Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  “That was a long time ago. It’s just the Half Acre now.”

  I tried to fix my gaze on the road ahead, but the trio of beads swinging from the rearview mirror caught my eye first. They were Mardi Gras colors—green, gold, and purple—with tiny glittering masks that clicked cheaply against one another. With a shaking hand, I reached out to silence them, my thumb rubbing over the tiny hump of the gold mask’s nose.

  God, I had managed to make it almost a whole morning without thinking about her.

  It was hard to forget a girl like Dani.

  Not to mention spending the evening with the girl of your dreams and waking up in a Louisiana jail.

  “You like those, eh?” The driver leered. “Got ’em down in New Orleans this year. Ever been to Mardi Gras?”

  “Yeah. I lived down there. For a time.” It felt like a lifetime ago.

  “You see a lotta tits when you lived down there?”

  “I saw my fair share.” Mardi Gras was a season down in New Orleans. But I had seen some in the off-season, too.

  “The ladies on Bourbon Street sure love the beads. But I had to keep a few. Beads, I mean.” He laughed. “’Course I wouldn’t have minded bringing some of them ladies home, neither.”

  The gold mask continued its hypnotizing sway.

  I had come home empty-handed, too.

  Gold for power, Dani had said, relinquishing the sequined and feathered mask she hid behind that night. I hadn’t known there was significance behind each color until she’d told me. Green for faith, she had whispered, allowing my fingers to slowly zip her out of her dress until she’d stood before me in nothing but a lacy thong. Purple for justice.

  I hadn’t known the power she would hold over me.

  And I was losing faith in the hope that I would ever find her again.

  No justice in this world.

  The driver had braked to a stop, and the bridge was in sight.

  “End of the line.”

  “Thanks.” I jumped down from the rig, still under the spell of Dani’s memory.

  She wasn’t just the one that got away. She had gotten under my skin, just like I knew she would, the minute she came parading down Royal Street.

  • • •

  “And here comes another one! Those brides from up north sure do love a second-line parade.” Derek, our captain waiter, took a shaky drag off his cigarette, nodding his head to the blare and the beat of the brass band slowly making its way toward us.

  We had just finished service on a wedding for two hundred, and while I couldn’t vouch for the rest of the guys, I was bone-achingly tired. Taking both a server job and a pastry apprenticeship at a busy New Orleans hotel kept me hopping from before dawn until well after dusk. And unlike my fellow waitstaff born and raised on the Bayou, my internal thermostat was still having trouble adjusting to the climate difference, despite having left Pennsylvania three years ago. And especially while wearing the penguin suit the caterers insisted upon.

  “How do you know they’re from up north?” I asked, giving a tug on my bow tie as the happy bride and groom came strutting behind the band with a twirl of a painted parasol and colored cane. Their police escort gave a whirl of his siren and lights, getting into the mood, too.

  Derek smiled wide, showing a gold tooth on one side and a gap where its twin was missing on the other. “Oh, you’d know if they was locals. Believe me. Northerners, ain’t I right, Eddie?”

  “Throw a rock on Royal Street, you’ll hit a second line these days.” Eddie’s shoulders were already rolling to the grooves being laid down. “It’s the city’s bread-and-butter, not complaining. But that there ain’t nothing like a jazz funeral. Now there’s a second line!” He took a stealth haul off the flask of Maker’s Mark he kept in his jacket pocket before passing it to me. “I’ll show you one of these days, Mick. Just need some old cat like Derek to kick it,” he affectionately teased.

  Derek and Eddie were third cousins, or maybe it was second cousins, once removed. Something like that. Eddie had told me all about his almost-famous relative the day we both got our jobs. “He’s got brass in his blood,” were his exact words. And after having the pleasure of seeing old Derek pick up a saxophone in some hole-in-the-wall jazz club last spring, that explained it all. He should’ve been first in line with the band, not stuck in catering.

