Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  Maria would have walked right by me, if I hadn’t said something first. “Hi, Maria.”

  She turned around and saw me holding the door open. I’d never seen Maria out of the starched white chef jacket and checked pants she wore to the boutique every day, and so I was surprised to find her in a cardigan sweater and tartan plaid skirt with fleshy tights. A pair of black rubber soled flats made her seem even shorter than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, not even letting on that she was a little surprised to find me on her doorstep.

  “I wanted to talk with you about your vacation.”

  “Ever hear of a thing called the phone?”

  “I thought we could talk in person.”

  “I’m taking my grand nieces and nephew to the children’s museum,” she told me, and then called the kids back from the street. “I don’t have time to talk.”

  “It won’t take long, I promise.”

  “Fine,” Maria grunted. “You can come with us, if you want.”

  A family field trip with Maria. Maybe we were entering a new phase of our relationship. “That’d be great.”

  Maria took the hand of the curly headed little girl. “But I’m not paying for you,” she added.

  Then again, maybe we weren’t.

  Maria corralled the children, who in my head I’d been calling Nina, Pinto and Santa Maria, but who introduced themselves as Connie, Mary and Joseph. On the ride to the museum I was a silent observer as Maria pointed out the sights to the kids and explained history. She never even glanced in my direction or explained to the children who I was. They didn’t even seem to recognize my name, so at least I knew Maria wasn’t saying nasty things about me when she got home at night, though I couldn’t for the life of me understand how she could spend more than forty hours a week with me and never once mention my name at home.

  Maria sat in the back seat with the kids while I kept our non-English speaking driver company and wondered if I’d smell like a combination of evergreen car freshener and clove cigarettes when I emerged. No one talked to me on the ride, even though I hung over the back of the seat like a puppy starved for attention. When the museum’s trademark forty foot milk bottle came into view, the kids could barely sit still and our driver couldn’t wait to get us out of his car.

  I paid my own admission fee, and the kids took off toward the exhibits that encouraged touching, pushing, pulling, and any other action a child could employ in a place where hands-on was the order of the day.

  “My niece will be here soon to meet us. What do you want to talk about?” Maria asked, as we walked slowly behind the children, their little bodies always in our view.

  “I was just wondering how long you planned to take a break.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Maria answered shortly, not taking her eyes off the children.

  “Well, we have a lot of orders coming up, what with the spring weddings and all.”

  “Can’t you handle them?” she asked, the tone of her voice implying the very idea amused her. “According to the press you’re the queen bee of cakes.”

  I was damned if I said I could handle the spring orders, because I’d look like an idiot for even going to see her. But I was damned if I said I couldn’t because, well, that sounded even worse.

  “I probably could, but I just need to know how to plan for the next –“ I left my sentence open ended, hoping Maria would fill in the blank. A couple of days? A week? Months?

  Maria found a bench under a suspended sculpture and sat down for a rest. “It’s only been three days. I think I’ve earned a vacation, don’t you?”

  How could I argue? Maria had barely taken a sick day, no less a real vacation in the seven years she’s worked for me.

  “Whatever you need is fine, I just wanted to be able to schedule the staff appropriately and make sure we can handle the orders on our own.”

  “The staff is fully capable of taking care of things, Lauren. After all, I’m the one who trained them.” There was no mistaking Maria’s tone now.

  “I’m the one who used to bake the cakes, Maria. Remember?”

  “I remember, Lauren. Do you?” Maria asked, almost challenging me.

  This circular conversation wasn’t going anywhere. All I wanted was an answer. “So when are you coming back?”

  Maria stood up to go after the children, who were running toward an airplane exhibit. “I’ll let you know.”

  I’d already wasted almost two hours trying to get an answer from Maria, and all I’d gotten in return were cab receipts and a nine dollar ticket stub from my brief visit to a museum where Arthur the aardvark was the featured attraction.

  On my way through the lobby I passed a woman who looked like a younger Maria with longer hair. She was even wearing the same fleshy tights.

  “Excuse me, are you Maria’s neice?” I asked as she hurried by me.

  She stopped a few feet away and answered slowly while she looked me up and down. “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “I’m Lauren Gallagher.” Maria’s niece showed no signs of recognition. How was it that for seven years Maria never mentioned me? I mean, I signed her paychecks! “I work with Maria.”

  “Oh.”

  She couldn’t have been less interested. This woman was definitely related to Maria.

  “I was just wondering if you knew why Maria didn’t marry Mario Spinelli.”

  “Sure,” she answered, but didn’t elaborate. It must have been really bad.

  “Did he cheat on her or do something horrible?” I ventured, thinking that maybe he tried to hurt her.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Then what?”

  “She just said that her heart wasn’t in it.”

  “That’s it? Her heart wasn’t in it?” I’ve never seen Maria smile, so I hardly doubted it was Mario’s fault. “There was nothing wrong with him?”

