Let Them Eat Cake

by Sandra Byrd

  “A friend,” Dad said. “They’re hiring.”

  Food services. Hmm.

  “What is he hiring for?” I could tell by the rigid way Dad held his head that I wasn’t going to like it.

  “Information input. But it’s big company, Lexi. They deliver to restaurants, gourmet stores, and bakeries all over Seattle. There might be something else down the road. They have benefits, you know.”

  A cubicle. My dad looked so earnest, though. I knew he was trying.

  “All right, I’ll apply,” I said, knowing that even if I got the job, I couldn’t take it. I’d promised Luc the six months.

  Later that night I went to Allrecipes.com again. I did have some good recipes, and maybe others would enjoy them too. Or maybe they’d hate them, or no one would try them. And then I’d lose the only thing I felt good about in my life right now.

  I’d register. Why not? It’d be fun.

  Dad, unknowingly, had suggested the perfect user name. I logged on, entered the name, and set myself up.

  I wouldn’t check my feedback for at least a month. Okay, two weeks. Maybe one. Definitely not tomorrow because I was not going to base my worth on what people I never even met said about my food.

  I had enough trouble with people I knew.

  One day I took an early lunch and went to Peterson’s. I knew all about them, because they delivered to L’Esperance: yeast, tinned peaches from France, that kind of thing. I made sure I had no flour on my clothes and walked into the human resources office.

  “May I have an application, please?” I hoped my clogs didn’t look too out of place in the neutral-toned office.

  “For which job?” the receptionist asked.

  I showed her Mack’s card. “Information inputting.”

  “Ah,” she said. “That job was filled last week. But if you want to fill out an app and leave it here, I’ll make sure it gets to Mack.”

  Okay, I thought, I tried. I’d followed through on my dad’s good intentions and found the door—thankfully—closed. I left my application and drove back to L’Esperance, where I quickly tied on my apron. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes late.

  “You’re late,” Sophie said, aiming her voice in Luc’s direction.

  “I’ll come in early tomorrow,” I answered as sweetly as I could.

  After my shift, Mom came to pick me up so we could get Nonna and then go shopping for dresses with Leah and her mother. Mom wanted to see where I worked. I didn’t mind. I was proud. Well, mostly.

  I could see her waiting patiently at the back of the café. It was the first time she’d ever been to L’Esperance.

  It was near 1:30, but I was leaving early to spend some time with my mom. The café had pretty much cleared out. I watched my mom as she watched me bus tables. She had a look in her eyes, kind of forlorn. She didn’t have to say it, but I knew what she was thinking.

  “You didn’t go to college to do this.”

  Yeah.

  I took my apron off and beckoned her forward. “I’d like you to meet Sophie,” I said.

  Sophie acknowledged the introduction, but just barely.

  Then Luc came forward, calling out to me in French about the pastry shelves. I answered in French, and then said in English, “Luc, I’d like you to meet my mother, Peggy.”

  “Ah, Peggy,” he said, picking up my mother’s hand and kissing it. “Now I know where Alexandra gets her extraordinary beauty.”

  My mother—my mother—blushed. “My real name is Margaret,” she said charmingly.

  “Margaret,” he said soothingly. Mom smiled.

  We chatted for a while, and Luc complimented me on the bud vases I’d dug out of an old storage cupboard and placed alongside some IKEA tea light candles on each table.

  As we left, I saw Luc and Sophie sit down together at a café table. They looked friendly. Sophie smiled genuinely. I hadn’t seen any sign of closeness between them before now.

  Shake it off, I told myself. It’s nothing. Luc is merely being polite.

  Mom and I parked in front of Nonna’s retirement center, right around the corner from her church.

  “I noticed you let Luc hold your hand for a few extra seconds,” I teased as we walked up to Nonna’s apartment.

  “It was nice to meet him. I’ve noticed the…ah…warm tone of voice you use when you talk about him.” Mom gave me a knowing look. “Though I wouldn’t know what you two were talking about in French, it sounded nice to hear you speak it,” she admitted. “I always wanted to speak another language and have a glamorous job and an exciting time in my life. And then I wanted that for you.”

