I knew I would have to find the time, the resources, and the help to turn whatever property, wherever I found one, into the exact look and feel of the shop that I was going for. From painting and decorating, to even more harrowing work like knocking out walls, putting in shelving, and making sure there was a kitchen in which I could easily and enjoyably bake. There was a lot of work to be done.
Fortunately, finances weren’t a huge worry. I had stashed away a good amount over the years and John, my father, and grandfather had already gifted me some cash to help with starting things up, and even proffered the idea of being investors to help me out. They obviously believed in me. There was no reason I shouldn’t have believed in myself.
The only truly worrying thing was time; I’d need a lot of it. And that would mean less, if any at all, time at Katie’s Kitchen. The idea of leaving behind a well-paid job with a consistent paycheck and benefits wasn’t appealing, but that was all part of the risk. I was either all-in, or out.
Katie and I had already discussed quite awhile back that in the event I did begin to open up my own shop she’d be willing to work with me and keep me onboard for part-time work for awhile. I wouldn’t have the benefits, but I’d at least have the pay and, if things happened to fall through for me, I would have a position I could return to full-time.
At some point, though, probably when the property renovations and the actual setup demanded my twenty-four-seven attention, I would have to cut out Katie’s Kitchen once and for all. That was the part that scared me. A lot.
But first things first; I couldn’t jump in headfirst. Renovations and two weeks’ notices weren’t on my radar quite yet. First it was officially registering a business name and entity, submitting the final taxation paperwork, getting the signatures from my investors. I could start there. Just like I started with sending Lara the text asking to arrange for a meeting. You have to start somewhere. One step at a time, right?
Sitting down to the mountains of paperwork actually felt refreshing after that dicey situation back at Randy’s. I could picture the fiasco that would have ensued if Robin saw me. Or, worse, if she had seen me trying to hide from her. It was one thing to accidentally run into someone; it was another entirely when one knew well ahead of time that the other was there…and she was trying to avoid her and got caught failing to do so. I was relieved that I had escaped unseen, back in the comfort of my bedroom, working away at the computer, keeping my mind occupied with issues that didn’t involve friends and ex-boyfriends and really awful circumstances.
Clicking the “Submit” button online for my small business tax paperwork later that evening was that next big step toward my career dreams. I felt like I was truly starting a fresh chapter of my life that wasn’t dramatic and scary. Alright, maybe a little bit scary, but more thriller-type exciting than murder-mystery.
Typing in the “Business Name” line—The Cup and the Cake—felt perfectly right. Together “cup” and “cake” made for my favorite dessert (to bake and eat). Also, “Cup” was no doubt for the endless cups of coffee I dreamed of serving to my café-goers, and “Cake” was for every sweet treat they’d be eager to try—from iced cakes to cupcakes and everything in between. The Cup and the Cake, I thought to myself. I love it. It just has to be a success.
Just as I checked off the last box on the evening’s to-do list, my cell phone vibrated, and computer dinged a second later: a new email. For a moment I thought about leaving it until tomorrow. It was already past midnight and I had an early morning at Katie’s Kitchen. But I couldn’t ignore it. It’s like that one more potato chip that a girl can’t resist. You can’t help it. So I quickly clicked open my computer’s mailbox.
“Kearns, Lara” stared at me. My heart fell. Had she emailed me because there was so much she wanted to say and a text message would not have sufficed? What would the email say? That she hated me and that I could drop dead? That she did want to talk to make up? Or she wanted to talk so she could tell me off, as I had told her?
Dear Sophie, her email began. I swallowed hard. Rather formal for Lara, I thought, carefully preparing myself for the worst.
