanks to the greenhouse debacle and a delivery date oversight by the florist. They had promised the centerpieces would be delivered first thing in the morning, and that their delivery team would have the dining room ‘sparkling with floral elegance’ in no time at all.
Of course, it was afternoon and they hadn’t arrived yet. But any minute now, Tessa told herself. Maybe luck would be with her when she walked through the restaurant’s doors. She was just glad she’d had the foresight to pick up the bridal bouquets yesterday for Nadia and her bridal party.
While Tessa was on her way to the restaurant, the back door to the Wedding Belles’ headquarters opened under Ama’s key as she and Natalie entered. “Let’s get the cart,” said Natalie. “It’ll be easier to move the cake by rolling it than carrying it, and we need to get it to the restaurant in double time.”
The individual layers, covered in perfect white fondant, were chilling in the kitchen’s fridge, with one on every shelf. The candies for the elaborate snowflake swirl spiral were in a box on the counter beside the transparent wire frame.
“I think we should carry it,” said Ama uneasily. “It takes more time, but I’m a little nervous about handling the big one.” The bottom layer was thick and felt slightly heavy to Ama despite the light sponge layers sandwiching its rich filling.
Natalie checked her watch. “Let’s hurry, then.” They opened the fridge and pulled out the biggest box from the middle of the bottom shelf, each taking an end as it slid free of the rack.
It was heavy. It sagged in the middle between them—only a little at first, but growing more noticeable by the second as they inched toward the van’s open doors, Ama walking backwards through the kitchen’s entrance.
“Walk faster,” hinted Natalie.
“I can’t,” said Ama. “I can’t see where I’m going. I’m afraid to look over my shoulder because I might drop this corner of the cake. Why is this box so thin? They never felt this thin before when I carried them.”
“I don’t know, but it had better hold together until we reach the van,” said Natalie. “Hear me? Hold together, box.” Ama slid her hand underneath, trying not to imagine that the cake’s filling had somehow soaked through it and eaten the parchment paper liner within. It had never happened before in all her years of baking.
They both grunted with relief as the box touched down on the van’s floor, padded by some foam strips Natalie had brought along. “Next time, cart,” said Natalie to Ama, who nodded in agreement.
“We’ll put the middle layer on the shelf since it has safety strips around three sides, and set the top layer on the tabletop,” said Ama. “It should be pretty safe from escape since it’s small, after all.” She loaded the remaining bakery boxes with care onto the cart, then closed the fridge.
Halfway across the kitchen, the right-hand wheel dropped off. “Hold it,” said Natalie.
“What? Why?” said Ama, who moved as if to join her on the other side.
“No, literally hold it, okay? The wheel came off. This thing could tip over,” said Natalie. She crouched down and gingerly lifted the right leg, trying to shove the wheel’s swivel base into its socket again. “This service cart is ancient,” she said. “The wheel support is bent. How does it stay together half the time?”
“It never came apart before,” said Ama. “Just stick it back together. Maybe Blake can fix it for us later.” As Natalie seized the right-hand end of the cart, Ama pushed it carefully forward again, crossing the kitchen floor gingerly to the open door.
“Watch out for the rug,” she warned Natalie, whose high-heeled shoe kicked backwards in response, sending the little floor carpet sailing to the opposite side of the room.
“No problem,” said Natalie. The cart bumped slowly over the threshold and to the pavement outside, where it rolled along more easily without the rough patches in the kitchen’s old floor.
“I think the wheel is loose again,” said Ama, who was still feeling nervous.
Natalie glanced down, then moved to the side in order to see better. “It’s just twisting a little, but it’s still in place,” she said. “It’s easier this way, right? Smooth transportation.”
“It is faster,” admitted Ama. “We’re almost home safe.” The cart sailed smoothly, even without Natalie guiding its other end. That is, until the wheel struck a broken piece of rock lying on the pavement. The wonky wheel skidded and locked, the whole cart lurching forward. The box holding the cake’s middle section slid forwards to bump against the side support on impact, while the topmost layer sailed free of the cart’s tiny upper lip and landed on the pavement. Box open, smashed cake and fondant decorating the ground behind the van.
Twenty-Four
For a moment, neither of them said anything. A small cry escaped Ama’s lips, building louder as she crouched by the remains of her cake, completely unsalvageable.
“How?!” said Natalie. “How is there a rock on the pavement in the middle of the city!” She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration.
“We really are jinxed,” said Ama, groaning.
“Don’t panic,” said Natalie. “Think—think. We have to be calm. What do we do, Ama?” she said. “What do we do to fix this?”
Ama was picking up broken pieces of cake, although she hadn’t any idea why she was doing it. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know—”
“Is there a backup cake?”