  “What else did you want, Mom?” She never opened up like this.

  She stopped walking. “You know that Nonna worked my whole life, so when I came home from school, I cleaned, watched my siblings, and started dinner. I took care of everyone. It’s been my role my whole life. From when I was a teenager until…now.”

  I’d never thought of it that way. Nonna seemed so forward-thinking when she was a working mother all those years ago, but had that somehow been at the expense of my mom?

  “It would have been fun to travel. Have a good job that brought in my own money. Been independent before having kids. But, you know, I met your dad, and Nate came along, and I went from keeping house to keeping house.”

  “You’re good at that, Mom,” I said. It was lame, I knew, but I meant it. “And now you have all the time you want to do something else.”

  “Bosh, I’m too old for that now,” she said. She started walking again, ending the conversation.

  We rang Nonna’s doorbell, and she arrived at the door, hair curled and makeup on. Just inside her door lay a stack of magazines.

  “Nonna,” I said. “I didn’t know you subscribed to Martha Stewart Living. And National Geographic. And the Atlantic Monthly.”

  She smirked.

  “Nonna,” I reprimanded her. “Nonna!”

  “Mother,” my mom said, sighing. “Not again.”

  “I read them very carefully,” Nonna protested, “not creasing a page, and then I return them to the right mailboxes. No one knows. Betty doesn’t even remember to read her magazines. She only subscribes so she can get into the sweepstakes. Would she mind? No. And Mr. Jones will do anything for me. I’ve decided. He’s going to be my date at the wedding.”

  She looked pointedly at me. “Got a date yet?”

  “J’ai des possibilités,” I answered in French, implying a Frenchman.

  “Ooh la la.” My mother fanned herself with her hand, and we burst out laughing.

  We met Leah and her mom at Bling, a dress shop. On the way I prayed, God, let this be a good day for Leah. Let her stand up to the people who treat her poorly. Let her mother see that this is Leah’s day and wedding. Thank you for my family.

  I felt his warm presence. I felt hugged.

  In the end, Leah did choose the bridesmaid dresses, a beautiful smoky rose. My mom got a dress at the bridal shop that, while several sizes larger than Leah’s mom’s dress, was beautiful. We told Nonna she couldn’t wear strapless or a plunging back.

  She winked. “We’ll see.”

  On the way home, I decided to talk to my mom in the family language, that is indirectly.

  “Leah’s mother means well,” I said, “but she bugs me. She’s always picking on Leah. She expects her to be just who she wants her to be, instead of accepting Leah for who she is.”

  The windshield wipers whispered against the glass. The interior of the car stayed quiet.

  A block or two from home, Mom finally spoke. “Leah’s mom was pregnant when she got married, so her parents wouldn’t give her a wedding. Maybe she just wants for her daughter what she couldn’t have for herself.”

  “Maybe that’s not what her daughter wanted, though. Wouldn’t she rather have her be happy?”

  “Young women don’t always know what will make them happy in the long run.”

  I sighed. We both wanted me to be happy. We just had dif
ferent ideas about what that looked like.

  As we rounded the corner to the house, I saw something in the yard. A big white pole with a sign hanging on it. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh goodness,” Mom said. “I had no idea it’d be up so quickly. Dad must have given her the go-ahead while I was at school this week.”

  As we got closer, I read it aloud with increasing alarm.

  Si vous avez seulement un oeil, salut pour ne pas le perdre.

  If you only have one eye, take care not to lose it.

  Sign’s up, eh?” Tanya and I sat parked in her old Mazda in front of my house. We both looked at the For Sale sign. “Looks like the fliers are gone,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “The real estate market is still hot.” Too hot. “The house already has offers, but the agent wants to hold one more open house to make sure she’s getting maximum dollars.” We sat in the car for a minute. “What are you going to do?” Tanya asked. “Nate’s helping me look for a place. I have two small studios lined up to view, maybe tonight, and one grand, glorious apartment.” I gathered up my purse and apron and looked at my hands. “I’m feeling kind of desperate.”

