Chapter 30
Wedding Tiers
I wake up early the next morning—Saturday—with my pulse racing. I’m supposed to go on TV to make the wedding cake—tomorrow! I haven’t even done a trial run on the whole cake yet, and I also haven’t spoken to Producer Poppy to plead with her that my friends be allowed to join me.
Last night, Mom was so angry. I feel like we’re back to the old days when we couldn’t talk to each other and don’t understand each other. The only way I know to make things right is to do the TV show. I can’t possibly back out now.
I go downstairs and make a piece of toast, but my mouth is so dry that it tastes like cardboard. I wash it down with a glass of orange juice and try to pull myself together. I’ll do a practice bake of the cake today. Mom is supposed to be going shopping, but luckily she didn’t ask me to go. And as for the rest—we’ll just have to see.
When I’ve finished washing up my dishes, I go through the hole in the wall to Rosemary’s kitchen. As I push aside the curtain of plastic trash bags, I wonder if things will work out and eventually someone will put up a door? Or will the wall be bricked up and plastered over?
As usual, it’s warm and quiet, except for the hum of the fridge. I can do this. I’ve baked so many cakes in this kitchen, experimented with so many recipes, there’s no reason for me to feel nervous and on edge. But I do.
Treacle is in his basket, licking his paws. “I can do this,” I say aloud. He raises his head and flicks his tail. I text Violet. She might want to talk after our trip yesterday. Closure or no, it can’t be easy coming to grips with the things that have haunted her for so long. And, from a purely selfish perspective, I could use her decorating skills. I’ve decided to make little fondant icing figures of Mom and Em-K for the top of the cake. The rest of the decorations will be flowers made of sugar paste and some real edible flowers sprinkled with sugar and glitter. When I described it to Violet before, she made a sketch in her little drawing notebook. It was so beautiful—I could really use the inspiration now.
I take our special recipe book off the shelf of cookbooks and open the red-and-green marbled cover, flipping through to the recipes for cakes. Though Violet and I had joked about a six-tier cake, for today, at least, I’m going to practice one of the flavors we’ve decided on: the lemon and lavender sponge sandwich cake with fresh strawberries and cream in the center. I’d been looking forward to trying out the recipe—and tasting the cake! But this morning, I can’t seem to shift the unsettled feeling in my stomach. Mom, Em-K…Dad…I need to push all the doubts out of my mind.
I cream together butter and sugar with a wooden spoon, adding the eggs one at a time and beating them into the mixture. I’ve started to measure out the flour when I hear Mom’s voice coming through the hole in the wall. She sounds stressed and harried. I assume she’s trying to get Kelsie to hurry up and get ready, but then I hear a man’s voice—Em-K. I stop what I’m doing.
“I don’t know what’s up with you, Claire,” he’s saying. “But whatever it is, it’s got to stop. We’re supposed to be getting married—and it’s like I hardly know you.”
I add a teaspoon of baking powder to the flour and stir it in.
“This isn’t a good time, Emory. We were just on our way out.”
I sift the flour into the egg mixture, folding carefully and adding the lavender and lemon zest. I check the recipe again. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, baking powder…
“I know you’re stressed, and that the wedding is taking up all your time. But we didn’t have to do it so fast. I never wanted a big wedding, as you know…”
I’ve missed something—what is it? Baking powder? I add a teaspoon and stir it in. On the table in front of me, my phone vibrates. I stop mixing and check the screen. It’s Violet, texting back, asking if she should come over later. Yes please! I reply.
Mom’s yelling now. “No, of course you didn’t want it, Emory! You want a wife who cooks your dinner and irons your shirts, and who looks pretty standing behind you at political events!”
“You know that isn’t true! If I wanted that, I would never have asked you to marry me.”
My hands are trembling as I finish stirring and pour the mixture into two round baking pans.
“Great—so you’re saying I’m not good enough for you?”
