It seemed like yesterday Conner and I were estimating a hundred-people-affair, and now this? Dear Lord!
“Tie or no tie?” Conner had already asked me twice. “Suit jacket or no suit jacket?” was the next question, also asked twice. Flustered, short on time to be ready for Sophie’s event, and still unsure of what to put together for my own semi-formal attire, I just told Conner, “Figure it out for yourself.” Seriously, must I hold his hand?
I know Conner and I are going to barely make it on time to Sophie’s big event; I’ve changed dresses at least four times, really cutting the time close. Now, as I’m standing before the mirror wearing what I really and truly thought was the final choice, I’m not so sure. My first inclination is to ask Conner what he thinks of my outfit, but I know what I’ll get in return, before his honest opinion. Figure it out for yourself, Claire.
So I turn to the left, then the right, craning my neck to best see how the tightly fitted dress looks from behind.
It’s a well-recycled dress from my college days. I know it’s ages old, and maybe it’s not that much in style anymore, but isn’t a solid black dress always a good choice? There’s no expiration on an off-the-shoulder, form-fitting, simple, black, shift dress. Is there?
I don’t think so. Besides, it still fits and contours my curves in all the right places. To spice up the outfit, though, I’ve slipped on a pair of aubergine pumps. They’re a knockoff of these awesome Kate Spades I saw in Cosmopolitan ages ago. The color complements my eye shadow very well, and I even found a nicely matching shade of nail polish on my way home from work the other day. So my nails aren’t all that glamorous. A little OPI-love can go a long way.
“Ready?” Conner asks. He tugs at the bottom of his slate suit jacket and gives a shuffling kick of his matching suit pants. “I say we look ready.”
I flash him a quick smile, grab my clutch, and turn out the bedroom lamp. “You still think I can pull this old dress off?”
“I think I’d like to pull this old dress off…of you.” He wraps me in for a kiss as I’m leaning back to turn off the rest of the house lights.
“I think you look rather dapper yourself,” I say. “Bye, Schnicker.” I give the dog a quick rub on the head and tell him we’ll be home later.
“Dapper, eh?” Conner says in a mock British accent. He purses his lips and flips up the white collar of his dress shirt. “Dapper, you say? Dapper, dapper. Like a chap, chapper.”
“Oh, you goofball,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Come on. Sophie will kill us if we’re late.”
“Dapper, dapper…” he sings, smacking my rear as we step out onto the porch and into the warm and refreshing night air.
***
Finding a parking space in the small lot of the café is a challenge, and only having a minute to spare before the event begins doesn’t help matters. When we finally find a parallel spot a long block away and work our way through quirky and bustling Capitol Hill, we reach The Cup and the Cake. It looks fantastic!
The place is jam-packed with friends and family and even some culinary reviewers. Everything looks perfect. It’s finished; it’s officially a dream come true! The paint job looks really spectacular. All of the bold colors coalesce together exquisitely, and the overhead lighting does a great job of showcasing just how vibrant the paint is. There’s enough subtle cream and light yellow to calm down the bold teal and pink…it looks like the work of a few pros. (Wink-wink.)
The large and lavish chandelier over the seating area not only lights up the room in various rays and stripes and streams of a golden glow, but it really does add that extra panache. It’s that extra touch of glam that is true to Sophie’s character, and that sets The Cup and the Cake apart from any humdrum café or bakery in Seattle—even apart from the more hip or vintage-style bakeries.
The Cup and the Cake has style, and it’s unique. It has class and charm and makes you feel kind of special. Makes you feel privileged or cheerful or just plain good when you step in, ready to order yourself a one-of-a-kind cupcake or treat, relish in the scent of the aromatic coffee beans, and pull open a book or chat with a best friend.
“It looks awesome!” I gush to Sophie the first chance I get. The place is so packed, sometimes you can barely turn around to shake someone’s hand, much less give one of your friends a hug.
“Thanks!” Sophie says. She’s glowing, looking fabulous in a grey pencil skirt, sleek cream blouse, and a silk, grey- and teal-striped scarf tied elegantly around her long, thin neck. The teal in the scarf is not only a close match to the teal paint on the walls, but it is the perfect accessory for the teal-tipped black high heels she bought when we were doing a little mid-afternoon shopping along Paris’s Avenue Montaigne.
