by Noir, Roxie
“Thanks,” Charlie says.
Just then, Susie bustles back out, a tray held in front of her.
“Here we are!” she says and puts it down on the table in front of us.
It’s filled with small squares of cake and one ornate, flowery, delicate teapot.
“Ooh,” says Rusty, leaning over, her mouth forming an O, and Susie laughs.
“First things first,” she says, and picks up the tea pot. “Our own special cake tasting blend, black tea with a hint of bergamot and ginger. Helps cleanse the palate.”
Susie pours us each tea. Charlie is sitting ramrod straight in her chair. I wonder if I should have dressed more nicely than shorts and a t-shirt, but it’s eighty-five degrees outside.
“And now, of course, the cake,” she says, beaming. “We’ve got five different flavors for you to taste today, and of course, we can combine any of them however you like. First is one of our most popular, the bridal white.”
The cake is in small, bite-sized pieces about an inch square, each with a frosting swirl on top. I spear it with the fork and pop it into my mouth, careful to avoid getting frosting in my beard.
It’s good. It tastes like cake.
Across the small table from me, Rusty nods very seriously.
“What do you think?” Susie asks her.
Rusty thinks for a moment.
“The almond is coming through very strongly,” she says carefully. “It’s overpowering the other flavors.”
Charlie raises her eyebrows, and for a moment, Susie is struck speechless. I force down a laugh.
Rusty has been hanging out with my brother Eli a lot. I didn’t realize that he was training her palate or that Rusty could tell when a cake had too much almond extract in it.
But I’m one hundred percent sure I know where she got those phrases from.
“Well, I’ll make sure to add a little less almond in the next batch,” Susie says, her face somewhere between amused and taken aback. “What did you two think?”
“I liked it,” says Charlie.
She keeps giving us single bites of cake. They follow more or less the same order as a beer or wine tasting, from the least to most powerful flavors: white, rose, lemondrop, spice cake, and finally, chocolate.
“Your ring is absolutely beautiful, by the way,” Susie says when Charlie has a mouthful of lemondrop cake. “I so rarely see colored gemstones on engagement rings.”
Charlie looks down like she’s only just realized it’s there, then swallows cake.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she says.
Susie just sighs.
“I love jewelry with a history,” she says. “So romantic. How did you propose?”
That last question is to me, a forkful of cake halfway to my mouth.
Shit. We never came up with that part of the backstory. It never even occurred to me.
I glance over at Charlie. She’s laughing at me, eyes sparkling.
“I think you should tell the story,” she says, delicately putting one hand on my knee. “It was so unique and romantic, and I never suspected in a million years.”
Her touch sets off a wave of warmth, impossible to ignore even as I’m trying to frantically think of a romantic-yet-unique way that I could have proposed to Charlie.
I put my hand on top of hers, bring it to the table, and hold it. She watches me, eyes still laughing.
“Well, if there’s one thing to know about Charlotte, it’s that she’s absolutely crazy for ceramic figurines of angels,” I start.
Her eyebrows dip ever so slightly.
“Her apartment is lousy with them,” I go on. “It’s her biggest hobby. She’s always on eBay, looking for more, and I knew that there was this particular figurine, only produced for a few years in Belarus, that she was absolutely mad about.”
Charlie is now half-skeptical, half trying not to laugh.
“Go on,” she says, squeezing my hand in hers. “This is my favorite part, about the ceramic angel from Belarus.”
“Well, I managed to find one and outbid her for it,” I say. “And it’s got its arms sort of outstretched, so one day while Charlotte was at work, I broke into her apartment, set the angel on the kitchen table, and left a note that said come into the bedroom.”
“I especially loved how that wasn’t creepy at all,” Charlie murmurs.
“And of course, I was in there, hiding with the ring, waiting on one knee,” I say. “And she said yes!”
“Of course I did, pumpkin,” she says, smiling a little bit too wide. “You’ll always be my sweet banana muffin.”
