“Well, when you put it like that, how can we refuse?” she asked.
Mel and Angie had taught classes before, so it wasn’t the idea of teaching the staff of SWS magazine how to make cupcakes that had Mel in her bakery at two o’clock in the morning with her cat, Captain Jack, at her side.
A white cat with a black patch over one eye, Captain Jack looked and acted every inch the pirate he was named for. While he batted a paper cupcake liner across the floor, Mel scoured the tables and chairs and neatened and restocked the display cases that lined one wall.
No, the teaching part was easy, and the one thousand edible cupcakes by the end of the week was doable as well. It was having several unwilling participants underfoot for a week that was giving her pause. She had no doubt that Brigit MacLeod would rather chew off her left foot than spend a week in a kitchen.
Mel wasn’t much for confrontation. Her adolescent years had been spent on the plus side of plump, making her the target of bullies and mean girls. Typically, the head cheerleader in her high school, Cassidy Havers, had been the nastiest of the lot and had followed Mel in the hallways and chanting, “Give me an M. Give me an E. Give me a L. Give me an E. Give me a P-H-A-N-T. What does it spell? Melephant! Hey, want a peanut, Melephant?”
Then Cassidy would pretend to hold out a peanut to her. Truly, the act was a work of cheerleader genius that made the entire student body laugh at Mel. And, of course, Cassidy was a tall, thin redhead, whose parents had given her a boob job for her sweet sixteen.
Mel found it a cold comfort that her own family loved her for what was on the inside and not for the size of her bra cup.
They loved her so much, in fact, that when Mel’s brother, Charlie, spent a Saturday writing odes to Cassidy’s faux front on all of the walls in all of the public men’s bathrooms in South Scottsdale, including Cassidy’s phone number in his poetry, and Mel’s father caught him red-handed, or rather with marker in hand, Charlie was given a raise in his allowance, and the matter was never spoken of again.
On the upside, Cassidy was so busy dealing with her crop of new admirers, she had quite forgotten to torment Mel anymore.
Brigit MacLeod, editor in chief, reminded Mel of Cassidy. Brigit was the sort of woman who knew what sort of response she wanted from people and exactly how to get it. Mel had a feeling Brigit was going to resent Mel for this situation, which was not unwarranted, and that she was going to make Mel miserable for it.
The kitchen door swung open and in stepped Joe DeLaura. He was wearing his gray T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. He looked sleepy, and he scratched his head as he watched Captain Jack race across the floor in front of him.
“I had a feeling I’d find you down here,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No, I—” Mel began, but he interrupted her.
“I was talking to Jack,” he said.
“Oh,” she said.
She watched as Joe crouched down and made kissie noises and wiggled his fingers. Captain Jack did not even try for typical cat aloofness. Instead, he abandoned the cupcake liner and ran at Joe, who scooped him up with one hand and cradled him to his chest. Lucky cat.
“What’s the matter, buddy?” Joe asked as he scratched Jack’s chin, eliciting a purr that sounded like an idling racecar engine. “Are you worried about the mean magazine people coming tomorrow?”
Jack’s purr got louder.
“You know it will be fine,” Joe said. “They will be so impressed with your culinary brilliance that they will be just as captured by your spell as I am.”
Mel felt her heart do that ridiculous fluttery thing that it did whenever Joe was around. He was the middle of Angie’s seven older brothers, and Mel had pined for him from afar from the first time she’d seen him when she was twelve and he was sixteen.
It had taken twenty years for him to notice her in that way—not his fault, since law school and being an assistant district attorney had kept his calendar full. But they’d been dating for a year now, and Joe had seen Mel through several scary times. He was her rock. He’d recently asked her to marry him, and Mel had said yes.
She had asked him to keep their engagement a secret, however. It was silly, she supposed, but she wanted to keep it just for them for a while. Through her work at the bakery, she’d seen enough engagements and weddings to know that once the intention to marry became public knowledge, the engaged couple no longer owned it.
