Evelyn scrunches her forehead. “A thank you for what?”
I’m suddenly at a loss for words. Their display of affection has caught me totally off guard, my heart and stomach still doing some loopty-loos.
“Oh,” I finally splutter, “thanks for doing a great job today,” I stammer out to Evelyn, my gaze quickly darting to meet Chad’s coffee-colored eyes. “And thanks for helping out tonight, Chad. Appreciate it.”
Evelyn takes the box with a smile, saying thank you and taking the lead to exit.
“Have fun tonight,” I call out awkwardly, holding open the door.
The two step into the chilly, black night and make their way to Chad’s large truck parked erratically, front and center in the small parking lot.
I wave goodbye and begin to lock the door.
As Chad’s truck engine roars to life and the last click of the front door’s lock sounds, I notice the large smudge in the middle of the glass door.
“Chad,” I grouse, shaking my head.
I unsuccessfully rub away the forehead imprint with the sleeve of my sweater.
“Always causing trouble.”
I rub harder at the smudge, but only make things worse.
I unlock the door and dash into the kitchen, fetching the glass cleaner and a paper towel, mumbling to myself, “Always causing trouble.”
Chapter Nine
Pike Place Market. It is one of my most favorite places in all of Seattle, if not the most favorite. There is no greater attraction for tourists, no grander outdoor market with a never-ending plethora of delights ready to tickle all your senses, no better place to watch the Pacific Northwest bayside city rise and shine to life with the morning sun.
It’s the oldest continuously operating market in the country. One step from the rush-rush of downtown’s sloping streets and onto this waterfront strip of vendors and stalls neck to neck, you’ll see fishmongers shouting out the day’s impressive catch and special price, and you won’t have to ask why it’s still so well-loved.
The crowds really begin to thicken after nine, ten o’clock, when tourists rouse themselves from bed in search of adventure and locals set out to restock their refrigerators. Little children on a field trip will press their small noses against the glass of Beecher’s, fascinated by the art of cheesemaking. The aroma of freshly baked cinnabuns, cinnatwists, and cinnamon-topped coffee waft freely in the salty air from cafés that have, unlike the vendors on the opposite side, permanent housing.
Produce vendors who set up in their fought-for temporary position in the market each and every morning pile their rainbow selection of goods into carefully curated heaps. Artisans, coffee and tea enthusiasts, organic farmers, glass blowers, weavers, and carpenters all share space among the florists whose intensely colored bouquets of sunflowers, dahlias, and zinnias spill into the aisles.
It’s Pike Place Market: the place to go to watch a show (really, the fishmongers are a must-see), to catch a bite to eat (Beecher’s mac and cheese…I need not say more), to fill the grocery bags with succulent berries for the day’s cupcake and scone recipes, or to do some locally-made shopping.
I’m taking in the delicious sites and snacking along the way in preparation for the busy day of baking ahead of me. It’s going to be a day filled with a variety of recipes, not excluding the dozen chocolate-cherry, the dozen lemon-raspberry, and the dozen strawberry shortcake cupcakes (what I call “the Rose” cupcake because it’s Rose’s favorite) I have on pick-up order.
Two hefty bags filled with shiny apples and two small pumpkins hang off one arm, while the other arm is weighed down with bags of plums, figs, fresh herbs and flowers, blanched almonds, dried cherries, and ten pounds of my beloved deep-roast espresso.
When I think I’m about maxed out with the capacity to hold (and stay standing), my cell phone rings. Just as no one needs to second-guess why Pike Place Market is the best site in Seattle, I don’t need more than one guess to know that Claire’s the caller on the end of the line, eager for one of our morning chats.
“Hey, girly,” I say in a strained way as I nearly dump the weighty bags on the side of the steep curb.
“Sophie, darling!” Claire squeals delightedly. “Good morning!”
“Good morning to you, too, Happy Pants,” I say through a laugh, jumping up onto the curb just as a beat-up truck, mud caking its thick wheels, turns at the corner.
“Okay, it sounds like this isn’t the greatest of times.” She sounds out of breath. “Way loud. Where are you?”