I got your text. And yes, I would like to talk. We have a lot to say to each other and a serious talk is long overdue. I think it’s best we talk in person. A lot of hurtful things have been said and done. Talking over the phone is too distant and if you’re willing, which it sounds like maybe you are, we’ll probably be doing some hugging. Can’t really do that over the phone. :) I miss you, Sophie. And I’m so happy you contacted me. Let’s definitely get together. Have a really busy week ahead of me with work. The agency’s having me join some of the execs for a big client in Spokane so I’ll be out of town for most of the week. How about we meet after I get back? Is Monday night all right? Or Tuesday? Let me know what works for you. Have a good week and I’ll see you soon. And thanks for wanting to talk…it’s definitely time. Much love, Lara
I heaved out a huge breath of relief and then inhaled deeply. I think I’d held my breath for the entire email.
This was excellent news. Lara wanted to talk. She missed me, like I missed her. We were on the same page, and Monday couldn’t come fast enough. Lara and I definitely did have a lot of talking to do. And definitely a lot of hugging.
Ecstatic over her reply, I quickly sent back an email. Keeping things concise, I told her that Monday night would be perfect, at her place, and that I’d bring the sweet-tooth sustenance every girl required. Especially emotional girls with a big kiss-and-make-up to do.
Chapter Twenty
Watching one of the most beloved friends of mine slowly pass away was by far the hardest thing I had ever had to do in the short twenty-five years of my life. Why bad things happen to good people, to such deserving and selfless people, I will never understand. Why Pamela had to suffer and slowly slip away from life on Earth angered me and made me question everything I had learned at Mass growing up. The question burned in my mind: Why did Pamela’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her, left her for another woman, and treated her as if she never meant anything to him, get to live and enjoy a long and healthy life…with his twenty-something floozy by his side? Why did he get to live a long life, and not a selfless, vibrant, and caring woman who took the best care that she could of herself? Who selflessly invested her time and resources in building a place that could help others and provide them a calm and enjoyable community for women to come together and encourage each other. Who never gave a second thought to staying a little later after a personal session on a Friday night to give a woman-in-need an encouraging pep talk. Who had the most infectious laugh. One of the widest smiles. One of the most warm hearts, open arms, and gentlest hands. Why, oh why was God taking away a beautiful woman who had so much more life to live?
Seeing Pamela weak in her recliner made my heart ache—blankets tucked tightly around her as her already petite frame had become extremely frail over such a short period of time, giving way to quick chills and a constant feeling of coldness. My visit that Friday afternoon had been short but sweet—all of the hallmarks of a quiet and intimate meeting between dear friends. We talked about everything but the inevitable, shared some smiles, small laughs, some tears, and hugs to balance out the painful tears…and some tears of laughter, too.
Pamela was delighted that I was on the path to forgiveness with Lara, and in near time Robin as well. She told me that she knew I could do it and had the faith that everything would turn out for the best. She said that she knew I could take on the world with my cupcakes and coffee and that it was high time to start making that longtime dream come true.
The Cup and the Cake was “the perfect name,” she said, and made me promise that I’d offer my most tasty cupcakes every day of the week, just in case she wanted to drop by to pick one up. That made me tear up, knowing she’d never see the fruits of my labor. But she remained positive through and through, and I guaranteed that her favorite cupcake would always be behind the counter.
The garden party was set for
the afternoon of the twenty-fifth and, as can be expected for Seattle May weather, was most likely going to present the garden guests with delightful warm rays of sunshine. Pamela simply glowed as we talked about the party’s final plans. Nearly everything was set in motion. The only thing that we were waiting on was the final and finishing touches to the garden. In a week or so the last special-order bushes and shrubs would arrive, and the last flowers would be planted or about to bloom in a hint under two weeks. The garden was really coming along and would, no doubt, look every bit as wonderful as Pamela planned and dreamed.
The entertainment was set. There would be a garden “ribbon-cutting,” a piñata for the kids, as her grandchildren insisted that a party isn’t a party unless there’s candy falling from the sky. There would be light cocktails, a bit of music, and an enjoyable landscape for people to bask in the early springtime sun, make small talk, and, as Pamela accentuated, “Enjoy life.”
