by Meg Donohue
Jake stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, his bristly chin resting on my shoulder as we both stared into the fire, rocking slightly. The apartment seemed to creak and yawn around us—cool and shadowed everywhere but the living, glowing swath of light in which we stood. There was brief mention of a hot shower, and then Jake’s surprisingly warm hands were on my shoulders and he was peeling off my dress and bathing suit until moments later he guided me, naked but no longer shivering, into the bedroom.
Chapter 8
Julia
In the dream, I was running from someone or something but had been injured and too slow to escape. Or maybe I was running in mud. Or water. The sound of whatever was behind me got closer and closer. I felt its breath on my hair, and then I was falling an impossibly long distance, a horrible mournful howling in my ears. And then suddenly I jerked awake, heart racing in the dense blackness of my bedroom. The house, save for the whirring of the ceiling fan, was silent. My cell phone clock read 3:30 a.m. I could almost feel the steady, rhythmic breathing of the slumbering city. Out on the bay, a foghorn blew low and long.
I rolled to my side and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking as the familiar room with its trellis-patterned, Tiffany-blue carpet and tassel-trimmed drapes flooded with light. Circling my ankles beneath the cool sheets, I stretched the cramps from my legs. There was no way I would get back to sleep now. I swung my bare legs over the side of the bed and pulled yoga pants from where they were folded neatly on a cream-colored chaise. Immediately, I felt a little better. I liked clothing that not only showed off my figure, but enhanced it as well, and the yoga pants were ones that promised to lift and minimize my butt. They made me feel streamlined and efficient, a lean, mean, multitasking machine.
If insomnia has a perk, it’s the extra work hours it adds to the day. I might as well try to get some things done. Cupcakery or wedding, though? I decided to check my e-mail and let any new messages make the decision for me. When I saw an e-mail at the top of my in-box from the contractor I’d hired to work on the cupcake shop, I breathed a sigh of relief. Thinking about the wedding inevitably turned my thoughts to the enormous secret I was keeping from Wes, which in turn left me a sniveling, mentally paralyzed mess; the cupcakery, on the other hand, produced no such rush of emotions. So I’d found myself leaving more and more of the wedding details in the hands of my mother—something I’d never in a million years thought I would do.
The wood bar should run the length of the front window, I typed in response to the contractor’s question, the brisk clacking of the keyboard working to untangle the final threads of the bad dream from my thoughts. It annoyed me to have to repeat these instructions (I was sure this information was crystal clear on the design plan taped to the wall of the cupcakery), but I had to admit that, all in all, Burt Vargas had proven himself to be a dependable, efficient contractor—a diamond in the rough.
A week earlier, Burt had presented Annie and me with photographs of a gorgeous swath of redwood—its pattern of rich, golden-brown wood grains almost like tiger stripes—that had been salvaged from an old Sonoma barn. Immediately, both of us expressed that it was perfect for the cupcakery’s window bar where customers would belly up to nibble an afternoon treat and sip a perfectly poured cappuccino. As with every decision that was made with relative ease, I had done a little internal victory dance when we had so easily agreed.
Things had moved remarkably quickly over the past month. After the fight in the kitchen, Annie and I had forged a truce of sorts in the interest of getting things done. What else was there to do? I couldn’t change the past. All either of us could do was move forward.
Within days of that first meeting, Annie had found vacant retail space on a dodgy stretch of Twentieth Street in the Mission and, despite the unease I’d felt walking around that unfamiliar, almost foreign part of the city, I’d agreed to rent it, hoping that the relative proximity of well-regarded neighborhood restaurants like Delfina and Tartine would result in some spillover patronage. A careful design plan would transform the tight space, and Annie assured me the kitchen needed only a few straightforward alterations to get it up to baking snuff.
We’d agreed—agreed!—that we didn’t want to join the trendy ranks of bakeries that were decorated all pretty-pretty-princess sugary and white. Just as easily, we resolved not to go in the direction of the other ubiquitous restaurant trend toward sleek, minimal decor. Instead, we decided on a decadent, almost louche design: burgundy, threadbare carpets tossed over beat-up wood floors, damask wallpaper, an oversized lacquer chandelier, display cabinets lined in black lace. The concept was cupcake as forbidden fruit. The shop would be a haven for those looking to escape responsible adulthood, work, and the relentless whip-crack of Northern California outdoorsiness that nipped at the heels of urbanites. Why hike the Headlands, our shop would murmur seductively, when you can belly up to the bar for cupcakes and cappuccinos? It would be a den for overgrown children looking for an indulgence, something nostalgic, something simultaneously luxurious and youthful. Much like a pharmaceutical drug or being in love, Annie’s cupcakes would make you feel better.
At least that’s what they do for me, I thought.
Treat. We would call the cupcakery Treat. After all, this was San Francisco.