“Market day.” I plug my free ear with a finger, the noise of the market’s vendors making it difficult to hear Claire clearly.
“Jealous. So don’t have a place like that here in Spokane.” She says Spokane in an off-putting, nasally way. “I’d call you back, but I just can’t wait!” she pants.
“You okay? You sound like you’re dying.” I pluck a pinch of dried cherries from the bag and pop one into my mouth.
“Morning jog. With Schnicker. Dog has way too much energy.” She sighs loudly, then clears her throat. “Anyway, I can’t wait. I’ve got news!”
“Sounds like some good news.” A new friend, perhaps? The new paycheck is looking really appealing? Conner getting on with his coworkers?
I take a seat on the curb, munching on another cherry, and pull my long legs close. I wipe at what looks like a dusting of flour at the kneecaps of my light-wash Banana Republic jeans.
“I’m coming to visit!” she screams so loudly I have to pull the phone back a smidgen. “I’m so excited! Can you believe it?! I’m coming to Seattle! I’m visiting! I can’t wait!” She’s panting louder than ever now.
“My god,” I squeal back. “That’s so exciting, Claire!”
“I know, right?” She gives a guttural sigh. “Oh, I can’t wait! Conner surprised me. I guess he’s had it planned from, like, before we even moved.” She sniffs in loudly. “He knew I couldn’t go long without complaining a bunch about how I missed you and the girls.”
“That’s a fantastic surprise, Claire.” I tuck my legs further into my chest as another truck, this one smaller, newer, yet still just as dirty, comes to a rolling stop and turns.
“Two weeks,” she says. “I’ll get in Friday after work, leave Sunday. I can’t wait!”
As I see another car approach, beginning to worry if my position on the curb is a death wish, I gather my heavy bags and tell Claire we’ll have to catch up some more later.
“Okay, okay,” she rushes out. “I’m just so excited, I had to tell you ASAP.”
“I’ll get a girls’ night planned,” I say as I make my way up the steep slope to where my Prius is parked two blocks away.
“Obviously,” she says in a valley-girl tone. “Oh, this’ll be great! Okay. I really have got to let you go and get myself showered and off to work. It’s catheter training day today!” She giggles.
“Sounds…interesting.”
“Not so bad. Easy stuff. The college kids are coming in, though, and I get to be co-lead train. Super fun.”
“Hey,” I say, upbeat, “maybe you’ll meet some nice girls. Make some friends.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Well, I’m off. See you soon!”
***
News among friends spreads fast. It was a matter of only a half a day before everyone was sending texts and making quick phone calls to spread the news that Claire was coming into town in two weeks. Robin has offered to host girls’ night, I’ll be bringing the desserts, Lara the snacks, and Jackie’s in charge of the booze.
“You’re in an awfully good mood today,” Evelyn says from behind the café’s front counter. She sets two teacups on gold-filigreed saucers. She snips some dainty mint leaves from the new potted plant I bought during the busy market day yesterday.
“Am I ever,” I say, leaning into the pale-yellow tiled counter. I tell her about Claire’s upcoming visit. I wiggle my eyebrows and set down the crumb-covered plate for Evelyn to take care of.
She places the m
int leaves on the edges of the two saucers, then puts a teabag in each cup. “Fun!” she says. “No wonder you’re all-smiles.” She produces a teapot of hot water.
“Oh yeah.” I pick up the teapot. “Definitely reason to be all-smiles,” I say with a wink, then turn on my heels.
“Jasmine tea?” I say to the two women seated at one of the few free tables.
It’s another busy afternoon at The Cup and the Cake. It’s drizzling outside and grey and breezy—the kind of autumn weather that demands a trip to a cozy place for a warm beverage and something sweet.
“Enjoy,” I say to the women as I set a small pot of honey in the middle of the table. “If you need more water, just let me know.”
I used to serve tea already poured and steeping, but after a visit to John in London and a fancy trip to Fortum and Mason I got the four-one-one on tea etiquette: Let the tea consumer call all the shots. Milk first, followed by the pouring of the steeped tea, as in England; or a briefer steeping time than usual, the way I like it, can both make for small disasters if serving tea already steeped and poured.
