By April, after Samuel had settled into his place, he called one night to “check in on me.” He told me he was feeling much better and he was “getting his life back on track.” He was also rather proud to announce that he was dating again. No one serious, he added, but he wanted to move on. (My internal response to that: I feel for the woman dating a man who separated from his wife two months ago.) Near the end of the call, he said he felt sorry for me because I didn’t know the meaning of commitment, and I would end up alone.
Dad liked to say you know who a person really is when things fall apart and you see how they behave when they’re hurt and upset. I managed to listen to Samuel’s rant without lashing back, only because he was letting me see how mean and petty he could be.
Even so, I had to hand it to him. He swore that once we started divorce proceedings, he wouldn’t go after the bakery. “I know what that place means to you,” he started. After a pause he added, “I know the bakery means more to you than I ever did.”
I gave Rita the edited version of my talk with Samuel while walking her to the door. Before leaving she told me Aiko and the boys were hanging in there. It had been three months since Dad’s passing, but no matter how Aiko tried to explain to the boys that their father wouldn’t be coming back, they still thought Dad was on tour and they were waiting for him to come through the door.
Rita and I said good-bye and I returned to my couple.
“Your stepmother is very beautiful,” said Jane.
“And nice,” said Burt. “It was nice of her to be concerned about our cake. We know what we want, though. We don’t care what other people think.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s nice that you know what makes you happy.” These two, I thought, were going to go the distance, and I was going to make the most beautiful Beauty and the Beast wedding cake ever. “Now, where were we?”
• • •
There was some good news during the lousy months of Death and Divorce. For starters, when Phyllis called I felt no sense of obligation and hence had no problem hanging up on her.
Phyllis: “Abbey, I have to say I’m extremely disappointed in—”
Me: Click!
When she called again and later again, I didn’t bother answering. It felt so good.
On an even happier note, Carmen found out she’d been accepted to Berkeley’s school of law. She was struggling with Dad’s death, though, and admitted she was upset about my divorce from Samuel. We met for dinner at a popular Burmese restaurant not far from Scratch a week or so after my consultation with Burt and Jane. Carmen was especially despondent and mostly played with the vegetarian dish she’d ordered. I did my best to console her, but my heart was broken, too, and I could only hope we’d all feel better over time.
She scooped up rice and goo on her fork, but then returned it to her plate. “The thing that hurts most,” she said, “is that I feel like I was just beginning to know Dad as one adult to another. He really stepped up and I felt like I wasn’t just one of the bunch, but he was really getting to know me.”
“Try to focus on that, Carmen. Dad stepped up and you had a better relationship. He loved you.”
“Yeah. I just—I feel like crap lately. I’m going to start law school in a couple of months and everything feels out of whack.”
“Your father just died. Of course things feel out of whack.”
I watched her drag her fork around her plate. She usually had a hearty appetite, but it was clear she was losing weight, and from the dark circles under her eyes, I gathered she wasn’t sleeping either. “You know, there’s never any shame in talking to a professional. If you’re having such a hard time, you might consider seeing a counselor, someone you can talk to about Dad and whatever else you’re going through.”
She snorted. “That’s what you’d tell Samuel. You think everyone needs a therapist—except you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just don’t think I need therapy.”
“Fine.” I took a sip of my water. I already knew her answer but asked anyway. “So . . . you still talk to him?”
“Of course. And he needed you, not a therapist.”
“What has he told you?”
“He mentioned he had a tough upbringing, and that’s all you wanted to focus on. It’s like you wanted to be unhappy.”
Thank goodness the waiter showed up just then. While he cleared the plates, I took a moment to remind myself that my sister was upset about losing Dad. Okay. Do not slap Carmen. Stay cool.
After the waiter left our table, I picked up my water. “I wasn’t happy, Carmen.”
“You can’t be happy in a marriage all the time. Samuel was trying to keep you happy, but you kept pushing him away.”
“You know,” I said, in a kind of exaggerated thoughtfulness, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you two being friends right now.”
“Too bad. You chose to divorce him. That doesn’t mean he and I can’t be friends. What did he do that was so horrible, anyway?”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you. Look at you and Jake. You broke up with him, but I have to respect your decision.”
“I wasn’t married to Jake. You made a commitment.”
I took in a deep breath. Do not slap your sister. Do not slap your sister. I stabbed at my rice while envisioning life as an only child. I said finally, “I know you’re upset about Dad, and my divorce, but that’s no excuse for being rude.”
“I’m just expressing my feelings.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
She let her fork fall against her plate and leaned far back in her chair. “Anyway,” she said. She picked up the napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “You know what Mom told me last week? She’s tired of my moping and thinks I should get laid. What kind of mother says that when her child has lost her father?” She shook her head bitterly, then rested her elbows on the table and ran her hands over her ponytail. “Anyway, I’m going away for a few days.”
I took her changing the subject as a truce and was all too happy to move on. “That’s good. Where are you going?”
“My friend Jasmine’s parents have a place in Monterrey.”
“Time away will help, I’m sure. When do you leave?”
“Next week.”
