Wedding Girl

by Stacey Ballis

  “As nice as it is to have us all together, I do have an ulterior motive,” Bubbles says, patting her lips with her napkin. “As the titular matriarch of this family, I think there are a few things that we should discuss with some frankness as we look to get through the next few weeks.”

  “What’s going on, Mom?” my dad asks around a mouthful of spinach and cheese strata.

  “Is everything okay?” My mom spreads marmalade thickly on a half of an English muffin that she has already lavished with butter.

  “I think everything will be fine, but we do need to address the elephants in the room.” Bubbles chews a piece of bacon thoughtfully. “I think the best way I can put this is to say that I love you both very much, and I appreciate that you are currently doing many things at once which are terribly stressful; however, I also think that you both are in danger of behaving in ways that you will be embarrassed about later, and would like to help you avoid that if I can. After all, I know that my children are not assholes, and would prefer that everyone around them not be put in a position to question it.”

  Damn. I cannot wait until I’m eightysomething and can just say whatever comes into my brain with no filter.

  “Mom!” my dad says, not sure if he should be insulted or amused.

  “Really,” my mom says, her eyes narrowing in a way that makes me quite sure she is now looking at Bubbles with a clinical eye and wondering if this is the first stage of dementia. I take another piece of strata and dig in, the rich combination of eggs, bread, spinach, onion, and cheese filling the hole in my stomach, and settling the remnants of the previous evening’s bacchanal.

  “Really, indeed, my loves. Robert? You have turned, these past weeks, into some cowering milquetoast who has lost his voice, and I’m not really sure why you are allowing yourself to be bullied by the love of your life for the first time since you met.”

  My dad’s mouth drops open.

  “And, Diane, my darling daughter-in-love, you have become a demanding, shrewish bridezilla, which I know is the opposite of who you are and what you want.”

  My mom stops mid-chew, and her lovely violet eyes fill with tears.

  “I don’t want to hurt either one of you. This is purely from a place of concern, but I do have to be honest. So I would like for the four of us to talk about your upcoming move, and the wedding, and all of the things that are sending you both into personality chaos, so that we can help in any way that we can.”

  “Am I so awful?” my mom asks, her chin quivery, though she’s not quite crying yet.

  I reach over and squeeze her arm. “We think you are going through so much all at once that it is making you really super stressed-out, and we just feel like you aren’t having any fun with any of it. This is so amazing for you guys, moving, doing the new place, getting married . . . It should be full of joy and excitement and fun, and you both just seem miserable and frustrated.”

  “It has been a little bit . . . complicated,” my dad says, looking at his lap.

  “I’m not really sure how to . . .” my mom starts and then trails off.

  “Here is what I think,” Bubbles says, matter-of-factly. “You are a little bit at odds with the life you are about to embark upon and the personal politics and lifestyle that have preceded it, and how to reconcile those things.”

  My mom nods, the analyst in her processing this. “I think that is very astute, and could certainly add a layer of emotional complexity to everything.”

  “Haven’t you both always said that the most important part of living a good life is to be true to yourself as long as it doesn’t cause harm to others?” I ask.

  “Of course,” my dad says firmly.

  “And, Mom, don’t you always say that people are ever evolving, and that change is both possible and healthy as we continue to grow in our lives, that embracing those changes is positive and a sign of a strong person?”

  “That’s true,” my mom says, reaching for the babka and ripping off a chunk.

  “Okay, then you should both know that there is nothing wrong with wanting nice things or a secure future. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with wanting to stand in front of the people you love and vow to continue to love and support each other as you move forward in your life. There is nothing that hurts anyone else about your having financial security and a lovely place to live and a legal expression of the love you have always shared.”

  My mom blushes, and my dad reaches for her hand.

  “Your daughter is very astute,” Bubbles says. “You both need to get over whatever weird guilt you are feeling about your newfound wealth and about having a home that functions well and is comfortable. And, for goodness’ sake, you cannot be strange about getting married; it is the most natural thing in the world!”

  “And for what it’s worth, you can’t feel at all weird or bad about me and my wedding that wasn’t or what happened after. I’m really happy for you guys, about every bit of it, and I want to help in any way you want me to.”

  “Thank you, honey; that means a lot,” my mom says with a sheepish smile.

  “And I promise I’ll participate in making the decisions instead of abdicating,” my dad says, getting up to come around and wrap his long arms around me and my mom in a big hug. “And thanks, Mom, for the kick in the britches.”

  “Good,” says Bubbles. “Now let’s make some plans . . .” And the four of us, our strange little family, sit and eat, and start to hash out how to get my parents married properly without anyone ending up in a padded room. And for the first time since I became Wedding Girl, I actually have fun offering some wedding advice, because the one thing that is the most important about any wedding is love, and however weird my clan is, we’ve got that in spades.

