Always the Baker, Never the Bride

by Sandra D. Bricker

  “His loss.”

  Emma glanced upward and gave him a grateful shadow of a smile.

  Jackson couldn’t imagine someone missing how really spectacular Emma Travis could be, but something deep within him whispered that he was happy Danny Mahoney lacked that ability.

  “Well. Carry on,” he said and turned on his heels and left the kitchen.

  Emma had been hiking the Vickery Creek Trail for years. After the climb over a series of short ridges, she normally slowed her pace down the section of wooden stairs, allowing her the opportunity to read the signs along the way that told the historic story of Roswell Mill. Today, however, those signs were a blur as she flew past them, her running shoes thump-thump-thumping in her ears. She couldn’t even manage to enjoy the spectacular scenery that had kept her coming back to this trail whenever her mind needed a good cleansing.

  Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of rushing river waters, rustling tree leaves, and the crisp, grassy scent tickling her nose, Emma was lost in thoughts of Jackson Drake. After nearly two hours on the trail, she’d thought of little else.

  She jogged down the incline toward her parked car, then stopped to catch her breath. Several more cars had joined hers in the lot, and it wasn’t until he waved and called out her name that she recognized one of the hikers as Miguel Ramos. Holding his hand was a petite blonde with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Miguel said as they approached. “How are you, Emma?”

  “Good,” she replied, and she returned the blonde’s friendly smile.

  “This is my wife, Rosalie.”

  “Georgiann’s daughter?” Emma clarified. “Yes.”

  “It’s so great to meet you. I adore your mother.”

  “She’s easy to adore,” Rosalie beamed. “I tried to meet you at Uncle Jack’s opening night party, but you were on the move that night.”

  “Yes, that was quite a night.”

  “It seemed like a big success.”

  “I think it was.” Emma glanced at Miguel and asked him, “Do you two hike here often?”

  “Rosalie does. I don’t get out here as often as I’d like.”

  “There’s Mindy and Art,” his wife pointed out. “I’ll let you two chat for a few minutes while I go and say hello. It was great to meet you at last, Emma.”

  “You too.”

  Miguel nodded toward an open wooden bench overlooking the river, and Emma followed his lead toward it.

  “How are things going for you, Emma?” he asked once they sat down.

  “Just fine,” she replied, rubbing her throbbing calf. “How about you?”

  When he didn’t reply, Emma looked up and found Miguel gazing at her with an understanding glimmer in his eye that, for some reason, made her want to immediately burst into tears. She fought the inclination, darting her attention out to the water before them.

  “People are talking over at The Tanglewood,” he said softly. “Everyone seems to think you and Jackson are getting very close.”

  Emma tapped her feet and grabbed hold of the bench seat with both hands. Shrugging, she answered, “You know how gossip is, Miguel. They’re making something out of nothing.”

  Miguel nodded. “It got me to thinking how difficult it would be for anyone in that position. Getting close to Jackson isn’t an easy thing to do in recent years.”

  She glanced at him for a moment, and then looked away again.

  “He’s wrestling with a lot of demons since the loss of his wife.”

  “Understandable,” she remarked.

  “But then I guess we all have our issues to battle, don’t we?”

  Emma nodded, lifting her face into the breeze. She didn’t realize quite how large the gap of silence had become until Miguel bridged it.

  “Would you like me to pray for you, Emma?”

  Once again, her eyes darted toward him, but this time he held her gaze.

  “Prayer is a remarkable thing.”

  “Oh, well, I haven’t really done much of it lately,” she told him. “I did say a prayer for Jackson recently, though.”

  “Did you?”

  “He just seemed to need it.”

  “I understand.” Miguel touched her arm. “That’s the way you appear to me right now. Like you could use a prayer or two.”

  Emma chuckled. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Miguel reached out and took her hand with a tentative smile. “I’ll start. You just chime in if you feel led.”

  He waited for her response, then translated her halfhearted shrug as an agreement. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  “Lord Jesus, I feel compelled in this beautiful environment to thank You for Your creation. The river and the trees and the canopy of blue; it’s all so inspiring, and we thank You for the gift.”

  Emma dropped her head but, instead of closing her eyes, she just focused very hard on the knotted lace of her shoe.

  After several minutes, Miguel walked her to her car, rubbed her arm, and closed the door behind her without another word. Something about the stillness was attractive to her, and Emma flipped off the radio as soon as she turned over the engine, and drove home in silence. Her ears sort of ached in the silence, but she even shushed the music of her own thoughts to take in a little more of the quiet she hadn’t really known she’d been craving.

  When she reached home, she parked and turned off the ignition. With no inclination to move a muscle, she sat in her car for nearly fifteen minutes. In his prayer, Miguel had spoken of God whispering comfort into her waiting ears, and Emma wondered if that might be just what was going on. Her heartbeat had slowed considerably since she’d headed off for the Vickery Creek Trail several hours prior, and she didn’t sense even a trace of that bitter anxiety that had driven her there.

  “If that’s You,” she whispered, then she looked around to make sure no one saw her alone in her car, seeming to talk to herself. “Thanks.”