  “Not as far as I know.” Maria’s niece looked around distractedly. “Where is she? Have you seen my kids?”

  I pointed toward the Boats Afloat exhibit and realized that there had to be more to the story than what Maria had told her family. I mean, as far as I could tell, Maria didn’t have a heart.

  Chapter 32

  I’d forgotten how physically demanding it was to run a kitchen. My fingers ached from working the pastry bag, and the muscles in my back were pulled taut from bending over the rotating cake stand for hours on end. At first I was a little rusty, and as I scraped wilting blue delphinium off a cake and started over, it was like déjà vu. I’d done it all during those first few months in my studio kitchenette when my initial attempts to create something people would enjoy were rarely my last.

  A few of the gerbera daisies I attempted to cascade down the side of a three tiered cake looked like they were dying on the vine, their petals drooping forward and curling into one another in defeat. Eventually I got the hang of it, and spending all day in the kitchen mixing and blending and discovering was like the beginning, when Lauren’s Luscious Licks was more about learning than trying to create the illusion of perfection.

  And that’s when I knew what to tell Vivian. The book shouldn’t tell the secrets behind a cake theory, but the secrets of how cups of flour became a white cake layered with fresh strawberries and covered with piped whipped cream. But I didn’t have time to think too much about it, because things around the boutique had changed now that Maria wasn’t in the kitchen to manage the staff and ensure the orders were filled.

  I rescheduled my morning tastings and pushed them off till the afternoon. I was at work by five o’clock every morning instead of strolling in after my customary Caffe Latte, and even though I was exhausted by the time I fell into bed at night, it felt great. When the cakes were lifted into the delivery trucks, I experienced a sense of accomplishment I hadn’t felt since I ceremoniously handed Maria her first apron and traded in the kitchen for the gallery floor.

  I kept busy and tried not to think of Charlie when I was home alone at nigh
t, but it was hard not to. I kept reminding myself that it was better this way, but I always ended up wondering if he’d already found someone else, or if he was also laying in bed at night exhausted but unable to sleep. Was he thinking of me and drowning his woes in Ouzo while I waited for him to show up outside my apartment window like love-obsessed John Cusack, a portable stereo held high above his head as Peter Gabriel blasted from its speakers?

  On slower days, usually the beginning of the week, I experimented with new ingredients for fillings and flavors that weren’t part of our standard offering, and even considered introducing a few of the more original cakes for the summer season – maybe even a couple of every day offerings like a lavender lemon bundt cake that would bring customers in more regularly rather than just thinking of Lauren’s Luscious Licks as a place only for special occasions.

  Although the idea was exciting, in reality I knew the staff was already on the verge of their breaking point with existing orders, and creating a whole take-out business would mean installing display cases and changing the lay out of the gallery I’d painstakingly designed to look nothing like a bakery. As it was, I had enough of a challenge handling both the tastings and the baking.

  Spending fifteen hours a day at the boutique meant I didn’t get to see Robin and Paige. The sun was lingering longer in the evenings and spring was trying to become more than just a fleeting promise. Homeowners were once again lined up outside Paige’s office, ready to put their homes on the market and make the leap to the suburbs once school let out. Robin had been laying low after the news about Mark, and she seemed to be spending more time on the phone with her lawyer than with anyone else.

  Although we tried to keep in touch, we kept missing each other, and so neither of them knew Maria was taking a break from the boutique. Whenever I’d tried to call Paige, she was either on a showing or not home. I’d left a few messages for her but I never heard back.

  I was elbow deep in a fondant-wrapped gift box cake, each layer decorated with different pastel colored wrapping paper and bow, when Robin called and asked if I could meet her for lunch.

  “Why you don’t you grab some sandwiches and come by the boutique?” I suggested, hoping I’d be able to finish the orders before meeting Vivian at her house in Cambridge. Even though I didn’t really have the time, I thought it might be helpful to fly my new idea by Robin before seeing Vivian, just in case Robin wasn’t interested.

  “But it’s so nice out, how about meeting me in the public garden, by the ducks?”

  It was the end of April, but I knew Robin wasn’t talking about the feathered variety. “Fine, by the ducks at noon.”

  I walked down Newbury Street toward the Public Garden’s entrance, where Commonwealth Avenue started at the foot of the imposing gates that let visitors into the park, which was bounded by a cast iron fence. The snow had disappeared and the Public Garden was awakening from its winter nap. Tourists posed in front of the George Washington statue snapping photos of the proud equestrian on his steed. I made my way along the winding path, past the bulbous bushes that lined the trail like brilliant green gumdrops and the large, lazy willow trees hugging the shore of the lagoon. The swan boats floated lightly on the water, enjoying their return from winter hibernation in storage somewhere.

  Past the edge of the park on Beacon Street, Cheers fans lined up outside the Bull & Finch, hoping to share a draught in the hangout of their favorite TV bar. Little did they know that the inspiration for the friendly neighborhood bar where everybody knows your name was nothing like the television show – in real life the place didn’t even vaguely resemble where Sam and Woody tended bar.