The decorations had all been bought by her daughters and were set to go up the morning-of by her family, some of whom had recently moved in to look after Pamela. She had a day-time nurse who looked after her during the eight-to-five hours so her children could work. With her nurse, and a great deal of her family and close friends, Pamela had twenty-four-hour care and attention. And the constant company was the best part of her illness.
“There’s at least some good coming from this cancer,” she told me. “I get to see my children and grandchildren every single day. They’re always here and the little ones are always giving me hugs and reading to me. They’re getting so big. And so good at reading, too.”
I was misty-eyed the moment I pulled up to Pamela’s house, and left just as misty-eyed. I was in a flux of emotion—bittersweet happiness and sadness. No matter how I turned things, I felt like crying. How could someone be so happy, yet so sad, at the same time?
The recent weeks of my life had been tumultuous. Life had certainly doled me some lemons, but the KitchenAid mixer was spinning, and lemon chiffon cupcakes were in the making.
I couldn’t keep Pamela physically here with me, but I could enjoy the small time I had left with her. I could be joyful for the happiness that she still so bravely and boldly exuded. That’s a woman, I kept thinking as I drove myself back to work. That’s a remarkable woman.
One thing was for sure. Pamela was going to have a fabulous garden party and we would celebrate her great English garden accomplishment…and her life. I only hoped, especially after I had seen how tired and aged she had become so rapidly, that she would stay with us long enough to see her party. To see her garden complete.
I sent up a small prayer that night asking for Pamela to be granted at least a few more weeks. The doctor had said four to six weeks were likely. Pamela deserved at least that much…though so much more.
Chapter Twenty-One
“That’s just so awesome, Sophie,” Claire said, sipping on her mango martini. “I’m so happy you girls are going to talk things out.”
Claire and I were back at Vogue. Normally we mixed things up a bit more than just visiting Vogue, but since Jackie guaranteed us free drinks whenever we wanted, compliments of her hook-up, we found ourselves making Vogue almost the only bar on our list. And it wasn’t just for the free drinks: six nights out of seven that’s where we could find Jackie.
That Saturday night, however, Jackie, wasn’t there. It was only ten o’clock, so she could have shown up at any point. The evening was still young—extremely young according to Jackie’s watch. Knowing her she was probably off tending to her “job” with Hank, or at another bar, or a club. We never knew. But I wanted to share my good news with Jackie—the upcoming date to meet with Lara and our starting to work things out.
I also wanted to make the news official that Robin was next on my list to approach and hopefully make amends. I had told Claire that I planned on talking with Robin after Pamela’s garden party and she couldn’t agree more with me that that was as good an idea as was choosing to talk with Lara.
“You can’t let that jackass ruin your friendship,” she had said. Brandon had officially been renamed “jackass” when he came up in any and all conversations, and I am relieved to say that those moments were finally few and far between.
Claire made a motion to the bartender as she pushed her empty martini glass towards the bar’s edge. “I had a talk with Conner last night, by the way,” she said, immediately grabbing my full attention.
“What?” I gasped. “Do tell.”
The bartender approached and asked what he could get “for the lovely lady.” She reordered her sugary cocktail.
“Well,” she went on. “I told him that he and I needed to have a serious talk. Sit down, you know…what you said.” I nodded my head. “And so last night we had that talk—and it went surprisingly well.”
“Claire, that’s great news! I’m so happy for you. So you’re both on the same page now? Or…”
Right after her fresh martini arrived she filled me in on all the details—about how Conner agreed that moving to Los Angeles wasn’t the greatest idea, at least not at the moment. He liked the thought of returning home, but only if it was something both of them wanted. And he admitted that while at first L.A. was only a consideration, almost a mere concept, once Claire started to nag incessantly about the “M” word he acted immaturely and kept urging possible relocation as a remonstrative move.
