How to Eat a Cupcake

by Meg Donohue

  Looking around at the start of the party, seeing how all the hard work we’d put in over the previous few months was paying off, I felt a surge of satisfaction crackle within me and hoped it would eclipse my nerves. I still couldn’t believe how creative Annie was in coming up with the different flavors and embellishments for each cupcake; the finished products looked like huge jewels that sparkled appealingly in the counter display and on the black lacquer trays passed by the waitstaff. Annie had had her nose to the grindstone for days, as focused as I’d ever seen her, dicing apples and pears until they looked like nuggets of gold—as well they should, considering what that fruit cost!—and tasted like pure, sweet, warm explosions of flavor baked into the cakes. Annie’s dexterity, precision, and speed with a knife had been a sight to behold. My contributions to the cupcakery’s opening night were decidedly more mundane: I’d interviewed and hired the night’s waitstaff, overseen the completion of the various construction and design projects, and ordered all of the noncooking supplies the shop needed. Treat glowed with sexy, low-lit energy; laughter and music filled the space; hip, beautiful people bit into cupcake after cupcake. If the shop had been in the Marina instead of the Mission, it was just the sort of place I would have visited frequently. But there was no use crying over that spilled buttermilk.

  “Hey there, Cupcake,” Wes said, appearing by my side and wrapping his arm around my waist. “Congratulations to the boss lady!” He kissed my cheek and I allowed my eyes to shut for a moment, blocking out the crowd, the sticky-sweet air, the music that Annie had dug up from who knew where featuring a cool-as-a-cucumber Frenchman rapping rat-tat-tat over remixed John Coltrane jazz tracks. Part of me wished I could just slip out unnoticed into the night, tucked securely under Wes’s strong arm. A larger part of me was disgusted and confused by this desire. If I weren’t careful, before long I would find myself morphing into the type of soft-spoken, ineffectual girl-woman who was stepped on during business meetings.

  “I’m not sure you should call me Cupcake anymore,” I said, opening my eyes to look up at Wes. “It’s like mixing business with pleasure.”

  “Tough tamales. I had dibs on that endearment long before you decided to rekindle your friendship with a baker. Where is Annie, anyway? I want to finally meet this mysterious childhood best friend of yours.”

  I scanned the room, knowing it couldn’t take long to spot Annie, who had chosen to wear a floor-length 1960s muumuu in a deep shade of turquoise that looked, I had to admit, strikingly lovely against her honey-toned skin. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, giving her a couple extra inches of height, and spiked through with a gold, rhinestone-encrusted chopstick. Or at least I thought it was a chopstick, but who knew what you called the utensil once it pierced a mound of hair. Perhaps just a stick? Regardless, she looked stunning—like a colorful little bird that surprises everyone with its audacity and out-of-place beauty by landing right in the middle of a bustling city sidewalk.

  As I suspected, Annie was easy to locate. She was leaning against the door to the kitchen, her upturned face flushed and radiant as she chatted with a man who had his back to me. Just as I was about to point her out to Wes, the man she was with planted his hand against the door behind her ear, leaned in, and kissed her on the lips. I stared at the man’s back, feeling an uneasy shiver of recognition travel up my spine. Jake Logan! Jake Logan and Annie? When Jake pulled away, Annie’s face glowed, surprised and pleased and somehow even lovelier than it had seemed a moment earlier. I turned back to Wes, irritation, anger, and then that old buzz of jealousy traveling through me in swift succession.

  Isn’t there some rule about friends not dating one another’s exes? I thought, blinking down into my champagne glass so that Wes wouldn’t catch on to my distress. This thought was followed quickly by a pang of concern. Annie’s eyes were all moony and big when she looked up at Jake, but I knew for a fact that Jake—who sailed through life on a steady breeze of charm and limitless credit cards—wasn’t good for someone like Annie. Sure, Annie put on a jokey, blithe front, but over those last few months I’d learned, or perhaps remembered, that in truth she was a hardworking, focused woman. She deserved a man, not a boy. And certainly not a boy who was married to someone else.

