“All I did was try to help your dad make more money!”
“Did you? Or did you try and change things to your own taste and sensibility?”
This makes my blood begin to boil. The unmitigated gall of this pompous, self-important poopweasel. “Look, Junior, I didn’t come in here begging for a job; I came in for rye bread. And your dad put on a full-court press to get me to accept his offer. I told him not to take the sign down!” I gesture towards the front, where the faded, dusty “Part-Time Baker Wanted” sign still sits on a shelf. “I told him that I would be temporary and part-time till either he or I found something permanent. So don’t get all up in my grill about what a terrible person I am and how I screwed everything up around here. You might want your dad to sell and move and go live in some retirement community for your own convenience, but I’m pretty sure he is a grown-ass man and can make his own decisions about his life and livelihood. And while he might be slowing down a bit, his mind is sharp as a tack from what I’ve seen, so if that mind has weighed his options and wants to stay here? Then I do consider it both my business and my job to help him make it as lucrative as I possibly can.”
“Thank you, darling girl.” I hadn’t heard Herman come back into the room, so intent was I on putting Mark in his place.
“I’m sorry, Herman. I . . .”
“Shush. Don’t ever be sorry for speaking your mind or defending someone you think needs it. I am deeply grateful for both the sentiment and that you have the courage to express it.” He takes my hand and kisses it before patting it solidly with his own; when he gives it a tight squeeze, he doesn’t let go. “Junior? I love you, my son. I know your heart is in the right place, and you want what you believe is best for me, and so I am willing to listen to whatever crap you care to sling in my direction. But you may not harass my partner here. Ever. Clear?” His voice is low and steady, and sends a very distinct message.
“I give up.” Mark throws his hands in the air. “And, Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Something’s burning . . .”
I run to the oven and retrieve the two enormous pans of charred cake, tears prickling at my eyes at the stupidity of not setting a damned timer, as Herman escorts Mark back out to the front.
“So, now that we have announced our crazy idea to Mark, what next?” Herman says, bringing me a steaming mug of tea.
“I dunno, Herman. I don’t like the tone he used or the way he said what he said, but Mar . . . Herman Jr. isn’t exactly wrong. He said the Cake Goddess has only six months before she opens her doors over there.” I wave in the direction of the future site of our downfall.
“Six months.”
“If we’re lucky.”
“Six months to become indispensable. Will you give me six months? If I shift you up to full time, can you promise me that you’ll stay the full six months to see what we can do together, to see if we can save ourselves? I know it is a lot, I know this isn’t where you want to end up, but I can’t move forward without you.” His blue eyes are extra-shiny, not quite welling up with tears but full of both determination and worry.
I look him right in the eye and, with my whole heart, say, “You got me.”
He smiles and nods. “We are going to need a plan.”
“Yeah.”
“And some new offerings.”
“That too.”
“I’m too old. I don’t know what to do or how to do it. When all the cakes changed and everyone stopped coming, I just didn’t know how to shift gears, how to bounce back. But you will know. Do you think you can do it? Do you think you can come up with a plan?”
“I can certainly try.”
“Okay. Do this. Redo your burnt cakes. And then go home. And take tomorrow off. I can handle the challahs. Come back Saturday, and after we close, we’ll have dinner upstairs, talk about the plan. And bring your grandmother. She’s a very smart lady; I will want to hear her thoughts about the plan as it relates to the old neighborhood regulars. Whatever we do, I don’t want to leave them out in the cold.”
“Okay. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You let us bring the dinner.”
Herman laughs. “Deal.”
“You do know he’s right, don’t you?” Ruth says, smacking Jean’s hand when she tries to steal one of her fries. Jean pulls her hand back and returns to moving her spinach salad around on her plate, looking wistfully at Ruth’s burger and my grilled cheese. We were having wine at Jean’s and got hungry, so we walked up the block to Four Moon Tavern for some pub grub.
I narrow my eyes at Ruth, pick the largest onion ring off my plate, and hand it to Jean.
“Right in what way exactly?” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Mark/Herman Jr. All I ever thought about while working at Langer’s was making some money, feeling productive and useful, and waiting for the dust to clear so that I could get a decent job and move on with my life. But the fact that I even think about looking for a “decent job” does sort of weirdly imply that I think my current job isn’t decent. I don’t like that Mark was so certain my departure is inevitable, despite the open-ended nature of my agreement with Herman. I hate to think of anything that would be bad for Herman. I certainly didn’t know about any heart condition, and that really worries me. Which doesn’t mean I’m not fully prepared to be irrationally defensive about the whole thing. Especially because I’m so in my head about it that I’ve now remade the devil’s food cake layers twice more, having forgotten the cornstarch in the second batch, so it sank in the middle. And while the vanilla layers came out perfectly the first time, so far the buttercream has broken on me twice, because the spinning mixer blade gets me all hypnotized and thinking about Herman and Mark, and I lose concentration. I’m committed to going back to the bakery tonight after dinner to get a batch done right, so that I can assemble and crumb-coat the tiers and get started tomorrow on decoration.
