A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  We went through the drawings I’d come up with. On one cake, I’d copied Matisse’s The Dance all around the side of the cake; on another, I suggested using his Landscape at Collioure. After a few exchanges of ideas, we finalized the details and moved on to the tasting. Jason, who’d been mostly silent until then, widened his eyes and rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talkin’,” he exclaimed.

  I pointed out the five cakes Gina had requested, adding that I’d played around with her instructions a tad on the first three. If she didn’t like them, we could always go back to her specific requests.

  They tasted the caramel cake first—Jason’s bite four times the size of Gina’s. Gina nodded and raised her brows in pleasure. Jason barely swallowed before he took another mouthful. “Holy Mother of God. That is f’ing amazing.” He threw his hands in the air as if someone had scored a goal.

  Gina looked at me. “He’s from Canada,” she said, as if this explained everything.

  “That I am,” Jason said, rubbing his hands together. “And what’s that one right there?” he said, pointing to a cake. “It’s speaking to me.”

  “That’s a very light orange blossom with crème filling.”

  He looked at Gina. “Shall we try the orange blossom with the light crème filling?”

  I was never one hundred percent sure how often my assumptions about couples matched reality, but it was clear from the way Gina’s eyes lit up when she looked at Jason that she was crazy about him. My guess was that he brought out the playful yin to her workaholic yang. And Jason, who was bored with all the young women he had dated, who were gorgeous but lacked drive and chutzpah, wanted a woman like Gina, a powerhouse who inspired him. He was twice Gina’s height, his brown-blond hair was thick and wavy, and he had large green eyes and a nose that looked like it had been broken and never reset properly. But he was good-looking, a perfect match for Gina’s more delicate features. They were going to have some seriously beautiful kids.

  He picked up his fork and bumped her shoulder. “Ready, chief? And none of that girly stuff. Take a nice big bite with me. Okay?”

  She smiled and her huge white teeth shone.

  “Okay. Here we go. One. Two. Three.”

  They both took extra-large bites of the blossom cake. Gina laughed and covered her mouth in fear of crumbs falling out. They chewed, their cheeks as big as squirrels’. Jason, seeing a bit of cream in the corner of her mouth, found his napkin and dabbed at her lip, then kissed her as though he couldn’t help but kiss the adorable woman sitting next to him. They both nodded like kids.

  “So good!” he said.

  “Right?” she said. They finished chewing while I smiled. I loved my job. I really did.

  Jason began bobbing his head to the music; Cannonball Adderley was fading out. “What else do you have for us, Abbey? So far we are on a roll.”

  Gina saw she had a message and apologized before starting a text.

  Jason pointed toward the ceiling. Chet Baker could now be heard piping through the sound system. “I think I must be in heaven: all the cake I could want plus Art Tatum, Cannonball Adderley, and now Chet Baker. Very nice. You guys always play music like this here?”

  “Ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “You ever hear Chet play ‘Chabootie’?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “It’s nuts, isn’t it?” He paused and looked at me. “You listen to jazz?”

  I smiled to myself. “A little.” I had a strong feeling Jason had “big ears.” He not only listened to jazz; he got it and loved it.

  Gina apologized again and set down her phone. “These are all delicious, Abbey. Let’s try that one.” She pointed to the chocolate mocha and they continued their trip around the table.

  Once all the cakes were tasted, Gina gave her stomach a pat. “We’ll probably go with a four-tier. Don’t you think, honey?”

  “No, five-tier. With that last cake over there”—he pointed to the second chocolate cake—“as a little side dish for the groom. I want it all to myself.”

  Gina shook her head at me: See what I have to put up with? “Honey.”

  “Seriously. I want them all. For this wedding, the groom wants the cakes he wants. The bride gets everything else.”

  She shrugged and looked at me. “Fine with me. Maybe we can come up with an idea to help the fifth appetizer cake fit in. What I don’t want is so many cakes on top of each other they’re as tall as I am. That’s tacky.”

