The Icing on the Cake

by Janice Thompson

  To call her a crusty old soul might seem insensitive, but it was the most accurate description I could come up with as I stared at her through the glass. If my life were an I Love Lucy episode, Aunt Wilhelmina would be my Fred Mertz. Every story needed a curmudgeon, after all. Upped the ante. And having your ante upped was a good thing when you were in business for yourself. This I had discovered firsthand.

  The jingling of the bell above the door rang out, along with her familiar, shaky voice. “Why doesn’t someone do something about that blasted bell? It’s getting on my last nerve.”

  Well, hello to you too, Aunt Willy.

  “I swear, getting into this place is more complicated than cracking the safe at Fort Knox. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get a parking space. And these stairs!” Off she went on a tangent, railing about my stairs.

  Ha! Stairs—railing!

  I pushed aside the laughter and watched as she wrangled her way up the four steps to the bakery’s main level. From the looks of things, she’d just had her hair done. Or, as we used to say back in Lufkin, where I hailed from: “Had ’er hair did.”

  The soft curls that framed her face were a shade or two darker than usual, with a hint of auburn. And the makeup! Honestly, for a woman in her seventies, Aunt Willy certainly knew how to spice up her appearance, albeit with a shaky hand. The eyeliner was a little cockeyed, and the lipstick strayed outside the usual lines, but she’d given it the old college try. You had to give it to her for that.

  She drew near and grunted a hello to my mother, who scurried into the kitchen.

  Coward.

  Not that Mama had ever shared a normal relationship with my dad’s much-older sister. To my way of thinking, she’d always been a little scared of the old gal. Okay, a lot scared. Then again, we all were. But why? What harm could a precious elderly woman do, especially one so focused on dying? The rest of us had plenty of life left in us.

  I gazed at Willy’s face, wrinkles as soft as tissue paper and eyes so blue they rivaled the sky above the gulf. What really got me, though, were the pink cheeks. No, she hadn’t spent time in the sun. She’d gone a little crazy with the blush brush. Should I tell her she’d overdone it or just look the other way?

  Fortunately—or unfortunately—I never got the chance to speak. She lifted a shaky finger and pointed it at my face. “Scarlet, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. I—”

  “When I call, I expect you to answer, especially now that we’re doing business together.” A tremor punctuated her words. “When you make me come and find you, it robs time from my busy day. Besides, I wouldn’t have funded this venture if I’d realized you would end up ignoring me. I don’t want to go to my grave with you owing me money.”

  Ouch.

  “I’m not ignoring you, Aunt Willy. Wilhelmina,” I quickly corrected myself. “I promise. I’ve been so busy moving in that I didn’t hear the phone. That’s all.”

  “Suppose I’d been an important client? Then what?” Her gaze narrowed, and I knew this was a test question. I’d better get the answer right, or . . . or . . .

  I wasn’t sure what the “or” would be, actually.

  “Well then,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I would have called you back and offered you the deal of a lifetime.” I gave a confident smile, one I hoped she would find convincing.

  “Don’t be so free with my money, girl.” She glanced around the room, her nose wrinkled. At least I thought it was. At her age, who could tell? “I thought you got this place set up last week.”

  “No, the movers couldn’t come until yesterday, but they did a really good job getting everything loaded up in a timely fashion and—”

  “Slackers.” Just one word, but with the tremor in her voice, it sounded like two or three.

  “Oh.” I tried to think of the right words. “No, not slackers. The foreman’s wife was having a baby, so—”

  “Sure she was.” Willy rolled her eyes, obviously not convinced.

  “No, really. It’s true. They had a baby girl, by the way. I saw the pictures. Pretty little thing. She—”

  “Scarlet, you’ve got to stop letting people take advantage of you.”

  Um, okay.

  “You give people an inch, they’ll take a mile. Before you know it, you’ll lose all control.”

  Tell me about it.

  “Giving up control is not a good thing.”

  Point well taken. I shall tattoo that on my forehead—backwards, so that when I look in the mirror, I will see it in all its glory.