  Emma cranked the door handle and hurried toward her front door.

  Once inside, she turned away from the beckoning red blink announcing voicemail on her cell phone, which she’d purposely left behind earlier in the day. Instead, she opted for hanging up her jacket, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and an apple from the bowl on the counter. As she plopped into her chair by the window, Emma groaned and picked up the phone.

  “You. Have. Four. New. Messages.”

  “Hey, girl. Peter and I are going to that gallery opening I mentioned this morning. If you’re interested, give me a shout and we’ll swing by and pick you up. If not, and you’re just a big bore, I’ll see you in the morning at ten.”

  A big bore was just what Emma felt like being, and she wasn’t going anywhere. She leaned back into the chair and took a bite out of her apple to prove it.

  “Emma Rae, this is your mother. Call me directly, please.”

  She knew that tone. Translated, it meant, You have ignored me long enough, and I know your father has spoken to you, so you’d better call me or I’ll show up at your door unannounced and make you talk to me.

  Another big bite from the Gala apple announced that she wasn’t going to be coerced into anything just then.

  “Hello, Princess. Better call your mother.”

  Emma chuckled, wondering if her mother was in the room holding a letter opener to her father’s throat until he made that plea on her behalf.

  After the next beep, a moment of silence followed. Then a slight clearing of the throat.

  “Uh. Hi.”

  Emma’s hand froze, the apple just inches from her lips, her eyes wide and glazed as she waited for Jackson’s next syllable.

  “I, uh … No. Never mind. Well. Actually, I wondered if you wanted to … The thing is, my buddies have season tickets. When the guy who has the seats next to theirs can’t make it to a game, well, so … I have these tickets for Sunday. I don’t know if this even interests you, but I remembered seeing you in a Falcon jersey one day a
t the hotel and, you know, if you want to—”

  Beeep.

  “What!” Emma cried, pulling the phone from her ear and staring at it. “If I want to, what? Jackson, what?”

  She played it through one more time, frustrated when the message ended at the exact same spot.

  “Crud.”

  She pressed the seven key to erase it, and then hit number four on her speed dial, tapping her foot frantically until Jackson answered.

  “Jackson Drake.”

  “Hi. Jackson. It’s Emma. I got your message. Well, part of it. My voicemail cut you off halfway through.”

  He made a sort of grunty noise, and Emma waited for him to follow it up.

  “I didn’t know if any of it came through.”

  “Oh. It did. At least as far as you talking about my Falcons jersey.”

  “Right.”

  “Number 2,” she told him with a sway to her head. “Matt Ryan.”

  “You are a fan then.”

  “Yes.”

  Again, she waited. But this time, nothing. “So were you inviting me to a game?”

  “If you want the ticket.”

  “Would I be going with you, Jackson? Or are you offering me a ticket to go on my own?”

  “I could pick you up. We could go together. Or not.”

  This was fast becoming the most uncomfortable telephone conversation of Emma’s life, and she dropped her head backward and closed her eyes.

  “Well, here’s a thought,” she said. “Why don’t you decide about that and get back to me. Good-bye, Jackson.”

  Items to Keep on Hand When Covering a Sculpted Cake with Fondant

  PIZZA CUTTER—This tool is much easier to handle than a knife when cutting away excess fondant from the base of the cake.

  ROLLING PIN—This tool is not only needed to roll out the fondant to about a quarter of an inch; it is also very handy in applying the fondant to the sculpted cake.

  SMOOTHING TOOL—This tool looks like the one used to apply spackle to a damaged wall.

  SCULPTING TOOLS—At first glance, this set looks very much like miniature gardening tools; however, they are used to form, shape, and imprint the fondant once it is placed and smoothed.

  22

  The cake had been filled, layered, and sculpted into the perfect shape of a baseball glove before going into the freezer overnight. Fee made sure it was crumb-coated and went to work on creating the little bride and groom for the top while Emma applied a thin layer of butter cream to the cake board and set the glove into place.

  She rolled the brown fondant around the pin and had just begun to unroll it over the cake when the kitchen door popped open and Jackson stepped inside.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “Not right now, unless it’s an emergency. Can I see you after we get this cake together?”

  Jackson stood there in the doorway, his head angled so that he could see what she was doing. “Is that your boyfriend’s cake?”

  Emma glared at him without moving a muscle.

  “Ex-boyfriend,” she clarified. “Yes.”

  “That’s … amazing.”

  “Jackson?”

  He lurched upright. “Sorry. I’ll talk to you later, then?”

  “Yes.”

  When he didn’t turn to leave, she straightened and stared at him until he did.

  Returning her attention to the glove, she draped it in the fondant, and shaped it with both hands, smoothing it out beneath her touch.

  “That’s going to look smokin’,” Fee commented from a stool at the far side of the island. “So, what’s going on between you and Boss Man?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Em. The tension was so thick you could spread it between layers.”

  “Make yourself useful, Fiona. Hand me the smoothie.”

  Fee slid the tool toward her and took her place across from Emma.

  “He’s jealous, I think.”

  “The roses from Baseball Boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ha! Good.”