  When I spotted the nine bronze waddling figures in the distance, I noticed Robin had staked out an empty bench opposite the parade of statues – eight tiny ducklings following their mother, inspired by the book Make Way for Ducklings.

  She was waiting for me with two turkey clubs and a couple of Sprites.

  “So what’s up?”

  “They dropped the law suit.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah. But my lawyer suggested we tone things down a little moving forward. Just because Jeremy backed out, doesn’t mean some other attendee won’t get the wrong idea and take matters into her own hands.” Surprisingly, Robin didn’t complain that the attorney wasn’t aggressive enough or lament the demise of her right to free speech. “Besides, maybe it’s time to come up with some new programming.”

  “Retire SCALPAL? What are you going to replace it with?”

  “I’ve been doing some more research on my small world child rearing idea, and I think it could be good.”

  “But what about the book?”

  “Who knows, once I tell Vivian we’re going to be concluding the program, I doubt she’ll still want to go ahead and publish it. You know, it’s been almost three years since I first launched SCALPAL, so I think it’s in the final phase.”

  “You mean Letting go?”

  Robin laughed. “Yeah, maybe that, too.”

  By the Charles Street entrance, a toddler broke free from her mother’s grasp and ran up to the bronze mommy duck. She stood eye to eye with the statue and imitated quacking sounds. Robin watched and smiled as the little girl crouched down, patting a duckling on the head.

  The little girl’s mother stood aside until it was time to leave, and then folded the child’s small hand in her own and led her away.

  “Well, I had a brainstorm.” I washed down my potato chip with a sip of Sprite and told Robin my idea. “What about cooking programs?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t cook,” Robin reminded me.

  “But I do.”

  “You do? Since when?”

  “Well, I’ve sort of been thrown back into the kitchen. Maria’s taking a break.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. She needed a little time off and she said she’ll return when she’s ready.”

  “And you let her just walk out?”

  “What were my choices? She hasn’t taken a vacation day in three years.”

  “So you’re making the cakes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good for you. I always thought you should be back there instead of sucking up to brides who want to believe there’s a difference between a cake boutique and a bakery. Besides, now I won’t be afraid to ask for free samples.” Robin smiled. “Maria scares me.”

  “You and everyone else.” I laughed. “So I was thinking that we could come up with cooking programs and offer them at the boutique.”

  Robin wrinkled her nose. “How?”

  I explained my idea for the classes. “We’d start with a focus on cakes, and if that went well we could expand them to include other desserts, like chocolate raspberry tartlets and soufflés, that sort of thing. The boutique’s reputation would pull people in, and with your expertise organizing, promoting and managing programs they’d be completely professional. It’s perfect.”

  “But why do people need to know how to make desserts when they can just buy them?”

  “Because it’s about learning to enjoy the whole process, not just the finished product. The classes wouldn’t so much be about right and wrong, even though we’d teach students the proper techniques of course. It’d be about trying new things, experimenting with ingredients and understanding why some desserts work out and some don’t.”

  “Our database has thousands of women we could market the programs to.” Robin sat forward and I could tell she was warming up to the idea. “We could even develop programs for different demographics, just like we do now – have mother daughter afternoons where they bake cookies or weekend evenings for single women looking for a fun night, or theme programs like An Evening of Chocolate Decadence.”

  Robin’s eyes were sparkling and I could tell there were already a million ideas running through her head. “I love it.”

  “Me, too. And I thought we could tie it all into my book launch, make it a joint coming out party
.”

  “But the book is just pictures of wedding cakes,” Robin pointed out.

  “We’ll see about that. I’m going to talk with Vivian tonight.”

  “Poor Viv, here she thought she had two ringers and now we’re changing everything on her. Well, let me know if she goes for it. I think it’s a great idea.” Robin looked at her watch and started packing up. “I better go. I’m meeting Jeremy for coffee.”

  I nearly choked on my potato chip. “Plaintiff Jeremy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re cavorting with the enemy?”

  Robin stopped crumpling her napkin. “After my lawyer called to tell me the suit was dropped, Jeremy showed up at my office and wouldn’t leave until I talked to him. He wanted to talk to me after the deposition, but his brother-in-law kept telling him he couldn’t talk to the person he was suing.” Robin smiled. “He’s really not a bad guy, but I don’t think we’ll be going to a barbeque at his brother–in-law’s any time soon.”

  “So you’re dating Plaintiff Jeremy?”

  “No, we’re not dating, I’m just getting used to the idea of being divorced. But I haven’t ruled out being friends.”

  “That’s mighty understanding for the founder of Women In Action.”

  “Hey, if you can remember how to cook, I can remember what it’s like not to have all the answers. Being a modern woman doesn’t mean hating modern man.”

  “Jesus, you sound like you’ve had a religious experience.”

  “Nah, just quoting an article I read in Marie Claire.”