  She took a few steps closer, and the makeup became even more of a distraction. “I need to make sure you get everything done that I’ve asked of you. The new recipes, the éclairs . . . everything.”

  “Oh, I will. But I already have a full schedule this month. And Hannah’s getting married in six weeks, remember?” Sweet Hannah! If anyone deserved a happily ever after, my BFF did. She’d beat me to the altar, but I didn’t really mind that much.

  “That’s the Irish wedding at Club Wed?” Willy asked as she settled into a chair at the closest table. “Your photographer friend?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  She put her designer purse on the table next to an open box. “Happy to see that you’re getting more business from Club Wed. That’s good. That wedding coordinator, Bella Neeley, has made quite a name for herself. Linking your business to hers is key. People will sit up and take notice. It’s all about networking. That’s what I always say.”

  I had to give it to Aunt Willy. Seventy-five years old and still focused on the bottom line.

  Thinking about bottom lines reminded me of my ever-blossoming backside. The words sticky buns slipped through my mind, and I flinched. Oh well. At least Auntie wasn’t focused on the size of my bottom today. No, judging from the look on her face, she was far more preoccupied with scrutinizing my new digs and rambling about business stuff.

  “How do you think I made Crème de la Crème the success that it is today?” She shook her finger at me. “Not by hiding my light under a bushel.”

  Her cheeks practically glowed in the dark today, so I could not dispute her on that point.

  “And certainly not by giving away too much product,” she continued, the tone of her voice intensifying. “You’ve got to cut back on the giveaways, Scarlet, and focus on making great connections.”

  “I’m just looking at new ways of doing things, Aunt Wil—”

  “This is what I’m talking about.” She pointed to the decor—the luscious, wood-trimmed mirrors and the glass cases that would eventually hold the cakes, cupcakes, and pastries. “Too much froufrou. You need to focus on the products, not the shelves that house them. I didn’t invest my hard-earned money so that you could buy top-of-the-line cases. Why in the world you couldn’t make do with regular cases is beyond me.”

  “Hmm. Well, the glass cases came with the place, remember? This used to be a candy store, and the owner had really nice taste.” And I, for one, happen to think the cases are gorgeous.

  She did that nose-wrinkling thing again. “Still, it’s the cakes you need to focus on. And the cookies too, I suppose, though I never saw much value in a cookie.”

  I bit back the sigh as the thought, You never saw much value in anything, ran through my brain. How my dad had put up with her all of his life was beyond me.

  Giving myself a mental slap, I forced myself to focus. Surely she did see the value in hard work. And in me. Otherwise she never would have funded this venture, right?

  She lit into a conversation about the importance of keeping my glass shelves stocked with the things that customers had come to expect in a bakery, and before long I found myself wanting to doze off.

  Time to think more like Lucy.

  As I gazed into Aunt Wilhelmina’s baby blues, as I took in her ever-softening skin, a smile worked its way from my heart to my lips. She probably wouldn’t win any personality-of-the-month awards, in spite of
her willingness to fund my latest venture. Still, she was my auntie and I loved her.

  Best of all, she believed in me. Believed in my business. In that respect she’d proven to be as reliable as those funky support hose she always wore and as consistent as her overworn story about how she already had one foot in the grave. Maybe she didn’t have a motherly personality, but I had no doubt in my mind that time would prove her to be more friend than foe. I hoped.

  Besides, we were more alike than I’d realized. She loved sweets. I loved sweets. She’d orchestrated a successful business. I planned to orchestrate a successful business. She was loopy with the eyeliner. I . . .

  I glanced at my reflection in the ornate mirror above the counter and groaned. I had forgotten to put on any eyeliner. Or any lipstick, for that matter. Oh well. Who needed makeup on a day like today?

  Aunt Willy rambled on about the messy state of affairs in my new bakery, and I shifted my focus from my own imperfections to those facing me in the room. No point in worrying about it, really. The room would clean up just fine. And—now I encouraged myself to think like Lucy—so would the woman in the mirror.

