Wedding Girl

by Stacey Ballis

  Mark takes a huge bite of the cake and rolls his eyes in delight. “This is amazing; you have to try it.” He pushes the plate towards me. I hesitate, but the fact is, with me, hunger wins over everything. I pick up my teaspoon and take a small bite, and am transported. The cake is nutty and moist, the cream with the barest hint of rum, the dark chocolate ganache smooth and silky with just enough bitterness, the apricot bringing that perfect amount of tart brightness, cutting through the rich flavors, and making the whole thing sing in the mouth. It is perfectly balanced and absolutely amazing, and I’m mentally making notes to see if I can replicate it.

  “It’s terrific, right?” Mark says, sliding the plate so that it is dead center in the table, the universal sign for sharing. I start to move it back towards him, and he stops me. “Please, you have to help me. This morning’s run won’t make a dent if I eat the whole thing myself. Ditto the wines.”

  I want so badly to be strong, to say no, but I have no pride. Not when faced with temptation like this. I take another bite. And a sip of the first wine.

  “Well,” Mark says, licking the back of his fork. “Looks like your fellow has definitively failed the first test. Is he off the list?”

  I take a sip of the second wine. “Not off, necessarily; just no longer anywhere near the top.”

  “You’ve got hard standards.” Mark sips the third wine.

  “I’ve got standards, full stop. You know the old saying: ‘It’s gonna take one heck of a man to beat no man at all!’”

  “Poor fellow, he has quite an uphill battle ahead of him.”

  I try the third wine. “If he’s deserving, he’ll have plenty of stamina for that climb. But enough about my no-show non-date. He’s barely worth offhand mention, let alone an analysis of his viability. What brings you here solo on a night like this?”

  Mark looks a little pained. “I live next door.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. At least when I’m in town. They sent a note to all the residents of the building about the wine tasting; sounded sort of interesting. Plus I figure it’s good karma. Son of a baker and all. Figured it might also be a bit of good networking; if I met anyone, I could mention the events this weekend.”

  “Hmm. Very Jewdhist of you. Shockingly supportive as well. So you came on a mission of goodwill, spotted me happily immersed in my book, and thought you’d love any opportunity to, what? Give me more shit for dragging your dad kicking and screaming down the path to ruin?”

  “I thought I’d like an opportunity to make you an offer.” His tone, which had bordered on banter, is now all business.

  “It’s not indecent, I hope.”

  “Nope, just straightforward. I’ve got some friends in the industry; I could get you some interviews, for serious pastry work. It wouldn’t be at the level you were at before, but at least closer than where you are now.”

  “And this you would do to get me away from your dad.”

  “This I would do because as great as what you have done has been for my dad, you and I both know it is too little, too late, and in a few short months when Cake Goddess opens, she will crush the business in a very rapid fashion, and you will be out of work. So I thought I would just let you know that I can get you some interviews, and from my perspective, you might want to at least talk to some people before you are officially unemployed.”

  I hate how much I agree with him, but whatever willpower I don’t possess with cake, I do possess with the things that actually matter.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine. I promised your dad I would be with him till the bitter end, and so I shall be. What I do after is not yours to worry about.”

  He shrugs. “Just an offer. An open one. You know where to find me.” He takes the last bite of cake and finishes the last sip of the third wine.

  “Sophie? Is that you?” I look up and there is Jason. He used to be the pastry chef at a farm-to-table place around the corner from S&S, and we’d help each other out in a pinch with ingredients now and again, have the occasional drink after work.

  “Hi, Jason. How are you?” I say, wishing I could crawl into a hole. “This is Mark. Mark, Jason.”

  “Nice to meet you; are you responsible for this?” Mark gestures at the empty plate.

  “That would be me. You like?”

  “It’s amazing. If the rest of the stuff in that case is half as good, you’ll make a mint.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. Sophie, yours is the opinion I crave; I was so stoked to see you here. Lemme have it!”

  “It’s spectacular, J, truly. Congrats.”

  “You been out of town? No one has seen or heard from you in forever, I mean, not since . . .” And then he pauses and turns a bit red.

  “Just floating.”

  “Floating, nothing! She’s in Uptown, saving the neighborhood from pastry dullness over at Langer’s Bakery!” Mark says cheerfully.

  I could fucking kill him. All my efforts to be quiet and anonymous and hidden are now in vain, and it will only be a matter of time till all of the Chicago fine-dining chefs know exactly how far I’ve fallen.

  “That’s cool. Going old-school. Must be, um . . . a nice shift, for you,” Jason says in a tone that makes it clear he knows I must be mortified.

  I put on a brave face. “Well, you know, just consulting until I figure out my next project.”

  “Sure, sure,” he says, and then, nothing. The moment becomes uncomfortable, and Jason finally breaks the silence. “Well, great to see you; glad you liked it. Thanks so much for coming, and I hope you’ll make it a habit. I’ve got to get back.” He gestures back to the kitchen, then shakes Mark’s hand and leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but a bit of wine and cake always makes me hungry for dinner. Looks like your guy is officially a nonstarter. There’s a great little Italian place up the block. I was going to get some linguine for takeout, but if you’re up for it, I’d be happy to have you join me?”