I pull a pink notepad from my apron, take the pencil from behind my ear, and move to the table across the way where Dean, one of my regulars, is seated.
“Good morning, Sophie,” Dean says. He crosses his legs and folds in half his copy of the Seattle Times. “The place is hopping this afternoon.”
I point upward and say, “The rain’s good for something, isn’t it?”
He chuckles and sets down his newspaper. “That it is.”
Dean’s a law student at Seattle University. He’s been coming to The Cup and the Cake for study sessions since the beginning of the year and recently started to find himself taking study breaks here, too. Apparently we’re from the same graduating class at the University of Washington, and after a few years in the game of local politics, he decided he wanted to be on the other end of the law and enrolled in law school.
“You up for your usual today, or has the rainy weather changed your mind?” I ask. I wipe from his table and into a napkin two stray crumbs leftover from the previous customer.
“Anything new baking?” He looks up at me with a warm grin.
“We’ve just finished some scrumptious brioche.” I wield my pencil. “Pair that with a cappuccino and you’ll be as prepared as ever to ace that homework you might be neglecting, huh?” I gesture to his book, simply titled Torts.
Laughing, he looks at his book, then at his copy of the Seattle Times. “Guilty,” he says abashedly.
“I think that brioche and capp is just what you need,” I insist.
I’m about to scrawl down the order when he says, “Want to join me?”
“And further distract you from your homework?” I laugh as I write down his order. “That book looks pretty thick. In fact,” I return the pencil behind my ear, “you were here yesterday, and I didn’t see you crack open that book once.”
He leans an elbow on the table and motions to the book. “That’s because I was taking a study break.”
“All the more reason you better take a study session.” I flash him a friendly smile and tell him I’ll be out with his order in a jiff.
After I take the orders from two more tables and clear away the dishes of another, I make my way to the espresso machine and begin to fill the long list of beverage orders. The rain is definitely a café owner’s best friend.
As I prepare Dean’s cappuccino I look over at him. He catches my gaze, looking away from his now opened book, and waves. I nod my head in return.
I’m not stupid. I’m pretty sure Dean has a tiny crush on me. Or he just likes to flirt. He’s been coming here more frequently than usual, and I’m not that naïve to believe it’s because my cupcakes and coffee are that amazing. But he’s never asked me out. He’s never done more than offer a seat at his table to give me a break, to which I’ve agreed a few times when I’ve had a free moment.
Even if he were to ask me out, though, I’m not so sure I’d oblige. He’s attractive, with his well-kempt, short, jet-black hair, soft blue eyes, structured jaw, thin lips, and medium-sized build. He’s driven and intelligent, educated. And I know my parents would be thrilled to have another lawyer to add to the family.
But my stomach’s never flittered with butterflies at the sight of him, and I’ve honestly never given dating him much thought. When I consider dating someone I’m neutral about, then consider remaining single, the latter really seems more appealing, even if I grouse about being lonely now and then. Even if I remember that a “give it a chance” first date can’t do much harm, I don’t really feel the need to take it a step further with Dean.
I’m about to wander down relationship memory lane again when the peal of the front door’s bells signal a new customer…and I’m positively elated over who it is.
Chapter Ten
“Robin!” I greet excitedly, turning off the milk steamer. “And Phillip and Rose!”
I watch as Robin pushes a gigantic double-seat stroller into the café, carefully maneuvering it around the tables and chairs.
“Auntie Sophie!” Rose cries, leaning out and around her seat in front of little Phillip. Her caramel-colored hair is pulled into two neat braids, tied off with small pink bows. She eagerly waves her tiny hand at me and says, “Do you have a cupcake for me?”
“I told her to be polite and say hello first,” Robin says in an exhausted, defeated way.
“Hello,” Rose says, crawling out of her entrapping stroller. She slides up and over the handlebar with ease, and Robin just shakes her head, defeated.