“No. There’s nothing. Nothing in the fridge—” She scrunched the battered box on top of the cart again and marched inside, opening the refrigerator to reveal four leftover peppermint mini cheesecakes, two pints of cream, a stick of butter, and a jar of zesty pickles, none of which would assemble an emergency wedding cake. In the pantry there was a box of vanilla wafers and two packages of Twinkies
—again, nothing that would save them.
Think, think, Ama. Her mind was blank, except for thoughts of cake mixes and fast sponge recipes, all of which were useless right now. There had to be a way to replace this in a half hour or less.
“There’s a bakery two streets over,” she said quickly, closing the door again. “Go buy any white sheet cake that they have, Natalie. Doesn’t matter what it looks like, just buy it.”
“They won’t have one without frosting and decorations unless I have them bake it,” said Natalie.
“Frosting’s fine—just get whatever they have that they can put in a box for you,” said Ama, who was putting on an apron. She opened a cupboard and took out a bag of marshmallows and a box of confectioner’s sugar.
By the time Natalie returned fifteen minutes later, Ama was rolling out her shortcut fondant to the precise thickness needed for the cake. “Here we are,” said Natalie, dropping her purse on the floor and opening a bakery box. “It was the only white cake they had, and it was covered in white frosting already. This kind tastes awful, though, Ama. It’s like eating vanilla-flavored liquid foam.” She made a face as she showed her the only available option, a plain vanilla cake iced with a pearly sheen, and a series of candied purple flowers garnishing its corners.
“It’s fine,” said Ama, who reached for her cake knife and began scraping the frosting and decorations off with sure strokes of its blade, until the cake was bare. Reaching for her smallest cake tin, she cut two circles from the sponge, using her pan like a giant cookie cutter. Slow, deep breaths kept her calm, while the process kept her mind focused on what came next.
“It’s not the same flavor as the original,” said Natalie. “This isn’t your special recipe, Ama.”
“I know. But once I sandwich it together with the cinnamon cream filling I made, it’ll come as close as we can get,” said Ama. “There’s nothing else we can do at this point, and at least this layer isn’t going to be served at the reception.” She tasted one of the crumbs from the cut sponge. “We’re definitely going to have to give Nadia and Lyle a big discount,” she said. “Grab that second knife and start covering the top of this layer with the filling, would you?” she said to Natalie, as she skimmed the first cut circle free of the cake’s filling.
Under a layer of smooth fondant, it looked identical to the first one. By the time Ama had smoothed it and trimmed the bottom ruffle of excess fondant, they were a half hour behind their intended delivery time.
Natalie checked the clock. “How much longer?” she asked. “I told the restaurant we’d be there twenty minutes ago. Pretty soon, that giant ice swan will be delivered, and there’s nobody to scoop sorbet balls to fill it, since they’re short-staffed today.”
“Ten minutes,” promised Ama. “Go ahead and carry out the top and middle of the groom’s cake. I’ll help you carry the bottom layer as soon as I’m done.” She reached for another small bakery box and began assembling its sides.
“We are so late,” groaned Natalie, as she eased out a bakery box containing one of the chocolate layers. “I’m guarding this one with my life.”
Meanwhile, across town at the Olive Brook restaurant, Tessa had arrived to find disaster waiting in the kitchen. Scattered trays of nearly finished appetizers lined the work counters, along with bite-size desserts in the process of being decorated, but the crew was busy dealing with a problem involving the stove’s temperature regulation, which at the moment was refusing to light a flame beneath any of the pots on its surface.
“Everything okay?” Tessa asked, hoping against all evidence that this was a minor issue.
The catering chef looked at her. “Where’s your food coordinator?” he asked. “Ama,” he clarified. “She was supposed to come back and help us finish these trays. We haven’t even started the main dish prep, so we’re behind—we can’t finish these on our own, we don’t have enough people here.”
“I can help,” said Tessa bravely. Thinking, Why can’t Ama or Nat be here—somebody who knows what they’re doing in a real kitchen like this one? She reached for a knife and one of the rosemary stalks that was being diced to garnish the creamy dill dip.
The kitchen door opened. “Is the wedding planner here?” asked a restaurant employee, over the noise of the staff argument by the stove, its flame sputtering pathetically to life beneath a saucepan.
“That’s me.” Tessa laid aside the crushed peppermint candy she had been sprinkling over the mini cheesecakes.
“There’s a delivery service here looking for you.” He disappeared from sight as the door closed. Pulling off her apron, Tessa hurried from the kitchen, and smoothed her skirt in preparation for meeting Accented Creations’ delivery team.