I have to bite the inside of my lips to keep from laughing. I take a deep breath, staring into Charlie’s hazel eyes, and try to ignore the fact that we’re both moments from losing it.
“You’ll always be my gooey honey bun,” I tell her.
Charlie’s eyes start watering. She takes a deep, controlled breath.
“My darling pookie bear,” she says, somehow keeping a straight face.
“My favorite cuddle gremlin,” I say back.
I’m squeezing her hand way too tight, because I’m half a second from completely losing my composure, but Susie rescues me.
“That’s just the sweetest thing,” she says. “Is the wedding going to be angel-themed?”
“Absolutely,” says Charlie, looking up at her, dead serious. “Angels everywhere. Nothing but angels.”
* * *
We bid Susie farewell, promise to be in touch about cake, and then none of us says a word until we’re back in the car, doors shut.
The second we look at each other, we both burst out laughing. I laugh so hard I snort. There are tears running down Charlie’s face, and she shoves them away with the back of her hand.
“What?” says Rusty frantically, from the back seat. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I manage to gasp out.
“Why are you laughing?” she demands.
I can see her serious little face in the rearview mirror, and it only cracks me up harder.
“Stop laughing,” Charlie gasps. “Oh, my God, Daniel.”
“Charlie told a funny joke,” I manage to gasp out.
“What was the joke?”
“That she likes ceramic angels,” I say. It’s the best I can do.
“Cuddle gremlin,” Charlie mutters from the passenger seat.
We both crack up again.
“Why is that funny?” Rusty demands. “Charlie doesn’t like angels.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, because if I look at Charlie right now, I’m going to lose my shit again and make Rusty even madder.
“That’s the joke,” I explain. “She doesn’t really like angels, but we said she does.”
“That’s just a lie,” Rusty points out.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” I say. Charlie clears her throat.
“Sorry, Rusty,” Charlie says. “It’s not really that funny.”
I open my eyes again, Charlie’s staring straight ahead, like she’s trying not to laugh.
In the back seat, Rusty sighs dramatically, still frowning. I put the car into drive.
“Where’s the algorithm taking us next, pookie bear?” I ask Charlie.
She snorts and unfolds the itinerary.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlie
Thank God, the next stop doesn’t have delicate, flowered teacups and saucers set up at their tasting table, just three plates with forks. Everything about this already makes me feel like a bull in a china shop: the beautifully, carefully crafted cakes; the signs on the wall with sweet sayings like Live, Laugh, Love; the other patrons who are inevitably women and inevitably have their hair and nails done and keep saying things like lemon chiffon Victoria sponge.
I’m not particularly delicate. I’m not great at being careful, unless it’s around power tools. I’ve never in my life had a manicure that lasted longer than three hours without chipping, not that I’ve painted my nails in at least f
ive years.
Also, I’m wearing a dress, so I’m constantly afraid of accidentally flashing people, and Daniel won’t quit staring at my back and then saying that he’s not. I’m starting to think I’ve got a KICK ME sign back there.
But despite all my discomforts with traditional markers of femininity, this is the best day I’ve had in weeks. Cake is delicious. Rusty’s being her usual precocious, hilarious self.
And I think I might jump out of my own skin if Daniel touches me one more time. I don’t know how I’m supposed to wait until Monday afternoon when Rusty has her ballet lesson for him to come over. That’s over forty-eight hours away.
Maybe one of his brothers will take Rusty for a while tomorrow. I love the kid, but I’m trying to jump her dad’s bones over here and she’s not helping.
“All right,” says the woman at The Cake Walk as she brings out a platter of cake pieces. “Here’s our sampling of wedding cake options. All the way on the left is our basic white cake, which we’ve spruced up with a little bit of coconut to make it extra moist, and then there’s our raspberry chiffon, a really moist cake that we usually serve with a simple buttercream, and third is the angel’s food cake, which is dense but moist and really holds up well as the bottom tier of a cake.”