  We passed the flask and watched as clusters of wedding guests moved past, self-consciously waving handkerchiefs and shuffling. Sure enough, they were wilting in the sultry heat like true Northerners.

  Save for one.

  She was smack in the middle of the bridal processional, shimmying all the things God gave her. The tumble of wild, white-blond curls caught the late-day sun like a cascading blaze as she twirled in her bridesmaid dress and stepped high to the beat of the big bass drum. She shook her white handkerchief with abandon, one slim arm raised to the sky as the other snaked smoothly out to catch the crooked elbow offered by old Derek. Around and around they went, swinging in a fun and frenzied dance, until she broke off, blowing him a kiss and laughing as she continued down the street.

  “Now that you don’t see every day.” Eddie blew out a breath, hypnotized. Derek was still clapping and laughing, doing a little jig in the street as it emptied.

  “Seriously.” My bow tie was in my hand. “Cover for me?” In some kind of trance of my own, I also shed my penguin coat, tossing both to Eddie and running to catch up with the parade before I even had time to consider what I was doing.

  I had to find out who the girl in the emerald dress was.

  Actually, it was more like an absinthe green; I had been mixing icing colors in my aunt and uncle’s bakery since the tender age of thirteen and learned there were more hues of color out there in the world than there were moods. I had the feeling that, like the drink, just a taste of that girl would intoxicate me. You could tell her spirit was potent.

  “You got this, my boy!” Derek called after me. “Jump in the line!”

  Dani

  MEET AND GREET

  “Can you even see the end of the line? I thought the signing was supposed to end by noon.”

  I craned my neck and stood on my tiptoes. People snaked through the music section and around the entire first-floor perimeter of Manhattan’s flagship mega-book and media store. The guys had been at it since ten o’clock, and there was no way they’d get through all those people on time.

  “Relax, Dani.” Riggs chomped on the end of a plastic coffee stirrer. “The band’s doing great.”

  Eager fans shuffled forward with CDs in hand as the musicians reached across the table, Sharpies in hand. It was like some weird mating dance, an exchange of commerce and pleasantries. The dreaded in-store meet and greet. Last chance for the band to be promo whores before their weeklong forced hiatus began.

  “I’m totally relaxed, Riggs. And it’s not the band I’m worried about.”

  Nash was at the end of the row. The pièce de résistance that everyone clamored toward, the singer they wanted to linger with. It wasn’t happening. Fans got a quick hello from their favorite performer, and a riot act from the tour manager: no pictures with him, please; no touching, one item to sign. Then they were handed off to a store employee, who directed them toward the escalator for a nice latte in the café, or a new book to go along with their beating heart and fleeting fantasies.

  I sighed, wondering how long they’d let the line get before someone had the sense to cut it off. And I wondered how much work I’d have later on, massaging the cramps from Nash’s fingers as he signed his name over and over and over again. He was the only one I was worried about.

  It was my new job to worry about him.

  Go Get Her’s front man slouched in his chair with typical rock star panache, like an exotic creature that didn’t necessarily belong under the harsh fluorescent lighting of corporate chain store America, but lik
e he knew he owned the attention. Yet I could see every once in a while, he’d shift his scapulae, shoulder blades sliding up and down his back. Like a powerful, injured bird in captivity, testing the strength of his wingspan and waiting for the right moment to break free.

  Noon couldn’t come soon enough.

  “We’re in a bookstore, for fuck’s sake.” Riggs turned on me, made impatient by my resulting sigh. “You’re telling me you can’t entertain yourself for another hour?”

  Of course I could. I could take a wander through Fiction and Literature to see if anything held a candle to the stacks of paper sitting unpublished on Jax’s writing desk. Or through the Psychology and Behavior section, to count the number of times my parents’ names appeared on the spines of the tomes there. I’m sure that deep within the indices and tables of contents, my headshrinker parents would have strong opinions about just what the hell I had gotten myself into.

  Engaged within two months of meeting him, Dani? Seriously?

