Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  Rebekkah had already taken matters into her own hands.

  After leaving Dani at her hotel that night, I found my clothes strewn on the brick sidewalk in front of Rebekkah’s Dauphine Street residence, and spilling into the narrow road. “Fuck you and the suitcase you rode in on!” she raged from her balcony, before slamming the French doors on me and on the better (or worse) part of two years. I’d had no power in that relationship, she had had no faith, and in the end, I guess we were both justified.

  I’d packed my belongings in the case she had upended and headed straight for Café Du Monde. It was open twenty-four hours, and I would wait all night and day for Dani if I had to. “Just keep pouring me coffee every hour,” I’d instructed the waiter, and put my head down on the table.

  I should’ve given Dani my last name, I thought. I should’ve given her my number. I shouldn’t have left her but if I hadn’t . . . story of my life.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Dani asked, shaking her head as I finished my tale. Sadness laced her voice as she turned back to the Jeep to help rouse our drunken dates. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “You wanted the truth. And sometimes the truth is messy, inconvenient and fucked up, and no one’s fault.”

  We both regarded the couple passed out in the backseat. While they kept themselves at arms’ length in their sober, awake hours, Nash and Quinn were intimately wound together now, under the cover of the night and the guise of alcohol. Her head was nestled on his shoulder, where it fit perfectly. He had one arm wound protectively around her, and his other hand, palm up, in her lap.

  “Sometimes,” I added in a whisper, “it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Dani’s sigh wasn’t one of defeat; it was one of agreement. “It’s warm enough out here, right? To leave them?”

  I reached into the front seat for my keys. Nash’s bet money was still on the seat. I swept it up and deposited it back into his upturned hand. I had no desire to see his bet, raise his bet, or drag his drunk ass into the house.

  Dani kissed my cheek at room number twelve. “Thanks for the double date . . .”

  “From hell?” I joked. “Anytime. Think someday we might be destined for a do-over?”

  Dani

  TRUTH TAKES A TOLL

  I woke up before everybody. Or perhaps I never really went to sleep. It was early, even for an early bird like me.

  Slipping out the front door, I stretched my hamstrings on the old limestone foundation I had tripped over the night before. A burning desire for new scenery propelled my feet forward, not slowing until I crossed 32 and skirted the old New Hope cemetery. Like massage, jogging provided me time and space for my mind to wander. Thinking about all that Mick had said about truth and trust, and about letting sleeping dogs lie. And recalling memories that lingered long before that. Taking advantage of a drunk girl may have been against Mick’s principles, but not all guys were that noble.

  • • •

  “This is crazy,” Laney grumbled, tripping over a low gravestone in her Docs. “We are crashing a fucking funeral because you glimpsed a hottie out the car window?”

  “You know you love the macabre; just play along. Consider it comic book research.”

  “Like Tales from the Crypt,” Laney whispered as we approached the open earth and people gathered there. “Cool.”

  • • •

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the young guy standing to the side. He stood stoic and sad, legs splayed in what looked like expensively tailored dress pants. His tie matched my eyes, and the sky that was just starting to brighten. His cheeks were high and round, blotched red with emotion. “Like a Botticelli cherub,” my nana would’ve said. And he was holding the hand of a woman who might have been his own grandmother, a regal-looking woman dressed impeccably.

  In fact, the entire funeral procession had an air of expensive grief, in tailor-made black with a snaking line of imported cars parked along the cemetery road. Beside me, Laney tugged uncomfortably at her miniskirt, trying to cover up the hole in her stocking.

  I shivered in the aftermath of the summer rain, wearing a tiny cap-sleeved white tee under my nineties black bib-overall minidress. All the cool girls had been wearing them that year, like me, with thigh-high black stockings and black chunky-heeled Mary Janes.

