It’s the next morning, and Joe and I are sitting at the round table in the bakery with Holly, Colin and my parents.
I turn to my sister. Her hair is in a ponytail and she’s not wearing any makeup. It’s unlike her, but it occurs to me how much we’ve both changed over the last couple months. This casual look suits her and her newfound happiness.
“I guess so,” I reply. “Mom, what do you think?”
Mom’s been really quiet this morning, and it’s making me uneasy. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t think this is a good idea, but I can’t figure out why. Didn’t she say she would help?
She sighs loudly and says, “I-I never thought we’d find this,” as she fingers the post-it note where we’ve written the counter spell.
I look at Dad, wondering if he told her about Joe, Sr. The sadness in Dad’s eyes and the resigned shrug he gives me tell me everything I need to know.
“You told her?” I ask, dumbfounded. I didn’t actually mean to ask out loud, but now that I have, there’s no taking it back. All eyes are on Dad now.
“She knows?” Mom asks.
Holly, clearly frustrated at being left out of the loop, gives a little huff and says, “Knows what?”
“It’s a long story.” Mom, Dad and I all say this at once, dismissing Holly’s question.
“I had no choice,” Dad continues, addressing me. “Once you break the curse…” He heaves a big sigh, and then finishes, “…she’ll remember.”
A pit the size of Texas forms in my stomach. Oh, my God. I could be ruining a thirty-five-year marriage to get what I want.
“Remember what?” Holly demands.
“Not now, Holly,” Dad says, getting all authoritative with her, like he used to do when we were in high school. The same tone he’d take when our skirts were too short or we were wearing too much makeup.
“I promise I’ll fill you in later,” I add to hopefully appease her, then I focus on my parents again. “Guys, I don’t want to be responsible if…”
Mom reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “I know you don’t, sweetie. And we’d never blame you. But we don’t want to be responsible for keeping you from what we’ve had for the last thirty-five years.”
I want to cry. The tears are already welling in my eyes. I’ve never felt such gratitude for my parents. And to think I was so disgruntled with them over all this not so long ago.
“God, guys. I’ve been so horrible. I’ve acted selfishly at every turn, and…” My lip is trembling thinking of just how unselfish my parents are. I squeeze Mom’s hand. “Are you sure?”
Mom nods and I turn to Dad. He nods too, and I resist the urge to have a full-on sob fest right there in front of everyone. But we have work to do. There’s no time for tears.
~*~
The moon will reach its peak in less than a week, and we have to come up with the perfect recipe before then. Oh, sorry. Let me catch you up. We’ve decided the best way to combine our talents—as the poem indicates we should do—is to create the ultimate, magical cupcake, using Joe’s coffee, of course.
Thankfully, it’s Monday, and the bakery is closed anyway. So we spend hours in that room, bandying about different ideas for the cupcake. There are just too many options from salted caramel mocha to Mexican mocha to peppermint mocha (which isn’t a terrible idea with Christmas so near), filled, drizzled, alcoholic or not.
My mind is swirling by the end of the day, but I know we have to make a decision before we call it quits and go home. Joe had to leave to deal with things at A Latte Joe’s for a while, but he’s back now and despite how tired I am, thanks to an alarming lack of sleep over the last few days, I still can’t wipe the besotted grin off my face. He can’t seem to, either, which makes my grin even wider. This is definitely the happiest I’ve been in a very long time, if not ever.
“All right,” I say at last, drawing a halt to Mom and Holly’s argument about caramel or mocha buttercream filling. “It’s time. We have to make a decision.”
Everyone starts talking at once, trying to get in last-minute pleas for their favorite flavor combos.
“Stop!” I yell. They’re starting to get on my last nerve, and it occurs to me that there are literally way too many cooks in this kitchen. “You know what? Everybody out.”
“What?” Mom and Holly blurt this out at the same time, matching looks of indignity on their faces.