  “So he called me yesterday and invited me to the Falcons game on Sunday.”

  “Very good.”

  “But he botched it so badly that I didn’t know if he was tossing a ticket at me before he ran, or if he was actually asking me out.”

  “Typical.”

  “The thing is,” she said as she rolled the cutter around the edges, slicing away the excess fondant around the base of the glove, “I don’t even know if I want him to ask me out. I mean, he’s still so in love with his late wife, Fee. I don’t know how I could ever compete with that.”

  “Yeah, but … she’s dead, Em.”

  “Not breathing, maybe. But she is not dead. Not to him, anyway.”

  Fee reached across the counter and took the cutter out of Emma’s hand. “Look, it’s like this. Are you warm for the guy? Does he have what it takes to float your boat?”

  “I don’t know,” she stated, and then she sighed. “Yes. He really does.”

  “Do you have stuff in common?”

  She nodded.

  “Can you look down the lane and see him standing there?” Emma tipped her head to the side and smiled. “Way down there, at the very end of the lane. Yes, he could be there.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Grab a taxi and go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s construction going on down the lane. Road closed.”

  The phloop! of the kitchen door sounded again, and both of them fell instantly silent as Jackson walked back in.

  “The thing is,” he said to her, looking very much like a rod was tucked up his jacket to hold him upright, “I have these tickets. Falcons-Redskins, on Sunday. Would you like to go?”

  “I would,” she replied.

  “I’ll pick you up at your place around eleven. We’ll be joining some of my buddies for tailgating prior to the game, so come hungry. There’s a lot of food.”

  “Food is good.”

  “All right then. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “Sunday.”

  The moment Jackson disappeared behind the flopping door, Fee appeared at Emma’s side, but they both faced the door in silence until its last phloop.

  Raising two fists before her, Fee grinned from ear to ear as Emma tapped them with her own. Then came the palm slaps, first two and then another two, a quick couple of hip bumps, and then raspy whispers—

  “Hoo-yeah!”

  Emma bounded out her front door and trotted down the stairs toward Jackson where he stood leaning against his car.

  “I was headed up to get you,” he told her.

  “No need. I saw you pull up.”

  Her silky hair was twisted at the back and pushed upward with a big clip, flopping back down over it in a perfect, bouncy curve. She wore a black and red leather Falcons bracelet on her left wrist, and the oversized bright red Falcons jersey was knotted at the hip of washed-out Levi jeans with a rip under the left knee. Jackson wondered if she bought them that way or created it herself with some scissors or a dull knife.

  As he held the car door for her, he noticed a sprinkling of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks and, when she grinned at him, her lips shimmered with a pale pink glaze. He closed the door and rounded the car, thinking that she could easily pass for a college student, and hoping he didn’t look like her perverted older professor in his Dockers and black Henley.

  When they reached the Georgia Dome, Jackson went ahead and parked in the first spot he could find. It was about half a mile out, but he knew precisely where to go to find his friends. He and Emma walked side by side for most of the way, but then she slipped her arm through his and angled her face up toward him. The whole scene felt strangely familiar to him, from the sideways pirate smile with which she charmed him to the intimate loop of her arm through his.

  They made their way to Decker Stanton’s SUV. Like every game Sunday, Decker and Joe had likely arrived at the break
of day to claim their spots near the grass. There were lawn chairs lined up, a grill was set up behind Decker’s Yukon, and a long folding table stood at the back of Joe Ridgeway’s F-150 next to the grill.

  “Glad you could join us,” Decker called to them as he tended the burgers and dogs on the grill.

  “Traffic,” Jackson called back to them. “I want you all to meet Emma Rae Travis. She works for me at the hotel.”

  “Hey, Emma Rae. Welcome to The Bullpen.”

  Emma smiled and waved at him.

  “That’s Decker Stanton,” Jackson told her. “And this is his wife over here, Felicity.”

  “Hey, girl,” Felicity said in that cool way she had about her.

  “Roger Strang and Deanna Brody over here. And that’s Joe and Connie Ridgeway. Everyone, this is Emma.”

  After the circle of greetings made it around, Emma strolled over to the table and offered to help them set out the food. Joe took the opportunity to elbow Jackson in the ribs.

  “I’m sorry,” he joked. “After two seasons of stagging it, you show up with a chick in tow after never even mentioning her?”

  “First of all, Emma is no chick.”

  Joe raised his hands in surrender and laughed.

  “Second, I’m mentioning her now.”

  “So she works with you over at the hotel. What’s she do for you there?”

  “She bakes wedding cakes.”

  After overhearing Jackson’s comment, Connie hurried toward Emma. “You’re the one who took the award for your wedding cakes!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched Southern drawl. “I read all about you in the newspaper. Why on earth would you go to work for Jackson Drake?”

  They all laughed, and Emma tossed Jackson a toothy grin. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”

  Joe leaned in close and whispered, “She’s a keeper, man.”

  Jackson hadn’t really thought of this as a trial date until that moment, but then he had to ask himself whether the swelling pride pushing against his chest betrayed a trace of it. Had he brought Emma along just to see how she fared when tossed into the lion’s den with his friends?