Mel loved her mother to pieces; truly, there was no finer woman alive than Joyce Cooper. But if Joyce had one wish to make in this life, it would be that Mel marry dear Joe—Joyce always called him “dear Joe”—and settle down, preferably on the same street as Joyce, and commence with the baby making. Mel wasn’t ready yet.
“Come here, Cupcake,” Joe said. He held out his available arm, and Mel stepped into his embrace. He planted a kiss on her lips, and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Mel thought about it. Would it help to blather on about her fat childhood and low self-esteem and how Brigit terrified her and brought it all back in its full Technicolor glory? No.
“Nah,” she said. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“What I said was true, you know.” Joe squeezed her tight. “I am completely under your spell, and they will be, too.”
Captain Jack worked his way across Joe’s chest and into Mel’s arms.
“And I’m not the only one,” Joe said.
Captain Jack tucked his head under Mel’s chin while she held him close, and started to snore.
Joe checked the lock on the front door and shut off the lights. He ushered Mel through the kitchen and out the back door, locking up as they went. They climbed the stairs to her apartment above the bakery, and Mel turned to face Joe on the landing.
“I’m so glad I have you two in my life,” she said.
His brown eyes were like melted chocolate and his smile was crooked as he asked, “So, when are you going to make an honest man out of me and marry me?”
Four
Mel stepped into her tiny apartment, letting Joe shut and lock the door behind her. She put Jack down in his cat bed and turned to face Joe.
“Soon,” she said. “We’ll announce it soon.”
Joe rubbed a hand over his eyes, and Mel could see that he was tired.
“You know there’s been talk about me going for the district attorney position when my boss retires,” he said.
“You’d make a great one,” Mel said.
“I’d like you by my side when I do it,” he said.
“I will be,” Mel promised. “Every step of the way. I’ll even bake cupcakes.”
He gave her a small smile. “I’d like you there as my wife.”
“Because it’s politically advantageous?” Mel asked. She knew as soon as the words left her mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.
“Is that what you think?” he asked.
He spoke in the same reasonable tone he always used when mediating a dispute amongst his siblings. Mel was not sure how she felt about being on the receiving end of his negotiating skills.
“No,” she conceded. Although, deep down she wondered if there was a part of Joe that had decided a cupcake baker was a pretty inoffensive political ally.
“Listen, I won’t rush you,” he said. “But I want to be sure that this is still what you want.”
“Yes,” she said. She wondered if he had noticed her slight hesitation. If he had, he didn’t show it. “I just don’t want to share it with anyone yet.”
He looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. For the first time in their relationship, Mel felt as if there was a chasm between them, a rift rent by words not spoken, and she knew it wasn’t just Joe who was holding back, it was her, too. And yet she didn’t know how to say what she was feeling, so she said nothing.
They climbed back into Mel’s futon. Joe lay flat on his back and Mel curled up on her side, facing away from him. Joe reached out and put his hand on her hip, as if trying to bridge
the gap between them. Still, Mel said nothing.
There was a quiet little voice inside her head telling her that there was more holding her back than not wanting to share their good news with the world, but she refused to hear it.
For now, she had the cupcake boot camp to get through, and she couldn’t be distracted by a handsome man with soft brown eyes who wanted to make her his wife.
Mel sighed and fell into a doze with Joe’s hand still warm upon her and Captain Jack snuggled up on the pillow between their heads.
Boot camp started at seven in the morning. Despite being a baker, Mel was not a morning person. Per usual, a hot cup of coffee had been left on her nightstand by Joe, who had already left to start his day.
Mel scratched Jack’s head and took her coffee into the bathroom, where she prepped for her day. Given the scouring she’d had to give herself yesterday to get all of the frosting off, today’s shower was more of a repeat rinse, and she was on her way in minutes.
Captain Jack ate a hearty breakfast, and she left him to return to his sweet dreams with a pang of envy. After her midnight cleaning bender, she really would have loved to get some more shut-eye.