  My mom would probably fall back on alpha males and sexual selection, being the animal behaviorist she was. My father, a noted psychologist, would skip the Freud-Jung psychosexual stuff and head right for the good ol’ Savior Complex.

  Jax and Laney would have a complete conniption.

  Engaged to Nash Drama? The Nash Drama, of Go Get Her fame? My mantra would morph from WWDD to WDDDI. Friends would no longer police themselves in situations by asking What Would Dani Do? They would simply want to know Why Did Dani Do It?

  Betrothing myself to one of the country’s cockiest, rowdiest rock stars was hardly a moral imperative.

  And it was the reason I hadn’t told anyone I was coming into town.

  I had absently wandered down the Wedding Etiquette aisle. The bindings of the books there were thick, the fonts elegant, and their color choices subdued and stylish. There was something there for every situation—from the Town & Country Insiders’ Guide to the Total & Complete Idiot’s Guide—that walked you step-by-step through the proposal, planning, and executing stages of the wedding of your dreams. I ran my hand vaguely over them, as if to glean answers via osmosis. The two-carat oval-cut stunner, set in platinum and hanging from my finger, was my invitation to the exclusive club chattered about within the pages.

  Or was it?

  If there really were something here for every situation, would I find the solutions to mine within the alphabetical index?

  I pulled the fattest tome from the shelf and flipped to the back. Nope. Nothing under Convenience, as in “Engagement of.” Nothing under Fake, Sham or Have you lost your flippin’ mind, girl? either.

  Sighing, I pulled the slimmest book from the shelf and let it fall open to the middle.

  Deciding on a theme first will guide you and your groom in the decisions and selections of the venue, décor, food, and drinks, as well as many other critical details to ensure a flawless, fun-filled day is had by all. Choose a theme which best suits your personalities to help set the tone for your perfect day.

  I chuckled to myself. After spending almost three months traveling with a major music festival, my only requirement would be a venue with indoor plumbing. I didn’t want to see another Porta-John or rustic shower for the rest of my life. Nash’s idea of “setting the tone” would probably be choosing Madison Square Garden as the venue and using scrims, mover lights, and hazers for the décor. Dinner would be self-serve from chafing dishes left out by catering for a questionable length of time, and drinks would be on ice in coolers under the tables. Groupies would be in attendance, and clothing would be optional. It’s a backstage greenroom free-for-all wedding theme!

  I slid the book back into its slot. Posy had done a beautiful job with her New Orleans wedding. More “concept” than theme, my sister and her husband Pat’s nuptials were the most genuine and personal expression of love I had ever witnessed. I would’ve expected nothing less from them. Part vintage, part vaudeville, wholly authentic to their aesthetic vision.

  A second-line parade had led us through the quaint French Quarter from ceremony to reception, where a sign commanding MASKS ON ushered us past a red velvet curtain. The large space had crumbling stonework, wrought iron balconies, and a soaring whisper dome. I remembered the way everything transformed the moment I tied the ribbon to secure my gold mask with its black feather plumes and stepped in. The air felt electric.

  And it crackled when Mick had walked into the room.

  • • •

  I noticed the vest right away, its black angles against the stark white of his dress shirt creating a timeless look and accentuating his well-defined arms. Many of the guys at the wedding had already stripped themselves of their formal jackets, but their ties still held them in a stranglehold, making them look like awkward teens at a school dance. With his collar open, sleeves rolled up, and his hands in his pockets, this guy was coolness personified, as if he had just decided to take a stroll around the dance floor.

  While I was positioned at ten o’clock on the perimeter of the large circular space, chatting with Posy’s best friend Emma, he was stationed at four o’clock. I moved on to give a hug and a kiss to my new brother-in-law, standing at one o’clock; this guy stepped over to seven, interacting with nobody, his eyes never leaving me. His fluid movements purposely kept him exactly opposite me. I moved in his direction, on to where my cousins were clustered at six o’clock on the dial. He turned on his heel and meandered toward midnight.