A delivery service was indeed in the private dining room for the reception, and in the process of unpacking decorations on the tables—shiny purple and green streamers and pennants, funky green, red, and purple baubles strung together on gold wire, and a giant crepe-paper piñata shaped like a donkey.
“What are you doing?” said Tessa, horrified. “What are all these?”
A deliveryman with a clipboard motioned toward the objects. “The centerpieces you ordered, the garlands, the piñata—”
“I didn’t order any of this!” said Tessa. “These are supposed to be amaryllis and paperwhites—and where’s my swan?”
“Swan?” he repeated, mystified. “Nobody said anything about a swan.”
“Are you from Accented Creations?” They couldn’t possibly be, not with these decorations and nary a trace of a flower among them. Something was horribly wrong here.
“This isn’t the regional soccer champions party?” He checked his work sheet. Tessa noticed the logo on his green shirt—Events, Inc., a big chain competitor for Bill’s Party 2 Go in the city. “You’re not Hernandez?”
“No—this is the Emerson–Kardopolis wedding,” she said. “So unless you have a big frozen swan in your truck to give me, you’re at the wrong address. Now, please, get these things out of here as quickly as you can, because I have a delivery due any second now.”
“Geez, what’s with you and the swan, lady?” The clipboard guy motioned for the rest of the crew’s attention. “Hey, guys—wrong address. We’re supposed to be at 220 South Side. Let’s move it.” With grumbles of protest and dismay, the workers reversed their progress on unpacking the decorations.
Tessa pulled out her phone and dialed the number for Accented Creations. “Hi, this is Tessa Miller—the assistant to Mr. Groeder’s assistant,” she added, using her much-loathed false title. “The delivery to our reception site is late, and I was hoping that nothing was wrong.” She crossed her fingers.
“Hold one moment.” A long silence followed, as Tessa studied the dining room’s stucco walls, trying to imagine them garlanded with soft, twinkling lights and greenery in mere minutes…
“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Miller. Our big delivery van has a flat tire, and they’re still working on changing it,” said the voice on the other end.
“How long will they be?” Tessa checked the time. The wedding was due to begin in an hour, and she had to be at the chapel before then to make sure everything was in place for the ceremony.
“They expect to deliver to your address in a half hour’s time,” said the voice.
“You’re sure?” said Tessa. “The reception is two hours from now, and guests will be arriving early.”
“You have our guarantee, Ms. Miller.”
She hung up. Hopefully, their guarantee was clad in iron and unbreakable, because that was the only way she could feel consoled about this situation. She tucked her phone in her purse again and hurried back to the desserts. Time was growing short, and where were Natalie and Ama with the cake?
A soft foom roared to life from the problematic stove in the kitchen as she opened the door, and witnessed a sheet of flames rising from a pan on the stove as several cooks leapt back, and someone ran for a fire extinguisher. The chef clapped a lid over it, leaving only a cloud
of acrid, black smoke in the kitchen. Tessa coughed and fanned the air, peering desperately for a sight of the appetizers as she prayed they were covered in cling wrap and stowed safely in the fridge—and not turning grey beneath this cloud.
The kitchen helpers moving to and fro were carrying trays to the cooler and dishes to the sink—including one in a business shirt, sleeves rolled, and a Hugo Boss tie, wearing a chef’s apron over both. Striking cheekbones and jaw line, chestnut hair slightly longer than the norm for kitchen work—
“Blake?” Tessa’s voice couldn’t contain her astonishment. He glanced her way.
“Tess,” he said. “How are things out there?” He nodded toward the dining room.
“Um… they’ve been better,” she said. “What are you doing here? What are you doing—here?” she gestured at the space around them.
“Helping out. They said those crab puffs needed some chives on top,” he said. “But stick me anywhere you need somebody extra. I’ve got the afternoon free, and I’m already dressed for the part, as you can see.” He placed the mixing bowl on the counter. “I can put in a hand here, or help you put up garlands out there.”
“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “If you thought we were twisting your arm with that fourth partner arrangement just to steal your time when we hit a rough patch—”
“Look, I wanted to help out,” he said. “I guessed that maybe you could use a hand for this one, so I stopped by in my official fourth partner capacity. Just in case something went wrong with the flowers last minute, say,” he continued. “Besides, I’m kind of curious to see the end results of my performances.”
“The flowers aren’t here, actually,” she said, still amazed by the sight of him. Her voice must be coming from somebody else’s lungs—somebody who was slightly dreamy-eyed and distracted, not a professional like herself who had their hands full at this moment. “They’re late… I’m late, actually. The chapel—the stuff for the ceremony—it’s been a really crazy day.”