Angie was just walking through the front door when Mel arrived. Mel stared at her for a second, and Angie held up her hand, indicating that she did not want to hear it.
“Your—” Mel said, but Angie shook her head and interrupted. “I am aware of my hair. Thank you.”
“But—” Mel began, but Angie said, “Uh-huh. Not open for discussion. Rest assured, I have tried everything and let it go.”
“Oh, okay,” Mel said.
“I’m going to go and make coffee now,” Angie said, and she disappeared into the kitchen, taking her loaf of hair with her.
While Angie put on the big pot of coffee, Mel gathered the books they used to show customers who wanted special orders. She figured Brigit and company would want to choose what sort of cupcakes they would make, so if she gave them the books to peruse, they could pick how they were going to spend their week.
She stacked the books on the steel table in the kitchen, as it was the largest space to have a meeting in the bakery. She then went out to open the front door and await their boot-camp attendees.
Justin Freehold was the first to arrive. Mel noted that he was again dressed in all black, but a decidedly more casual version, in jeans and a T-shirt.
He and Mel exchanged good mornings, and then Angie came through the kitchen door bearing a tray full of coffee with sugars and creamers.
“Angie, your ha—” Justin said, but Mel shook her head, and his voice trailed off.
“What?” Angie asked. There was no good morning for Justin from her.
“You’re a goddess to have fresh brewed coffee at the ready,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” she agreed.
The door opened again, and in strode Amy Pierson in a gray pinstripe jacket and matching pencil skirt—not exactly baking wear. She was chatting on her phone and sat down in the corner booth of the bakery without so much as nodding at the rest of them.
The door opened again, and in strolled Sylvia Lucci, the woman in charge of the fashion portion of the magazine. Yes, it had been her people who’d dressed Mel and Angie up in the retro fifties outfits. Sylvia was a stunner with exotic features, almond-shaped eyes, and thick, glossy dark brown hair that hung past her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face, giving her a fragile look. Her figure was a perfect hourglass, and she wore a form-fitting knit dress that showed it off to perfection.
“Justin, I might have known you’d be here first,” she said. “You suck-up.”
Mel glanced between the two, but Justin was smiling, so she knew it was good-natured teasing.
“Mel, Angie, you know Sylvia Lucci, our fashion director,” Justin said.
They shook hands, and Sylvia pursed her lips when she looked at Angie.
“Are you fond of that hairdo?” she asked. “Or did my wardrobe people cause a malfunction with your follicles?”
“Would you like this?” Angie asked and pointed to her head. “My brothers have been teasing me nonstop.”
“The brothers saw it?” Mel asked.
“I went over to my parents to see if mom could undo it, and Tony took a picture of it with his phone. I believe it has gone viral among the seven of them and will probably land on the Internet any day. Sal has started calling me ‘The Loaf.’”
“You have brothers?” Sylvia asked.
“Seven Italian older brothers,” Angie sighed.
“Oh, honey,” Sylvia said. “Sono Italiana con molti fratelli.”
The two women embraced, and Justin looked at Mel and said, “I didn’t know we were having an Italian daughters’ meeting. I would have worn my Venetian Carnevale costume and dressed the part.”
“I can fix your hair,” Sylvia said. “You know Christine’s Salon? It’s just around the corner from here.”
“The one owned by Mean Christine?” Angie asked warily.
Sylvia laughed and it chimed in the air like bells.
“She’s actually a friend of mine. She’s nice to me because she likes favorable reviews in the magazine. She’ll let us use one of her sinks.”
“Are they open yet?” Mel asked.
“She will be for me,” Sylvia said as she scrolled through the numbers on her phone.
“Is it all right if I go?” Angie asked. “Can you manage?”
“Are you kidding? Go!” Mel said. “Anything to get that lump of hair off your head.”
As Angie and Sylvia left, a man came in. He was skinny and had a waxy complexion, as if he didn’t see enough daylight. He wore a dress shirt and a tie, which was loose around his neck. His thinning gray hair was combed back from his forehead in a hairline that looked as if it were suffering from erosion and was now a few inches from where it had originally begun.
