B (I agree, BM is terrible)
I chew thoughtfully on the last bite of hot dog. The question at the end encourages further conversation, and while he seems smart and funny, I’m not really sure if I should be continuing the more personal connection with this stranger. I slowly eat the second hot dog, breaking off a piece for Snatch, who wolfs it down noisily. I open the bag of Cheetos and eat a fistful. But what could be so bad about a little innocent connection? After all, he doesn’t know who I am either.
B—
Actually? That does make me feel better. Thank you.
Not really sure what you mean about things I do well, but if I had to list a few, I’m pretty good at being generally klutzy, eating hot dogs, watching old black and white movies, napping, and I make a killer pie crust.
WG
I suddenly feel like my bladder is going to explode. I get off the bed and head for the bathroom, where I pee for what feels like an eternity. It is shocking. I wash my hands and find that the mascara I so deftly applied earlier today is halfway down my face. I pull a makeup-remover sheet out of the drawer and get the raccoon look off, and then follow it with a really hot washcloth and some night cream. Heading back to the bedroom, I’m confronted with an odd sight. Snatch is standing in the doorway, and his entire head is orange.
“What the . . . ?”
I lean down, the dog gives a massive sneeze, and his whole head explodes in an orange poof. “Damn dog.” I can see the empty bag of Cheetos on the floor behind him. He goes running out of the room, and I chase him all over the house as he leaves little orange smears on the rugs and doorjambs. Luckily for me, the fat little beast isn’t terribly fast, so I catch him and throw him out into the backyard. If he’s going to be any kind of sick, he can do it out there. I go back inside, grab a damp rag from the kitchen, and retrace our steps, getting orange dust off all the Cheetos-dirtied surfaces I can spot. I wish I could say that I’m more pissed off at the mess I have to clean up than at the fact that he ate all my Cheetos, but that would be a lie.
I head back upstairs to wallow in Swedish Fish, and find that my email has pinged again.
WG—
That is quite the list of skills. What is your secret?
B
B—
Most of them come naturally, but the secret to the piecrust is lard and vodka.
WG
WG—
Lard I get, does the vodka make you loose so you don’t overwork your dough?
B
B—
The vodka replaces some of the water because when the alcohol evaporates it makes the crust flaky. But I suppose I could try putting some in me as well as the dough.
WG
WG—
Pie and martinis sound good.
B
B—
Martinis are made with gin, silly boy. I know because I’m pretty good at those too. Altho, looking back at this thread, I may be sounding a little bit lushy which I am not.
WG
WG—
Not sounding lushy at all. Must be all those black and white movies, aren’t they full of martinis? I have to confess, I am something of a Technicolor guy myself.
B
B—
That breaks my heart. Black and white is where it’s at.
WG
WG—
Well, maybe I’ve just seen the wrong ones. You’ll have to give me some suggestions.
B
I stuff a handful of fish into my mouth and chew, wondering if there is any way to mimic the flavor of a Swedish Fish. I can’t break down the elements to save my life. But they are delicious.
B—
I’d start with The Thin Man, His Girl Friday, Out of the Past, and The Women and let me know how you fare.
WG
WG—
I will. Stay tuned. And have a good night.
B
I look at the screen and am suddenly both sad that he is clearly cutting things off for the night and relieved it didn’t devolve into a suggestion of a hookup or anything remotely unchaste. I’ve heard all sorts of nightmare stories from the people at S&S about what seemed to be an easy connection from online that all of a sudden went sexual at a staggering pace. One of the waitresses said that she was connecting with someone off an alumni page from her college and it went from “Remember the cheeseburgers at Bruno’s?” to “Here is a picture of my erect penis” in fewer than three emails. No thank you.
But then, there is that tiny little part of me that wonders, what happens if he does actually watch the movies? And likes them? What comes next?
I look down at the half-empty bag of fish. What comes next for sure is that I’m going to finish these fish downstairs in front of the TV. If Snatch is done polluting the backyard with his post-Cheetos-debacle effects, I’ll let him come snuggle with me so that he knows he is forgiven.