It hadn’t all been easy. We’d had some setbacks, including an odd week when the construction crew complained of missing tools and the evening that I’d walked down the street from the shop to my Mercedes to find one of its rear tires slashed, but we were in the Mission—what did we expect? At the time, there didn’t seem to be anything particularly foreboding about these small crimes. Throughout it all, our timeline remained intact and, as I’d suspected, steering our little team through a lengthy to-do list was providing much-needed shape to my days. Still, I was disappointed to find that sadness continued to burn in my chest like a sunbaked stone, that the throbbing ache inside of me could not truly be relieved by any number of delicious cupcakes. But all I could do was keep trying.
“Special delivery!” my mother called, carrying a large wrapped box topped by an enormous ivory bow into the library several days after that night of insomnia. I looked up from the book I was reading and sighed. The unsubtle tactics of those hoping to obtain an invite to my wedding entertained me at times, but at other times, like this one, I felt exhausted—disgusted, even—by the whole thing.
My mother took one look at me and made a tsk-tsk noise before lowering the box down to the floor at my feet.
“It’s our way, Julia darling,” she said. “When there’s an engagement, there are gifts. And your thank-you note will be gracious and heartfelt, I’m sure. If I’ve taught you one thing, please tell me it is etiquette.”
Not kindness? I wanted to ask, thinking of my treatment of Annie all those years ago. Not how to hunt down happiness even when it’s faster and wilier than it’s ever been before? I wanted to ask, thinking of myself.
When I didn’t respond, my mother eyed me. “Well,” she said, her voice a touch softer. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
The box contained a carving set from my great aunt Lucy. The sterling silver knife handle was intricately detailed with fussy little curlicues that would normally have made me cringe but today just made me feel lost. What life were these presents for? Holiday tables? Family dinners? How was it that so many people seemed capable of envisioning what I could not?
My mother patted my head as though I were an obedient dog. It was an oddly consoling gesture. For the first time, I wondered just how much of the truth she had deduced from my abrupt return home, my avoidance of all things wedding, my sudden passion for cupcakes.
“I’ll put this with the other gifts in the guest room,” I said, standing. My mother’s hand dropped back down to her side. “It’s a beautiful set,” I added, summoning a smile. I knew the kind of smile I had. It was part nature, part nurture. It told the world that I was fine, I was happy, I was
neat and tidy and nothing to worry about.
My mother returned it with her own dazzlingly bright version.
I placed the box at the top of a stack of gift boxes in the guest room at the end of the second-floor hall and then lay back on the bed and held my cell phone above me, swiftly tapping in a reminder to myself about the thank-you note. When I finished typing, I checked the time and called Wes.
“Two more weeks, beautiful!” he said warmly.
“Two more weeks,” I repeated. I propped myself up on the bed so it would be easier to match his enthusiasm. Two more weeks until Wes was in San Francisco again. “I’m so excited to see you.” I knew acutely just how strange it was that I hadn’t told him yet about the events surrounding my hospital stay, but with each week that passed, it seemed more and more impossible to share the news. Still, I couldn’t live like this forever. And I couldn’t stand up there in front of three hundred people and recite vows with this secret between us.
“Well, damn, Julia, could you make me believe it?” Wes drawled. “You sound like a coyote just snatched your puppy clean out your backyard.”
“What?” In spite of my blue mood, I laughed. “Sorry, Wes. I really do miss you. I guess I’m tired.”
“You? Tired? I am talking to Julia St. Clair, aren’t I? And here I’ve been under the impression you didn’t get tired. That tired isn’t in your DNA. Is this Julia of the six a.m. conference call? Ms. New-York-Marathon-in-Three-Hours-Twenty-Four-Minutes? My wheatgrass-slugging, kickboxing, number-crunching, business-building, sexy-ass fiancée?”
“That was back when I was busy. I have too much time on my hands now. Even with all I’ve been doing for the cupcakery, the day just goes on and on.”
“Sounds terrible,” Wes said, and I could tell he really meant it. We shared a distaste for unscheduled, inevitably unproductive days. “I still can’t believe you just quit your job lickety-split like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled. Now we can be together in San Francisco. But you loved that job. I’m still shocked at how quickly it all went down. Lo and behold, I’m marrying an enigma. Is it wrong that that sort of turns me on?”
“Well, there you go. That’s why I did it. To reignite your passion.”
“No need! Burning strong, baby!” Wes gave a little growl, and I couldn’t help laughing again. It felt nice. Wes was good at cheering me up, not that I’d often been in need of the cheer over the course of our relationship. He was a smart, kind, solid man, and I wondered sometimes, in the rare moments when my confidence flickered for just an instant, if I deserved him. What would he say when he knew the truth? Not that anything that had happened was my fault, I reminded myself.
Unless. Unless something inside of me—something toxic that had been festering there all along—had made this happen? There was, I realized, a distinct possibility that when it came right down to it I was not a good person. I knew Wes would deny this, but he wasn’t inside my head with me. He only saw what I let him see. I hadn’t told him yet that my old friend Annie apparently hated my guts, and that she probably had good reason to.