  “It’s going to work out,” Tanya said. “I’ll borrow your faith.” I opened the car door.

  Dad was neatly edging the lawn. He was so precise, you’d think he was trimming a hemophiliac’s beard.

  “Hi, girls,” he said, the same thing he’d said to us for more than ten years.

  “Hi, Mr. Stuart,” Tanya said. “Lawn looks great.”

  Dad gave her a thumbs-up. He liked Tanya. Their personalities meshed well.

  While Tanya walked toward the porch, Dad called me over. “Did you apply with Mack?” he asked.

  I softly said, “I tried. Job’s already filled, but thanks, Dad.”

  He looked so disappointed. In me, or in the lack of a job, I didn’t know. I wanted him to be proud of me. I walked slowly to the mailbox, spring taken out of my step.

  I pulled the mail from the box and met Tanya at the front door.

  “Want to come with me to look at those places tonight?” I asked. “I’d love your opinion.”

  “I wish I could, but I have a date.”

  “A date!” I squealed, cheered again. “Really?”

  “Yeah. With Steve. Dinner and a movie. It feels teenagerish, but, you know…”

  Tanya had agreed to a date! A mix of emotions filled me: elation, anxiety….jealousy? Maybe a little. But mostly, I felt elated.

  “I’m proud of you,” I said. “When do I get to meet Steve?”

  “Soon.” She grinned.

  I looked up the studios and apartment on MapQuest and left right after dinner to see them.

  The first studio was within walking distance of work, which was a plus, but over a Greek restaurant, which was not.

  “Come, come.” A whiskered woman answered the door, and I followed as she lumbered up some side steps. I could hear a tambourine shimmying in the background and smell garlic, onions, and brine.

  The studio was small, but it actually had a tiny bedroom. It overlooked a minimarket from the back windows, and a large ventilation system whirled noisily. As soon as the vent shut down for a moment, I could hear the tambourines downstairs. It was Friday night, I knew, but I didn’t think I could live with the crash of plates and “Oopa!” every weekend.

  Besides, there was no stove—only a toaster oven and hot plate.

  “Thank you so much,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’ll call you if I want it.”

  The look on her face told me she’d heard that before.

  I drove to the second studio, hopeful. It was in a better neighborhood and in a building of fifteen apartments. I was slightly taken back, therefore, to see the place wrapped in plastic like a giant, microwaved potato. Tentatively, I knocked on the manager’s door.

  “Yes?”

  “I understand you have an apartment for rent?” I showed her my printout from Craigslist.org.

  “Oh yes, yes. Well, right now,” she swept her arm toward the building, “it’s being fumigated. A little bug problem. We’ve tried to get rid of it before, but it never worked. I think it will this time.” She winked at me. “Come back next week, okay?”

  I agreed but didn’t commit. Bugs. Ugh.

  I drove by the great apartment and took a leasing flier from the lobby. All they had left were fourteen-hundred-a-month doubles. I crumpled it up and threw it into the trash.

  I went home and watched TV with my parents before going to sleep in my brother’s childhood room.

  Things were not looking good.

  I got to work before Sophie the next day without even trying. I hoped she didn’t think I was trying to one-up her anymore. The Trois Amis, the three croissant-rolling friends (as I had dubbed them), let me in through the bakery door, grunting. They were under a lot of stress because our croissant orders had doubled this week for a special order from the university.

  Luc was already in the café, and he hugged me and kissed my cheeks when I entered. “Ah, the spring flower of L’Esperance has blown in for the day.”

  We smiled broadly at each other. He held my arm just a bit longer than natural. I felt the imprint of his hand through my muscle, and the touch of it stayed there after he’d let go.

  Did he feel it, too? I couldn’t tell.

  I opened the café.

  It was nice to be there on my own in the morning. I felt ownership. I felt empowered. I could see myself managing this. What would I do differently?

  Sophie came in after I had everything chugging along and gave me a rare smile when she saw the place set up. “I’ll bag the bread,” she said.