Third Finger, Left Hand
(1940)
You’re even beginning to sound like a wife.
• MELVYN DOUGLAS AS JEFF THOMPSON •
By the time I get home from the bakery, I fall like a lump on the bed. I’m exhausted; my lower back is in spasm; my feet are throbbing. Ever since Herman and I officially started our charm offensive, I’ve been reminded that one should be careful what they wish for. Between learning the ins and outs of social media business marketing on the fly, testing new recipes, freshening up the space in the evenings after closing, and gearing up for the official “relaunch” two weekends from now, I’m cashed mentally and physically.
The plan is somewhat simple on its surface. We are rebranding ourselves as a retro neighborhood bakery, with a fresh coat of paint and new offerings that will take you back to your childhood. I’ve been developing killer updated versions of things like Black Forest cake, now with bittersweet devil’s food cake, a dried-cherry conserve, and whipped vanilla crème fraîche. I’ve perfected a new carrot cake, adding candied chunks of parsnips and rum-soaked golden raisins to the cake and mascarpone to the frosting. And my cheeky take on homemade Pop-Tarts will be available in three flavors—blueberry, strawberry, and peanut butter and jelly—and I’ve even ordered fun little silver Mylar bags to pack them in. The hope is that by tapping into everyone’s nostalgia buttons, we will be able to offer things with a personal touch that Cake Goddess can’t match.
My pitch to Herman was that we couldn’t beat her at her own game, but she can’t beat us at ours either. So instead of trying to do what she does, we just have to do what we do at a higher level. We won’t offer as many items; rather we’ll have a standard set of things that can be counted on year-round, with one specialty item that is seasonal or new available every day, and several new items on weekends. I’ve got a Facebook page and a Twitter account and an Instagram up and running, and have been up till all hours friending and following and liking and commenting on any other site I can find, encouraging people to follow us back. Amelia is working on a basic website for us, which should go live in time for the relaunch. Slowly but surely, I’m building a presence for us, but it always freaks me out when a note pops up that some chef I know in town is now “following.” I have to remind myself that I’ve diligently kept my name out of everything. I told Herman that he had to be the face of the business, and even though he insists that I’m his partner in this and says he wants me to get credit, I’ve convinced him that for the premise to work, it has to be his smile that people associate with the bakery.
Every day we’ll post a series of three clues on our various outlets hinting at what the special item of the day is; first person to guess will win a freebie. And while we have upped the flavor game on the event cakes, we aren’t going to try and mimic the level of over-the-top customization Cake Goddess does. Instead we now have a solid set of old-school decoration options for kids’ birthday cakes: basic trains, teddy bears, princesses, and
other simple themes, none of which use famous or registered characters.
Bubbles is chipping in, making the rounds of the little old ladies in the neighborhood, ensuring that they don’t feel pushed out. The feedback is that they’re happy so long as we still have rye bread and at least a couple of flavors of rugelach, and challah on Fridays; they are surprisingly unsentimental about a lot of the other things we thought we would have to keep stocked every day. Any nonseasonal item we have ever carried will be available by special order with twenty-four hours’ notice, so if they know the kids are coming to visit, they can preorder the old favorites. Other than that, Bubbles says they are all very excited for the changes, can’t wait to taste the new items, and most of them have invited their kids and grandkids to come to the party.
We’re planning a two-day summer open house to coincide with the annual neighborhood street fair. We’ll have giveaways and balloons for the kids, and specialty home-baked dog biscuits for the endless French bulldogs and Boston terriers that have invaded along with the hipsters. I’ve put out calls to every party planner and event manager in the city, from the big hotels to the small restaurants to the independent organizers, always announcing myself simply as Herman Langer’s assistant. No one yet has asked for my name, and so far no one has recognized my voice, despite the fact that several of the folks I’ve contacted are people I worked closely with dozens of times over my tenure at S&S. I’ve offered special discounts on orders for things like party favors, and a “frequent fliers” program for specialty-event cakes—send ten clients and you get a free cake for either your own personal use or a charitable event of your choosing. So far the response has been great, and one of my favorite event-planning companies, SineQuaNon, has already booked us for wedding favors for two upcoming parties: One couple will be handing out huge black-and-white cookies as their guests depart, and another will be giving out mini loaves of banana bread with chocolate chips.