  I must’ve looked like the sluttiest funeral-goer ever, but the guy’s tear-filled eyes seemed to lighten as he caught sight of my approach. The woman he stood with had moved forward, clutching a handkerchief, to the cluster of her supporters near the fresh-dug earth, leaving him on his own.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said firmly, reaching for his hand. And I was. I had lost my grandfather that past winter, and the loss was still keen and sharp within me. What had hurt most of all was watching those left behind, like my nana, who seemed incapable of speaking, seeing, or hearing that day. And my dad, a man who never cried, but whose face profoundly displayed his grief as people from his past, whom I had never seen in my life, moved to embrace him, one after another.

  “Thank you.” There was no trace of accent in his voice, like most of the boys we knew on the island. Having spent my younger years in New Jersey, I would’ve been able to pick out that subtle difference, too. Nor did he have the telltale Staten Island twang, or a hint of the other outlying boroughs. No doubt “summer people,” as Laney would spit as we walked past their fancy hulking mansions shadowing our beach. “It was nice of you to come all this way,” he added.

  “Jackson. Come here, my dear boy.” The grandmother had an aristocratic accent that sounded like she had been bred in a boarding school, neither American nor British, but somewhere in between the two. Like an old Hollywood actress. She gestured, a small shovel in her hand, and the boy gently squeezed my fingers before dropping them and proceeding up to perform the grim and traditional task of spreading dirt on the casket that had been lowered into the earth.

  “Did you get his number?” Laney asked in a loud whisper. “Can we go now?”

  “Shhh.” I stood up straighter as the clergyman, who looked older than the dirt itself, began to speak of the Davenport legacy. Raised by headshrinker parents, I was probably more attuned to family dynamics than the average teen, and this family seemed to be aligned in two different camps: those who appeared to be rallied around the family matriarch, and those who had turned their backs, literally, on her as they fixed their gaze on the ground before them.

  “You know I would follow you anywhere, but this is just weird.” Laney’s hushed breath brushed my curls against my cheek, and I was surprised to feel them wet with my tears. “We don’t know these people at all.”

  The guy, Jackson, shook back his thick, sandy hair and solidly met my eyes.

  “Not true,” I murmured to Laney. I felt I knew him, that I had always known him.

  “I want to go.”

  “Fine, go.” I slipped her my keys. “Take my car and leave it at Allen’s. I’ll find my way there and meet you at the show.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  The guy had skirted back toward us, fumbling with two rocks he must’ve picked up in the dirt. I just motioned for her to go. She gave me a long “have it your way” look, and scuttled off.

  He stood stock-still beside me, until the two divided sides at the gravesite began to give way and quietly disperse. Then he threw down one rock. And then the other.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “What’s it to you?” His tone was venomous, and took me by total surprise. “Our grandmother’s dirty little secret changed the will and has totally fucked my family in the process. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He glared at me with eyes that weren’t the same. And there was nothing cherubic, or charitable, about him anymore. His cheeks weren’t even red . . . but his tie was.

  “Dex. It’s not her fault.” Jackson stepped up. “The New England cousins
aren’t in on this fight.”

  Twins! They were twins. And they thought I was some distant cousin in their soap opera.

  “I’m not your cousin,” I blurted, just as a thin, blond woman approached and overheard our exchange.

  “Boys, this must be the nanny for Aunt Camilla’s three. She does have a striking resemblance to cousin Beth, though, doesn’t she? Darling, you were supposed to meet Camilla at the house; she was frantic when you didn’t arrive. No matter, she left the children with the maids. You’ll ride there with us.”

  I had gone from stranger to family to hired help, before the body was even cold in the ground.

  “The house” turned out to be one of Montauk’s grandest mansions, bustling with activity. Whatever children I was mistakenly told to nanny were off somewhere, probably playing hide-and-seek in the rambling house.

  “I’m Jax, by the way.” The guy smiled as we followed the crowd into the house.

  “Dani. Hi.”

  “You’re not really a nanny, are you?” The one Jax had called Dex was coldly regarding me, and I fessed up and told them everything.

  “Whatever, that’s cool. Come hang for a while, before you have to leave for your concert,” Jax said. “Sweet game room upstairs.”