Conner loved the home he and Claire had made for themselves in Madison Park, and moving away from their solid work and friends didn’t seem very appealing. At least at the moment. Claire told me that they agreed to keep their options open and that L.A. could very well become home one day. For now, though, they would stay in Seattle. And Claire agreed to stop pestering about getting married.
“He made it clear that he does want to marry me, and that he totally plans on popping the question,” Claire said, starting to blush. “And he said that I need to be patient. I’m sure he’s half-joking, but he said the more often I ask, the longer I’ll have to wait.”
I smiled. “So you’re going to stop bugging him about it?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I told him I knew I was being obnoxious about it all. But yeah, I agreed I’d stop nagging. I guess I wanted to hear, in all seriousness, straight from his mouth, that we would be getting married one day. Besides, I think this whole prolonging the marriage thing is Chad’s influence.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, immediately thinking of Chad naked in the pool that summer night. Bad influence, I thought. Very bad influence.
“Anyway,” Claire said. “That’s besides the point.”
As I’d expected, Conner planned on surprising Claire with a big blowout of a proposal. She’d just have to be patient.
“Oh, Sophie, I can’t wait!” Claire said. “I don’t know how long I’ll have to wait, but when he does I know it will be worth it.” She took a quick sip of her drink. “Oh! And you’re definitely going to be my maid of honor.”
“One step at a time, girl,” I said, laughing. “Don’t go all crazy on me and buy your dress and make seating arrangements already.”
“Where’s Jackie, any way?” Claire asked.
I reached into my clutch and withdrew my cell phone, tapping away. “Just texted to find out.” I slurped at the sad remains of my watered down mojito. “She’s probably with what’s his face.”
Claire sighed. “I don’t think that’s a healthy relationship. Do you?”
She didn’t have to ask. She knew that I agreed—that it was practically a no-brainer that any and all men who shared Jackie’s bed were all no-good sons of bitches. Jackie had a real knack for picking out the losers of the crop. Hank had to be no different. Especially given the way Jackie chose to “get through” their relationship, which I recounted to Claire, agreeing that an intervention was in order.
My cell phone buzzed. It was Jackie and she, in her ever-colorful lingo, texted back, Get to my place ASAP. And bring the booze!!!
Claire and I
immediately headed towards the door of the bar, leaving our drinks unfinished and tab unpaid. Yet as we were just about out the door the bartender called out and pointed to our glasses. I gave one all-knowing look to Claire and she read my mind. “Here we go again.”
After paying the bartender, Claire said, “Let’s get out of here,” scurrying as fast as she could out the door. I followed in suit and hailed a cab.
“She always does this,” Claire complained. “Always, always.
“It’s not that we have to pay for the drinks,” she said defensively as the cab driver merged onto the I-5, on his way to Emily’s small, one-bedroom apartment in the Fremont district that she kept as a place to occasionally hang up her hat and call home. Emily’s apartment was also the official residency of Jackie, at least when she wasn’t living with the latest apple of her eye. Or accepting money from Lara to try to get on her feet and find a place of her own to call home.
“Jackie always does this kind of thing,” Claire continued. “Constantly gets into bad relationship after bad relationship. And then we get involved, pull her out of it, and watch her go on a drinking binge. I mean, what the hell is she thinking asking you to ‘bring the booze?’ The girl has got to grow up.”
“We’ll find out what happened,” I said, texting Jackie that we were on our way. “Calm down, Claire. We’ve been through this before.”
“That’s exactly the problem. We’re always doing the same thing, over and over. When is she ever going to find someone who treats her well? When will she ever learn?”
“Probably when she decides to stop hiding in her booze or turning to pot to ‘get through’ a relationship. And besides, Jackie didn’t exactly have the best upbringing. She’s got a rather jaded view of the world. We can’t hold it against her for acting like this. I mean, her mother’s not exactly the best example for a mature female role model, you know?”
When Girlfriends Break Hearts Page 17