  3

  Pie in the Sky

  Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart.

  Erma Bombeck

  I’ve always been nuts about my BFF, Hannah. For one thing, she’s the most brilliant photographer ever. But it’s not her talent that draws me in, it’s her personality. She’s sweet and kind to a fault. She’s also incredibly loyal. A thousand times over she could have—probably should have—ditched me as her best friend. I mean, I’ve always been very vocal. Speaking my mind comes easily, and I’ve shared my opinion about her work, her love life, her diet . . . pretty much her everything. But she’s borne it all like a champ.

  And it doesn’t hurt that her photography studio, which she shares with her fiancé, is less than a block away, on the other side of the Strand. We see each other every day. Sometimes two or three times a day. And now that she was in full-out wedding-planning mode, I couldn’t seem to shake her. Not that I wanted to, of course.

  After Aunt Willy huffed off, Hannah entered my shop, her ever-present smile offering hope. I stopped working long enough to give her a welcoming smile. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.” She plopped down in a chair and gazed at me, brow wrinkled. “Did I just see your aunt leaving?”

  “Yep. She scared off my mama half an hour ago, but I had no choice—I had to stay put and listen to her.” I sighed, though I didn’t mean to. “Kind of glad she’s gone now, to be honest. Is that awful?” If anyone would understand, my best friend would. She knew my heart better than anyone.

  “No, it’s not awful.” Hannah paused and appeared to be thinking. “Would it be wrong to say that I do what I can to avoid her? She scares me.”

  “She scares me too. A little. In fact, I think she scares pretty much everyone she meets, which is really odd, considering her tiny size.”

  “Funny how someone in such a small package can be so intimidating.” Hannah chuckled. “Still can’t figure out how your aunt Willy and your father came from the same gene pool. Someone must’ve been swimming in the shallow end at some point along the way.”

  “I know, right?” The very idea that my precious father—all six foot three of him—had grown up with such an aggressive older sister seemed impossible to me. I’d just opened my mouth to say more, but the words to a childhood song flitted through my mind: Oh be careful little mouth what you say. I shrugged instead.

  “Well, I couldn’t wait any longer,” Hannah said. “I’ve got a gig and I need some sugar.” She pointed to the empty cases. “What? No cake balls? No samples?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to bake the past couple of days, but . . .” A grin curled up the edges of my lips. “I do have a few hiding in the back. I made them last week and froze them, but they’re almost thawed. Just haven’t had time to get them into the cases. I don’t officially open until day after tomorrow, you know, and I still have a lot of work to do.”

  “Right, right. But a girl needs her sugar in the afternoon, especially a girl in wedding-planning mode.” She leaned her elbows on the table, nearly knocking off a box in the process. “This whole wedding-planning thing is for the birds. If not for you and Bella, I would’ve snapped like a twig already. I need my daily bread—er, cake.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” I gave her a little wink and went to fetch the tray of cake samples.

  She dove in like a woman without a caloric care in the world, finally slowing when she’d eaten five or six bites of the near-frozen cake. “Mmm!” Not exactly a full-fledged sentence, but close. “I like ’em this way.”

  I sighed, my thoughts shifting to my buns. My overly inflated sticky buns.

  She gave me a funny look. “You’re not having one?”

  I patted my exaggerated backside. “Do I look like I need one?” I went back to work on the room, lugging boxes from one corner to another.

  “I’ve never paid attention, to be honest. But I’ve also never noticed you avoiding sweets before. Are you on a diet kick or something?” Her brow wrinkled as if this very idea made her nervous. Why would she care if I lost weight? She’d never cared when I gained it.

  “It’s Aunt Willy.”

  “Aunt Willy’s on a diet?” Hannah’s perfectly mascaraed eyes widened. “Whoa. Never saw that one coming.”

  “No.” I couldn’t help the groan that escaped as I thought back to a recent conversation I’d had with my aunt. “I’m just saying she wants me to trim down. Maybe she thinks my hips are a distraction to the customers?”