I shoot Daniel an alarmed glance.
How many times is she going to say the word ‘moist’?
“Next is our bakery specialty, the pistachio mint cake, which is probably our moistest and most popular…”
Oh, God.
She says the word moist at least five more times. She describes the red velvet cake as moist twice in the same sentence. I can no longer concentrate on cake. I can only wait for her to say the word moist again.
Midway through, she gasps. The three of us freeze, me with a bite of cake halfway to my mouth.
“That’s a beautiful ring,” she says. “Is that a ruby?”
I lower my fork.
“It’s a garnet,” I explain. “Family heirloom.”
Daniel briefly tells the story, and the woman is now sitting with her chin on one hand, leaning over the table.
“That’s so romantic,” she sighs. “How did you propose? I’m sure it was amazing.”
Daniel and I look at each other.
Is everyone going to ask us that? I wonder.
Before I can say anything, Daniel alights one hand on my shoulder, his rough hand on my bare skin. I take a deep breath and ignore the sizzle it sends along every nerve in my body.
“Charlotte loves to tell the story, so I’ll let her do it,” he says. There’s a gleam in his eye that I don’t like. “And don’t forget the part with the skywriting, sweetheart.”
I reach up and put my hand over his and smile at him sweetly, because I know I probably deserve this.
“How could I forget?” I ask.
* * *
There must be some wedding cake marketing seminar where they teach people how to make small talk during cake tastings, because the same thing happens at every single bakery. It’s bizarre. It’s also kind of hilarious.
First, there’s some variation on, “What a beautiful ring!”
Then, the big one: “How did he propose?”
If we were smart, we’d have come up with a story ahead of time. We didn’t.
First was the ceramic angels. I have no clue where he got that idea from.
Next, at the Cake Walk, he threw it to me and I told the nice lady all about how Daniel took me for a picnic on a lake, and when we went out on a rowboat, a skywriter wrote MARRY ME CHRALOTTE overhead, and I said yes despite the misspelling.
“I know how to spell your name,” he says as we walk out, his hand steadily on my lower back, and I. Am. Losing. My. Mind.
“Of course you do,” I say. “The skywriter made the typo.”
“That was also a lie,” Rusty points out as she climbs into her booster seat. “You’re lying to people.”
“Think of it as telling stories,” Daniel says, and Rusty considers this all the way to the next bakery.
* * *
At Francesca’s Cakes, Daniel puts a hand on my knee and tells the lovely older woman who admired my ring that I really, really love sloths, so he took me to the zoo, then disappeared and came back wearing a giant sloth costume and proposed.
At the Magnolia Bakery, we’re standing at a counter, and he slides his arm around my waist while I detail the elaborate treasure hunt that he sent me on, which ultimately culminated in finding him on one knee in his back yard.
None of us is very hungry for lunch, but we get sandwiches and find a park by a river. Daniel teaches Rusty to skip stones, or at least, he tries. I just watch them, shoes off, toes in the grass, and try not to notice that Daniel’s extra-hot right now.
At Sugar Momma, Daniel tells the woman that he organized a flash mob for his proposal, but then joke’s on him because he has to explain what a flash mob is. The whole time he’s got one hand on my back, one thumb stroking the triangle of bare skin right below my shoulder blades.
At Cherry on Top, I tell them that we’re both total adrenaline junkies, and he proposed while bungee jumping off a bridge in West Virginia. When I’m done with the story, including a description of how romantic the bouncing was, I lean over and give him a quick kiss, right on the lips.
It’s a mistake. I want more. I want to climb onto his lap and wrap my legs around him, but we’re in a bakery with plenty of onlookers and a seven-year-old, so I quietly pull away and pretend I’m not clenching my toes.
By the time we get to the Frosted Fig, our last cake stop, we’re all tired. If there’s such a thing as too much cake, we’re approaching it. Even Rusty’s enthusiasm is waning slightly, though she’s still through the door before either of us.
