by Meg Donohue
Ogden pulled a pocketknife from his jeans and sliced the persimmon expertly in his hand. “Raw persimmon is an acquired taste,” he said, handing me a slice, “but I have a feeling you’ll like this one.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’m a baker, Ogden, I wanted to say. Of course I know what persimmon tastes like. I bit into the fruit. It had the texture of a firm heirloom tomato and a heady, semisweet taste as though infused with a tiny drop of honey. I nodded and made a sound of approval.
“You didn’t order any, but I brought you a few to try anyway. I wondered if maybe they might inspire a new cupcake flavor for the holidays,” Ogden said. He kept his serious brown eyes trained on the persimmon in his hand while he spoke, a gesture that seemed oddly bashful and entirely unlike him. “You’ll have to excuse me if that sounds presumptuous. I’ll be the first to admit I know nothing about the recipe creation process.”
I took another bite of persimmon, considering. Ogden held himself very still as he watched me chew, and I appreciated the restraint he showed in not jumping in to fill the silence. I knew it couldn’t have been easy for him.
“You have good instincts,” I said finally. “A persimmon cupcake could be a great addition to the menu. Add some chocolate, a little cinnamon and cardamom, some sweet vanilla icing, and I think we’d have a new Christmas favorite.”
“You don’t think persimmon is too adventurous for your patrons?”
“Nah,” I said. It was actually nice to talk to someone who took food as seriously as I did—I only wished he could do so without sounding so pompous. “But we might have to lead with the chocolate. Chocolate Persimmon Spice. That wouldn’t offend you, would it? If I promised to use organic chocolate?”
“I think my ego can handle a little organic chocolate,” Ogden said. His long eyelashes had a softening effect on his otherwise rugged face. “I came to terms years ago with the fact that my control over the fate of my produce ends the minute it gets carried off my truck.”
“It must be like sending the kids off to college,” I said. “If you love them, set them free.”
“Right.” He had a nice smile. Not too broad, but just big enough to show off a handsome row of white teeth. Apparently, life on the farm had been cushy enough to allow for braces. I realized I was smiling back at him, and that the two of us had been comfortably silent for yet another long beat of time. Suddenly, his eyes clicked away from mine. I looked over my shoulder and there was Julia, all freshly scrubbed and peaches-and-cream in an ivory angora sweater and perfectly blown-out hair. She must have been up for hours.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I said coolly.
She flushed. “Sorry. Just wanted to get a jump on some accounting. Good morning, Ogden.”
“Hi, Julia,” Ogden said politely. I could see him looking discreetly back and forth between the two of us, clearly sensing the friction in the air. “Well, I should hit the road and finish up my deliveries. Annie, you’ll call me?”
I hesitated, confused. Had I said I’d call him? I felt thrown off balance by Julia’s sudden appearance.
“If you decide to make a persimmon order,” Ogden clarified quickly.
“Oh, right. Yes. I’ll call.”
“Great.” Ogden nodded at each of us and exited through the kitchen door. His boots left a little pile of mud on the linoleum floor, and I saw Julia’s nose scrunch up in displeasure at the sight of it. I smiled to myself, secretly happy with Ogden’s unintentional act of transgression, and Julia, catching this smile, seemed to misinterpret it as an opening to chat.
“He’s totally into you, you know,” she said.
I looked at her evenly and shook my head. “We’re not doing this.”
Her face fell. “Please, Annie, at least let me apologize.”
“Why? Do you think I owe you that?” As much as I wanted to remain cool and distant, I felt my blood starting to boil just thinking about her and Jake kissing in that booth. All it took was to let my guard down for an instant, and the image of the two of them seared its way through all of my other thoughts. “I just can’t believe I was so shocked. It’s not as though this is the first time you’ve done something like this.”
“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.
I looked at Julia. She was practically begging me to yell at her, to rehash everything we’d been through a decade earlier. And I took the bait. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d slammed my palms down onto the counter. “I’ve been wanting to put this in the past, but you’re still the exact same person you were when you were a conniving, backstabbing teenager, aren’t you? You started those awful rumors about me in high school! I never had a chance to repair my relationship with my mother,” I said, choking on the word. “She died before my name was cleared!”
“But, Annie, that doesn’t matter,” Julia whimpered, taking a step toward me. “She always believed you.”
I ignored her. “You tried to ruin my life—for what? The fun of it? Because you were jealous that someone like Jake Logan might actually like me? Just admit it already! What’s the point of pretending? You were a bitch then and you’re a bitch now.”
Julia was shaking her head, tears running fast down her cheeks, but the set of her face was indignant even beneath the tears. She opened her mouth and I steeled myself, prepared for a slew of defensive lies. But she just looked at me. After a moment, her mouth closed. She seemed to crumple before me, slumping against the counter. I stared at her, refusing to speak another word. If she thought tears were going to work this time, she was even more delusional than I’d given her credit for.
“You’re right,” she said then. “It was me.”
I sucked in my breath and felt my whole body go still.