“Try to enjoy yourself with Jasmine. It’s good you’re getting away. See? Everything will be okay.” When she lowered her head into her chest, I reached over and took her hand. “You’ll be okay, Car. Just give it time.”
• • •
A week later, I spent my entire morning working on a cake with strawberries and white chocolate. With everything going on, I was reminded yet again how much I still loved to bake; it was my constant—mix, stir, bake, decorate. Enjoy. It was also hard to be too down when I was surrounded all day by people who were smiling and happily eating the pies and tarts and everything else we made.
When I took the cake I’d been working on out to the front, I saw Jake sitting at a table covered with his math books. He’d enrolled in three summer classes so he could begin making up for lost time and would sometimes study at the bakery. He’d been showing his more serious side since the breakup, but Jake was Jake, and that morning he wore huge yellow sunglasses like a celebrity hiding out from the paparazzi. I went to say hello after putting the cake on a stand and setting it next to the cash register. That baby would sell in no time.
Jake raised his finger toward the music playing. “Betty Carter. ‘Mean to Me.’”
“You really catch on fast, Jake. How are the classes?”
“Making all As gets old, but I have to do what I have to do. I admit, I enjoy running circles around the other students; it’s good for my self-esteem.”
“Don’t forget the little people.”
I stood behind him and glanced at the formulas he was working on. I whistled. “That loo
ks extremely difficult.”
He responded in a professorial tone: “‘Mathematics rightly viewed possesses not only truth, but supreme beauty.’ Bertrand Russell—baby.”
I shook my head at the numbers and figures. Blech. I was about to start toward the kitchen when he asked, “Hey, is Carmen back from Yootville? Not that I think about her every second of the day or that I’m a stalker or anything.”
“Back from where?”
“Yootville.”
“I think you’re mixed-up. I just saw her last week and she said she was going away with her friend Jasmine to Monterrey.”
“Who?”
“Jasmine.”
“Never heard of her. I asked her if she wanted to see a movie this weekend—not that I’m stalking her—but she said she was going somewhere called Yootville.”
I mouthed the word silently: Yootville. I felt light-headed, as if I’d been holding my breath for hours. I pulled out the chair next to Jake and sat. I said, stunned, “I think you mean Yountville.”
He picked up his phone and scrolled. “Yeah, you’re right. Yountville.” He showed me Carmen’s message:
Can’t make the movie. Going to Yountville with a friend. C U when I return.
My stomach churned and spun. I lowered my head into my arms and closed my eyes. As sure as the shiver running up and down my arms, I was not going to bother trying to talk myself out of what I knew: Carmen was in Yountville with Samuel, and there was no reason for them to go to Yountville unless something romantic was going on between them. I felt sick. I felt ready to throw up.
“Abbey? You okay? Hey, Abbey . . . Noel, can we get some water over here? Abbey.”
I heard Noel setting a glass next to me. “Abbey, you okay?”
My hands were shaking as I lifted my head and stared at Jake. “I can’t drive right now, but I need a ride to Yountville. Can you take me?”
“You look horrible. I don’t think you should be going anywhere.”
“Can you take me or not?”
He slammed his math book closed. “Sure.”
• • •
We drove to Yountville in Jake’s . . . actually, I had to ask him. “What kind of car is this?”
“Nineteen seventy-eight Gremlin, ba-by! You don’t see these beauties on the road much anymore. She’s my precious jewel.” He rubbed the dashboard. “You don’t have to worry; I rebuilt the engine myself. She can go the distance and then some.”
The Gremlin had a fresh coat of orange paint with a white stripe running along its side. It was triangular in shape and small enough that I felt like I was riding inside a large shoe. An Einstein bobblehead in the center of the dashboard bounced and wiggled on every bump. Papers with Jake’s scrawled notes covered the floor. I leaned back and closed my eyes. If I’d been thinking straight I would have given him my car keys.
I heard: “You going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Let’s get there first.”
The drive from Oakland to Yountville usually took an hour and fifteen minutes, but in the Gremlin it took an hour and thirty. The difference wasn’t much, except that for the entire drive I felt nauseous and short of breath. I knew what was coming and what I’d find, but I didn’t want to face it.
Samuel’s car was parked in the driveway when we pulled up.
“Whose house is that?” Jake asked. He was wearing the yellow sunglasses again.
“Wait here.”
“You’re gonna do me like that? After I drove you here?”
I stepped out of the car and slammed the door. I walked to the edge of the lawn, thinking about my dreams of one day having kids with Samuel and bringing them here. A part of me didn’t want to believe it, but even seeing his car in the driveway, I knew. I started up the path. When I stumbled, Jake gave a light honk of the horn, but I turned and gestured for him to stay put; I was fine.
Once at the door, I gave my T-shirt a tug and realized it was covered in flour. My clogs looked no better. I took a breath—Who cared that I looked like shit?—and knocked.
Carmen answered the door. As soon as she saw me, she clasped her hands over her mouth and inhaled so strongly she hiccupped.
I glared, unblinking, while she began walking backward into the house. Except for the terror in her eyes, she looked perfectly at home. Her hair was out of its ponytail and falling to her shoulders. She wore a tank top and jeans and flip-flops; her toes were painted blue.