  Suddenly, my parents swooped into view, double-kissing Wes and then me in a lightning-quick motion perfected by years of practice.

  “Congratulations, Julia darling!” my mother rasped. She held up a pumpkin spice cupcake from which she’d taken one tiny bite. “My compliments to the chef and her spectacularly clever business partner on a smashing debut.”

  “Hear, hear!” thundered my dad, knocking his half-eaten chocolate cupcake against my mother’s. He beamed at me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I shook my hair back, determined not to let the sight of Annie and Jake kissing cast a fog over the entire evening. “It does seem to be going well, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, I bet if you spent half as much time on your wedding preparations as you have on this cupcake shop, we might have things sorted out on the whole biggest-day-of-your-life front,” my mother said smoothly. “Wesley darling, did you know your bride-to-be has ducked out of nearly every wedding-related appointment I’ve made in the last few months? How does it feel to play second fiddle to tiny cakes?” She looked up innocently at Wes and took a nibble of her cupcake, lips curled back so as to not smear her lipstick.

  “Now, Lolly—” my father began.

  “Mom!” I interrupted, working to keep my voice low. Wes watched me with a bemused look from behind his black Clark Kent glasses. “This really isn’t a good time to talk about the wedding.”

  “Well, of course it isn’t!” my mother scoffed. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. Don’t you think Wesley ought to know where your priorities lie?”

  I stared at her, flabbergasted. Suddenly, Wes’s hand encased mine. When he gave my palm a squeeze, I turned my attention from my mother to my future husband and melted as I always did when faced with the incomparable gift that was his kindness.

  “Mrs. St. Clair—apologies, Lolly,” Wes said, correcting himself even as my mother tsked at him. “If I didn’t know I was second fiddle to cupcakes in the eyes of my beautiful fiancée, I really wouldn’t know her at all, would I? The good news is that I love her sweet tooth just as much as all the other pretty white teeth in her pretty pink mouth. All I really want to do is marry the girl. Heck, we could get married right here in this shrine to sweets if that solves the problem of planning a big shindig.”

  I tried not to laugh outright at the look of horror that crossed my mother’s face. She took a larger, distracted bite of her cupcake, looking wide-eyed from me to Wes to me again. When neither of us spoke, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a black cocktail napkin and sighed. “I see. Well, let’s not be hasty. I’ll just plan the wedding on my own. There’s no need to resort to justices of the peace or drive-through chapels or cupcake shops in the Mission—no offense, of course, Julia darling. You two can stop your flower-child scheming, if you please, and leave this in my capable hands. I just hope you feel as strongly as I do about tiered floral arrangements, Chiavari chairs, and gold damask tablecloths.”

  “I’m sure Julia and Wesley trust your taste implicitly,” my father said, winking at me. “I’m sure that’s exactly what all this absenteeism was about in the first place.” He placed his hand at the small of my mother’s back. “Now you two will have to excuse us. It’s our duty as both guests and guinea pigs to reacquaint ourselves with the young lady who was doling out those heavenly mint-chocolate numbers.”

  Once they were safely out of earshot, Wes laughed. “Our ‘flower-child scheming’? What on God’s green earth was all that about?”

  I shrugged, smiling, and stopped a passing waitress to exchange my empty champagne glass for a full one. I took a long gulp of champagne, but swallowed quickly when I realized Wes was still watching me.
He leaned down toward my ear.

  “Baby,” he said softly. “Everything okay?”

  My spine stiffened. The concern in his voice was too much. It would only take a few more words from him before the stress of the evening finally broke me down.

  “I really wish you all would stop asking me that. I’m busy, Wes! I’ve been busy for months and I am busy tonight. My mother is driving me crazy with this wedding stuff and I really don’t need it from you, too. Why does everyone suddenly think this is an appropriate time to discuss anything but cupcakes? I would like to talk about catering opportunities and marketing plans! Can you do that or not?”

  Wes’s handsome face darkened. “No, Julia, I suppose I can’t. Not right now anyway.” He brushed his hands against his pant legs, as though he’d accidentally touched something unpleasant. “I’m going to track down a cupcake and leave you to it. You’ve got an event to manage.”