“And the leading lady looks fantastic,” I say, running my eyes up and down Sophie to emphasize my approval. “Looking great!”
“Oh,” she says with a flick of the wrist. “I’m trying to incorporate more color into my wardrobe.”
“Well the little scarf is a fine touch.” I wink playfully. “Matches your shoes perfectly. Did you get that in Paris, by the way? I don’t remember you snagging that…”
Sophie fingers it and says, in a hushed voice, “A gift from Henri.”
“Henri?” I furrow my brow. “Henri? Who’s— Awww. As in one of the French hottie-hotties, Henri?”
Sophie’s smiling.
I lean in to her, never minding the tall gentleman who bumps into me from behind and scoots on past among the throng of grand opening attendees. “When?” My voice is as whispered as it can be in order to be heard over the noise of the party, but still at a level of suspicion.
“Last week,” Sophie says. She’s biting her bottom lip and is looking a little guilty, a little secretive, a little naughty, even.
“Sophie,” I say, “confess. What is going on?”
She flicks her wrist again. “Nothing. He just wanted to send me a little good luck gift.” She pauses. “For the café opening. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Sweet,” I say in a kidding tone. “All right…if men buying ‘just friends’ or ‘just friends who flirt’ sexy gifts like that is sweet…”
“It’s a scarf, Claire. Honestly.” Sophie briefly waves at someone from afar. “If things heat up you’ll be the first to know.”
Sophie waves to the stranger again, then gives my arm a squeeze and thanks me once more for coming. “Help yourself to whatever, girl. Make yourself at home.” She then trots off to greet one of her many guests.
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Lara says, striding up to me with a handsome, dark-haired man following behind, his hand in hers.
“Long time no see,” I squeal, enveloping Lara in a hug. “Congrats on the promotion, by the way! And who is this?” I motion to her companion, who I know without a doubt is Lara’s love interest, Nathan.
Sure enough, I’m right, and we exchange greetings. After a short bit of small talk, Nathan slips away to do another taste-test.
“So. What do you think?” Lara says, grabbing my hands tightly in hers. “Hot. Nice. Amazing. Right?” Lara is totally beaming.
“Totally,” I tell her. “Very handsome.”
While I personally like my sandy-blonde, blue-eyed, and olive-skinned Conner, I can totally see the allure of the tall, dark, and handsome type. Wide-chest, a firm handshake, a subtle but sweet smile, chocolate eyes, jet-black hair wetted back in only a very small dose of gel. Yup…Lara’s got herself a handsome man.
“And the best part is, he’s such a doll,” Lara says. She drops my hands and presses hers to her chest. “He’s so nice and gentle. Completely understanding of my crazy career. He’s just…wonderful.” Lara quickly changes gears. “Come on. You’ve got to try some of the cupcakes. Sophie said there are twenty-two types represented here tonight. And everyone has to cast their ballots for their favorite three.”
“Oooh, innovative,” I say.
I follow Lara to the front counter and take in a long breath of anticipation. Everythi
ng looks great—and not just the plethora of cupcakes and sweets and baked goods that will make my ass go boing. I’m talking about the cashier area, the refrigerator display, the countertop display, the sample platters, the antique cake stands with all sorts of yummies on top of them, the impressive, shiny, silver espresso machine, It’s all perfect.
“Here,” Lara says, handing me a miniature chocolate cupcake.
I take a bite of the moist cake and moan in pleasure. “Mmm. Devil’s food.”
“Devil’s food with a raspberry glacé,” Lara says. “Amazing, am I right?”
“Girls!” squeals a familiar voice. I pop the remaining cake into my mouth and lick the glacé residue from my fingers. I turn to a very sexily dressed Jackie.
“Look at you,” I say to her with a full mouth. She’s wearing a bright pink (and I mean bright pink) one-shouldered dress, with ruffles running along the shoulder, across the chest, and on down one side of the tightly fitted and short beauty. A definite limelight piece.
Jackie turns her back to Lara and me, waves into the crowd, then turns back around. “I actually got him to come out here.”
