Let Them Eat Cake

by Sandra Byrd

  “What’s on your playlist?” I nodded toward her iPod. “Law cases being argued.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “That’s on my playlist too. Sheesh. Don’t you guys ever get tired of law?”

  “Nah,” she said and grinned. “Gotta make it work. So what’s on your job agenda?”

  I hesitated. Should I tell her?

  “Well, I’ve been offered a job,” I said.

  “Great! Are your parents excited?”

  “They don’t know yet. Actually, I haven’t accepted the job.”

  As we headed outside for a brisk walk around a couple city blocks, I watched young professional people my age rush in and through the atrium, on their way to real jobs. Jobs that required a suit or pantyhose and a briefcase. People who hadn’t let their parents down or squandered the vast amounts of cash poured into their college educations.

  “Where is it?” Leah asked. “L’Esperance.”

  “The bakery! You’re going to be baking!” Leah beamed. “So cool.”

  “Well, not exactly. It’s a counter help job. For ten dollars an hour.”

  Leah’s stride hesitated for a second, and I saw her struggle to maintain her smile. She did. She’d have a good lawyer poker-face. “Ten-dollar-an-hour counter help? Oh. Are you excited?”

  I nodded. “I think I am. I’ll get to learn all about the bakery, and I think they’re going to have an assistant manager’s job available in a few months.”

  Leah’s face relaxed. “Well, then, that’s different. I’m so glad for you. But you know you won’t find someplace to live alone on that in Seattle, right?”

  “Right,” I said. She was right.

  Since I didn’t want to hog the entire lunch hour with my news, we talked about her wedding.

  “Nate and I were supposed to register for the gift list last night,” she said, “but he had a migraine. Maybe tonight.”

  Nate always had a migraine. Or a pulled muscle. Or a strange ailment of some other undiagnosable sort. It drove me crazy growing up, because my mother always coddled him. I didn’t think I could take it if Leah was going to do that too.

  I said, “Hopefully you guys will be able to do that soon. When are we going to look at dresses?”

  “My mom had a great idea.”

  I couldn’t tell by the tone of her voice if she thought it was a great idea or not.

  “She thought all the women in the family—yours and mine—could go together. As a bonding experience.”

  And so her mom could approve what everyone else wore. “Is that okay with you?” Leah asked.

  “It’s your day. It’s your wedding. I’m here to do what you want me to do.”

  “I did make sure the wedding was small, even though she wanted it large,” she said, sounding defensive.

  “You did,” I reassured her.

  “Detail-oriented” was a kind way to describe Leah’s mother. She made sure everyone around her agreed with, or at least abided by, her details. Thin and rich, she made certain everyone knew her daughter was going to be a lawyer and was marrying a lawyer as well.

  “Mom wants me to drop a few more pounds before the wedding,” Leah said, her voice more casual than I knew she felt.

  I’d like to drop a few pounds too. Right on her head. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride ever,” I said. “No doubt. My brother already thinks so.”

  We giggled and chatted and eventually made it back to my car. I turned the engine over, happy, and decided to get the car washed in celebration of the sweatshirt-free backseat.

  I pulled up to the gas pump first, hoping my credit card had enough wiggle room to cover it without an over-the-limit fee, then started clearing out the car.

  Out with the Organic To Go bag, the water bottles, and the crusted boots that didn’t fit anymore anyway. Out with the papers. Out with the coffee cups squished between driver’s seat and center armrest. I found something in the glove box and stared at it.

  I liked that. Alexandra Stuart would “B Positive!” I stuck it into the flip side of my visor as a daily reminder. Cheesy, yes, but everyone needed a little cheer once in a while.

  When the car was finally clean, I drove home. My parents were still at work, so I busied myself planning dinner. I nibbled on blue cheese-stuffed olives and logged on to Epicurious.com. Great for me, but too fancy for my parents. They just weren’t going to do fava bean bruschetta or braised chicken with morels.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t want frog eye salad or hamburger green bean casserole.

