***
“Hey, Gatz,” I greet as I enter the kitchen of The Cup and the Cake for my evening shift. By rote I swap my bag for my apron hanging on the peg by the entrance. “Didn’t know you’d still be here.” I slip the apron tie over my head. “How’s it going?”
As I fasten the apron around my waist, Gatz hastily removes his. “Running late,” he breathes out. “As usual.” He rushes over and hangs his apron. He takes a peek at his watch and sighs. “I’m awful with time. Did not get the punctual gene in the family.”
I chuckle under my breath and take a look at the large chalkboard on the wall. It looks like it’s going to be a busy night, with several lines of “To Prepare” yet to be crossed out.
“Oh, shit,” Gatz says. He turns his dark leather messenger bag around until it’s completely behind him. “Forgot to cross this out.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, reaching for the eraser and chalk. “You running late to class?”
“As always.” He points at the highest item on the list, the maple scones, and says, “Those are done, and these.” He points to Banana Nut Bread right below the scones. “Two of the three loaves are done.”
He’s about to point at another item, but I tell him, “Get yourself ready to dash on out and just tell me.” I smile at how frazzled he looks, his curly locks disheveled, twisting this way and that, his brow deeply creased, his hands clenching tightly, then releasing, then clenching and releasing again.
“Thanks, Em,” he says. He grabs the rest of his stuff while rattling off the remainder of the baked goods he’s prepared.
“That it?” I ask.
“Ha!” he cries as he’s halfway out the kitchen. “That’s it? That’s a helluva bunch of stuff!”
“You know what I mean,” I say. I make two tick marks next to Banana Nut Bread.
“Have a good one!” he calls out as Chad walks in.
“Later!” I shout, deciding to work on the remaining bread loaf.
“Hey, Chad.” I dig among the pile of baking pans on the shelf under the large, steel island table.
“She’s impossible!” he cries.
I peek over the tabletop and watch as Chad storms to the ovens. He’s darting about so quickly and seems so discomposed that he almost reaches into an oven without a potholder.
“I don’t know why I do this to myself!” he says loudly.
In situations like these with Chad, since they unfortunately seem to happen about once a week, I tend to hang back and play the part of impartial observer. That is, until my opinion is requested, or until Sophie or Chad glare at me to impart my thoughts.
I honestly don’t know why Chad does this to himself—him coming in to help Sophie out so much. He already has a full-time job and sells his paintings on the side. Not to mention, Chad and Sophie can get under each others’ skin so much, I really can’t see how the help is worth all the arguments, the tension.
Chad answers the question for us both in the midst of his tirade. “Sophie needs the help. She’s a workhorse and will kill herself with this place if no one lent a hand.” He slams the oven door shut and tosses the pan into the sink. “But must she be so damn difficult?!”
I find the bread pan I’ve been searching for and quietly go about my business, coating it with butter.
“She can’t possibly be this impossible as a best friend, can she?” Chad says, distressed. He’s looking right at me. “She’s not always so—so—so impossible! Is she?” He leans back on the sink’s ledge and crosses his muscular, tattooed arms.
A smile is forcing its way on my lips, and I reach for another swipe of butter. “I love Sophie,” I say softly.
“Yeah, yeah, bros before hos, but the chick version,” he says. “I get it.”
I guffaw. “She’s one of my best friends, Chad. That doesn’t mean she’s perfect and doesn’t sometimes drive people…oh…batty, I guess you could say.”
Chad, looking like he’s beginning to calm down, nods his head.
Not sure what the latest Chad and Sophie spat is about, but fairly certain I have an idea it’s got something to do with Sophie’s incessant need for control and order and Chad’s easy-breezy approach to life, I say, “She’s a perfectionist. She likes things a certain way and, well, it’s her café, so who are any of us to tell her what to do?”
Chad, mouth partly open, pulls a look of contemplation. He tongues his lip ring slowly, contemplatively, then somehow bitterly. He runs his hands through his messy, sand-colored hair and groans loudly. “But sometimes!”