“Andrew?” Lara asks, puzzled.
“I know, tough to believe, huh?” Jackie says with a roll of the eyes.
Just then, Jackie’s silver fox of a husband greets us and gives firm handshakes to the both of us. It isn’t often that we see Jackie with Andrew, or Andrew at all, but I think it’s funny how we’re all serious and hand-shaky when we’ve clearly already met.
“Nice place, isn’t it?” I say, getting the small talk started with Andrew.
He nods his head slowly as he pulls on his drink—probably some mature man’s drink, like a scotch on the rocks. “It is nice,” he drawls.
“You girls want some drinks?” Jackie offers. “Sophie’s ordered a bartender for the event—even brought in some hors d'oeuvres!”
“Baby,” Andrew says to Jackie, bending slightly down to her five-foot level. He moves his nearly drained glass about, the ice cubes clinking. “If you’re headed back there, would you mind getting me another?”
Jackie takes the glass from him, tosses back the remaining liquid, and says, “Sure thing.” She makes her way, on her very high coal-black heels, to the bartender, whom I’ve yet to spot in the throng of people.
“So, I hear you and Jackie are taking off tomorrow?” Lara says to Andrew.
Andrew, pressing his lips together and rocking on his loafered heels, says, “Yup. I’ve been so swamped at the office, the little angel and I haven’t spent enough quality time together.”
“Where you going?” I ask.
“The Keys. Florida.”
“Wow. How romantic.”
Andrew gives a small shrug of the shoulders. “It’s only a three-day thing. Not much, but something for her. I hate seeing her all alone and lonely.”
Lara and I don’t say anything, and Andrew quickly evades the awkward moment by saying, “Of course she has her best friends. I really am happy she has you ladies. I just wish she…you know…wasn’t home alone so much.”
“Maybe you could work less,” I offer, in total honesty. I don’t mean to sound snarky. It’s the clear solution, isn’t it?
Lara and Andrew share a chuckling moment, so I add, “But that’s not an option, right?”
Jackie walks up at that moment, a martini in one hand and for Andrew a fresh drink in the other, which is carefully balanced along with another martini glass. She passes off the martinis to Lara and me.
“Too bad you can’t help break in the opening day tomorrow, Jack,” I say, taking a slog of my very strong martini. “Phew. You can have this one.” I smack my lips and hand the glass back to Jackie. “Thanks, but phew! That’s strong.”
Jackie takes a sip. “Mmm, just right.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and wince again at the potent aftertaste. Where’s a sweet blush or a spritzer when you need it?
“But the Keys are totally worth it,” Lara says.
“Trying to make my baby happy, that’s all,” Andrew says with a light grin. He pulls Jackie close and gives her a kiss on the top of her head.
Jackie smiles, gives a cute little shrug of her slender shoulders, and sips complacently on her drink.
After I’ve bitten into, oh…probably fifteen different cupcake samples (I’m determined to try all twenty-two, even if I, technically, already have over the years), I make my way to the front counter to fetch a new cup of coffee. The grand opening, complete with a welcome and thank you speech from Sophie and a toast to success for years to come led by Sophie’s father, is approaching its third hour, and the place is still just as packed as it was upon arrival. The sweets and drinks and hors d'oeuvres are being consumed left and right, and they keep reappearing just as quickly. There’s a lot of loud conversation, and soft jazz tunes are lilting through the sound system.
Bobby, Robin, and Rose have already left for the night. A sleeping baby on Bobby’s shoulder and an exhausted Robin were more than enough reason to call it a night.
Conner is getting along well with a group of guys over in the corner. They’re laughing and chatting over bottle after bottle of Heineken—enjoying themselves nonetheless.
Jackie had pled for Andrew to stay “just a tiny bit longer,” but he said that if they were to make their early morning flight, they needed to head home. Jackie even did a childish whining and foot-stamping protest. In the end, Jackie got her way, but had to promise Andrew that she wouldn’t be home past three—period. Then Andrew drove off in his fancy Mercedes, right as Jackie ordered another martini for herself.