  “That should be easy enough,” I said. “There’s nothing like a man who likes his sweets. What about two cakes on the side, three-tier in the middle?”

  “That should work just fine. Honey?”

  Jason bit into the chocolate and nodded his head a few times. “Sounds good. You’ve got talent, Abbey. You should go into baking.”

  Gina and I looked at each other. “Thanks,” I said.

  He pointed with his fork. “And she listens to jazz, babe. Proof that there’s one more person under fifty who likes the stuff.”

  Gina rolled her eyes and picked up her phone. “I’m so sorry,” she said, typing furiously. “Bad times on the job. Everything—I mean, everything—hit the fan this morning, but I wasn’t going to cancel this. There was just no way. Hold on, please.”

  While she sent her text, I asked Jason what he did for work. Gina, thumbs still whirling across her phone, responded for him: “He started his own Web site. He covers what’s hip and writes reviews of different gadgets or interesting companies. There.” Text sent, she set the phone down. “His site also has personal essays. It’s a style and culture magazine geared toward men, but women love it, too. It’s very fun and smart—and it’s a total hit in Canada.”

  Jason kept his eyes on me while pointing to Gina. “What she said. This one here is my number one fan.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  “I am,” she said. “I can’t help it.”

  “What’s it called?” I asked.

  “Cooper. My full name is Jason Ethan Cooper. Highly original title—I know.”

  “But you should see the font,” Gina said. “Perfection.”

  “She’s not proud of me at all.”

  “I can tell.” I grinned.

  Jason kept his head down in embarrassment as she told me more. Every month there was a centerfold, but the centerfold was a brilliant woman, or man, posing—clothed—on her or his desk; or the centerfold was the latest gadget Jason thought his readers would like.

  “Okay, sweetie,” he said, resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Abbey can look it up if she wants.”

  “I can’t help it, baby. It’s a great site.” Gina looked at me and lowered her voice. “Advertisements are pouring in. He’s just being humble.”

  “I’m Canadian,” he said, employing the same matter-of-fact tone Gina had used earlier. “We prefer prideful humility or to be humbly prideful, either one.”

  “He’s going to do a feature on Oakland in an upcoming issue. He’s never been here.”

  “No?” I asked.

  “Just moved here. I’ve been getting to know San Francisco, and from the little I’ve seen, I like it. I plan to hang out while Gina goes back to work.”

  “Good. It’s a great city. It has its problems, but I love it here.”

  Gina’s phone buzzed. “Christ!”

  Jason leaned in and began running his hand up and down her arm. “We probably shouldn’t have come today, babe.”

  “No, don’t say that. I needed this.” She kissed him on the forehead and made a pouty face, then picked up the phone and began directing the person on the other end about the file that was giving everyone trouble.

  Jason lifted a finger in the air and closed his eyes. “Damn, I love this version. He gets it just right.” He moved his fingers on the table as if playing the piano.

  It was Dad on
the stereo now, playing “Our Love Is Here to Stay.” Some mornings I added so many albums and songs to the playlist, I didn’t know who would come up during any given hour. I normally didn’t add Dad to the mix. I usually saved listening to his music for when I was in a particular mood—whether happy or sad or just needing to hear him—but I guess I’d plugged him in. I didn’t say anything to Jason, though. A part of me wanted to tease him, or skip telling him at all. I wasn’t sure.

  I hummed along. “Lincoln T. Ross. Stockholm, ’eighty-six.”

  He went for the remains of the orange blossom cake. “You’re close. ’Eighty-eight.”

  He was wrong, but I smiled anyway.

  “If you listen—here, he goes out just far enough with the melody—ah!” He bowed his head and clutched at his heart. “Then he comes back to the standard—right . . . here—so that you get back into the regular rhythm of the tune and you hear it in an entirely new way, thanks to how far he goes in the previous measure. It’s just so f’ing perfect.”

  Jason definitely had big ears.