“In the way of not being wrong. Don’t play dumb-ass; I hate that shit,” Ruth says.
“Don’t be mean, Ruthie,” Jean says. “It’s a difficult situation.”
“No, it isn’t. It is a simple situation. Our darling girl over here has to decide what it is she truly wants. If she wants to turn Langer’s into an amazing retro destination neighborhood bakery, as they seem to be planning, then she should embrace that and own her part in it. Or she should decide definitively that Langer’s is just a placeholder for her, in which case, Marky Mark is absolutely right: She needs to stop meddling, put her head down and be a good little employee, and handle her eventual exit with grace and integrity. And, Jean, for the love of god, either eat the damn salad and ask the girl out, or order the sloppy joes you actually want and find someone less scrawny to obsess over.” Jean is still pining for Yoga Actress, who has landed solidly somewhere in the “affectionate friend” zone, but trying to maintain the healthier lifestyle she adopted as part of her wooing process has made Jean so morose that she has lost her oomph for taking things to the next level.
“It isn’t as easy as all that, Ruth. You might be interested to know that Jean and I don’t necessarily live in your black-and-white world of numbers that add up or don’t. You might give us both a little bit of support for the stuff that falls into the gray areas.”
“Thank you,” Jean says, reaching over to my plate and taking another onion ring.
“Don’t push it, lady; order some of your own if you want more,” I say, winking at her. “Look, Ruth, I get where you are coming from; I get where Mark is coming from. I’m just saying that I don’t know whether I’m actually ready to be sure about the situation yet, and I don’t want to make a mistake, for me or for Herman. But I do know that in the short term, I’m not going to feel bad about making him more money. Because until I hear from Herman that his goal is to sell and leave, and that it isn’t just what Mark wants, then I don’t see harm in his b
usiness improving. How do I know what Mark’s motivations are? Maybe he just wants his dad in a facility so that he doesn’t have the inconvenience of having to check in all the time, or schlepping to the old neighborhood to visit.”
“Which is both possible and none of your business,” Ruth says, taking a small handful of her fries and putting them on Jean’s plate by way of peace offering.
“It’s—”
“None. Of. Your. Business.” Ruth shakes her head at me. “He is a nice old man who is not related to you by blood or choice; he is your boss, and not your responsibility, and his relationship with his son or his son’s motivations are not your concern. If no one is doing anything that should be reported to the police, keep your pert little nose out of it, Soph, seriously. Figure your own shit out and act accordingly.”
“While I may disagree with the tone, I do agree with that part of the message. He’s a dear old thing, but Ruthie is right; you have to keep things separate. Decide what you want and need, but don’t try to meddle, especially between a parent and a child; it is too complicated.” Jean’s dad died when she was little, and her mom has Alzheimer’s and is in assisted living near Jean’s sister in the burbs.
This is the moment I decide that I am never going to tell them about WeddingGirl.com. If they think that adding some stuff to the menu at the bakery is meddling, god knows how they would react to my giving advice to strangers on the Internet, and for money no less.
“Fine,” I say. “I get it; duly noted. I will keep you posted.” I wave the waiter over. “We are going to need a basket of chicken tenders with both ranch and BBQ sauce, and a basket of the sweet potato fries.” I stick my tongue out at Ruth and smile at Jean. What’s the old saying? “Never trust a skinny chef”? I’m embracing all of my trustworthiness.
Ruth shakes her head. “And another round of drinks. Go big or go home, ladies.”
“And you can take this,” Jean says with a grin, handing him her half-finished salad with a flourish. And he leaves the three of us laughing.
Love Crazy
(1941)
WILLIAM POWELL AS STEVE IRELAND: She’s married now—got a husband.
MYRNA LOY AS SUSAN IRELAND: Yeah? Whose husband has she got?
I reach up and remove my earplugs. The low thumping that woke me is now clarified as a consistent banging, which only means one thing. Bubbles is down there whaling away on chicken breasts with a cast-iron skillet. My parents are coming for dinner, and she has gotten it into her head to make chicken Kiev, which was my dad’s favorite growing up. So much for sleeping in on my day off. I’m supposed to meet the girls for lunch today but had really hoped to just stay in bed until I need to get dressed. Bubbles got home late last night from a play at Writers Theatre; we made some honey-ginger tea, retreated to the den, and discovered that Gone with the Wind was just starting on TCM, and that settled things. Bubbles, trooper that she is, made it almost to intermission before dropping off, and when the music woke her, she headed off to bed with Snatch clicking sleepily at her heels. But I couldn’t follow suit, so I was up till three finishing the movie. I was amped up anyway. Amelia had emailed me to tell me that not only had the cake looked spectacular, but it had been the most delicious wedding cake anyone had ever had. The surprise apparently went off without a hitch, thanks to my other advice. Ever since they got back from their five-day mini-moon in Austin, they have been inundated with people telling them that it was the best wedding they had ever been to. And all the parents loved the whole thing and weren’t mad in the least. More importantly, everyone raved about the cake. I didn’t tell her it took me three full tries on almost every aspect to get it right; all I cared about was that it was what they wanted and it made everyone happy. Amelia and I have plans for a girls’ night next week to introduce her to Ruth and Jean, and I’m strangely excited that she seems to be becoming an actual friend.