“I’m p’lite, Momma.” Rose looks at her mother with those sappy brown eyes of hers—the very brown eyes Robin and I have both come to decide are baby versions of her brown eyes and not Brandon’s.
“Yes, you are,” Robin encourages. She wheels the stroller adjacent to the front counter and locks the brakes into place before giving me a side hug. “Hey, you. Hope it’s okay that we dropped by.”
“It’s an open café, silly,” I tell her. “And you and these little ones are always welcome.”
Rose pushes past her mom’s khaki-slack clad legs and dashes without hesitation to the low-level refrigerated display case at the counter. “Ooooh,” she coos, hands gently banging on the glass. “A pink one! I want a pinkupcake!”
Robin pulls the small girl away from the case, apologizing to me for the smudges left behind.
“Oh, please,” I say with a flicked wrist. “Ordinarily, yes, I’d OCD over it. But little Rose…” I lean down and scoop the sweet girl into my arms. It seems like yesterday she was a tiny, taking-us-by-surprise baby. Hard to believe she’s nearly three.
“Nice to see you, Rosie.” I give her a kiss on her plump cheek. “Come on!”
I slide open the glass door and reach for the pink strawberry shortcake cupcake—the one named for Rose. “It’s snack and gossip time,” I say to Robin.
“Is it ever!” Robin breathes out. “You mind if I use your microwave in the back?” She holds out a jar of green-colored baby food and a rubbery spoon.
“Go for it.” I set Rose’s cupcake on a saucer and can’t help but laugh as her wide eyes follow the pink treat every step of the way.
“And I bet you’d like a glass of milk, hah?” I ask Rose.
“Uh-huh!” Her eyes grow wider.
“Come on. Let’s get your mom something yummy, too.”
***
“So,” Robin says as she scoops a generous helping of creamed spinach onto the baby spoon. “You’re obviously packed here, so I’m going to make it brief.”
I pan quickly about the café. It’s still a busy hour, but having served everyone already, and with Evelyn hopping about, and everything needing to be baked hot and growing in the oven, I have enough time to share a quick coffee with a friend.
“It’s really times like these when chocolate and friends are called for,” Robin says with a light laugh as she feeds Phillip.
Upon first taste Phillip spit
s out the green sludge, and, by rote, and not even looking at him for more than a millisecond, Robin is spooning the rejected food back onto the spoon. She swipes from one of his cheeks to the next, nearly cleaning his entire mess, refilling the spoon.
“I have the day off,” Robin says casually, “and while that’s great so I can be with the kids, I’m driving myself mad in the silence of nap time.” She flutters her lashes as she serves the same spoonful of spinach again.
Phillip crinkles his tiny nose once he takes a reluctant bite, then swallows at last. He’s the cutest baby boy—a real mix of his parents with Robin’s light skin and shy smile and Bobby’s piercing blue eyes and amiable, quiet nature.
“What’s going on, Robin?” I say, finally looking away from the masterful art of feeding an eight-month-old baby some very nasty-looking food. “You seem distressed. And,” I raise a brow, “since when did you not enjoy the silence of nap time? Don’t mothers kill for those rare moments?”
She gives me a deadpan look in response.
“Brandon?” I say in one long, low breath, not needing her to clarify. I’ve seen that look before. Though blank, the way Robin’s eyes fixate with mine, no words exchanged or brow raised even a centimeter, I know what she’s thinking: Crap, I have to deal with this asshole again.
“Momma, look,” Rose slices through the discomfiting silence. She’s holding out a palm decorated in icing. “I made a mess. Now watch.” She takes a long lick of her hand, then one more, one more again. She holds it back open, proud. “See? All clean. Magic.”
Robin sniffs a laugh and says, “You are the little magician, aren’t you?” She blows her daughter a kiss.
“Rose the mashin!” the little girl cries in glee. She then busies herself with making another mess of her hand, scraping the cupcake’s icing all over.
“Bobby and I’ve contacted an attorney and drawn up the adoption paperwork,” Robin explains. Her voice is hushed, slightly brittle. “Preemptively, obviously. We have to consult with…” Her voice falls to a whisper. “Brandon.”
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 8