“It’s like when I was in Nicaragua,” I begin, cheerful. “I decided to practice Spanish by living with a family for a month, helping around with their farm, the chores, teaching the kids some helpful sales lingo in English.”
Chad recrosses his arms over his thick chest, clad in a tight, green Hollister t-shirt, and snaps from his rapt daze. “Yeah?”
“Well, almost every weekend we would go hiking or take a trip to a beach or some fun getaway of sorts.” I spoon around in the bowl of remaining banana bread batter, methodical and sluggish movements as I think back on that enlightening trip.
“It was a real shock to see how the children—adults, too, actually—would just litter,” I reflect. “They’d eat an ice cream cone, and the wrapper would be tossed onto the side of the road. We’d share a juice and the box would go right into the street. Napkins, wrappers, you name it, right there on the ground.”
I carefully pour the batter into the pan. “At first I was kind of horrified. I mean, littering?” Chad nods when I glance up at him for a second. “The Miss Go-Green-Organic-Everything in me was raging,” I say. “But the thing is, who was I to tell them to do otherwise?” I pause to set the heavy bowl down, wiping its lip clean of run-off batter. “Who was I to impose on them my culture or my beliefs or what I find to be correct? I was the visitor, after all.” I smooth the top of the unbaked loaf with the spatula.
“What I’m saying is, yeah, Sophie can be a total Type A personality,” I say. “She can make you want to pull your hair out sometimes with all of her rules and compulsive behavior.” I smile. “It’s her café, and she’s under a lot of pressure. This is her life’s dream and, honestly, I don’t think someone who didn’t have those quirky personality traits could pull off running such an incredible café in such a short time.” I slip the spatula into the bowl. “She’s crazy busy, and I’m sure her overkill T-crossing and I-dotting has a big somethin’ to do with it.”
I walk over to the ovens and adjust some dials. Setting the freshly filled pan on the counter next to Chad, I look up at him and say, “She’s a wonderful person, and I wouldn’t change her for the world.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “But always so damn complicated?”
I shrug. “Hey, I don’t understand why she puts herself through this and argues with you. For that matter, I don’t understand why you get off your real job to come here and work even longer, just to get berated about, what?” I gesture to the pile of half-goo, half-bread in the sink. “Her oatberry scones, I take it?”
He scoffs, “Yeah, oatberry. What the fuck?”
I can’t keep from giggling. “Just think of me—my name—when you have to make oatberry.”
He crinkles his nose. “You?”
“Yeah. Oatberry’s hippie to you, I take it? All organic?”
“Psh,” he sounds. “Exactly.”
“Well, when you’ve got to make oatberry scones, just think, Emily, and think of my granola-self. Then you’ll remember that you’ve got to use all organic ingredients for them.” I smile awkwardly, not sure if I’m helping.
He runs a hand through his slightly greasy hair and says, with a grin, “Not a bad idea. Oatberry, hippie Emily.”
I give a punch to his arm, right where the aquamarine tail of his mermaid tattoo peeks out. “Whatever,” I hum. “You better get to work on a new and organic batch before Sophie comes back here and rips you a new one.”
“You’re right.” He turns around
and begins to pull the organic items off the shelves and from the cupboards.
Noticing the red light is lit up on the oven, indicating it has reached the desired temperature, I slip the banana bread inside.
“Seriously, though,” I say, itching to ask the question. “Why in God’s name do you come down here to help out? So often?” I hand him the organic flour that I can sense he’s searching for. “It’s not because you have a secret passion for baking, is it?”
He silently sets a large bag of oats down next to the flour, and I can see the side of his face go kind of blank-like. Finally, he gives me a weak grin and says, “Same reason you’re here, Emily. Sophie needs the help, and she’s a friend.”
Chapter Nine
“You know what I mean?” Claire says over the phone, sounding fully exasperated. “You’d think in a city with a few million or something people—”
“A bit over half a million,” I correct nonchalantly.
“Huh?”
“Seattle’s population.” I bite at my hangnail, close my eyes in preparation for the twinge of pain I’ll feel when I yank, and then—“Owa!” I cry. I ring my hand about and say to Claire, “About six hundred thousand people in Seattle. Not a few million.”