  Gina was off the phone by now and stared apologetically. “Sorry. He gets like this. We all have our thing.”

  Jason said, “This is Lincoln T. Ross. The guy I was telling you about.”

  She shook her head indifferently, then looked my way. “Jazz: kind of all sounds the same to me.”

  Jason looked at me now. “I still love her.”

  “Abbey’s last name is Ross,” Gina said absently. She reached for her phone. “Coincidence,” she muttered. “Honey, Abbey: I’m sorry, but I have to step outside. It appears everyone at the office needs their fucking hands held today.”

  Jason stood so she could move out of the booth. She barely reached his chest, even in her high heels. She started giving orders into her phone as she marched away from the table.

  I asked how they’d met and he explained that Gina’s best friend from college had moved to Ontario a few years before. Gina was visiting and they’d connected at a mutual friend’s birthday party. “And there you have it. Now I’m here in the mighty U.S. of A. about to be married. We were long-distance for two years, but it was time to make that little powerhouse all mine.” He looked out at the street with a grin. I turned and saw Gina pacing back and forth while speaking intently into the sky. I loved couples like Gina and Jason; they reminded me that marriage and love were possible and cynics be damned.

  Jason was staring at me when I turned back around. He motioned toward the ceiling—at my dad’s playing—then to me. A glimmer appeared in his eye.

  “You’re not related to Lincoln T. Ross, are you?”

  “I’m his daughter.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Get. Outta here. You’re kidding me, right?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m not. And it was Stockholm, ’eighty-six, just so you know.”

  He ran his hands through his thick hair, his face covered in shock. “I’m so . . . I can’t believe it . . . I’m sorry!”

  I laughed. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “Because I’m an idiot; that’s why. I was going on about music—your dad’s music—and here you are his daughter, the daughter of Lincoln T. Ross.” He looked around the restaurant like he might make an announcement; then he bowed slightly. “You’re like royalty, girl.”

  “Hardly.”

  “I can’t believe this.” He turned in his seat like Dad might pop out at any moment. “No wonder you’re playing such good music. So. So what is he like? I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking that?”

  “Not at all. He’s kind of like you’d expect.”

  “Cool?” he said, after a thoughtful pause.

  “Yeah. Very. How do you know so much about jazz? Do you play?”

  “Naw. I played hockey as a kid. My parents listened to jazz, though. Growing up, I thought it was the worst music ever—I liked Led Zeppelin and rap and anything but. Until I was about fourteen and they forced me into seeing Keith Jarrett’s trio. I was obsessed after that. It was like the lights went on and I saw and heard music for the first time.” He paused and looked at me. “I can’t believe your dad is Lincoln T. Ross. Wait until I tell my folks.”

  Gina returned and Jason stood up so she could sit. “Guess what. You’ll never guess, but try.”

  “What?”

  “Abbey’s father is Lincoln T. Ross.”

  Gina stared at me blankly.

  “The musician we were just talking about? That’s her father!”

  “Nice,” Gina said as politely as she could. “Must be fun to have a father who’s a musician.” She smiled again, then turned to Jason. “I need to get back. It’s going to be a late night, but I think we can finish by ten if I keep everyone focused. Abbey, can we get to whatever we need to sign?”

  I went to the office and found the necessary contracts. On my way back, I stopped at the stereo and changed the track from Sarah Vaughan, who’d just started singing, to Sonny Clark playing “It Could Happen to You.” Sure enough, Jason looked up and searched the bakery until he saw me at the counter. When he caught my eye he gave me a thumbs-up.

  He put his arm around Gina as I returned to my seat. “Sonny Clark on Dial ‘S’? Are you kidding me?”

  “What about his version of ‘Gee Baby, Ain’t I Good to You’?”

  “What about Bird’s version of ‘I Remember You’?”

  “Nineteen sixty-eight . . . ,” I said. “Ella Fitzgerald. ‘April in Paris.’ Live at Newport.”

  “If you’re mentioning Ella, you gotta bring up Germany. ‘Mack the Knife.’”