  As if I need you to remind me, I thought irritably as I watched him walk away. But my thoughts were starting to come more slowly now, taking a bit too long to arrange themselves into any sort of order. Why did I just snap at him? Already, I had trouble remembering.

  When I allowed myself to glance back toward the kitchen again, Annie and Jake were still leaning against the door frame, gazing at each other and stealing little kisses. My eyes buzzed. She should be mingling! I thought crossly. These people need to buy into her as much as they need to buy into the idea of cupcakes. Why did it suddenly feel like I was the only one pulling my weight around here? I started to make my way over to Annie, but was quickly intercepted by a gangly, red-haired, vaguely familiar-looking woman.

  “Hi, Julia?” the woman said, her apologetic smile revealing a horsey mouthful of large, unnaturally white teeth. “I’m Lainey? Lainey Pruott? From San Francisco magazine? We chatted at the Meals on Wheels holiday benefit last year?”

  Shit! I pressed my shoulders back, trying to shake the blurriness from my vision and thoughts. “Lainey!” I cooed, dropping two swift kisses on the woman’s cheeks. I gave her elbow a familiar squeeze to seal the illusion of warmth. “I’m so thrilled you made it! How are you? How’s—” I searched my memory for the name of Lainey’s husband, a writer for the San Francisco Chronicle who I’d also met at the party that winter. Why did I have to drink so much? One less glass of champagne and that name would have been on the tip of my tongue. My memory was usually a steel trap, a dependable strategic weapon in business and social warfare. But now I drew a blank. I remembered only that Lainey Pruott phrased everything like a question, making you unsure—right up until the day when you saw yourself quoted in glossy print comparing the city’s homeless population to “a glaring blemish on an otherwise flawless five-carat diamond”—whether you were having a conversation or being interviewed. Context, it seemed, really was everything.

  “Tim?” Lainey said helpfully. I could tell she was happy to supply the information, and flattered that I remembered either of them at all. I stole another sip of champagne to cover my relief.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Is Tim here as well?”

  “Unfortunately, no. He had another obligation. But I promised to do reporting for the both of us. I know he’s planning to stop by sometime in the next few weeks.”

  “Wonderful! We’ll keep on our toes. Have you had a cupcake yet?”

  “Um, three?” As Lainey giggled nervously, her lips spread back to her pale pink gums and revealed a smudge of chocolate lodged at the top of her right canine. “I know it’s a very exciting night, but do you have time for a quick interview?”

  “An interview?” I repeated. “Now?” Apparently, Lainey’s irritating question marks were contagious. I cleared my throat. “Of course. Just let me grab my business partner, Annie Quintana.”

  “Why don’t I talk to her later?” Lainey said hurriedly, pulling out a notebook. “Besides, you’re the one our readers know. You’ve been gracing our pages since your debutante days. Julia St. Clair opens a cupcake shop! What a story, right?”

  I shook my head. “Annie’s the pastry chef. She’s the heart behind this place.” I glanced over to where Annie still stood beside Jake, laughing flirtatiously with him as if they were alone and not in the midst of her business’s launch party. Ungrateful. The word flashed in my mind, followed almost instantly by a feeling of guilt. But why should I feel guilty when I have done nothing but behave generously toward her for months now? Guilt was the last thing I should feel.

  Lainey smiled at me encouragingly, pen poised above her notebook.

  “I do see your point,” I said slowly. “Let’s give your readers what they want.”

  An hour later I was enjoying that holy-grail state of inebriation: appropriately high energy paired with a comfortable, manageable plateau of dulled nerves. Considering the amount of champagne I’d imbibed, I felt I was handling myself admirably, and chatting easily, but with the proper modicum of restraint, with everyone who approached me. I didn’t even mention that kiss I had witnessed when Jake came over and wisecracked about how someone must have slipped a Mickey in my cupcake. Despite his comment, I remained sure I was holding myself together quite well. I felt illogically pleased by this, like being able to run a business while sloshed was some adult rite of passage and I had come out the other side unscathed.