  Uniformed servants scurried around the kitchen, preparing food for the bereaved more elaborate than a wedding. His brother grabbed a bottle of rum and jerked his head toward the back service stairs. “What are you guys waiting for?”

  • • •

  The trees of the Half Acre rustled above me, shaking the last of their summer leaves as the long-ago memory faded. I had looped all the way back without even realizing it. I willed my feet to stop running, practically tripping over them as they slowed while the rest of me kept hurtling. Hands out, I used the big maple to break my fall, my lungs burning and heaving. Darlin’. I could practically hear the cluck of Shonnie’s tongue and see the shake of her head. Where’s the fire? My former boss and favorite singer always called me out on my on-the-run personality, and blamed it on my New York upbringing.

  I had tried to leave New York, and so many of its memories, behind. Pushing blindly forward. Making myself useful everywhere else, trying to help. Trying to please. Doing what I do best.

  My breathing and heart rate returned to normal, and I popped in my earbuds, drowning out my own inner voice with Shonnie’s as I continued to walk it off. Letting her tell me to face my soul forward, because it was easier to hear it from someone else sometimes, than from yourself.

  Mick

  LOVE STINKS

  Not surprisingly, breakfast was lightly attended the next morning. The Jeep had been emptied of its drunken cargo, I observed out the window. I wondered who had come to their senses first.

  Logan was the first one down, soon followed by Bear and his acoustic guitar. Yawning, I worked on autopilot. PB&J for Logan, a quick scrambled mess for Bear and me, and a hearty spinach and cheese egg strata that could withstand sitting around waiting for the others.

  “So. No key ceremony today, huh?” Bear strummed the strings absently with his thumbnail.

  “No key ceremony.” I sipped my coffee.

  “Bummer. Think they’ll stick around?”

  “Dunno.”

  Bear began to strum and tap, striking up a familiar beat. “Got a tribute tonight. Freeze Frame.” He smiled expectantly, waiting for me to guess. When I didn’t, he started to sing.

  Mick wants Dani

  Nash wants Quinn

  Bear wants Angie,

  We just can’t win.

  “Dude!” I silenced the strings with a grip to the guitar neck. “Not cool.” Was it that obvious?

  “I’m just messing. And hey, it rhymed.” He turned to Logan and signed as he said, “Mom wanted me to remind you, you have Randy Jenkins’s birthday party at Sky’s the Limit Trampoline Park today. Go shower the stink off you, kid.”

  Logan grimaced, clearly insulted. His fingers poked and jabbed at the air as he skipped out of the kitchen. Bear just laughed.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I stink, like Angie’s tacos.” Bear bit his lip. “Damn straight. Her two-for-one tacos are the bomb diggity.”

  I put my hand over my eyes, took another sip of coffee, and shook my head.

  “So it’s the J. Geils tribute tonight. You coming?” Bear began strumming again, singing the “yeah, yeah” chorus of “Love Stinks,” one of the band’s two hit songs.

  “Maybe.” I figured with only two hits, it was bound to be an early night. “Gotta get to work now.”

  I was a little disappointed Dani hadn’t shown her face. I figured the other two needed to sleep it off, but she was probably avoiding me. I left her a note under the coffee mug she liked to use.

  1pm— James wedding cake consult

  I hoped she’d get the hint.

  Dani

  REVEL AND REVEAL

  My heart played Nok Hockey in my chest as the bells above the midnight blue door of Mick’s bakery greeted me. Great, Dani. Way to salivate, like one of Pavlov’s dogs, at the mere thought of him. And that was even before checking out his cake samples.

  “Tell him I said gracias!” Angie Vega bustled by me with a bag and a wink. No doubt Mick’s “standing order” for her had stood to its full attention when she was in the room. She was all curves and smoky softness, from the makeup rimming her dark eyes to the tanned cleavage, riding high. I pushed a hand through my curls, thinking they must look like the fuzz on a newborn chick compared to Angie’s voluptuous waves of thick, raven hair.

  “Hey! Dani, right?” It was the hipster with the brow ring.