  His mask of choice had concealed the top half of his face, and its long, hooked nose and slit eyes had a sinister, eerie quality. But the way he bit back a smile from his full lips was utterly disarming, and I liked the way his hair tufted over the top of the mask, almost as dark as the black mask itself, with its gold scrolling detail.

  Feeling bold behind the cover of my own disguise, I strode to the center of the floor just to see what he would do. Within seconds, he joined me there.

  “Once upon a time, women who wore masks had their reputation questioned, you know.”

  My cheeks heated beneath my mask, and I dropped my gaze demurely. I had a feeling if I wasn’t careful, I would let him ask me just about anything. Those eyes of his were powerful truth serum.

  “I was wondering who would end up with that particular mask,” I opened with, extending my hand. “I figured the guy who wears that must be very confident with his manhood.”

  “No doubt there,” he said, lacing his fingers through mine and claiming my waist. “Now, if only I was so confident about my dancing skills.”

  I laughed. “I always get blamed for trying to lead.”

  Thinking back to prom, when I kept stepping on Jax’s shiny black shoes by accident, made me miss my old friend that much more. He was supposed to have come with me that weekend, but pulled out at the last minute. I had no doubt it was girlfriend issues. Pre-Bitch’n’Mona, his latest Little Miss She’s the One for Me, for Now, was toeing the line.

  My mysterious dance partner gazed down at me. “I would follow you.”

  His final word was stilted, as if he wanted to add more, but didn’t.

  We needn’t have worried about leading and following; Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You” thrummed through the room, closing the gap between us. I smelled bourbon and brown sugar on his skin, reminiscent of the pralines baking in shops on almost every New Orleans street corner. And we began to move as one, under the whisper dome.

  • • •

  God, I really needed to stop thinking about Mick.

  It was time to file him away under “dodged that bullet” and stick that book on the back shelf of my brain. Onward.

  “Oh, happy day. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  I started at the sound of the familiar-yet-foreign voice, my head jerking against the top row of bridal books. His timbre and lanky build were identical to his twin brother’s, but his cool stare and the woodsy musk smell of his cologne, so unlike Jax’s,
tipped me off.

  Dex Davenport smirked at my choice of reading material, and locked in on the behemoth diamond. His Who’s the lucky guy? comment came across more like a smart-ass Who in their right mind would marry you? demand.

  Over one and a half million people on this island, and on the one day I happen to be in town, this is who I run into?

  “No one you know,” I replied, although he was clutching a freshly signed Go Get Her CD in his hand. “Promise me you won’t tell Jax . . . I want to talk to him myself.”

  He smiled his evil twin smile. “Of course.”

  Which could mean, of course he would, of course he wouldn’t, or of course I wanted to. With Dex, you never knew how he was going to manipulate your words or your intentions.

  “Didn’t you sell your soul to Shonnie Phillips and move down to Austin?” Dex squinted and cocked his head, as if he just realized why he hadn’t seen me in Manhattan for, say, the last eighteen months. And not like he missed me at all.

  “I did. Move, that is.” My prior job as personal masseuse to the feminist folksinger had been all consuming, but Shonnie was a sweetheart and I wouldn’t have traded the experience for the world. We reluctantly parted ways when she decided to take a yearlong sabbatical from music and the road to spend time with her family, but we still e-mailed each other regularly. It was Shonnie who had recommended me for the job with Minstrels & Mayhem, and Shonnie who gave me the sage advice when I had come back, raw and defeated, from New Orleans last year: Go through it, darlin’. Not around it.

  I could still hear the twang of her accent, and the tang of bittersweetness that could only come from someone who had been through it herself.

  Face your soul forward, just like the words of my favorite Shonnie song.

  “I’m between gigs now,” I supplied, pulling myself up straighter. “You?”

  “My band’s got a month-long residency at the Sound Bar.” His tone was all closed doors, no red carpet. Fine by me. I would be out of town within the next half hour, anyway.