  Was there no middle ground?

  I browsed Allrecipes.com, which offered a few possibilities, but in the end, I decided to make up my own recipe. I’d tinkered with one before leaving Bellingham, when I’d had roommates to cook for. Something good and hearty and tasty for a cold winter night. My old roommate had called it boyfriend bait. Tender, toothsome meat that didn’t need a knife, silky cream sauce sliding over perfectly cooked noodles or tender grains of rice.

  Maybe I could soften Dad up before I dropped the employment bomb. Maybe Frenchmen like beef stroganoff, too. Les possibilitiés…

  A force de choisir, on tombe à terre.

  He who hesitates loses.

  Nate couldn’t take any time off from the law firm that Friday, so he said he’d drive up and meet Mom and Dad and me at Whidbey Island later in the evening. I told my parents I had the day off. It was true, in a way, but I was tired of dancing around honesty. I’d have to tell them. Tonight.

  We didn’t really do family vacations any more, but I thought that one was important to my parents. After Nate and Leah got married in June, we wouldn’t do anything with just the four of us anymore. I didn’t mind—I loved Leah—but it brought closure to our family of four.

  Also, my dad was excited to show us the new house. My parents had never had a house they could call their own. We lived in base housing when Nate and I were little, and then we rented in a neighborhood near the naval air station on Whidbey. When we moved to West Seattle, it was only because my grandmother died and left the house to my dad.

  This new house was my parents’ dream home, and it was all their own. I was caught between excitement for them and the hope that construction would be delayed by six months.

  Would I find my own place too? A place to call home in the literal, figurative, and spiritual sense?

  The trees were taller in Whidbey, and there were more of them. I felt the saltwater tighten my face and sizzle on my tongue. The clocks ran slower, and people waved more. It would be a good place to retire.

  “Well, here we are, out in the boondocks,” Dad said with a smile. He eased the Jeep down a long gravel drive, which would eventually be paved, and onto their property. He parked exactly square with a log he’d set out.

  “Wow, Dad, the land is all cleared!” I said. Last time I’d been there, it had been a rain forest from the Jurassic period.

  Not good, not good. Land was ready to be built on, builders eager to finish their work and get paid. Was a labor strike possible?

  “And the foundations almost poured,” he said. “Now that we have the financing all lined up, we can get building. It’s supposed to be done in four months—barring no problems, of course.”

  Please let there be a few problems, I thought. Nothing terrible, nothing to derail things. Just enough to give me some time to save up. Minor flooding. Sump pump problems. Wood rot.

  “The thing I’m looking forward to most,” Dad continued, “is having someone else landscape this place. It’s a mess. I’m done with mowing and planting and hauling. A local company is going to come in and do just what your mother orders while I sit on my porch, drinking iced tea.”

  “The financing worked out so great,” Mom said. “Because the property in West Seattle has appreciated so much, we won’t have a mortgage at all for this, once that house is sold. We can just pay off the bridge loan. Dad has his military pension, of course, and we’ll have Social Security, but not much else. So it’s a great relief to us.�
��

  In other words, as much as we love you, we have no money to support you in any way, shape, or form.

  “If we’re careful with what we spend,” Dad said, “it will be just enough. I want to make sure we’re secure, no matter what. And it’s nice that everyone in this community is our age. We’ll have some friends to play golf or cards with or reminisce.”

  “And no teenagers!” my mom teased, looking brightly at me again.

  Or twentysomethings.

  “You guys have done so much for others. It’s good to have something to look forward to for yourselves,” I said.

  “We were glad to put you and Nate through school,” Mom said, beaming in on my thoughts like Deanna Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation. How did she do that? “We didn’t want you to have student loans as you launched your professional lives.”

  I flinched at the words “professional lives,” but my mother didn’t notice.

