“What’ll it be?” asked the waitress.
“Two shots of tequila,” Jamie said.
“Patrón, if you have it,” Sarah added. “We need the good stuff.”
“And two huge glasses of water,” Jamie said.
After the waitress returned, they clinked their glasses and threw back the shots. Sarah coughed and sputtered as she swallowed.
“You okay?” Jamie asked. “Raise your hand if you need the Heimlich maneuver.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sarah dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. She didn’t seem at all fazed by the hard rock blaring over the speaker system or the water-spotted silverware. “Wow, I needed that. I have had a week.”
“Last-minute wedding stress getting to you?”
“Oh, no, the wedding’s fine.” Sarah dismissed this with a flip of her long, dark hair. “As I said, my mom’s the one who’s all worked up about who’s RSVP’d and who hasn’t and what the corsages are going to look like and are the napkins monogrammed in the right typeface.”
“I can check on the cocktail napkins for her.” Jamie whipped out her planning binder and prepared to jot this down.
“Don’t worry about it. She’s obsessed with my wedding being perfect, but it’s never going to be perfect because my dad’s not here, so she’s channeling her energy into micro-managing the tiniest details.” Sarah’s smile was a bit lopsided. “She just wants me to have everything she never did. I mean, you know how mothers are.”
Jamie nodded politely and waited for the bride to continue.
“I need a shot of tequila because I just gave notice at my job today. The movers are coming to pack up my apartment next week, and I told my landlord that I won’t be renewing my lease.” Sarah laced her hands together and stretched her arms out over the table. “Yep. In two weeks’ time, I’ll be married and living in the sticks and unemployed for the first time since college.”
Jamie chewed on the end of her straw. “You sound kind of ambivalent.”
“It’s just a lot of change all at once. New town, new people, new role. I never really pictured myself as the demure little faculty wife. It’s going to be more work than I anticipated, all the traveling and entertaining and fund-raising. I had no idea what a hotbed of politics and scandal academia is.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Sarah tucked her hands back under the table. “At least I’ll have you to hang out with once I take up residence in The Manor. It’s such a relief to know there are other uprooted city girls out here. We can go skiing, get mani/pedis, maybe we can even double-date. Me with Terry and you with all the men you must have lining up.”
Jamie flagged down a passing server. “I’ll have another shot of Patrón, please.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “I can’t keep up with that.”
“I don’t want you to,” Jamie said. “I just want you to sit back for a second and try to keep an open mind. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Uh-oh.” Sarah laughed. “Sounds ominous. Dun, dun, dunnn.”
Jamie remained deadly serious. “Here’s the thing. I’m glad you’re happy and I don’t want to interfere with your relationship in any way, but …”
Sarah mirrored her grim expression. “Spit it out.”
“You should know that, back in the day, Terry had a little bit of a reputation.”
“Oh, that.” Sarah looked relieved. “Yeah, his first marriage was miserable.”
“Yes, but it was more than that.” Her kingdom for a cigarette. “He kind of breached the sacred trust.”
“Say no more.” Sarah’s tone was still friendly, but her eyes had darkened. “I see where you’re going with this.”
“You do?”
“You’re talking about that student, the girl with the weird name. What was it? Arielle? Artemis?”
“Arden,” Jamie said softly.
“Arden.” Sarah lifted her chin. “I’ve been to a lot of college functions since Terry and I started dating. The trustees like to gossip and the alumni council members are even worse. So yes, I know he has some regrets in his past.”
Jamie was startled to hear that term applied to her: a “regret.” Such a gentle, tactful term for such a sordid act.
“That makes it sound like it was a minor mistake.” Jamie leaned forward. “It was an affair with a twenty-year-old student, not an administrative oversight.”
“It wasn’t an affair, it was a vicious rumor.” Sarah got more detached with every syllable. “If he had breached anything, he would have been fired immediately. I’ve heard Terry’s side of the story, and that’s all I need to know.”
Jamie had to hear this. “What’s Terry’s version?”