The truth was that sometimes I found it nearly impossible to keep the toxic thoughts from entering my head. It’s not like there is a finite amount of good fortune in the world, I told myself when good news from a friend put me in a funk. Just because something good happens to someone else doesn’t mean something good won’t also happen to you. Caroline Rydell, for example, had recently called with the wonderful news that she was pregnant. But wasn’t it only human to want other people’s good fortune for yourself? Or did that make you a bad person? Annie, I guessed, would say that made me mean.
Maybe I should give yoga another shot. Or—I cringed—therapy. I shook my head, unable to bear the thought of either. I just need to tell him.
“Wes,” I said abruptly. “When you envision you and me in the future—what do you see?”
He laughed. “Uh-oh! Cold feet already?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just miss you. Humor me.”
“Okay, let’s see. I picture us getting married—let’s start there. After that, I see us sucking down fruity drinks and baking in the sun and rolling around naked in our honeymoon suite for a good two weeks. You with me so far?”
“At your side.”
“Phew. How much further should I go?”
I swallowed. “A lifetime.”
“A lifetime? Good Lord, Julia, just how cold are your feet?”
“They’re perfectly room temperature. I’d just like to hear a story.”
“A story. A little ditty about Wes and Julia. Got it. Okay, next, I see us settled into a nice house in San Francisco with a little yard. Don’t worry, I see a gardener as well—I’m well aware that not one of our four combined thumbs is the remotest shade of green. But it will have to be a very ugly gardener because my ego can’t handle one of those strapping, sensitive fellows that clips rosebushes and hauls enormous bags of fertilizer in the same breath.
“What else? I see us meeting up for sushi and cocktails at Umami after we’ve each spent long days in our respective offices . . . or bakeries, or wherever. I see a lot of very nice bottles of wine. I see brunches and the Sunday Times. I see us butting heads over the current state of world affairs and enthusiastically, creatively making up all over the house. I see myself dragging you to a lot of movies starring Will Ferrell, and I see you dragging me to a lot of movies that involve more reading than watching. I see myself pillaging your brilliant brain time and time again for answers to any number of business conundrums that I’ll face along the way of building this company. I see us traveling—scuba in the Galapagos, island-hopping off the coast of Croatia, eating our way through Asia. I see us old and sage and happy—two clever silver foxes with full bellies and toothy grins and eyes shining with love that has lasted a lifetime.”
Wes paused. “Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. My heart was racing in my chest. “I like that story.” This is it, I thought. This is when I should tell him.
“Well, I hope so, because it’s ours. I can see it all as clear as day. Forty years from now: You, me, and a gaggle of grandkids. There can’t be a happy ending without rug rats, right?”
Grandkids. I swallowed. “Right.”
“Feel better?”
“Much. Thanks.” Really, after all this time, it would be terrible to tell him over the phone, wouldn’t it? “Listen, I’ve got to go. Cupcakes and weddings and all that!” I tried to make my voice sound light.
“Atta girl!” he drawled, all gravel and honey. “Back to the icing-and-roses grind. You’re my hero.”
“Well, someone has to ensure our wedding is the event of the season,” I said. “I love you. Talk to you later.”
I ended the call and immediately, before I had time to process the turns our conversation had taken, the phone rang in my hand.
“Julia?” a gruff voice said. “It’s Burt Vargas. Your contractor?”
“Hi, Burt,” I said, struggling to switch gears. “Everything going okay?”
“Well, see, that’s the thing.” Burt cleared his throat, a long, wet rumbling that twisted my stomach. “There’s been a . . . an incident. I think you better get down here.”
Chapter 9
Annie
When I arrived at the cupcakery, Julia was already there. She nodded when she saw me and glanced down at the plank of wood at her feet.
“Hey, Annie,” Burt said, pushing up the rolled sleeves of his gray plaid button-down. “I was just telling Julia that I don’t understand how this could have happened. My guys locked the place up last night, and when they got here this morning . . .”
We all looked down at the beautiful, tiger-striped redwood plank that was meant for the shop’s bar. In fluorescent orange spray paint, someone had covered the wood with the words “YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.” I felt my heart begin to
pound in my ears. Those words. I looked up again and found Julia’s eyes anxiously searching my face.
“There’s no sign of a break-in,” Burt was saying. “Doesn’t make any sense.”
Julia moved her gaze from me to Burt. “No sign of break-in,” she repeated. She tucked her blond hair behind her ears, revealing obnoxiously large diamond studs, and turned slowly in a circle. “Did they do anything else? Is anything missing?”
“Nah, nothing. Just this graffiti. Probably some neighborhood kids getting their shits and giggles. You know how kids are. Do you want me to call the police?”
“Of course,” I said. My voice sounded small.
Burt looked at me and nodded. He pulled out his phone and walked into the kitchen where “his guys” were hammering and yelling to each other in Spanish, leaving Julia and me alone in the front room.