I can feel my eyes begin to close, so I drag my ass off the bed and towards the bathroom. I run the water in the shower as hot as I can stand it, strip off my batter-spattered T-shirt and jeans, and get in, letting the stinging needles of water work on my back. I can feel my shoulder blades begin to unclench a little bit, and I let the water soak my hair. I grab a fistful of shampoo, begin to lather my mane, and discover an earplug buried deep inside my curls. I wonder exactly how long it’s been in there, since I haven’t washed my hair in about three days. By the time I finish, I’m feeling somewhat more energized, and dress quickly so that I can get downstairs to help Bubbles. I’m slipping on my shoes when I spot my laptop.
I have fifty-seven new messages.
Fifty-seven.
That seems odd. I open my inbox and begin to scroll through. One is from Ruth, confirming our girls’ date with Jean and Hanna for Thursday night. It is our official version of “meet the parents” for the new couple, and Ruth has been practicing squelching her impulses to be dismissive. One is from Jean, asking me to jump in if Ruth gets too “Ruth-y” at our girls’ dinner.
Fifty-five of them are from WeddingGirl.com. Must be a glitch in the system; so far the most I’ve gotten in a given week is eleven, so fifty-five of them in one day probably means that they are fifty-five copies of the same email. I just hope it didn’t also charge the person fifty-five times for one question.
I start to scroll through.
They are not the same. They are all from different people. And the first few I scan all start the same way: “I saw your ad on YourPerfectWedding.com.”
I type the address into my browser. The top banner indicates that it is the number one wedding website, recommended by Oprah and Martha Stewart, and has been featured on Today, Good Morning America, and CBS News Sunday Morning. And in the top right corner, there is an ad.
WeddingGirl.com. Fast answers for any wedding dilemma. Don’t have budget for a wedding planner? Never fear, Wedding Girl is here. No question too big or too small. Click here for more info.
The image is a picture of Amelia’s wedding cake.
I pick up my phone.
“Hey there!” Her bright voice makes me smile.
“Hi. Um, did you place an ad for me on some wedding website?”
She laughs. “Yep. Are you seeing some traffic?”
“I have fifty-five emails.”
“That’s fantastic! They hired me to do a website revamp, and I always put in my contract that I get one of the top ad spaces to plug in an ad for one of my other clients. It’s a quid pro quo thing; they know if I put another client’s ad on their site, they will get one on another site, so they don’t mind losing the ad revenue. Figured you were the most relevant choice!”
“You are amazing. But you could have warned me. How on earth am I going to manage this many emails?” I look down at my laptop. “Two more have come in just while I’ve been talking to you!”
“Deep breath. Don’t forget; you can decline anything you don’t want to answer. And I bet a lot of them will be redundant questions. Just copy your answers to basic questions and save them in a Word doc; you’ll build up a bunch of standard answers that you can cut and paste to streamline things.”
“Wouldn’t people find out I’m just using a bunch of standard answers and not giving them ideas that are original?”
“This is the Pinterest generation. Find something you like online that someone paid a professional wedding planner thousands of dollars to come up with, and steal it wholesale. ‘Original’ essentially means mimicking what someone else has already done. Have you seen the movies lately? Remake city. No one cares. Besides, for only $4.99, they can’t expect every answer to be handcrafted for them.”
“Okay. That sounds sort of manageable. If I weren’t ass-deep in the bakery relaunch.”
“Sleep is for the dead, kiddo. Besides, that is nearly three hundred smackers sitting in your inbox in one day. That is a potential extra twenty-one hundred a week for the debt collectors. And so much easier than stripping. No glitter in your nooks and crannies.”