  We said, at exact same time: “She forgot the words!”

  “And then that scat!” he said.

  We eyed each other until we felt Gina staring. She wore a concerned expression that caused a crease at the top of her nose. “You two need to start listening to music by people who are alive.”

  Jason feigned offense. “Hey, watch it. Jason Moran is a genius. And Joshua Redman.”

  “Brad Mehldau,” I offered.

  “Mehldau’s solo version of ‘My Favorite Things’?” He slammed his hands on the table. “Amazing.”

  “Or Live in Tokyo—”

  “Totally,” he said. “‘Exit Music for a Film.’”

  We looked at each other. “‘River Man’!” we cried at the exact same time.

  Gina reached for her purse. “All right. All right. Abbey, it has been a pleasure. Are you staying, babe?”

  “Yeah. I think I’ll do some exploring. I’m sure I can get an article out of this.”

  I remembered the art crawl was that night and told him not to miss it. “Galleries and shops stay open late. Live music. It’s a pretty big thing. You’re lucky it’s the first Friday of the month.”

  “Excellent.” He said to Gina, “Walk you to BART first?”

  She made her way out of the booth, but then Jason stopped her and asked that we pose for a picture. “I can use it for Cooper.”

  “He’s keeping a groom’s diary; it’s pretty funny,” she explained.

  “Yeah,” Jason said, taking out his phone. “It’s mostly about how to keep the bride happy by agreeing with everything she says.”

  “Jason.”

  He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head. “Tonight I’ll write about jazz and cake. You two stand next to each other.”

  I put my arm around Gina. She was such a teeny-tiny thing, but it was easy to feel how physically strong she was.

  “Say Canada!”

  “Canada!”

  I asked Noel to take another picture with the three of us. There were only a few patrons in the café by now, and Nico was busy wiping down the inside of the display case. We’d be closing within the hour.

  Jason started
putting his phone away. “Say, Abbey, can you spare a couple of minutes? I’d love to ask a few questions about your dad. It’ll be for Cooper.”

  “Jason,” Gina admonished.

  “Gina, it’s not every day that you—”

  “It’s okay,” I interrupted. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

  “Great. I’ll walk Gina to BART and come back.”

  “This is how they do things in Canada,” Gina said. “They’re very friendly. Next thing you know, you’ll be showing him around Oakland but thinking it was your idea. Don’t be afraid to tell him no.” She looked up at him and again there was that exchange of love mingled with flirtatious fun. I thought of Samuel as I circled my wedding ring around and around my finger. Why was it so easy to see what worked or didn’t with other couples, but my own feelings could get so convoluted at times?

  After Jason and Gina left, I made a call to Horizon Grains, our flour supplier. When I returned to the front, Jason was at the counter with a notepad and pen. He wore a pair of rimless glasses and I noticed he also wore oxfords with his jeans. I’d had an inkling earlier that he was like those men who didn’t want to grow up—a man-child—but the glasses and shoes brought out his other side. No surprise. A woman like Gina wouldn’t marry a man she couldn’t lean on when need be.

  I asked if he wanted anything to drink and made an espresso for him and tea for me.

  I sat next to him at the bar and noted the pen in his hand, heavy and expensive.

  He regarded it a moment. “Yeah, my father gives me a nice pen for my birthday every year along with a Moleskine notebook. I think it’s his way of saying he’s proud I became I journalist. But knowing Dad, if I switched careers to auto mechanic, he’d be just as happy to give me a wrench every year. So, you ready?”

  “Ask away.”

  “What is it like to be the daughter of a living legend?”

  “Jumping right in, I see. Well, okay . . .”

  I told Jason about life with Dad. Told him how from a young age, I had learned to share him with his fans and our big family. One follow-up question led to another and soon we were talking about our families, travel, movies. And jazz. We talked a lot about jazz. We talked for so long I noticed Beth walking to the door and turning the handmade ouvert sign to fermé.