“We didn’t do anything,” she muttered.
Samuel came from the kitchen. “Who’s—” He was wiping his hands on a towel and stopped short. If he was surprised to see me, he wasn’t going to let it show. He narrowed his eyes and took a long breath. “Nothing happened, Abbey, so I need you to stay calm.”
“What is she doing here?”
“We didn’t do anything,” Carmen cried. “I swear we didn’t do anything.”
Samuel raised his hands in the air while walking toward me. He continued to speak to me in a calm and even manner like someone trying to convince a person not to jump off a bridge or shoot a gun. “We were spending time together; that’s all. We’re friends.”
Carmen was crying by this point. “We didn’t do anything but kiss. I swear!”
I glared at Samuel: You fucking kissed her?
“Okay. Yes. But nothing beyond kissing. I’ve been in a state. We’ve all been through a lot these past months.”
“He’s right,” said Carmen. “We’ve been through a lot. But I swear we didn’t do anything more than make out.”
“She doesn’t need details, Carmen,” said Samuel.
I looked at my sister. I heard myself say, I thought we were friends. I thought we were close. But, no, I hadn’t said a word. I returned my gaze to Samuel—and that towel in his hand. He was cooking. I could smell the aroma of bacon and toast coming from the kitchen. His shirt was open. He wore a T-shirt underneath, but the sight of him . . . so relaxed . . . so at home . . . with my sister . . . I felt my stomach threaten to heave up and out the croissant I’d had earlier. It wasn’t until my foot caught on one of the rugs that I realized I was backing away from them.
Carmen reached out her hand. She’d stopped crying, but her face was splotchy. “Wait. I can explain. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Jake was by my side as if from nowhere. “What the . . . ?”
Carmen cried, “Oh my God. Not you, too! Please. Jake, what are you doing here?”
Jake looked from Carmen to Samuel. “What are you doing here?”
“Let’s everybody calm down,” said Samuel. “It’s been an intense past few months and we need to talk this out. Carmen and I can explain.”
“It’s been an intense past few months,” Jake mocked. “Jesus. Listen to him, Car. He’s such a pretentious prick.”
“Hey now, watch it,” Carmen warned.
I heard a loud crash and realized I’d backed into a lamp.
Samuel started toward me. “Abbey, why don’t you sit down?”
“Don’t you say a word to me.” I was not going to let him have the satisfaction of watching me lose it. I turned to Jake. “Come on, Jake. Let’s go.”
He remained still until I pulled him along. I heard Carmen call out, “Let me come, too. I can explain!”
We didn’t give her a chance to follow. Once we were in the car, Jake sped off, giving us no time to rethink or look back. “Fuck,” he said, hitting the steering wheel with his fist. “Fuck! Did you know?”
“Not until you mentioned Yountville.” My phone started to ring and I turned it off.
“Fuck,” he mumbled. After a long pause: “Fuck.”
“Okay, Jake. I know.”
His voice low, he said, “Abbey, we’ve been cuckolded. We’ve been betrayed. Cheated. Lied to. That fucker is old enough to be her father.”
“Just d
rive, Jake. Let’s get out of here.”
21
This Night Has Opened My Eyes
Carmen and Samuel continued to call and send texts, but I ignored them. When Carmen showed up at my house that afternoon, I refused to open the door. The only person I talked to after Jake dropped me off was Bendrix. He came over and listened to me rant and held me when I finally broke down and cried.
Carmen must have told the wives her side of the story, because they began calling, too, and telling me that I needed to talk to her. And then my sister Dinah called from wherever she was on tour. They all left messages saying I needed to forgive Carmen; she was my sister.
You never would’ve known a thing was wrong, except a few days later, after making a perfectly delicate two-tier wedding cake, I had a flash of my sister’s blue toenails, and within seconds, I poked my finger into as much icing as I could hold and shoved it in my mouth. Beth stared at me, wide-eyed. When I couldn’t taste the icing on my tongue, I dug my finger in again. I stared at that cake with its stupid painted flowers and stupid damask while licking icing from my finger. I used my arm to move the cake across the long worktable and straight into the trash bin. Beth shouted—“Oh my God, Abbey!” I finished licking the icing. It felt good to destroy something.
I went home early. Around seven, I heard someone knock. I saw through the peephole that it was Samuel and refused to open the door. “I know you’re there, Abbey. Your car’s out front.” He waited, then started speaking through the door. He said he hadn’t been thinking straight. He and Carmen had always been close, but he hadn’t meant for things to get out of hand. He said, “Blah blah blah.” And “Wa wa wa wa.” He then cried, “Wacka doodle! Wacka dack!”
Just so I wouldn’t have to listen, I went to my bedroom, grabbed two pillows, and pressed them over my ears. He stood outside my door for a good fifteen minutes, but I was so finished, so over him, so disgusted, I never wanted to see him again.
I’m not sure how long I stayed in my bedroom, but when I finally went back out, I saw that he’d slipped a note through the mail slot.
A Pinch of Ooh La La Page 26