“But I never meant for it to get as far as it did,” she said. “I never wanted you to get suspended from Devon. I never wanted Cal to get involved. I never wanted your mom to find out. I made one stupid offhand comment to someone, and it got completely out of control. But it doesn’t matter to you if I made one comment or twenty, does it? Because either way, I caused something terrible to happen. You’re right, I was a complete bitch. And I guess . . . I guess my behavior with Jake proves that I still am. I don’t feel like I’m the same person I was back then, but I guess I am. I don’t deserve your trust. I certainly don’t deserve your friendship. I don’t deserve Wes. I don’t deserve . . . a lot of things. Maybe anything.”
I stood completely still as I listened to her. I guess I thought that if I moved, this mirage of honesty might waver and fade, and I might ruin my chance of finally getting some answers. So it really had been Julia all along! I’d known it, I’d been sure of it, but I suppose some small part of me had held out hope that she would prove me wrong. Now that that hope was gone, I hardly knew how to feel about her.
“I know my apology is much too late and totally worthless. I don’t expect forgiveness,” Julia said quietly. “But I am so very, very sorry. More sorry than I’ve ever been for anything in my entire life.” She wiped at her eyes, but they were already pretty dry. I marveled at her newfound ability to turn her tears on and off; she seemed to have taken to crying in the same way she took to everything else—effortlessly, like a fish to water. When I cried, my eyes were red and puffy for days.
I don’t know what either of us would have said after that, because a turning key in the front door signaled the arrival of Tanya and the start of the baking hours at Treat. Julia nodded at me, gave a pitiful little half shrug, and disappeared into the front of the shop for the remainder of the day.
On my walk back to my apartment that night—I was no longer sharing rides with Julia, having decided getting mugged by Our Guy was the better of two evils—I slowed as I passed the open door of the bodega on my corner. On the news rack the latest issue of San Francisco magazine displayed a photo of a giant cupcake on its cover. I stepped inside and read the headline. “The Cupcak
e Craze: How Two of San Francisco’s Native Daughters Are Leading the Charge.”
Does Julia know about this? I wondered. The magazine had run a brief, but positive mention of Treat when we first opened, and I’d thought that was all the coverage they were planning on giving us. But this was clearly a much larger story. I paid for a copy and one of the inexpensive bottles of Pinot Noir by the counter—after the day I’d had, I figured I was showing some restraint by not moving straight to vodka.
Twenty minutes later, nestled in my couch with a large glass of wine on the coffee table in front of me, I opened the magazine. An image of Julia at Treat’s opening party—her head thrown back mid-laugh, cupcake and enormous engagement ring on equal display in her hand, one black heel lifted daintily behind her—filled an entire glossy page. On the other side, mid-text, there was a small image of me that I remembered the magazine’s photographer taking the week after Treat opened. Leaning against the shop’s counter in my burgundy apron, I looked tired and chunky, like the eccentric sidekick of the leading lady on the opposite page.
When the daughter of one of San Francisco’s most well-known families decided to open a cupcake shop earlier this year, it was not the culmination of a lifelong dream. In fact, Julia St. Clair readily admits the whole endeavor began on a whim. At a time when most small businesses close within a year of opening, starting a cupcake shop is the kind of whim that those of us who don’t have a trust fund estimated in the millions can only dream of chasing.
“I just love cupcakes,” St. Clair admitted at Treat’s opening party this fall. Her sleek blond hair was shiny even under the shop’s seductively dim lights. “After a month of taste testing, it’s a wonder I still fit into this!” she said, gesturing at the black Prada cocktail dress that hugged her trim figure.
I closed my eyes and sank back into the couch, rubbing at my temples. The article was nothing more than a puff piece about a bored, capricious socialite with money to burn. With all of Julia’s resources, with all of the weird public interest in her and her family, she had had the opportunity to shine a light on how Treat was different from other bakeries, how we were special. But no, she’d simply taken the moment to show off her legs. I could have killed her.
After a long spell during which I muttered colorful death threats in between long sips of wine, I finally pulled out my cell phone and called Becca. I filled her in on the confession Julia had made that morning and then told her about the article.
“I’m seriously thinking this whole thing isn’t worth it,” I told her, nearly out of breath from rambling for so long. “Why am I putting myself through this? Believe me, I love Treat. The thought of leaving destroys me. But I can open up another shop someday, can’t I? Why am I doing this to myself?”
“Annie,” Becca broke in when I finally paused. “Did you read the whole article?”
“What? Well, no. Once I started imagining impaling Julia with a spatula, the page went a little out of focus. But I got the gist.”
“I read it when I got home from work,” she said. Her voice had a funny tone. “I think you should read the whole thing.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“You’re not just trying to get me off the phone so you and Mike can have happy couple sex, are you?”
Becca laughed. “Hey,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone.”
“You suck.” I sighed. “Have fun.”
I picked the magazine back up and flipped to the article, rolling my eyes anew at the horrendous juxtaposition of photos. I skimmed down to where I’d stopped reading the first time and resolved to finish the article. It wasn’t easy. There were more references to Julia’s family, her wardrobe, her perfect highlights and impressive résumé, blah blah blah. And then.