“No—that’s not what I’m saying. But this is madness. Let’s forget this whole big wedding,” Em-K says. “Let’s elope—we’ll go to the registry office with the girls and a few friends. Then we can have a nice lunch out, and we won’t have all the stress.”
“A nice lunch out!” Mom’s voice is high-pitched and furious. Treacle jerks awake, the fur on his back raised. He runs out of the back door through his cat flap. I can hardly blame him. I put the cakes in the oven, and pace back and forth in front of the oven, trying not to listen.
“Is that all I mean to you?” Mom says. “Because if that’s the case, why are we even doing this?”
I need to find something to distract me, so I sit at the table and open the pack of fondant icing. It was really lucky that I was able to find a pack of twelve different colors, including light pink, black, brown, and white. I roll the fondant in my palms and mold two heads, and four round balls for hands out of the light pink color.
“Well, it’s obvious that there’s nothing that I can say to reassure you,” Em-K replies. “So why don’t you go and ask him? He seems to be the only one you’ll talk to right now!”
I put on two green eyes and red pouty lips for Mom, and blue eyes for Em-K. Then I make the hair, rolling the fondant out into long, thin snakes in my hand. Black hair for Em-K, long brown hair with a few yellow highlights for Mom.
Mom gives that awful laugh. “I’m not going to apologize for that. He was my husband—the father of my kids.”
“No, you won’t be apologizing, will you? Because nothing is ever your fault, Claire, is it?”
I do Mom’s dress, which is pretty easy to make—all white and puffy. I’ll cover it with glitter or something. When I’ve finished, I prop the little figures up against the cookbook stand. To be honest, they look pretty awful. Hopefully Violet or one of the others can make something better. But for now, they’ll do.
Mom and Em-K keep arguing, and I keep trying not to listen. The smell of the cakes baking—normally one of my favorite scents in the whole world—is making me feel nauseous.
I check the clock. It’s been twenty minutes, so I decide to open the oven.
Steam pours out when I open the oven door. I close my eyes and try to enjoy the warm scent of lavender and lemon. But when I open my eyes, I realize the middle of the cakes are cone-shaped and swollen like a volcano ready to erupt.
The dread in my stomach rises as I reach inside the oven and pull out the shelf. The breath goes out of me like a punctured balloon. The cakes…my beautiful cakes…
The edges are just browned on top—perfectly baked from the look of things. But the middles now look like two meteors have crashed down from the sky and landed right in the center. I’ve never had a cake collapse before. And if there’s a first time for everything, it couldn’t possibly have come at a worse moment.
“We need to go. And so do you,” Mom says.
Hot, salty tears flood my eyes. It’s not a disaster. I’ll just start over—it will only take twenty minutes to whip up the mixture, and this time, I’ll make sure not to get distracted; use the right amount of baking powder. The new cakes won’t over-rise like a doughy volcano, collapsing in on themselves at the last second. I’ll just pretend that none of this ever happened…
“Fine, I’ll go. Goodbye.”
I dump the collapsed cakes in the trash. I don’t even feel like trying a tiny bite to see if they tasted good. I go back over to the mixing bowl and the ingredients set out on the table. Instead of getting back to work, I sit down and put my head in my hands.
In the
other room, the front door slams. The little figure of the bride stares up at me. I’ve got extra-light pink fondant, so I roll another head. For the hair, I combine yellow and brown—darkish blond like mine. I consider making another dark suit, but then think, why bother? If I need to, I can just change the head at the last minute. Because right now, the only thing I can do is to try to be prepared…
For whichever one of them is going to be my “new dad.”
The Secret Cooking Club
May 6
I want to set the record straight about something. When I read over the posts I’ve written in the last few months, it sounds like everything is perfect, and that everything I bake is delicious and amazing. But you know what—that’s not true. I love to cook, and I do find it relaxing, fun, and creative. But I’ve got problems just like everyone else, and cake can’t solve everything.