Sarah stopped looking at her. “The whole thing is ancient history. I love him, I trust him, and I don’t need to listen to any more unfounded speculation.”
“But actually, you do. Because Arden was one of my best friends and—”
“Before you continue, let me ask you one question. Are you telling me all this for my sake? Or for yours?”
“Yours, of course.” Jamie paused. “I thought you needed to know.”
“In that case, thank you for your concern, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Sarah nodded crisply to indicate that the subject was closed.
Jamie was debating the wisdom of pressing her point when a voice behind them broke through the music and Friday night chatter. “Jamie Burton? Is that you?”
Jamie flinched before she even turned her head, because she knew who that voice belonged to.
“I’ve been trying to call you.” Jeff Thuesen materialized at the side of the table. He looked very tall, very handsome, and very resolute.
“Oh,” Jamie said. “I haven’t been checking my voice mail.”
“I asked Brooke for your number when I saw her a few weeks ago.” Jeff braced his hands on the back of a chair and seemed ready to sit down and join them. “Did she tell you she ran into me?”
“She might have mentioned it.”
He stared down at her, obviously waiting for her to ask why he’d been trying to get in touch. When it became equally obvious that she wasn’t going to take the bait, he said, “I need to talk to you.”
Jamie deflected with, “What are you doing out here in Thurwell, anyway? I thought you lived in Manhattan.”
“Brooklyn, actually, but yeah, I work in the city. I’m here to interview candidates for one of my company’s summer internships.”
“Oh. Okay. Great.”
“But I went to the memorial service, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
She feigned total innocence. “No. I didn’t see you there. But it was so crowded, you know, and such a difficult day.”
“It was.” His hands opened and closed on the back of the chair. “Look. I know this is awkward, but I have some questions that I’m hoping you can answer for me.”
“Listen, Jeff, I’d love to chat, but I’m right in the middle of something here.”
“Hi.” Sarah waved. “I’m Sarah Richmond. She’s planning my wedding.”
“Yeah? Congratulations.” He turned right back to Jamie. “What about tomorrow?”
“No good. I’m booked solid. Meetings with the caterers, finalizing everything for the bridesmaids’ tea.”
“Next week, then.” Jeff wasn’t asking. “I’m coming back for the last round of interviews on Friday.”
Jamie toyed with her earring. “I’d love to, but I’m just—”
“Next Friday, high noon,” Sarah assured him. “She’ll be here.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Jeff said. “See you next week.”
“Bye!” Sarah trilled after him. Her exuberance vanished when she got a load of Jamie’s expression. “Uh-oh.”
“You have no idea what you just did to me.”
“Set up a date for you with a hot guy?”
Jamie gave her a look. “First of all, you’re walking down the aisle in two weeks, so you’re not suppo
sed to be scoping out hot guys.”
Sarah laughed. “I’m engaged. I’m not blind.”
“And second of all, it’s not a date.”
“It sure seems like a date. Hot guy, single woman, prearranged social meeting.”
“Things aren’t always what they first appear,” Jamie said. “Which brings us back to the subject of Terry and his—”
“Stop.” Sarah crossed her arms. “I like you, Jamie, and I want to continue to like you. So unless you slept with my fiancé, I’m not going to discuss this further.”
“Will you kindly excuse me for a moment?” Jamie grabbed the emergency pack of cigarettes in her bag and stepped outside to light up. White tendrils of smoke unfurled into the chilly night air. Jamie shoved one hand into her jeans pocket and inhaled as deeply as she could, gulping down the warm, pungent fumes until her lungs burned and her hands stopped shaking.
When she returned to the table, Sarah was waiting for her with a peace offering of artichoke dip.
“Let’s start over.” Sarah handed her a napkin. “Why don’t you dazzle me with all the details of the bridesmaids’ tea?”
“Fair enough.” Jamie cracked open her wedding-planning binder and recommitted to her long-standing policy of noninterference. “Let’s talk tulle.”