  Oh, hell no. “I think I will stay for a bit; the place is lovely and my book is a good one. I might try the other wine flight.” I hope this makes me seem sophisticated and self-assured, and not like some sad sack who is just going to sit here and drown her sorrows in pastries and wine. I will not let him see me run away with my tail between my legs.

  “Sounds delightful. I hope you enjoy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you Saturday, Sophie.” He gets up and walks out. I wait until I’m sure he must be well away from the café, and then stand and gather my book. I leave the now-wilted carnation on the table. I’m almost at the door when the hostess stops me and hands me a bag.

  “Jason wanted me to send you off with some other things to taste. His number is on the card; he’d love any input you might have.”

  Sigh. “Please thank him for me; tell him I’m sure it’s all perfect, but I’d never turn down an opportunity to enjoy his work.”

  “I’ll let him know. Have a good night.”

  I check my phone one last time in the car: no messages, no texts, no emails. I even turn it off and reboot it. Nothing. It’s after eight, and Jake just blew me off completely with no explanation. I reach into the bag and pull out the first box on top. Inside, an éclair, nestled in a frilled paper boat. I drive home with one hand, eating the éclair with the other, marveling at how pastry, which can seem on the surface so complicated and difficult, is really easy for me, and men, who can seem so simple and straightforward, are really so very hard.

  Bubbles was blissfully still out when I got home from my non-date. I poured myself a hefty double bourbon and retreated to my bedroom with the rest of Jason’s bounty. In the bottom of the bag was a little note from Jason saying that it was nice to see me and that he would love to get any relevant feedback on the things he sent me home with; he indicated that he sensed I was
in self-imposed pastry chef witness protection, and said not to worry, my current location and employment would not be revealed to anyone, and if I ever wanted to get together somewhere quiet, just give him a call. Jason always was a good guy.

  In gratitude for my continued privacy, and in spite of the fact that I had already consumed a small wagonload of empty calories today, I ate a piece of walnut cake, a small chocolate mousse bombe, a caramel bar, and three different cookies before effectively passing out in a sugar and alcohol coma. I woke briefly at around three in the morning to slither out of my lovely new outfit, now a mass of wrinkles, then finished my sleep of the dead. At five this morning, I got up, figured I could skip the shower since I had showered the previous evening before the festivities, and dressed for work. Today will be insane, the last day of prep before the relaunch tomorrow. I have a zillion things to do, including help Herman get the challahs out the door. I look over at my computer. I know I have to check.

  And there it is. Time-stamped around ten p.m., right about the time I passed out.

  Sunny—

  Sorry I missed the wine tasting, I hope you had a great time! I got stuck in a crazy strategy meeting at work. My company apparently needs me to save a chunk of business in London, so what I thought was a meeting I might sneak out of early enough to meet you turned into a planning session of insane proportions. The work craziness will likely continue all weekend and through next week. I’ve got the bachelor party and wedding the following weekend, and the Monday after will be headed to the airport for parts both Anglo and Saxon, and won’t be back for at least three months. But I was really hoping to get free to come to the event last night so that we might meet in person, and if you are feeling up to it, would love to retain my pen pal privileges while I’m across the pond, and then maybe we can set up a proper meeting when I return?

  Jake

  Well, I’m relieved he didn’t just blow me off and seems genuinely disappointed. I’m also sort of relieved that he is heading out of the country for three months. I like the pen pal thing; it is safe and comfortable, and I don’t have to worry about the whole rejection thing. In the movies, we would stay in touch and I would be witty and wise, and by the time we met, we would be inevitable.

  But as we know, my life is not a movie.

  And if we do continue to communicate, I’m sadly going to have to amp up my lying until I can explain myself face-to-face, which really sucks. I’m tempted to try and get myself out of the whole mess, and just tell him that I’m too busy for silly emails back and forth. I know it would save us both a lot of hassle surrounding something that isn’t even a thing. Then again, deep down, I do get a little fuzzy feeling with his emails, and continuing is ultimately fairly harmless, especially if I can keep my flights of fantasy in check. So I’m going to play it cool and casual. And leave the ball solidly in his court.

  Jake—

  Don’t think twice, you missed a lovely event, but I ran into a friend unexpectedly, and the wines and pastries were delicious, so the evening certainly was far from wasted. London sounds exciting! What a fantastic business trip. And of course, feel free to write if you like, I’d be happy to hear from you if you have time.

  Do let me know how the bachelor party shakes out!

  Sunny

  And with that, I head to work, hoping I won’t have to think about whether I’ve made the best or worst decision possible.

  Woman of the Year

  (1942)

  Success is no fun unless you share it with someone.

  • FAY BAINTER AS ELLEN WHITCOMB •

  “Thank you! Come again!” I say to the young man in skinny jeans and his sundress-clad girlfriend. They have just bought the last loaf of apricot white chocolate brioche, as well as two of each flavor of Pop-Tarts, and have taken a dog biscuit for their puggle, who is outside communing meaningfully with Snatch’s rear end.