  The party was starting to thin out, and for the first time all night, I began to feel I could breathe again. Wes reappeared at my side—where had he been all night? The man could talk to anyone.

  “I met Annie,” he said. “She’s a riot, isn’t she? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Oh sure,” I said. “She’ll joke you right out of your pants. The original man-eater.”

  Wes looked at me strangely. “Julia,” he said, “I think you might be a little drunk.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I looked down, picked a piece of lint off the bodice of my black cocktail dress, and held it out to Wes as though it was evidence of something. After a moment, he took it from me and let it drop to the floor.

  “Why don’t I take you home? My car is parked right up the street. I’m sure Annie can handle closing up.”

  “What are you talking about? I can’t leave! This is my shop.” The irritation I’d felt earlier swiftly returned. It was a feeling, I realized, I’d been experiencing a lot when I was with Wes lately. I was alone for weeks at a time, suffering in silent anguish, and he expected to swoop in and take care of me whenever it was convenient for his schedule? The fact that he didn’t actually know I’d been suffering all that time was no excuse.

  Wes was saved from the full force of my anger by the approach of a man I had noticed mingling all night with the crowd of chefs and bakers that Annie had invited to the opening. The man was sandy-haired and burly, out of place but self-possessed among the bespectacled, skinny-panted crowd. Another journalist? I doubted it, but summoned my most charming smile just in case.

  “You’re Julia, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I am. Julia St. Clair. And this is Wesley Trehorn,” I said. Not introducing Wes as my fiancé was a covert jab that I noted with satisfaction hit its mark precisely.

  “Nice to meet you both. I’m Ogden Gertzwell.” After a night of shaking hands with sycophantic strangers, I noted that Ogden’s hand felt uniquely huge and warm and solid.

  Ah, I thought. The organic farmer. I clicked my smile wattage down a notch. Annie had told me all about her day at Gertzwell Farm. In her particular Annie way, she’d described Ogden as a self-righteous bore who would be well served to figure out how to convert his long-winded orations into energy to fuel his farm. What Annie hadn’t told me was how handsome he was. Or, if not handsome exactly, then hunky in that way guys could be when they had big noses and thick biceps.

  “It’s not every day I meet an Ogden,” Wes said, giving the farmer’s robust handshake a run for its money.

  “Ogden of the delicious pears,”
I said, taking in his wide-wale corduroy pants rubbed bare at the knees, his plain black T-shirt hugging his broad chest, his calm, thoughtful eyes. “I hear we should be quite honored you selected us as the middlewomen between your fruit and the public.”

  A slow flush worked its way up Ogden’s neck. He looked at Wes. “Ogden Nash,” he explained. “My mother is really into punny poets.”

  “ ‘I think that I shall never see / A billboard lovely as a tree. / Indeed, unless the billboards fall, / I’ll never see a tree at all,’ ” Wes quoted theatrically.

  As the two men eyed each other appreciatively, I worked hard not to roll my eyes.

  “Have you seen Annie yet?” I asked.

  “Seen but not spoken to,” Ogden said. “She’s quite the belle of the ball. It’s been hard to get her attention.”

  We all looked toward the bar in the front window where Annie was laughing with her friend Becca. When she laughed like that, the usual sardonic posturing was swept from her face and she looked just like her mother. Growing up, it had always seemed to me that people came out of the woodwork to befriend Lucia—she’d had one of those open, sweet faces toward which people from all walks of life seemed to naturally gravitate. Annie, for all her sarcasm, had the same quality. She’d invited an eclectic group of friends and acquaintances to the party and each one—from this burly farmer with the dirt under his nails right up to my moneyed Lothario of an ex-boyfriend—seemed determined to wrangle some time with her. By comparison, my measly entourage of fiancé and parents felt pathetic. I drained the champagne in my glass quickly enough that it was possible to believe the sudden burning in my throat was from alcohol and not jealousy.

  “Is there something in particular you want to say to her?” I asked Ogden, my voice almost singsong with teasing. “I’m very good at delivering messages.”