“Thanks for that visual.”
“Relax. I changed your site so that it says emails will be addressed in the order received, and may take up to ten business days for a response. I also added an ‘emergency’ feature so that if they want an answer within twenty-four hours, the price is $9.99. Emergency emails will show up in your inbox with a red exclamation point in the subject line.”
I can hear Bubbles start to set the table.
“Okay, I have to go; my parents are coming for dinner, and if I don’t get downstairs, my grandmother is going to have a fit. Thank you, I think.” I look down. Another email has arrived.
“Have fun!” she says. “And thanks for introducing me to Ruth and Jean last week; it was totally fun. I’m going to plan another one soon for all of us! Talk later.”
I think about Wedding Girl. So far the answers seem to take about three to five minutes max to come up with. That means I should be able to write about twelve to twenty of them an hour. So my inbox is about four hours’ worth of work. That’s seventy-five dollars an hour. More than I’ve ever made for anything in my life. And suddenly, I’m not so tired after all. If I can fit in solid hours on my days off and in the evenings, I could make some serious money. Enough to really make a dent in the credit cards for the first time since the non-wedding. Enough that if things go south fast post–Cake Goddess’s arrival and I haven’t found something else, I could keep up with my minimum payments.
There is a little spring in my step as I head downstairs.
“Mom, that was truly perfect. Thank you,” my mom says, bringing plates into the kitchen after dinner. I’m manning the sink while Bubbles packs up leftovers into plastic deli containers—one set for us, one for my parents to take home.
“Indeed it was,” my dad says morosely as he brings in the salmon platter and hands it off to Bubbles. He’s pouting. Dinner, while delicious, was
also light and healthy. Poached salmon, steamed green beans and new potatoes, salad. My mom, ever concerned about his health and cholesterol, has been making him eat “clean” at home, so he really relies on Bubbles and me to provide the stuff he loves. But it was too hot for the heavy, fatty dishes he tends to crave. He’s going to have to get over it.
“My pleasure. Now both of you scoot; not enough room in here. We’ll meet you in the living room for dessert in six minutes.” She waves her hands at them, and they wink at me and follow instructions. One thing about Bubbles: She knows timing. Precisely six minutes later, with the first load of dishes running in her ancient dishwasher, we head for the living room, Bubbles carrying the bowl of sweetened sour cream, and me carrying a deeply purple red and glistening summer pudding that thankfully departed its mold with a squelching sound and no drama. Just macerated berries and buttered bread, it is sort of a magical dessert.
I cut thick wedges for everyone, Bubbles generously dollops cream on them, and the four of us tuck into the moist, delicious pudding, which tastes like pure summer.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Sophie,” my dad mumbles around a mouthful, getting a little of his sparkle back.
“So good, honey; really delicious.” My mom licks cream off the back of her fork with nearly lascivious delight.
“So,” my dad says, handing his plate to Bubbles for a second slice, “we have some news.” He grins over at my mother, who I swear actually blushes.
“Did you sell the house?” Bubbles asks, since my folks had filled her in on the possibility last week. She hands him another slice, this one even larger than his first, making my mother sigh audibly to announce her displeasure as she waves Bubbles off virtuously, patting her stomach in the universal “I’m just too full for seconds” signal. I’ve decided to just embrace the current acreage of my person and not feel bad about the weight gain. I went to Nordstrom Rack and bought some new clothes that fit me properly, and told the universe that if a size eighteen/twenty is the new me, so be it. There is not a thing wrong with me, and while I can absolutely be embarrassed about the way I lost my job, or the stupid wedding debt, or even that I lost my home and have to live with my grandmother, I refuse to be one of those girls who is shamed by the size of her ass. Whatever. Life is too short, and cake is delicious, and there is nothing wrong with taking up some space in the world. I hand my plate to Bubbles, who winks at me and slices us each a lovely second helping.
Wedding Girl Page 15