Speaking of cake…I did a practice of Mom’s wedding cake earlier today. It was, I’m sorry to say, a complete disaster. I used too much baking powder and the whole top exploded in the oven and then collapsed. I guess I’m lucky that it wasn’t the real thing—I’ll have another chance to get it right.
But the point is, sometimes things like that happen. All we can do, I guess, is try again and not give up.
I should have taken a photo of the exploded cake to show you, but I was too upset and threw it in the trash. Sorry…
The Little Cook xx
Chapter 31
The Big Collapse
The house feels as if someone’s died—it’s very quiet and still. Mom and Kelsie go out to the store. When Violet arrives, I tell her everything that happened in the short time since we saw each other last—the collapsed cake, the filming tomorrow—and about the arguments between Mom and Em-K.
“I’m not sure if she threw him out, or if he stormed out—or a little of both,” I say, my voice high and strained. “Either way, he’s gone.”
“So, do you still have to do the TV show?” Violet says, her brow furrowed in concern. “I mean, is the wedding still on?”
“I don’t know!” I say. My head feels like it’s going to explode. “The whole thing is just so upsetting. I mean, Mom was so happy when Em-K proposed. And now it’s gone pear-shaped. All I know is that I’ve committed to go to the TV studio tomorrow, and if I don’t do that, then I may as well pack my bags.”
“Hey,” Violet says. She takes my hand and squeezes it. “It’s going to be okay.”
Tears begin to prickle in my eyes. “But what if it isn’t?” I blurt out. “I mean, I probably shouldn’t care—it’s not like I’m the one getting married. It’s just, I like Em-K, and he’s good for Mom—for us. Things are…I don’t know…normal when he’s around. Less chaotic. And besides, what if…” I trail off.
“What if what?”
I stare at her for a long time without speaking. She’s been through so much more than I ever have, and she’s so brave. I wish some of that could rub off on me. But if it’s ever going to, then I have to start facing things head-on. Like she did.
“What if Mom is still in love with Dad?” I say. “What if Dad’s come back into our lives to split up Mom and Em-K? What if Dad comes back, and then leaves us again? What will Mom be like if Dad comes back?”
Violet shakes her head. “I can’t answer that,” she says. “But whatever they’re doing, it isn’t fair. I mean, we have enough to worry about with school and boys and stuff, without worrying about grown-ups and their problems, don’t we?”
“You’re so brave, Violet,” I say. “And I was so proud of you yesterday. I’m not half as strong as you are.”
She blinks away a tear glittering like a crystal at the corner of her eye. “It was hard,” she says. “But I’m glad I did it. Going there helped remind me of the good times that we had, but it also showed me that there’s no going back. All I can do now is move on.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “And Fraser—if he’s worth anything, he’ll totally see what a great person you are.”
She brightens instantly. “Guess what?” she says. “He texted me this morning. He’s asked me to the spring food fair with him and his mom. It’s next weekend.”
“That’s great!” I grin. “I’m so happy for you. It will be completely fab! I just know it.”
“Thanks.” She beams. “He said that he was proud of me too.”
“I’m sure. And take some photos of what you see at the food fair. Who knows, maybe you’ll get some last-minute ideas for the wedding…” I hesitate. “That is, if there is a wedding.”
She straightens up. “You need to talk to them, Scarlett,” she says. “It’s the only way. There’s no sense worrying about it until you know what everyone’s thinking.”
“You’re right.” I sigh. “But Mom’s out, and Em-K…well, I don’t think I should call him till I’ve talked to Mom. I don’t want to put my foot in it. But maybe…” I take a breath as my chest tightens with nerves, “…I could talk to Dad. He asked me if I wanted to come for dinner at his apartment.”
“That’s a good place to start,” Violet says. “You can ask him what he’s doing, waltzing in like that and making a mess of everything.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling stronger now. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll text him right now.” I take out my phone. “The sooner it’s over with, the better.”
I text Dad asking if we’re on for tonight. He replies almost immediately. If it’s okay with your mother, it’s great for me! Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll come get you about 6. Dad
As soon as the plans are made, I instantly regret it.