I, myself, am starting to feel tired, but I’m hoping for a second wind, hence the coffee refill. With such a happening party, I can’t retire at shortly after ten o’clock! I thank the barista for the refill and begin to make small talk with him.
“I’m Oliver,” says the handsome middle-aged man behind the counter. He has hazelnut hair and grey eyes. He extends a hand to me, and I oblige. “Pleasure to meet you, Claire. You must be the ‘Claire, Sophie’s Best Friend.’”
I pick up on his thick French accent in a flash and say, “Why yes, that’s me. And you’re…” No. He can’t be one of Sophie’s French hotties. That can’t be it! No—the scarf-giver is—oh…what’s his name? Pierre? Pete? Harold? Henri! That’s it! But this is Oliver…
“I worked with Sophie,” Oliver informs me. “I’m the head cake designer at Katie’s Kitchen.”
I make an ah-ha motion, tilting my head back.
“I am complete in support of Sophie finally getting up…doing this…” Oliver gestures around the room. “…This magnifique dream of hers. So happy for her. So happy she finally got up and did it.”
“You and me both,” I say.
I blow on the coffee, a small formation of rings skirting to the edge of the antique pink teacup. I was there with Sophie when she was trying to decide on dishes and serving ware. She wanted to either go with an IKEA-ish look—a very sleek and simple, straightforward kind of thing. Her other option was the total opposite. Given the rose pattern on my teacup and its mismatched gold-filigree saucer, she went for the frills option, and I love it. Like the chandelier, the dishes give that extra bit of special charm that is unique to The Cup and the Cake; and if I know Sophie and her drive, it will eventually become iconic of The Cup and the Cake.
“So,” I say in the midst of my chitchat with Oliver, “you’re from France, I take it?”
“Oui Oui,” Oliver says, rapidly turning a knob on the heavy-duty espresso machine. A stream of spray shoots out loudly. “I come from Saint-Chamond, a city in the Loire.” He cranks the knob again, the sound ceasing, and wipes the steaming wand with a cloth. “Studied in Paris. Moved to Seattle. Here I am now, helping out Sophie. Such a fantastic opening, is it not?”
Oliver tosses the cloth aside and leans his weight on one arm against the countertop. I take note of the subtle, small yellow tiles that cover the counters. There’s a soft gold or spark
ly sheen to them, and the grout that Robin paired with them couldn’t be more ideal.
“Fantastic, for sure,” I say. “From Paris to Seattle.” I sigh, and Oliver nods his head. “What’s next?”
I’ve read somewhere that Europeans, specifically the French, think it odd to chat about what one does for a living or where one might see themselves, career-wise, in the future. Something about how it’s too personal during the initial meet-and-greet, and how it’s so prying and so…well, not really interesting, I suppose. I read that they’d much rather chat about the small town where you were raised, what book you’ve read recently, what rare finds you picked up at the outdoor market yesterday, a good cheese you’ve tasted—that kind of stuff.
But, I come from a small town in Oregon, and I know it has only a fraction of the appeal that I’m sure any French town has, small or otherwise. As for reading, I haven’t had much time to pick up anything other than bridal magazines, and, as the lead wedding cake designer, I’m sure Oliver knows all about what latest trend is buzzing in the wedding industry. Although, I did drop by Pike Place Market the other day, and while I didn’t buy any cheese, I did pick up a beautiful bouquet of wild flowers.
When Oliver begins to tell me of his plans, that he’s rather clueless about what will be next in his culinary career, I figure he’s Americanized enough to roll with the round of small talk that’s common among strangers over here.
“You think you’ll ever move back home?” I ask. I sip on my coffee, leaning in to the countertop comfortably.
“No,” Oliver says adamantly. “Seattle is home. Maybe not forever home, but no. No, I don’t see myself returning to home in France.”
“You have any family here?” I ask. Oliver shakes his head. “Wife?” I like the sound of the word, since it will soon have some personal meaning for me.
Oliver shakes his head and softly laughs. “No, no,” he says. “I had a boyfriend.” I nod slowly, and Oliver says, “Now I’m…what do you Américains call… Ahh, yes…on a prowl? In the hunt?” I smile. “No, no,” he says. “It’s prowl.”
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 20