At the Frosted Fig, there’s a counter with stools. We sit. We each take bits of cake from the same tray, and when the inevitable question comes, Daniel quietly laces our fingers together.
“We took a hike to her favorite waterfall,” he says. “When we got there, I asked her to marry me. Then we went skinny dipping.”
I take a bite of cake, waiting for the punchline, but Daniel’s just watching me as I chew and swallow red velvet.
“That’s so sweet,” the woman says. “I always like hearing about the simple proposals. They’re the most heartfelt.”
I nod, Daniel’s hand still in mine. He’s still looking at me, his face oddly serious, thoughtful.
“Yeah,” I say, quietly. “It was really nice.”
* * *
Dinner is the rest of the sandwiches we got for lunch, eaten on the back porch of Daniel’s mom’s house as the sun sets. It’s early May so it stays light pretty late, and long after we’re done eating, we sit there, carefully reviewing the day’s cakes.
Well, Rusty is doing most of the reviewing. As much as I like cake, they all kind of blended together after a while.
“I liked Sugar Momma,” Rusty is saying. I wonder, briefly, if she has any idea what that means, but I don’t think so. “Their chocolate was good. And they had the best chocolate frosting, too. There should be more chocolate wedding cake.”
“Well, people always want it to be white,” I say, lazily, my feet up on the low glass table, my shoes off, a slight breeze pushing against my hair.
“Why?” Rusty asks.
“White’s the wedding color,” I explain. “Wedding dresses are white, the cakes are usually white. Lots of wedding stuff is white.”
Even as I’m saying it, I’m perfectly aware that this explanation isn’t going to cut it with Rusty.
“But why is white the wedding color?” she asks. “How come everyone wears a white dress?”
I open my mouth, then close it, suddenly aware that I don’t want to be the one who explains the concept of virginity to Rusty, nor do I want to explain the fact that almost everyone wears white, and yet, almost no one is actually a virgin when they get married.
So instead, I look over at Daniel.
“It’s t
radition,” he says smoothly. “Like eating ham on Easter.”
“But why is it tradition?”
“Why don’t you research it?” he suggests. “I bet there’s an interesting answer to that question.”
Rusty just looks thoughtful.
The subject changes. Daniel reaches over, takes my hand in his like he’s been doing it for years and it almost feels like he has.
Finally, he glances at the time, then looks up at Rusty.
“All right, kiddo,” he says. “It’s shower time.”
Rusty makes a face.
“You need me to come start it for you?” he asks, not moving.
“Dad. No,” she says, as though he’s asked if she’d like to lick a beehive. “I can do it.”
“All right,” he says, a little wary. “I’ll be up in fifteen minutes to check your progress.”
“Don’t come in the bathroom without knocking,” she orders, standing from her chair.
“Do I ever?”
“Just don’t, okay?”
Daniel holds up one hand.
“I won’t,” he promises, and Rusty heads back into the house.
“When did she become a teenager?” I ask, and Daniel just sighs.
“She gets mad when I insist on double-checking her shower progress,” he says. “But if I don’t, she’ll just stand under the hot water until the well runs dry, pretending to be a mermaid werewolf or whatever it is this week.”
“You mean a were-maid?”
“That just sounds like she’ll clean the house during a full moon.”
“I’d take it,” I say, and Daniel laughs. He pulls out his phone, sets the timer for ten minutes, and tosses it onto the table in front of us.
“You told her fifteen,” I point out as he stands, our hands still linked.
“She needs a five-minute warning,” he says, and pulls me up, catching me by the waist. “I’ll go knock on the door.”
The sun went down half an hour ago and it’s nearly dark, but not quite, the forest and the house all draped in the indigo of nearly-night. My arms are around Daniel, our bodies pressed together. His fingers find my chin, the rough pads skipping along my jawline.