Bubbles is still thwacking away down there, so I get up and stretch a bit. I check my phone. It is nine thirty, so at least I’m up at something of a rational hour, despite my long night. I might as well get dressed and go help her. The phone also tells me I have an email from the website, so I log in to my laptop.
Wedding Girl—
Not sure if you can help. My boss is having something of a best man problem, and has asked for my help, but I don’t have the foggiest idea how to deal with it. A girl in my book club mentioned your service, so I thought I would reach out on his behalf. I don’t know if you handle this sort of thing, but if you do, I would like to suggest to him that he get in touch with you for assistance? I think he needs to plan a bachelor party and isn’t feeling terribly confident about how to go about it. If you think you can help, let me know and I will have him reach out.
Thanks much.
Why not?
I’d be happy to hear from him, and hopefully help him out. Feel free to send him to the site and have him get in touch. And be sure to charge the fee for this first email to him!
Best,
Wedding Girl
I head off to the shower, retrieving only two lost earplugs, which means that for the few hours I was asleep, I was really dead. I get my hair up into its traditional messy bun, remember to slap on some moisturizer, and pull on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt from the Police reunion tour. I’m just getting ready to head downstairs to help Bubbles when I spot a new email on my still-open laptop.
Wedding Girl—
Well there is a first time for everything, if you had told me this morning I would be writing into a website like yours I would have bet against it. But I have something of a social conundrum, and really have neither time nor inclination to put too much effort into figuring it out on my own. My assistant assures me that you may be of help, so I am contacting you. A friend from high school recently became engaged. He has asked me to be his Best Man, and I have, of course, accepted, but now I have a bachelor party to plan, and as it turns out, the bride-to-be has five brothers of the overgrown frat boy variety. My pal and I, and our circle of friends, think the best kind of bachelor party involves steaks, martinis, good cigars, maybe some old single malt at the end of the night. They believe in more of a porno keg party with strippers/hookers. I’ve prepared myself to pay for the entire event so that I don’t have to worry about making choices for the evening that are financially based, since her brothers can’t afford the places I would like to go, but I’m also worried about setting up an evening where there are two groups of people having separate experiences. I’m not sure how to handle the whole thing. If I plan the party I want and that I think my friend would want, it is likely to alienate his new brothers-in-law. If I give in to what they want, it will probably devolve into some debauched drunken event that will make our side of the group very uncomfortable. Not at all sure how to handle creating an event that will bring the two groups together.
Thoughts?
Best Man
It is my first email from a guy, albeit obviously a very reluctant one, which seems weirdly significant. The past week I’ve been getting one or two a day, so still not enough to have me rolling in dough, but steady enough that I’m hoping it might at least support the little social life I currently have. Every bit helps. I accept the question and type a quick reply.
Dear Best Man—
I’m happy to try and help. Where is this event taking place?
Wedding Girl
I scan through the rest of my emails, mostly junk. I get endless spam, the majority a result of all the research I did for my wedding. Every wedding-related solicitation you can imagine. I used to diligently unsubscribe, but now with WeddingGirl.com, I just file them away in case I need them for inspiration. While I work on this, I get another email.
Wedding Girl—
The event is in Chicago.
Best Man
Easy.
Dear Best Man—
Perfect, I’m a Chicago girl myself, so this should be a
slam dunk. I feel like the key to bringing together two groups is to avoid all the situations that would appear antagonistic to either side, and look to find something that everyone would have in common. If you are steak and martinis and cigars, and they are beer and wings and boobs, then I would just avoid all of those entirely.
Since you clearly are in a position to be generous, have you thought about something that is more of an event instead of just a meal? Schedule the party on a night when there is a Cubs game at Wrigley and get a private suite. They have a pretty good catering program there, and even fancy guys appreciate the nostalgia lowbrow grub at a game, so you can have a combination of hot dogs and burgers, but also some nicer foods, and you can order the high-end booze package so that the beer is better quality and there are cocktails for those who want them. They also do special upgraded packages that can include tours or access to batting practice.
If that is beyond what you were thinking, budget wise, let me know and I will see what else I can come up with.
Wedding Girl
I head downstairs to see Bubbles at the kitchen counter, cast-iron skillet over her head.
“Good morning, shayna punim! Did I wake you with the banging?”
“You know you did. But it’s fine. I should have been up anyway.” I kiss her cheek before she brings the skillet down with a definitive whap on the chicken breast.
“You finished the movie, didn’t you?” Smack.
“You know I did.”
“That Scarlett, you have to love her despite herself.” Smack.
“That you do. How can I help?”
“Did you want to make the butter filling for me? Butter is already soft.” Smack.
“Of course. Chives and shallots?”
Wedding Girl Page 13