“Whatever,” she shirks off. “Anyway, in a city this big, certainly there’d be some guy out there I could hook you up with.”
I stick my thumb in my mouth, mentally scolding myself for tearing up my nail like this. “No pressure.”
“You’re not taking this as seriously as you should be, Em,” Claire protests. “This project is a big deal to me. It should be to you, too.”
I chuckle and inspect my thumb. Now it just looks awful, the skin all red and the nail all scraggly. “Look.” I rub at my thumb and get back to rifling through the stack of books on my living room floor. “Don’t rush it. You’ll get your chance to sinks your claws in my love life.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Robin or Jackie will beat ya to it, anyhow.” I run my fingers over the colorful spines, occasionally alighting on a ratty old notebook, a thickly folded map, or a pile of papers.
“I ‘spose it doesn’t really matter when I find your match,” Claire trills, “because I will be the one who finds your true love. Jackie can bring alllll the men she wants to your bedroom door, but I will find your true one.”
“Bedroom door?” I repeat in jest. “Is this Operation Booty Call or Operation Blind Date?”
“You know what I mean.” Her tone is a touch flustered. “I will be the girl who finds your prince.”
I half-chuckle, half-sigh, and move on to the adjacent stack of books.
I’ve been trying to find my old journal from the time I went to Kenya a few years back. I was introduced to well work then and am hoping I’ll find some helpful notes that I can use for my Zambia application. I know I’m way ahead of schedule for applying, and I’m not even completely sure if I’ll go through with it, but I’m keeping my options open.
Just then a beep sounds on the phone line.
“Hey, Claire,” I interrupt her. She’s been rattling off a number of guys’ names who might be eligible material.
“No,” she says, more to herself than to me, “he’s divorced I think…carries baggage. Or maybe it’s that he’s engaged… Hmm.”
“Claire?”
“Jacob, though, now there’s someone…” Her voice falters as she sinks into deep thought. “Nope!” she suddenly shrieks. “I think Conner said he’s moved back to Phoenix.”
“Claire.”
“That won’t do. Dylan maybe…but he’s kind of a momma’s boy.”
“Claire!” I almost shout, and she finally comes to. “Sorry, but I’ve got a call coming in.”
I flash a look at my phone, which has now beeped twice indicating the other call. I don’t recognize the number, but that’s probably all the more reason I should answer it.
“Jackie, I bet.” Claire says. “Okay. I’ll call back later.”
I quickly switch over the calls. “Emily here,” I answer.
“Hi, Emily,” a familiar but unrecognizable voice replies. “It’s Bobby.”
“Oh, hi!” I temporarily give up on finding my journal and pull myself into a cross-legged position on the floor. “What’s up?” I focus all my attention on the call. Bobby has never called me before; it’s kind of peculiar.
“Is Robin all right?” I blurt out, suddenly realizing the possible import of his call.
“Of course, of course,” he says in a strong yet soothing tone. “No worries there. She and Rose and the baby are doing wonderfully.”
“Great,” I say with relief.
“I’m calling because I’ve got an idea. Two ideas, really, and I wanted to run them by you.”
I make a puzzled face, but tell him to go on.
“As you know, Robin’s due in February,” he says.
“February nineteenth. Yup! Got it marked on the calendar.”
By bad habit I bring my thumb back to my mouth and am about to chew my nail, but wince from where I’d just ripped the hangnail.
“She never had a chance to do them with Rose,” Bobby says, “and I know she’s talked about it.”
Talked about what? Do what with Rose? I think, sitting on my hand to keep myself from biting my nails.
“I’d really love to give her them,” he continues. “I don’t know when or how… I thought maybe you could help me out.”
“With?”
He chuckles nervously, then says, “Sorry. Maternity photos. You do those, don’t you?”
“Ahhh! Maternity photos. What a great idea! I don’t usually do them, but I have a couple of times.”