  Now Hannah looked downright angry. “Are you serious, Scarlet?” she asked. “Tell me you’re not.”

  “I am. Serious, I mean.”

  “Ugh! I’d like to give that woman a piece of my mind.” Hannah—all 110 pounds of her—took another cake ball and popped it into her mouth, then spoke around it. “Besides, I would think your backside would be a walking advertisement for the product.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. After a moment she pulled her hand away and muttered, “Um, sorry. Not sure that came out the way I meant it.”

  “It’s fine.” With a wave of my hand, I dismissed her concerns. “Besides, I’m not blind. I see the image in the mirror. I’m the funny fat girl. Well, funny most of the time. Just not today. Don’t really see much to laugh about, with all this work to do. But maybe it’s time to change my image into something more serious.” I deliberately turned my back to her so that she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  “Fat?” Hannah’s voice rang out behind me, her words laced with frustration. “Scarlet, you’re not—”

  “Don’t say it, Hannah.” I dropped a box on the table and turned to face her, my temper rising. “You’ll never know what it feels like to be . . .” I bit back the word chubby. “According to the Wii Fit, I’m obese.”

  “According to the Wii Fit, I’m obese.” She released an unladylike grunt. “You can’t go by that. And who cares if you’re a little . . .” Her hands waved in the air. “Fluffy.”

  Fluffy. Perfect word for a girl who spent her days whipping up cream cheese frosting so light and airy it could practically float like a cloud.

  “When you find the right guy, your fluffiness won’t matter anyway. It’ll be like icing on a cupcake—just the right sweetness.” She grinned and cocked a brow.

  “Easy for you to say.” My dieting initiative took a hike. I reached for a cake ball and shoved it down, the sugary bite causing me to offer up a deep sigh of satisfaction. Cake always made things better, especially lemon delight with fresh raspberries.

  Hannah crossed her arms at her chest and glared at me. “If it really bugs you, then do something about it.”

  My eyes popped open, and I glared back at Hannah. “So you do think I’m fat.”

  She groaned and slapped herself on the forehead. “I can’t win for losing, can I?” A frantic “how can
I possibly get through to you?” conversation followed. She did all the talking. I did all the listening. Well, mostly. I spent about half the conversation eyeing a piece of carrot cake on the tray.

  I wiped the sugar off of my fingers and reached for the carrot cake. “Sorry. I think I’m just bummed about being the biggest bridesmaid at your wedding. The other girls look amazing in the dress that new designer created. All of your sisters are so trim and pretty. And I look . . .”

  “Perfect. And FYI, you’re not a bridesmaid, you’re my maid of honor. So if you want to go with a different dress, I’m okay with that, as long as it’s in the same color scheme. My sisters won’t mind a bit, I promise. No one will. And Gabi, the designer, is the best on the island, so I know she can make whatever we ask for.”

  I swallowed down the carrot cake. It did little to ease my frustrations. “Yes, but . . . don’t you see? If I wear a different dress, then I’ll really stand out. It’ll be the three trim, fit bridesmaids and the one chubby—er, fluffy—maid of honor. The one who had to get a different dress because the one everyone else was wearing wouldn’t wrap around her big”—I pointed to my bottom—“sticky buns.”

  “Sticky buns?” A familiar voice called out, and I turned to see Bella Neeley, Galveston’s most illustrious wedding planner, entering the shop. “Are you open for business already, Scarlet? If so, I’ll take a dozen sticky buns to go. Everyone in my family thinks yours are the best on the island. You can’t believe how many hours we’ve spent talking about them. That’s the primary reason we’re so excited about your new shop opening. Aunt Rosa even had a great idea for how you can draw more attention to your sticky buns. I think she’s going to come by and talk to you about that one day soon.”

  I did my best not to groan aloud. Hannah, however, seemed to find humor in Bella’s remark. She busted out with a belly laugh.

  Bella looked confused. “What did I say?”

  “Never mind.” I reached for another cake ball and swallowed it down whole. Strangely, it didn’t taste as good that way. “Let’s just say my sticky buns have been a hot topic today.”