“Thank you, everyone,” I say, trying my best to seem gracious despite my frustration. “But ultimately the decision is up to us.” I look at Joe and he gives me that wink I love so much. “All your ideas will be taken into consideration, I promise. Just give us five minutes.”
“We’ve been at this all day, Candy!” Holly squeaks. “And you and Joe are going to decide this in five minutes?”
“That’s the plan,” I reply, not leaving the door open for any more discussion.
Thankfully, Dad takes charge and gently nudges both my mom and Holly toward the door. Colin holds it open and together the four of them leave the room. I breathe a sigh of relief as the door clicks shut behind them.
“Rough day?” Joe asks, coming up behind me and rubbing my shoulders.
I groan, grateful for his ministrations. “You have no idea.”
“So let’s do this.” He pulls his hands away, much to my chagrin, and plops down in the chair next to me. “What are the options?”
I run down the list and then wait as he contemplates the thirty-two possible flavor combinations. When I’m done, he stares at the list. He furrows his brow, bites his lip, squints and says, “Mmm-hmm,” several times, before looking up at me with a big smile on his face.
“I’ve come to a decision,” he says proudly.
“And?”
“It needs to be sweet.”
I give him a you’re-kidding-me kind of look. “Really?” I say, my tone laden with sarcasm. “A cupcake? Sweet?” I shake my head skeptically. “I’m not buying it.”
He winks and goes on. “And obviously, it needs the coffee element.”
“Wow, you’re good at this,” I say with mock seriousness.
“But the most important thing,” he says, ignoring me, “is that it represents us.”
He reaches out and takes my hand. My heart is racing as he rubs his thumb back and forth over my knuckles. The action makes my belly tickle from the inside out and I resist the urge to giggle. The idea of us is overwhelming and wonderful.
“I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” he says, and I hold my breath waiting for the but. Of course, it never comes. He says this instead: “You light me up inside. You’ve started a fire in me that’s raging out of control.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. I don’t know whether to cry or rip his clothes off. But I do know this has to work. We have to break this curse.
“So,” he says, his tone shifting from sultry and romantic to businesslike, “in light of that, I vote for something with spice and fire.”
“Mexican mocha,” we both say at the same time, and a wide smile comes to both our faces.
“Bingo.” He winks again. That will never get old.
“Well, then, let’s get started.”
Twenty-five
The bakery’s kitchen is absolute chaos for the next few days. Mom is there to help fulfill regular orders and keep the window stocked at the shop, while I devote myself entirely to perfecting the Mexican mocha cupcake. Joe runs back and forth between the stores, bringing me different blends of coffee, sometimes brewed, sometimes ground, and sometimes whole bean so Holly can make chocolate covered coffee beans, should we choose to use them as toppers.
I start with our basic chocolate cake, throw in fine coffee grounds, and cinnamon, then top with a mocha buttercream, to which Mom says, “Not it.”
I move on to the Devil’s Food cake, using a French Vanilla flavored coffee, more cinnamon and a mocha buttercream made with a heavier dose of coffee this time.
“Still not it,” Mom says. “Try agai
n.”
By the end of the third day, I’ve made ten different batches of Mexican mocha cupcakes, but none of them are it. Even I have to agree with Mom. There’s just something missing.
Joe waltzes into the kitchen around six o’clock with a paper bag from the Chinese take-out place up the street, and I beam at him with gratitude.
“All I’ve had today is sugar, sugar and more sugar,” I tell him as we settle in at the table in the office.
“Well, it’s for a good cause, isn’t it?” he says with a smile that turns my insides to mush. “Anything for me to try?”
I take a deep breath and swallow a bite of fried rice. I haven’t let him try any thus far, but I think it’s time to let him in on the process. “You can try them.” I shrug, feeling defeated. “But none of them are quite right. I was hoping I’d nail it and be able to present you with the perfect cupcake, but I just can’t put my finger on what’s missing.”
“Well,” Joe says, popping a piece of sweet and sour chicken into his mouth. “I have a pretty advanced palate, you know?”