“No woman is so good or so bad, but that at any moment she is capable of the most diabolical as well as of the most divine …”
—Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs
Anna used her chef’s knife to slice open the cardboard box that Sarah Richmond’s mother had sent, unspooled yards of bubble wrap to make sure that the porcelain bride-and-groom wedding cake topper (hand-painted, one-of-a-kind, heirloom-quality European craftsmanship, according to Mrs. Richmond) was still intact, then turned her attention back to the gelatinous mass of dough oozing slowly across the pan. She could master any cake or cookie, but breads were hit or miss. Her sole attempt at croissants had ended in charred, leaden triangles of flattened pastry and a wine-fueled tirade against the French.
“Hey, what’s in the box?”
Anna dropped her knife with a clatter as she realized she was no longer alone in Pranza’s kitchen. She whirled around to find Trish Selway standing right behind her.
“What’s in the box?” Trish repeated.
“Stop sneaking up on me!” Anna had to tilt her head back to meet Trish’s gaze. She backed up in an attempt to reclaim some personal space and said, “And go away. It’s my night, free and clear. Check the schedule.”
“Simmer down; I’m just here to put the finishing touches on a cake I had to leave in the walk-in. I’ll be in and out in ten minutes. Seth already cleared it. Go ahead and call him if you have a problem.” Trish switched her focus from the cardboard box to the baking sheet. “And what’s this jacked-up yeasty mess supposed to be? Looks like epoxy in a pan.”
“It’s brioche au fromage,” Anna said in her snottiest French accent.
Trish laughed out loud. “I know a brioche when I see one, and that? Is no brioche.”
“Oh please. Like you could do any better.”
“I absolutely could. It’s bread, babycakes, not rocket science.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And since I’m following the recipe to the letter, I can only assume the instructions are flawed.”
“Don’t blame the recipe. It doesn’t get more basic than brioche.” Trish leaned over and skimmed the list of ingredients. “Just flour, eggs, butter, sugar, yeast, and Gruyère. But, you see, it’s the simple classics like this that separate the true chefs from the poseurs with Williams-Sonoma catalogs and too much time on their hands.”
Don’t engage, don’t engage. With the grocery store fracas fresh in her mind, Anna spun on her heel and stalked over toward the refrigerator. Then she heard an ominous utterance behind her:
“Oops.”
She raced back to discover that a bottle of blueberry syrup had splashed across the vintage cookbook.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Trish said with a simper. “Pregnancy has made me so klutzy.”
Anna adopted Trish’s earlier tone of condescension. “Don’t blame the Bug. Between this pitiful attempt at sabotage and that stunt you pulled with the Hobart mixer, I now understand how truly insecure you are.”
“The fact that you’re still accusing me of taking that mixer attachment shows how delusional you are,” Trish countered.
“I guess we both have our crosses to bear.” Anna sectioned out the damaged pages of her cookbook, headed back to the sink, and tried to salvage the brioche recipe with a hot, damp dishcloth. But the text was irreparably obscured.
This whole thing with Trish was so petty. So high school. Scratch that—more like middle school. Anna reminded herself that she was a mature adult, with a home and a husband and lots of friends and a rich, multifaceted existence. She refused to debase herself by stooping to dirty tricks and passive-aggressive mind games.
Then she gazed down at the sticky, sodden cookbook that Jonas had given to her on the hot summer day they’d moved in to their house in Albany. She’d thrown together a simple tomato salad for dinner, and then they’d made love on the floor in the empty living room and giddily assured each other that they’d just created the first of the children who would eventually fill up the spare bedrooms.
Now her cookbook was trashed, her house was empty, and Jonas was on the other side of the ocean.
Suddenly, Anna was back in seventh grade.
When Anna returned to the prep area, Trish was chatting on her cell phone. “Hi, this is Trish Selway, calling about the cake delivery. … Yeah, I just want to double-check everything to make sure it’s perfect. You want me to pipe ‘Congratulations, Terrence’ on the top in red, right? … No flowers, no scallops, no other decoration? … Okay. Got it. I’ll be over to drop it off ASAP. See you in a few minutes.”