  “We will!” she says gleefully, having tasted just about everything on the sample platter before making final decisions. “This place is awesome.”

  “Thanks much. Please be sure to follow us on social media; there’s something new every day.” Before closing their bag, I slip in a postcard, which has our links and a coupon for 10 percent off their next event cake or 15 percent off their next in-store bakery purchase.

  “Cool,” the guy says, and they elbow their way back outside.

  Herman looks over at me, grinning, as he handles his end of the counter. He shockingly took to the new iPad register system like a champ, so we can both ring up customers at the same time, and the bakery has been packed since we opened this morning. The place gleams; we repainted a soft dove gray and had the old black-and-white linoleum floor polished. Today we have all of our café tables outside for customers, and a little buffet table with huge self-serve urns of iced tea and raspberry lemonade. We’ve got a line of dog bowls filled with water under the front window in the shade, and a small table with a big bowl of home-baked dog biscuits.

  I turn to address the next customer and find myself face-to-face with my parents.

  “Wow, quite the turnout!” my dad says, leaning his long frame over the counter for a kiss.

  “So proud of you, sweetheart.” My mom, not nearly tall enough to get at me physically, kisses her fingers and reaches them out to me.

  “Thanks, guys; what can I get you? My treat!” I wink at them.

  “I would love some of those nuttery buttery cookies you made me last time,” my dad says, rubbing his tummy with glee. “They were amazing!”

  “I saved some just for you; we sold out over an hour ago, and I haven’t had time to go in the back and frost more.” I reach behind me and grab the box where I was hoarding half a dozen for him. “Mom?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Chocolate babka.”

  Her whole face lights up. “Yes, please!”

  I grab one off the shelf, wrap it up, and hand the goodies over to them. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you, honey. This is just great what you are doing here. And your grandmother is having the best time!”

  I look through the window to where Bubbles is holding court outside under our big oak tree, doing a cookie story time for the neighborhood kids, who are seated around her on picnic blankets, eating free organic chocolate chip cookies and listening to her read from the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle book. I think she’s already done three chapters, and they won’t let her stop. Snatch is preening in a new sweater that has a huge cupcake on the back, meeting every dog in the neighborhood, and, I believe, has already eaten his weight in dog biscuits.

  “She’s the best.”

  “We’re going to go outside and listen.” And they slip back out the door. There are only a couple of people waiting, and I zip into the back to grab some trays to replenish, winking at Herman, who is deftly handling the next customer. I bring out a new tray of Pop-Tarts and swap it with the now-empty old one, then do the same with a tray of cookies and brownies. Herman still has everything well in hand, so I quickly frost and sandwich three dozen more of the peanut butter cookies that were such a hit earlier, and arrange them on a new tray.

  “My goodness, how darling!” I hear a voice with an unmistakable drawl, and all the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I walk through the door and am confronted with the Cake Goddess herself. She is flanked by two nearly identical assistants, both petite blondes with razor-sharp blowouts and Lilly Pulitzer dresses, who are making notes in twin pink leather-bound notepads. “Hello, honeypie. I’m MarySue!” She extends a hand, not making eye contact with me at all.

  I shrug, not having a hand free, and lean over to slide the tray of cookies into the case. “Hello, MarySue.” She finally actually looks at me, and a flicker of recognition flies over her face. Shit.

  “Sophie? Is that really you, sweetheart? My word, I barely recognized you.” She says this while looking me up and down in a way that leaves n
o question as to her opinion of the current state and size of my personage.

  “Yes, well.” Not really sure what else to say.

  “Is this place yours? I hadn’t heard about you opening something new, you sneaky minx.”

  “Not mine, Herman’s.” Herman has walked over. “Herman Langer, proud owner of Langer’s for over sixty years. This is MarySue Adams, the Cake Goddess.”

  Ever the charmer, Herman reaches out, takes her hand warmly, and slips her a peanut butter cookie from the tray. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” She looks at the cookie as if it might bite her, and hands it wordlessly to one of her assistantbots.

  “Thank you, you dear thing, how lovely.” She is taking it all in, and the girls are writing feverishly. “This place reminds me of Old Mrs. Jenner’s, back in my hometown.”

  “That’s us, just the stalwart local bakery, taking you from your first cookie to your high school graduation cake to your retirement cake . . .” I say pointedly, trying to send a message of longevity and solidity. I wish my voice sounded a little bit more convincing.

  “How is your construction going?” Herman asks her, and the assistant takes a tiny bite of the cookie, her wide blue eyes getting even wider as she tastes it. She breaks it in two, wolfs down the part she has already bitten, and hands the other half behind MarySue’s back to the other assistant, who takes a small taste, and then, like her compatriot, nearly swallows the rest whole. Then they both start scribbling again.

  “Very well, you are a dear for asking. We’ll be doing the grand opening in October, on Halloween.”

  Ugh. Well, that gives us our timeline, a little sooner than we anticipated. “That is fast,” I say.

  “We’ve got them working round the clock over there,” she says.

  “I bet you do.” I’m trying really hard not to imagine her on a white horse in an overseer costume on a plantation.