“Do you now?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll eat anything.”
We both laugh and then set to the task of polishing off our dinners.
“I hope you saved room for dessert,” I say, realizing I didn’t save room at all.
“Bring it on.”
I arrange the cupcakes before him, and walk him through the ingredients of each one as he tastes them. He moans and groans, praising my baking skills as he goes, which I have to admit, is still kind of hilarious to me. I mean, who would have thought I’d be a baker? Clearly, Madame Antoinette did, but it still blows my mind, even after all this time.
Oh, my God. I haven’t thought about Madame Antoinette in ages, it seems. But as I sit here, watching Joe eat my cupcakes, I realize I was completely off the mark. My impatience made me jump to the conclusion that Colin was the handsome stranger she talked about. But he wasn’t. It was Joe all along. Joe is my destiny.
Butterflies are fluttering around in my stomach and violin music is playing in my ears, as I repeat that phrase to myself. Joe is my destiny.
I’m grinning like an idiot when he finally declares, “You’re right. None of these is it.”
My smile disappears as I join him back in the real world. “Any bright ideas?” I plop down on a stool at the metal kitchen table and rub my hands over my face. I’m exhausted, but I’m running out of time.
“Absolutely,” he says. “Follow me.”
I wonder where we could possibly be going as he holds my coat up for me to slip into. Once his coat is on and zipped, he leads me out of the shop, right across the street to A Latte Joe’s.
“I think I’ve had enough coffee for the next five years,” I say as we walk into the shop.
“Have a seat,” Joe says, guiding me gently into a spindly, wooden chair. “I’ll be right with you.”
I’m too tired to reiterate that I don’t want anymore coffee today, so I plop into a seat like he asked and wait. There are a few other people in the shop. A woman is reading in the cushy chair in the corner. There’s a man on his laptop and another woman just staring out the window as she sips her beverage. La vie en rose is playing softly over the speaker system while Joe clanks around behind the counter, preparing the cryptic drink for us. It’s the first true moment of peace I’ve had in three days, but I’m not anywhere close to having a cupcake ready for Saturday night. And without the cupcake…
“All righty,” Joe says as he emerges from behind the counter with two steaming java mugs in his hands. “Prepare to be wowed.”
He sets the mugs down and I look into the cup to see a giant marshmallow floating toward the top.
“Hot chocolate?” I ask, confused.
“Not just any hot chocolate,” he clarifies, leaning closer to give me a whiff of his cologne. “Mexican Hot Chocolate. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Go on. Try it.”
I lift the cup to my lips and take a tentative sip, since it’s still steaming hot. The chocolate hits my tongue first, followed by a burst of flavor and a kick of something spicy at the back.
“Whoa!” I stare at the cup, amazed.
“Right?” Joe is nodding excitedly.
“Absolutely right.” I glance at him, feeling just as excited as he looks. “Can we get these in to-go cups?”
~*~
I seriously have to stop burning the midnight oil or I’m going to be the first American to get that Karoshi disease. But as long as I can make it through this full moon, it’ll totally be worth it.
With our inspiration in hand, Joe and I spent the rest of the evening baking Mexican Hot Chocolate Cupcakes—or, as we aptly named them, Midnight Magic—and I have to say, I’m pretty proud of what we created. A chocolate base with buttermilk and cinnamon, topped off with a chocolate-cinnamon buttercream and dusted with cinnamon on top. To say it was heaven in your mouth would have been a huge understatement, and to be honest, it was really hard not to lay Joe down on the metal kitchen table. He seemed to feel the same way, but I won’t go into detail about how I knew that. We’ll just say it was pretty obvious.
With that in mind, we decided to avoid each other on Friday and most of Saturday, agreeing to meet at the fountain in the town square at a quarter ‘till midnight on Saturday evening.
So here I am, in my best outfit that fits—a pair of black leggings with knee-high boots and an oversized tunic sweater—freezing my butt off as I stand here with a box of our cupcakes.