  By the time we’ve finished plotting out a wedding that will make sense for my folks, it is nearly eleven thirty, and I head back to Herman’s to take a nap. They have decided to do a simple late-afternoon ceremony the first weekend in November, followed by a casual party at their old house. The place will be empty, since they will have moved out the week previous, and they can set up tables and chairs all over the first level, with the buffet in the dining room. They can put up a heated tent in my mom’s garden for the ceremony, and have a DJ for dancing in there. They called the developer on the spot, and he said immediately that he couldn’t think of a nicer way for them to say good-bye to their old home, and agreed that they could have the house for the extra week so that it could happen. Not surprising since he has been so tolerant of the ever-changing target that has been their actual move-out date. They’ll invite just friends and family and colleagues with whom they socialize. About one hundred people total. And, of course, I’m making the cake.

  I sleep like the dead for about two hours, full of strange sex dreams starring Mark, and wake groggy and not feeling rested at all. I drink two cans of Coke, eat a slice of leftover Lou Malnati’s sausage pizza from two days ago, and head down to the bakery to meet my new team.

  “Hey, Sophie, good to see you.” I’m shocked to see Jason standing in the kitchen with Mark. “This is my girlfriend, Annabel.” He gestures to a slight redhead, who I recognize as the hostess from Café Nizza.

  “Hi. What are you guys doing here?”

  “They’re your backup team,” Mark says.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Mark told me what was going down over here, and that you needed help for a couple of weeks, and our place is running pretty well. We’re talking about wanting to open a second location, which means we need to know if it can run without us, so we figured taking a couple of weeks off to help you here will tell us a lot about how things will shake out over there, without us being too far away in case of emergency,” Jason says, very matter of fact and implying that it is no big deal, even though I know that the sacrifice of two weeks of time when you own a place like his is huge.

  “I don’t kn
ow what to say, that is above and beyond.”

  “Nah, I’m here to steal all your secrets. You were always way above me,” Jason says with a wink.

  “And I’m here to assist him, and do front of house,” Annabel says. “I love this place. My grandparents lived here when I was growing up. I’ve been eating Langer’s stuff since I was born.”

  “I’m so, so thankful, to you both, really.”

  “Okay, I’m totally useless here for all of this,” Mark says, “so I’m going to take off. I’ve been told I have some serious housecleaning I need to take care of most urgently.” He winks at me, and I can feel my face go red. I suppose when I said we shouldn’t speak of it, I should have also said we shouldn’t reference it or intimate it or wink at it in any way.

  “Okay, then, good luck with that,” I say, knowing that he can’t leave soon enough for my tastes.

  “Will do, I leave you all to it. Sophie, I’ll see you Wednesday night at the usual time.”

  “Yep, sounds good.” At least I have two days before I have to see him again. Hopefully he will have figured out how to be cool about the whole thing by then.

  “Yeah, well, stop with the endless good-byes, then, and take us through the week and show me the recipes. I want to study up so that I can hit the ground running for you next week,” Jason says, and I reach for the recipe bible and start to tell him what Langer’s is all about, as Mark slips out of the kitchen.

  I Love You Again

  (1940)

  WILLIAM POWELL AS GEORGE CAREY: You be careful, madam, or you’ll turn my pretty head with your flattery.

  MYRNA LOY AS KAY WILSON: I often wished I could turn your head—on a spit, over a slow fire.

  “Okay, are you ready?” Ruth says from her perch on a stool at the door between the kitchen and the store, armed with a copy of our list of components.

  I look over at Mark, who nods at me. “Yes, I think we are ready.”

  “I have the official clock,” Amelia says, finger ready to punch the countdown timer she has set up on an iPad mini and mounted to the wall with duct tape.

  “And I’ve got the judging points list,” says Jean, who has a clipboard with all of the various points and criteria that will be used on Saturday for the competition. I’ve annotated it for her, along with a list of questions she should ask and some things we need her to do while we are working, including coming around and getting into our work space, tasting components as we work with them, and generally being both a nuisance and distracting presence at key moments.

  “I think we are good to go. Let’s get this party started!” Mark says companionably. Since our little naked adventure he has been as good as his word and has not brought it up, teased me about it, or in any way indicated that it even happened. I wish I could say that it was fully a relief, but working so closely together for all of these hours in a hot kitchen, touching hands as we mold fondant, feeding each other tastes of this and that, or feeling his whole front pressed tight against my back, like we’re spooning, while I stabilize the base of the cake as he puts the final tier on over my head—it has an effect. I keep getting flashes of him grabbing me movie-style, sweeping all of the equipment off the prep table and making passionate love to me in the debris field. Of course these images also haunt me anytime I start to get the least bit flirtatious in my emails to Jake, making me feel even worse. I know intellectually that I’ve done nothing at all wrong, but it still feels like I’ve betrayed him. I know that if I found out that he was sleeping with someone in London that my feelings would be hurt, as if it would be some sort of indication of lack of faith or hope in this weird whatever-it-is we have started.

  Then again, it was an itch that clearly needed scratching, so I suppose I have to just be glad that Mark was there, that he was really good and fun in bed, and that he hasn’t turned it into a whole thing between us.