  We checked into the small bed-and-breakfast where we usually stayed. It had a military discount, and Nate and I could have small single rooms to ourselves. Nate arrived a few hours later, and we went to dinner at my dad’s favorite steakhouse.

  Before entering the restaurant, Nate removed his earbuds.

  “Let me guess, law cases being argued.” I gestured at the iPod.

  He looked at me, amazed. “How did you know?”

  “I’m smarter than I look.” I wasn’t about to give out my secrets. “Can anything be more boring than that?”

  “I have a friend in medical school who listens to hour after hour of heartbeats so he can learn to recognize a murmur,” he answered.

  “Question withdrawn.”

  Nate laughed.

  I wanted to spend my life with someone who shared my interests, like Nate and Leah did. We could talk about the same things, learn about the same things, and be interested in adding to each other’s body of knowledge. Best friends and husband and wife. I yearned for that. Even looking at my parents, preparing to rediscover one another in their new house without kids, I longed for that togetherness.

  An empty spot gaped inside me. I felt like a puzzle with pieces missing, and I felt those holes like bruises. Would I find someone to fill them?

  We were seated quickly, and everyone began examining the menu.

  “I’ll just have the salad bar and a baked potato,” Nate told the waitress.

  “No meat?” my mother asked.

  “My stomach has been acting up again,” he said. “I’m trying to go easy—soft foods, nothing too spicy—and they spice all the steak here.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes.

  We chatted until the food arrived. I’d figured I’d let them all get something into their stomachs so they were good and mellow before I dropped my news. I’d chosen the restaurant as a safe place to tell everyone because my parents, especially my mother, never wanted to make a scene. My mother hated drawing attention. If she weren’t Italian, she would have been Japanese. I’d read that a favorite Japanese proverb was, “The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.” I was surprised it wasn’t hanging, a framed needlepoint, on our living room wall.

  “This is good, but not as good as the beef stroganoff Lexi made the other night,” my dad said, polishing off the last bite of his steak. He folded his napkin into a neat square and placed it just under his plate.

  I beamed at him.

  “Sure, she has time to cook,” Nate teased. “She doesn’t work the hours I do.”

  Must everything be competitive with him? At least he gave me the opening I needed.

  “Actually,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “I’ve been offered a new job, and I’ve accepted it.”

  “Oh,” Mom said. “I thought you were happy with the job you have now.”

  Dad leaned toward me, but not too close. He didn’t want to tip a chair or drop a napkin or in any way impose on someone else’s personal space.

  “What is this new job?” he asked. I could tell he wished he’d met me for lunch after all.

  I decided to try a ploy I had used as a teenager. Maybe it’d still work.

  “I am going to be a massage therapist,” I said, thinking of Leah.

  Dead silence. Dad put both hands flat on the table. “No, no, really,” I said, “I decided I’d like to be a beautician after all. Remember? I always wanted to do that as a girl.”

  “Oh,” Nate said.

  Dad, on the other hand, said nothing. His bald patch turned pink.

  I held up my hands in mock defense. “I’m kidding, you guys. I’ve accepted a job I’ll really like at L’Esperance downtown. It’s a French bakery. Great culture, wonderful food, and the people are fun. They speak French! I’m going to learn a lot and fit right in.”

  “What will you be doing?” my mother asked. A little too politely, but at least she was no longer holding her breath.

  “I’ll be counter help,” I answered, holding my breath, instead, as I watched my dad’s face deflate.

  I knew they’d react this way, but knowing something in your head doesn’t always prepare you for the hit to the heart when you see that you’ve disappointed your parents yet again.

  Later that night, I heard a light rap on my door at the bed-and-breakfast.

  “I know you might be too old for this kind of thing,” my dad said when I opened the door, “but I was thinking about walking down by the docks for a while. Would you like to come?”

  “Sure, Dad,” I said. “Let me get my coat and gloves.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside.” He walked down the hallway in precise steps.