I check my phone again. 11:47. My stomach flips. What if he fell asleep? What if he changed his mind? Maybe I should text him.
I set the cupcakes down on the bench and pick my phone up from atop the box. I’m about to text Joe when a text pops up from my sister.
You sure you don’t want us there?
I smile. It’s really good to have Holly in my court again.
I’m fine. Will text you in the morning.
My nerves are on edge as I think about what’s ahead of me. Eating the cupcake under the full moon will be the easy part. The difficult part—the really, truly frightening part—will be testing to see if it actually worked. There’s only one way to find out, and I’m both nervous and excited about it.
11:50.
Am I being stood up?
No immediate reply. My nerves are on edge. What if he doesn’t show? What if all of this was for nothing? I think back to our previous days together. The late-night search of the law firm, the discovery of the code, the plotting of the cupcake. He was so into it. He was so into me. So why isn’t he here?
11:57
Now I’m starting to panic. But we don’t have to eat the cupcake right at midnight, do we? I mean, it says at its peak, but does anyone really know when that is anyway? I just assumed midnight, but maybe the peak is at one or two in the morning?
11:59
I’ve almost convinced myself we have plenty of time when I hear tires screeching and a pair of headlights shine at me from up the road. Relief floods through me when I realize it’s him. He’s here, he’s just late.
The car comes to a screeching halt at the edge of the square, heedless of the NO PARKING sign, and Joe jumps out of his car. He runs toward me, apologies tripping off his tongue.
“I am so sorry,” he says. He’s a disheveled mess. His dirty blond hair is all akimbo and his buttons are lopsided on his jacket.
I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner at him. “You made it,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”
He looks down at his phone and pushes the button to illuminate it. “But it’s two minutes past twelve.”
My heart is thumping loudly in my ears, drowning out the babbling of the fountain and the rustling of the trees. “I know.”
“Will it still work?” he asks, as if I know any more than he does.
“I don’t know.”
We stare at one another for a mere second before launching toward the bench where the cupcakes are sitti
ng. I flip open the box and pluck one perfect cupcake from the bunch. My hands are trembling as I attempt to pull the wrapper off and I nearly drop the whole thing to the ground. Which is why I brought an entire half-dozen, just in case.
Thankfully, I save the cupcake and hold it up to the moonlight.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
Joe nods, an anticipatory smile lighting his face. “Are you?”
I nod back. “Let’s do this.”
We recite the poem together. “I wish I may, I wish I might/Have the love with me tonight/For now and forever, ‘till death do us part/Bind our talents, bind our hearts.”
We let the words hang in the chilly night air for a moment, before we both bite into the cupcake at the same time, Lady & the Tramp style. It’s so romantic. Our lips are so close. I want to go further, but I know we can’t. Not out here in the freezing cold.
Simultaneously, we pull away to chew and swallow our bites of the cupcake. It’s really good. Like, really good.
“Are we supposed to eat the whole thing?” Joe asks as he wipes frosting from the corner of his mouth. “Or is one bite enough?”
I give him a cockeyed face. “Maybe we should eat it all, just to be on the safe side.” I hold it up again and invite him to take a bite. He gets frosting on the tip of his nose, and when he reaches up to wipe it away, I stop him. “That frosting is mine, Vandermark,” I say in a mock-serious tone, just before I rise up on my tippie toes and lick the spicy buttercream from his nose.
He stands really still for a moment, just staring at me. Smoldering, really. Then he finally says, in a gruff voice, “I’ve gotta be honest. I don’t really care if this works or not.”
“I’m not sure I care either,” I whisper.
“Bakery or coffee shop?” he asks, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s asking.
I giggle as I think of defiling our shops with our lovemaking. “Both,” I say, knowing that once isn’t going to be enough. “Bakery first.”
~*~
As expected, once was definitely not enough, but I’ll spare you the tawdry details of our evening. Well, except to tell you that it was epic!
The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy) Page 27