  “Alright, team. Let’s do it!” I give Amelia the thumbs-up and she sets our countdown clock in motion. We have six hours to finish the cake, and it will be our final practice before the competition. This week Jason and Annabel will run the bakery, using the kitchen at the café for everything except the challahs, which have to be done here. Mark and I will spend the week making all of the cake layers, filling components, fondants, Rice Krispies treats, and other elements that are allowed to be prepped ahead, so that we can deliver them to the Astor Place Hotel on Friday. The hot new boutique hotel is hosting both the VIP cocktail party Friday night and the competition Saturday. I’ve heard nothing but good things about the space, a high-end, all-suite, five-star hotel that offers a very personalized level of service. There is a wonderful new fine-dining Italian restaurant on the first floor that is getting raves, and they have been focused on donating their event spaces and services to various local charities, all of which have gotten them good coverage. They are focused on a “one-stop shopping” sort of approach to events—in-house catering, floral design, event production—the perfect place to have an event if you don’t have time or the inclination to shop around for each individual element. The buzz is that they are seriously going after the destination wedding market, and hoping to become the place in Chicago for weddings in general, and gay weddings in particular.

  Mark heads for the left side of the table and begins assembling the chocolate tier of the cake, spreading the first layer of cake with a layer of ganache, then the big piece of crunchy dacquoise, another layer of ganache, and then the second layer of cake. He is working quickly and efficiently, getting the cake into the walk-in to chill and firm up, and bringing out the cakes and fillings for the second tier. I’m using a stiff chocolate gingerbread dough to make the templates for all of the windows and doors. I called in a small favor from Anneke, who has been stuck home with the twins for nearly six months, and was more than grateful to turn my photos of Bubbles’s old house into some simple AutoCad drawings, and then print them to scale for the cake, so that we can lay parchment paper over them and build the different elements right over the drawings for precision.

  I get all of the sheets of windows and doorframes into the oven to bake, and turn my attention to the tuiles for the tile portion of the roof. As I’m pulling the first sheet out of the oven and quickly laying the pliable sheet into the form I’ve built so that it can cool in the right shape, Jean appears at my elbow.

  “So what is that made of?”

  I explain the contents of the tuile batter, and the decision to color the dough itself a terra-cotta color instead of risking breakage by trying to paint it with colored chocolate after assembly. She makes some notes on her clipboard, and heads over to talk to Mark, and I realize that while I was answering her, I stopped working, and my other cookie has now hardened on the sheet and will have to be re-baked. I make a note to myself that my hands and mouth have to be able to work at the same time, or I will get behind. I toss the now-useless cookie onto the small table for the girls to snack on, and pull a new piece of parchment, smearing the thin tuile batter over the template, and getting the sheet back in the oven.

  Jean is getting in Mark’s way, tasting all of the various fillings for the second tier, and chatting with him about the inspiration for that layer, and unlike me, he manages to talk with her easily while still spreading the pineapple jam over the first layer of cake. Whatever other ups and downs and complications Mark has presented in my life these past months, I have to give him total credit. He is a very skilled baker, and a godsend on this project. With him by my side I can believe that we will not embarrass ourselves, and I cannot say the same of Herman.

  I get the second tuile safely into the form, and move them aside to cool completely and be out of the way till we need them.

  “One hour gone,” Amelia says cheerily. That flew by, and I know that the day of the contest will be even worse, since the adrenaline will really kick in.

  Ruth walks over and hands first Mark and then me bottles of water, which we both open a
nd down in one go, and then get back to work. I pull the gingerbread out of the oven and set the sheets on racks to cool. I have to wait to fill the larger window sections with clear sugar caramel, and they have to be completely cooled, since they will shrink a bit as they cool, and we want the windows to be a tight fit. The stained glass pieces will get colored sugars sprinkled in the various sections and then will get torched to melt them. I’ve given myself enough time to do the windows twice, just in case of cracking.

  Mark gets the second completed tier into the walk-in and pulls out the components for the top tier. I turn my attention to making some of the smaller, more intricate carved details for the house out of gum paste, so that they will have plenty of time to dry and harden before we have to attach them. As with the fondant, I’ve pre-colored the gum paste gray so that it has a good base, and once everything is assembled, we’ll soften the edges with gray and black and white powdered food colors.

  Mark gets the third tier into the walk-in, pulling out the first tier, now firmed up and ready for its buttercream coating. Jean comes back around.

  “So, Sophie, how are you feeling about your time-management on this?”

  “Pretty good,” I say, being sure not to look up or stop what I’m doing, carefully crafting the capitals for the columns that will hold up the balcony. The columns themselves are already made of formed chocolate set around a large dowel, but the capitals and plinths have to be done the day of since they are a more decorative element.

  “Mark, are you feeling good about your time management as well?” Jean asks.

  Mark finishes spreading the thin layer of mint buttercream over the top of the cake, smoothing it easily with a large offset spatula, and hefts it up to take it back to the walk-in. “Seems okay so far,” he says.