  I noticed she had a stud in her nose. It looked like a small bug napping in the nose cleft. “New?” I asked.

  She touched it gingerly. “Like it?”

  It was the first time she’d ever asked my opinion. Everything I need to know I learned in kindergarten: honesty is the best policy, but find something nice to say

  “It looks really good on you,” I answered.

  Luc wheeled in a big rack of bread and croissants for us to bag, place, and showcase. He noticed Sophie’s new piercing and tutted in her general direction. “Sophie, la passoire.”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes and leaned toward me as Luc went back to the bakery.

  “Sophie, the sieve,” I translated for her, watching to see if she’d be offended. Luc clearly was not a fan of multiple piercings.

  “I am what I am,” she said. “Thanks for the translation.” She turned away to wipe down the espresso machine. Her tone didn’t sound very thankful.

  The breakfast rush came and went, and Sophie and I washed the tables ten times each and tidied up already-tidy areas. I watched the clock, waiting for the lunch rush.

  “I think I’ll put some fresh flowers in the pastry case,” I said. I headed to the florist three doors down and traded a few chocolate croissants for some daffodils and narcissus. I arranged them in the case, and even Sophie gave her approval.

  Very managerial, Lex, I told myself.

  During the lunch rush, Sophie handled the sandwiches while I ran the register.

  “Do you sell this jam?” asked an older man, a regular customer. He held up his half-eaten croissant spread with wild strawberry confiture.

  “No, Im sorry,” I said. “It’s a special confiture that Luc, our owner, brings over from France. It’s like strawberry heaven, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like to bring some home for my wife,” he said. “She doesn’t get out much these days.”

  I grabbed a foam cup from the shelf, scooped several large tablespoons into it, and snapped a lid on top. “Anytime.” He held my hand in thanks.

  I grabbed the phone while Sophie ran the coffee machine. “Bonjour, L’Esperance. May I help you?”

  “Special order,” said a male voice on the other end. “Catering for Davis, Wilson, and Marks.” I jotted it down: several loaves of bread, prepped, cheese tray, fresh fruit.
Silver trays. Expensive look. “Nothing sweet,” he insisted. “Not a pastry tray. Lunchtime stuff.”

  Sophie looked meaningfully at me over her shoulder. The line was out the door, and she needed help. Oh well, I thought to myself cheerfully, job security, right?

  I ran the special-order note back to the bulletin board in the back. On the way, I noticed the pastry case out front was getting low.

  “Can you bring forward some pastries?” I asked Luc as I breezed by. Where was Patricia anyway?

  “Can you?” he answered, his voice edgy. “I’m a little busy here, in case you didn’t notice.” He glared, and I turned away.

  Wow. I blinked back tears. Sorry you’re so busy, but you’ve offered to do that numerous other times. I grabbed some pastries from the cooler and went back to the café to help Sophie.

  “Who was on the phone?” Sophie asked once things had calmed down again.

  “Davis, Wilson, someone,” I answered. “Special order.”

  “Oh good!” she said. “I think they’re an accounting firm. They used to do special orders every week for their business meetings, but we haven’t heard from them for the past couple months. They always placed big orders, and they influence a lot of other companies in their building.”

  “Well, they’re back!” I said. Maybe Luc would be happy with us all when he saw the order. Me in particular.

  Sophie counted out the register, Luc put it in the safe, and she left an hour early, as we’d planned earlier in the week. Before Luc left to take care of business at La Couronne, he came to chat, calmer now.

  I told him about the man who wanted to buy some jam. “I told him I’d give him a little cup of it anytime he asked, but it made me think—what if we had a small baker’s rack of produits de la France up front? Some confiture, some truffles, some chocolate, French roast coffees.” I joked, “Cans of escargot for the sturdy at heart.” No one would buy snails. He knew I was kidding.

  Luc ran his hand over his jaw and then smiled. “Eh bien, I like it, Alexandra. Good idea. It will bring in a little more revenue while providing something special for our customers.”