Anna leaned back against the metal countertop and waited. When Trish ended the call, she asked, “Who’s the cake for?” She figured there couldn’t be too many Terrences running around Thurwell, New York. “Is it for the college president?”
“Mind your business, Legacy.” Trish packed a pastry bag full of red icing and started piping.
For several minutes, the two bakers pointedly ignored each other and the tension thickened to the consistency of Anna’s brioche dough.
Finally, Trish broke the silence. “Shouldn’t you be trying to fix your slab of fancy French merde over there?”
Anna peeked over Trish’s shoulder at the sheet cake, which now featured elegant red cursive across the smooth white icing. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
Anna tittered behind her hand. “Nothing.”
Trish flushed. “What?”
“Don’t you worry. You’ll find out soon enough.” Certain that Trish was still watching her, Anna made a big show of digging out her cell phone from her coat pocket and retreating to the restaurant’s dry-storage area. There, surrounded by huge metal cans and Lexan containers full of flour and sugar, she pretended to dial the phone and then, tamping down a momentary stirring of shame, pretended to be talking to Jamie.
She pitched her voice to be loud enough for Trish to overhear but hushed enough to sound as though she were trying to be secretive. “Hey, Jamie, it’s me. Did you let Terrence’s staff order a cake through that other baker?”
She paused for a moment to listen to her nonexistent conversation partner’s nonexistent reply. The rest of the kitchen had gone totally, eerily still, which meant that Trish had to be listening in.
“Jamie, how could you? … Yeah, yeah. Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway, because”—Anna lowered her voice even more—“she spelled his name wrong on the cake! Swear to God. She spelled Terrence with e-n-c-e when he spells it a-n-c-e. I know! … Of course I’m not going to tell her! Are you kidding me? Anyway, yeah, once she shows up with the typo cake, I doubt they’ll be hiring her again.” She strolled out of the pantry and feigned shock when she saw Trish scurrying away fr
om her eavesdropping post around the corner.
“Oh, hello. You’re still here?” Anna exclaimed.
“For about thirty more seconds.” Trish leaned over the cake and picked up her pastry bag. “Then I’m out the door.”
“Well, be extra careful not to trip, won’t you?” Anna cooed. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to drop that beautiful cake, what with all your pregnancy klutziness.”
Trish folded down the lid of the large rectangular bakery box. Anna strained to catch a glimpse of the top of the cake. Sure enough, Trish had changed the spelling to “Terrance.”
Mission accomplished. Revenge was a dish best served with buttercream frosting.
But instead of basking in smug satisfaction, Anna felt a twinge of remorse. She couldn’t help envisioning the party host’s reaction and Trish’s public humiliation in front of an entire roomful of supercilious “legacies.”
Her resolve splintered and she threw up her hands. “Wait,” she said. “You need to change the spelling.”
Trish snorted. “Oh please, I’m not falling for that. I know how to spell ‘Terrance.’ Just because I don’t have some overpriced degree doesn’t mean I’m illiterate.”
“No, you were right the first time. It’s an e, not an a. I made the whole thing up back there.” Anna couldn’t even look at her. “I wasn’t really on the phone.”
“Every time I think you can’t possibly get any crazier, you prove me wrong. I bet your husband hides your chef knives before he goes to sleep, doesn’t he?”
Anna started toward Trish. “Come on. I’ll help you fix it.”
“Stay away from me!”
“But I can’t let you—”
“If you take one more step, the pepper spray comes out.” Trish gripped the cake box tightly and edged toward the exit, glaring at Anna as she went. “When I want spelling tips, I’ll ask for them.”
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen door flew open and a blast of frigid winter wind blew in.
“You evil, lying, conniving hag.”
In her haste to confront Anna, Trish hadn’t bothered to scrape the freezing rain from her boot treads, and tiny ice crystals scattered across the tile.
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