I have done some maternity shoots, but in the complete opposite realm of “usual maternity photos.” I’ve photographed beautiful expectant African mothers, and even mothers giving birth, but nothing studio-like. But, if I can snap photos of births in huts with dirt floors, no modern pain relief medicine or a code of sterility known to my subjects, even having to turn in my camera for an extra set of hands for a brief moment to help out with a birth, I can certainly handle this.
“Excellent,” Bobby breathes out. “I don’t know when you usually do them. Robin’s not showing much right now at just about four months.”
“I’d say probably eight months would be ideal,” I say. “That way she’s clearly showing and just about full term, but isn’t going to, like, go into labor in the middle of the shoot or be uncomfortable or something.”
“Hmmm.”
I wait a couple of seconds for Bobby to respond. When he doesn’t, I say, “But if you want to do them sooner and have her still obviously showing, then maybe seven months, or six. I’m not entirely sure…”
“Yeah, okay. Yeah, so eight months or something…”
I pull the phone from my ear and look at it awkwardly for a second. Bobby’s sending off some odd vibes. What’s with the sudden evasiveness?
“We can plan more when the time is closer,” I say loosely.
Silence.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah!”
“Is that all right?”
“Yes, that’s great. Closer, yeah. Excellent.” His evasiveness is waning. “Okay, there’s something else.”
I pull myself up and head into the kitchen to fetch a glass of iced tea. “Shoot. What is it?”
He clears his throat loudly and several times before finally saying, “Are you free next weekend?”
“Next weekend? For, what? Maternity photos? Bobby, she definitely won’t be showing much more next week than she is now.”
“Well—no—” He now sounds skittish. “Not maternity photos next weekend. I’m…well… The weather is still supposed to be beautiful, slightly summery. I was thinking outdoor photos would be really nice and—”
“Bobby,” I say through an exhalation. “What is it?”
“Will you take surprise proposal photos?”
I nearly drop the pitcher of tea onto the floor but manag
e to roughly set it on the counter, a large slosh of beverage flowing out. I can’t speak or make another move. What did he just say?
“Emily?”
Omigod! This can’t be happening! Robin’s—Robin’s—
“Um—uh,” I stutter. Breathe, Emily, breathe! I inhale slowly, taking small breaths. Omigod, omigod…
“Emily?”
“Omigod!” I shriek, and leap into the air. “Congratulations, Bobby!”
I think I’ve thrown him off, because for a long moment there’s dead air. He finally chuckles and says, “Well, thank you. So you’ll do them?”
“Of course I will!”
“The proposal photos?”
“Yes!” I exclaim through a smile. “Yes to both. Maternity, proposal, engagement. Whatever!”
“Thank you so much.” He clears his throat. “I figured outdoors would be beautiful, at a park, totally unsuspecting, and then we’d have Rose with us so after I pop the question we can maybe do some more photos of the three of us—”
“Like engagement photos.”
“Yeah. Photos of us…a family.”
I can feel my cheeks flush over the surprise.
“It’s a complete secret, of course,” Bobby says quickly.
Of course it’s a secret! But this is so the time you want to call up your best friend and tell her the exciting news! If I call my BFF, she’ll blab it all over the place. Jackie cannot be trusted with this kind of news. I can’t tell Claire, either. Oh God, no! That’s like walking around with a loaded pistol; she’ll be sure to fire that baby off the first chance she gets, with the best of intentions, naturally. I could tell Lara—
No. If Bobby says it’s a secret, it’s a secret. And I’m pretty darn good at keeping secrets.
Oh, but this is such a good secret! I mean, obviously I’m not the biggest aficionado of marriage, but if you believe you’ve really found “the One” and you both want to get married, all the power to you! I couldn’t be happier for Bobby and Robin!
I’m sure Robin will be over the moon when Bobby proposes. She’s never come right out and said she’s hoping he’ll propose, nor has she said a wedding is high up on her list. If baby number two is any indication, Robin isn’t exactly the traditional kind of girl. But I’ve caught her poring over Claire’s old wedding magazines; I’ve seen her eye Jackie’s wedding ring; I’ve seen her face light up when Claire regales us with stories of her honeymoon with Conner.
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 8