“Coffee,” he ordered, and snapped his fingers at Mel.
Mel raised her eyebrows in surprise. One of the many reasons she had never gone into the restaurant biz was because of customer attitudes like this one. She had never responded well to a snap of the fingers or a “come here” whistle.
“Sam, where are your manners?” Justin asked. “Melanie Cooper, this is Sam Kelleher. Sam is our features director.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mel said.
“Did you know I won a Pulitzer?” Sam asked. “It was for real news, hard news, back when I worked for the Los Angeles Times. Now look at me. I’m in cupcake frigging boot camp. If I had a gun, I’d eat it.”
“If I had a gun, I’d loan it to you,” Mel said.
Sam stared at her as if noticing her for the first time. His eyes were almost black and tucked behind fleshy pockets that sagged as if his skin had given up after too many hours spent in smoke-filled rooms subsisting on meals of cold coffee and Twinkies.
“You’ve got a backbone, Melanie Cooper. Good thing, because you’re going to need it,” he said and he barked out a laugh. Then he left them to get a coffee from where Angie had left the fixings.
Mel turned wide eyes to Justin. He grinned at her.
“I’d say you have a new fan,” he said. “Sam hates everyone, except Brigit. He and Brigit go way back. She used to be hard news, too.”
“Really?” Mel asked. “She seems so—”
“Hip? Trendy? Edgy?” Justin suggested.
“Yeah, all that,” Mel said. “But I was thinking more along the lines of scary.”
“Oh, she’s that, too,” Justin said. “Terrifying in fact.”
The front door banged open, and in strode Brigit as if by talking about her they had summoned her. Mel felt herself stand a little taller and noticed that Justin did the same.
Like Sam, Brigit was not dressed for a day of cupcake baking but more for a day at the office. She wore a linen sheath dress with a wide dark brown belt and matching dark brown Alexander McQueen pumps. Her silver hair was twisted up on the back of her head in a delicate twist, she had large pearls on he
r earlobes, and her makeup was flawless.
Brigit stood in the doorway and looked around her, scanning the room. She and Sam exchanged nods and she winked at Justin, and then her gaze settled on Mel. She crooked her finger at her, beckoning Mel forward while she glanced at the smartphone in her other hand.
Mel glanced at Justin, who nodded.
“Molly, be a dear and show me your office,” Brigit said.
“It’s Mel. M-E-L,” Mel said.
“That sounds like a man’s name,” Brigit said. “Is it short for something?”
She tapped the screen of her smartphone, and Mel had the feeling that the woman wasn’t even listening to her, but when she hesitated, Brigit’s head snapped up and her blue eyes hit Mel like two laser pointers.
“Well?”
“Melanie,” she said. “It’s short for Melanie.”
Brigit tipped her head. “You should use it. A woman should not squelch her femininity just to survive in a man’s world. We are not liberated if we are poor imitations of them wearing bad suits, nor are we equal if we take our fashion cues from strippers and whores and use our breasts instead of our brains to achieve our goals.”
Mel felt her mouth slide open and she struggled for a response. “It’s just a nickname.”
“Rethink it,” Brigit said. “Now, your office?”
Mel glanced at Justin, who looked as though he was trying not to laugh, and then said, “Please follow me.”
Mel’s office was a converted broom closet in the corner of the kitchen. She pushed the door open and cringed at the mess. She had no doubt that Brigit would have another lecture at the ready about her filing system, which was a stack of papers and catalogs piled one on top of another until they threatened the spill off the desk.
To her surprise, Brigit glanced around her, and said, “This will do.”
“Do?” Mel asked.
“I have a magazine to put out,” Brigit said. “No matter what Hannigan is trying to prove, I can’t take a week off to bake cupcakes, as I have subscribers and advertisers to answer to. Now, I’ve put Bonnie, our food director, in charge of selecting the cupcakes, subject to my approval of course. She should be here shortly.”
Going, Going, Ganache Page 3