  When I was a girl, my dad and I walked the docks by the naval base, looking at the ships coming in and going out. He would relax a little, comfortable in that world, and even hold my hand from time to time. Those walks meant a lot to me, so I was glad he remembered them too.

  We walked down to the dock, watching the lights twinkling on a carrier getting ready to ship out.

  “Did you really hate that other job?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, thankful I could finally be honest. “I was slow. I felt dumb. And bored. I’m interested in things other people aren’t always interested in, like baking and art.”

  “There’s more to life than what you’re interested in,” Dad said. “When I was a kid, I wanted to go to law school. But I had no father, and Grandma had no money, and the navy seemed like a good way to go. It wasn’t always fun, but I adjusted. Then your mother and I got married, and Nate was on the way soon thereafter. I had health insurance. I had stability. I had security and a place to live.”

  He brushed a fleck of dust off his coat sleeve.

  “I appreciate all that, Dad, and everything you’ve done for us. But you wanted security. I want meaning.”

  He stared straight ahead, military bearing in place. “Sometimes if you take one, the other comes later.”

  “I’m hoping it will be that way for me too,” I said. “Just the other way around.”

  He nodded, and we talked some more, but only about little, inconsequential things. I couldn’t tell if he approved or disapproved of my choice. Maybe I needed to get over wondering.

  Whether or not my parents liked the idea, the job was still mine, and I wanted to make the best of it. But no matter what time I arrived at work, Sophie was there before me.

  “You’re here early,” Sophie said as I walked in the door my second week on the job. “You can’t clock in early.”

  “I know.” I tied my apron around my waist. I was wearing khakis and a light denim shirt, thankful for my Dansko clogs. Lifesavers. If I weren’t saving like a maniac, I’d have already gotten a foot massage at the spa down the street. “I just thought I’d come in early to help you,” I said. “I know there’s a lot going on.”

  “I’m good,” Sophie said.

  Fine. Two could play The Chill.

  We worked straight through the mornings, slipping warm loaves of bread into sacks and setting them in neat, soldierly rows on the bre
ad rack. I took over the pastry case, something Sophie seemed to have no interest in, while she kept up with the sandwich station. There was enough work for both of us during the morning and lunch rushes, but in between it was quiet. Only enough work for one, and that was usually the experienced one— Sophie. She was an efficient organizer and, when she remembered to smile, good with the customers. I noticed she was particularly soft toward the kids who came in.

  Each morning I artfully arranged the pastries Patricia had prepared and stored in the cooler the afternoon before. Most days there were tall, round opera cakes, frilly Chantilly cakes, and tarts. Sometimes I brought in fresh flowers and arranged them in the pastry case while whistling “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem. Sophie pursed her lips and said nothing.

  I couldn’t figure out why the tarts had slices of fresh lemon on them instead of candied lemons. Candied lemon slices were de rigueur—tart with the potential for sweet all at once.

  “Do you know why these slices aren’t candied?” I asked Sophie one day.

  “Ask Patricia,” she said, ending the conversation.

  No way. Patricia was the dame formidable in the kitchen. Everyone kept out of her way—Sophie and I, the croissant rollers—even Luc gave her a wide berth.

  At every break, I read Paris Match. I peppered my conversation with French, even with the non-French-speaking customers. Pourquoi pas? Why not?

  “Très belle!” Luc said, looking at the flowers in the case one day. “This is very pretty. Who arranged this?”

  I smiled but said nothing.

  He smiled back. “I need a break. How about a café crème and some conversation? I haven’t spoken French all morning.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I untied my apron, and we sat together at a cozy café table.

  “So tell me how things are going,” Luc said. “Do you enjoy the shop?”

  I did! I told him how I enjoyed arranging the cases and serving the customers. I liked the hustle and bustle and hurry of things. I didn’t mention that taking this job was causing serious stress at home or that Sophie seemed to wish she could cast a spell and make me disappear. What good would it do?