  “Yes . . . I’ve got”—a date—“an appointment with”—destiny—“Mick.” I swallowed hard.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Dani. It’s just cake.

  I got a grin in return. “He said to send you on back.”

  I followed his long, outstretched arm in the direction he was pointing, and wound my way past tall, intimidating baking racks and stainless steel ovens. Mick’s team of worker bees were turning out muffins, cranking out cupcakes, and touching down torches to the tops of crème brûlée.

  Mick was standing in the middle of all the chaos, a pastry bag gripped in one hand, twirling out fat lilac flowers across the top of a small round cake. It was hypnotizing to watch as he steadily worked from the innermost petal out to create rose after rose in perfect bloom. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips in concentration, and his legs splayed as he leaned to finish off the entire cake, sides and all in the lush, decadent design. Something about a guy like Mick turning out an ultra-feminine work of art was beyond hot. I thought back to our banter about his phallic-looking mask; it was no wonder he was confident in his manhood.

  I waited until he stepped back to inspect his work before commenting, not wanting to startle him.

  “Does it taste as pretty as it looks?”

  He glanced up, tongue still peeking out. “I was just thinking the same thing.” He frowned in the direction of one particular flower, and gave it a final touch-up with the star tip. “Sadly, I wasn’t invited to the party to find out. It’s for a bridal shower tomorrow.”

  “Zena’s?” I asked, remembering the girls gossiping at the Boo-hoo Breakfast.

  “Yeah.” He sounded surprised. “Have you met her?”

  “No, but . . .” Julia’s comment about Mick popping out of the cake came to mind, and I giggled. “You know women when they get together. They talk.”

  His brows went up, and I felt heat creep up my spine, which had nothing to do with the temperature of the commercial ovens cranking behind me. “They’re brutal, I’m sure. Don’t believe a word they say. Especially if it’s about me.”

  “Didn’t you feel your ears burning?” I teased.

  “Not half as hot as your cheeks must be right now.” He m
oved past me toward the sink, but not before dotting one with a squirt from the tip of the pastry bag.

  “Hey!”

  Before I could wipe it off, he leaned in for a quick kiss on my cheek. To the rest of his staff bustling by, it probably looked like an innocent greeting.

  “Yep.” He licked his lips and grinned. “Tastes as pretty as it looks.”

  “Cheeky bastard.”

  “That’s one thing you can call me.” He looked down at the computer printouts I had clutched in my hand. “Oh, good. You brought some ideas with you. Come back here and sit; we’ll have a look.”

  He tossed the spent pastry bag into the sink, and I followed him to a table set up in the back. A laptop running a continuous slideshow of cakes sat in the center, but he quickly shut it. “Let’s see what you brought, and then I can pull up some recent similar examples.”

  I slid in beside him, our knees bumping under the small space. “It’s a little less chaotic back here,” he explained. “If I’m out front, well . . .”

  “Everybody wants a piece of you?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” He smiled, and picked up my first sheet. I had hastily clicked around on a few websites this morning, just so I wouldn’t show up empty-handed. Now I was embarrassed, as his eyes glossed over the run-of-the-mill, safe, and staid choices I had made. Especially after seeing the labor he had just poured over the petal-covered cake. I glanced back at it. What I had brought in was an insult to his imagination.

  “I think of your lips every time I twirl out a rose like that,” he said nonchalantly, as if he were talking about the price of butter these days. “Every time, ever since.” He set down the sheets. “You’ve no idea how the mind tends to wander, when you do a job that keeps the hands busy.”

  “You’re wrong,” was all I could manage to muster. So many times, I hadn’t even realized an hour massage had passed, because I’d been so fixated on the past. That one night with Mick had expanded me, exposed me, to so many possibilities and missed opportunities. But I couldn’t give this guy the satisfaction of knowing. WWDD? In the past, Dani would do what she does best: let them walk away without a fight so they can see their folly later. Or do the walking herself. Until now. What was it about Mick Spencer that made me want to change my tune, and sing a sweet song of surrender?