“Come on, Scarlett,” Violet says. “Chin up. Why don’t we go and make something for you to bring over for dessert? A peace offering.”
“Okay.” I sigh. “But you pick something.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Chapter 32
Eton Mess
At ten minutes to six, I look out of the window of the front room, clutching for dear life the plastic container with the Eton mess—a yummy mix of berries, meringue, and whipped cream mixed up in a jar—Violet and I made earlier. While it was fun making it, any brave feeling I had then is long gone. The only saving grace was that Mom was so preoccupied with her own problems when she got home from shopping that it barely even registered when I said I wanted to go over to Dad’s tonight. “Fine,” she’d said. She’d disappeared into the Mom Cave, and that was that.
Not the case, though, for my sister. She opened the box Dad left for me, which turned out to be a fake, leopard-fur-covered beanbag chair. I don’t really want to like it, but I do—and so does my sister. The beanbag is so big, fluffy, and soft that I can barely see my sister sitting in it, but I hear her loud and clear as she slams her Wii controller down on to the floor. “Please, Scarlett,” she begs in a whiny voice, “I really want to come too.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Dad’s taking you to the shop to get a scooter tomorrow. Tonight is just me and him.”
“It’s not fair!” my sister pouts. She obviously thinks I’m seeing Dad because I want to hang out with him, rather than to confront him.
A car pulls up to the house.
Kelsie bolts outside before I can stop her.
“Kelsie!” I yell.
She runs up to the car and when Dad gets out, she gives him a big hug. He lifts her up and gives her a kiss, then sets her back down. “Please, Daddy, can I come too?” she asks, giving him her best droopy puppy-dog eyes. Dad looks up and sees me standing on the path, stony-faced.
“No, Kels,” he says, ruffling her hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tonight, I want to spend some time with your sister.”
“You’re so mean!” Kelsie yells, stamping her foot like she’s some kind of toddler.
“Kelsie, come here!”
I turn. Mom’s standing at the door. I scan her face, holding my breath as I
wait to see how she’s going to act around Dad.
“I hate you!” Kelsie runs up the path to the house and storms inside past Mom.
“See you later, Claire,” Dad says. “I’ll drop her back about nine, if that’s okay.”
“Fine.”
I’m relieved Mom doesn’t stick around to chat. Relieved, that is, until she’s gone—back into the house—and I’m left standing next to the car. Alone with Dad.
“Hi,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“It’s good to see you, Scarlett.” His tone is matter-of-fact, not all gushy. That, at least, I appreciate.
“Yeah.”
He holds the door open for me to get in the car. As we drive off, I can see Kelsie’s face pressed to the window in the front room. More than anything, I wish I were there and she were here.
* * *
It’s only about a ten-minute drive from our house to Dad’s new apartment. It feels odd to think that he’s so close by, and yet he might as well be a universe away. We chat a little as he drives. He asks me about school and what subjects I like. I tell him I like history and science, and I don’t like speech and drama.
“I used to like history and science too,” he says. “And luckily, I never had to do any of that drama stuff.” He beams at me. I briefly smile back.
I ask him how work is. He answers that his job is less stressful than his previous one, and he likes the project with the TV station. I feel like we’re doing a kind of dance—circling around the real issues, neither of us wanting to move beyond small talk. But somehow, I get the sense that he’s as nervous as I am.
Eventually he pulls up on a little street near where Alison lives. The houses are made of brick, with tiny front gardens, some that have been paved over for car parking spaces. He pulls up into a space on the street. “Here we are,” he says. “Home, sweet home.”
He leads the way though a little gate. His front garden is filled with stones, and in the center there’s a tree that’s sprouting green leaves. The top part of the house is painted white. It looks neat and tidy—much more so than our house. He unlocks the front door, and I follow him inside to a hallway with black and white tiles on the floor. “There’s a studio apartment down here,” he says, pointing to a door off the hall. “I’ve got the top two floors.”
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