“Annie Quintana is quite simply the most talented, most inventive person I’ve ever known,” St. Clair says. There is a new note of earnestness in her voice. She seems to focus when she talks about her business partner, becoming more present in the conversation than when the talk is of her family or upcoming nuptials. “I can’t begin to fathom how her brain works. Her mother was a fabulous baker as well and shared a lot of her secrets with Annie. But it’s more than just inherited knowledge—Annie can taste one ingredient and immediately develop an entire recipe around it. And I guarantee that that cupcake, whatever ingenious combination of flavors it is, is going to be the most delicious and surprising cupcake you’ve ever eaten.”
The rest of the article was about me—my training and career to date—and included a few quotes from me that I now remembered the journalist jotting down at the party. There were glowing descriptions of some of our menu’s most popular cupcakes, as well as a couple of the more experimental ones. The journalist, perhaps entranced by Julia’s enthusiasm, seemed to think Treat was the best thing to happen to the Bay Area’s baking scene in years. I shut the magazine and sighed, feeling utterly confused.
Which Julia is this? She had as many faces as a set of Russian nesting dolls. Still, I had to admit, she’d done exactly what moments earlier I’d been wishing she had done. She’d used her resources—in this case an obsequious journalist who was clearly enthralled by Julia’s societal standing—to successfully promote our little cupcakery.
When my phone rang, I picked it up immediately, expecting it to be Becca. But it was Julia.
“It’s Treat,” she said, her voice tight with what sounded like a mix of rage and fear. “I’m already in the car. Can you meet me there?”
Someone had spray painted the words “GET OUT” in thick black letters across the front window. From the inside. Whoever had done it had managed to get through the front door but hadn’t been able to disarm the alarm and it must have finally driven him away. Inspector Ramirez and several other officers were already inside the shop with Julia when I arrived.
“This feels like déjà vu,” I muttered, crossing over the threshold. Everything in the shop looked normal except for those thick black letters on the window. I checked the kitchen, but nothing appeared out of place. I walked back into the shop, arms crossed tight across my chest. Just the idea of some ill-intentioned stranger in my shop made me sick to my stomach.
Ramirez was crouched by the front door shining a flashlight at the locks. “There isn’t sign of a forced break-in,” he announced, a little out of breath as he hoisted himself out of the squat. “Who else has keys other than the two of you?”
Julia and I looked at each other. “Two of our assistant bakers,” I said. “But this wasn’t either of them. I’m sure of it.” The idea of Tanya or Elisa yielding a can of spray paint was laughable.
“I don’t think you should feel sure of anything right now,” Ramirez said. “I’ll need contact information for all of your employees.”
“Fine,” Julia said. “Whatever you need.”
“Can you think of anyone who might not want this shop to stay open for any reason?” Ramirez asked.
I shrugged. “The Council on Obesity? Militant Mothers Against Refined Sugar? The list of enemies of the cupcake is long.”
“Annie.” Julia sighed.
“What?” I said, turning toward her. “You think someone we know did this? Come on! That’s ridiculous.”
“What else can I think?” Julia asked, her voice shaken. “You have to admit this is beginning to seem calculated.”
“You’d be surprised what a disgruntled employee—” Ramirez began to add.
“No one is disgruntled,” I interrupted. “But we’ll give you the contact list and you can question everyone yourself.”
Ramirez’s eyes skimmed the ceiling, slowing as they reached the corner of the shop near the front door. “If you’re going to stay open, I recommend a security camera. I’m sure your alarm company can install one.”
“If we’re going to stay open?” I asked, surprised.
Ramire
z puffed out his pudgy cheeks and shrugged. “It’s obviously up to you. But it’s clear that someone is targeting your shop. No other businesses in the vicinity have reported such a pattern of incidents. A camera could confirm if it’s the guy you’ve seen hanging around the shop before, or if it’s someone else . . . someone you know.”
“I’ll call the alarm company first thing in the morning,” Julia said. She pulled out her phone and typed a note into it.
Ramirez drummed his pen against his notebook and the noise seemed to echo ominously through the shop. I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I were back on my couch with that glass of wine. “So there’s nothing else I should know?” he asked. Again, he was looking at me. “Nothing else out of the ordinary that’s happened lately that needs to go in the report?”
I thought about this for a moment. “There was an article that came out today in San Francisco magazine about Treat,” I said slowly. I felt Julia’s eyes on my face but didn’t look over at her. “I can’t imagine there’s any connection, but if someone really doesn’t want the shop to be open, I guess they might be pissed about the good press?”
Ramirez jotted this down in his book. “Okay,” he said. I wished he would give more insight, but he just looked around the shop one more time, stifled a yawn, and snapped his notebook shut.
After we’d reactivated the alarm and locked the shop back up, Ramirez walked us to Julia’s car. Once we were inside, the car’s heavy silence took over.
“My next investment will be in a graffiti-removal company,” she said after a moment.
