by Kitty Thomas
I don't have to ask what she's begging for. She wants me to stop. She's afraid someone will see and figure out what's happening underneath this table. The tables are covered in long table cloths and our table is set up so that our backs are against the wall, but it isn't as though our family and close friends can't see her face, and anyway the toasts are about to begin.
I reluctantly remove my hand from between her legs.
“Soren,” I say.
He gives me an annoyed look but he does the same, and Livia lets out a relieved sigh.
“Thank you,” she whispers. I'm not sure if she's speaking to just me or to both of us. Dayne is deep in a conversation with Cheryl about some mundane topic or other, completely oblivious to what he just missed out on.
16
Livia
Wedding Plans
Five months ago. January.
When I surrendered to Soren's plans, a part of me had thought I had a year of freedom left. I mean, isn't that how long it takes to plan a fancy wedding? Somehow I had rested safe in the idea that I wouldn't have to figure out how to exist with the three of them together for another whole year. Maybe in that time I could shake my dangerous attraction. Maybe I could figure out a way to get out of it.
But as it turns out, Soren knows a guy—because of course he does—and we were able to book The Fremont for the reception along with the presidential suite for the wedding night with only a six month lead time. And the church for the ceremony? It's the biggest and most historic Catholic church in the city. Soren attended as a child but he's not so big on church these days—still, he gets nostalgic about tradition.
They were booked two years in advance but Soren made an impressive donation, and so now the Franco/Kit wedding will be happening somewhere else. Don't feel too bad for them, they're getting an all expenses paid first class honeymoon in Greece, courtesy of Soren.
I've been armed with a black card and my very own wedding planner: Patrice Beauchamp. I'm fairly certain this woman could get a rabid pit bull to wear a tuxedo and walk down the aisle in perfect timing to The Wedding March. She is the most persuasive one human I think I've ever encountered.
I know this is starting to sound like poor little soon-to-be rich girl with the sky's-the-limit dream wedding. I get it. But you can't understand how the world shifted under my feet the night of the proposal. You didn't feel the ice that flowed out of Soren and covered me like my own personal never ending winter. I'm not much more certain about Griffin. Even Dayne isn't as non-threatening as he appeared when we first met.
I'm no longer sure if I would have said yes if only one of them had proposed and if they'd never known each other. Maybe I've always known I was playing in a fantasy world that could never be real. I didn't want men wasting my time, sure. And I did want marriage and a family—I do want that—but I also want love, and I'm no longer convinced that's what I'm getting—from any of them. It feels like what I'm getting instead is a gilded cage and no safeword.
“Earth to Livia,” my mother says.
I look up and blush, embarrassed that I've been lost for the past fifteen minutes inside my head. Today has been an intense day of wedding planning. So far I've tried on about fifty dresses and can't make up my mind, so we've tabled that issue for today.
My mother, Macy, and Patrice are about to taste wedding cake with me to see if I can make my mind up about that. I feel like Patrice is judging me for not being a more excited or decisive bride. I haven't been oohing and aahing over all the things her brides normally get excited about.
Soren should be here for this, but he said whatever I wanted would be fine with him. He apparently has no opinions on anything about this wedding except that I get whatever I want. I feel like I'm marrying myself, and if I'm being honest none of this even seems real at all. It feels like a show.
It's so tempting to believe in these kind gestures, “the sky's the limit”, “you can get whatever you want”, but my mind continues to flash back to that night in Griffin's penthouse when Soren exposed my breasts to all three of them and set upon me like a devouring animal before Griffin stopped him. What would my family think if they knew it wasn't just Soren? They'd be mortified by this sordid arrangement.
My mother hasn't been able to stop talking about the gorgeous Tiffany engagement ring and what a catch Soren is. She has bragged to every woman she's ever met about that ring and this guy. I'm pretty sure half the women in this city could pick Soren out of a line-up now after the way she's flashed his photo around.
“Livia!” my mother says because yes, I have just drifted off again!
“What?” I say, sounding just as irritated.
But I don't need her to answer because all the little cakes are here sitting delicately on the table in front of me, their warm fresh-baked scents perfuming the air with sweetness. Soren should be here for this. That thought won't stop flowing through my mind. It's one of the few wedding planning activities the groom is usually present for. Maybe he can't keep up the charade that all of this is just another normal dream wedding in front of my mother, best friend, and the wedding planner. Though truthfully Patrice is the only one I worry about. Both my mom and Macy are completely smitten and have fallen into this whole thing as though it's an internationally televised royal wedding.
“Soren should be here,” my mother says, like she's become a mind reader. She says it with almost accusation in her tone like suddenly Mr. hot, wealthy, Tiffany ring guy just isn't good enough for her daughter.
“He's out of town on business,” I say. He's not really out of town, but it seems like the only reasonable excuse for why I've been left alone to make this momentous confection decision.
My mother sighs but seems to accept this explanation.
Lillian was with us earlier in the day for dress shopping and lunch, but she had an appointment and had to miss the tasting. So she can't contradict my story about why Soren didn't meet us here.
I'm given German chocolate, hazelnut, lemon, vanilla, marble cake, red velvet cake, strawberry cake, and cinnamon spice cake. The owner of the shop tells me there's a menu of several other options if one of these doesn't meet my needs, but these are their most popular.
Because the wedding is coming up so fast they decided not to overwhelm me with their entire menu all at once, something for which I am deeply grateful.
Each piece of cake is on a beautiful bone china plate. These plates will be available for the wedding, or she has five other patterns I can choose from. The multiplicity of choices in this entire process is exhausting. I suddenly realize why this normally takes at least a year.
Each of us has a beverage in front of us. My mother has unsweetened iced tea, Macy has water, and I have black coffee. Patrice has chosen to simply observe this ritual, which is probably wise. She'd never fit into that tailored Chanel suit if she participated in every wedding cake tasting. I'm already afraid I won't fit into the dress I haven't even bought yet just from looking at all this cake.
Macy has her head buried in a glossy color photo book all about wedding traditions. Almost every place we have visited for every aspect of this wedding so far, Macy has been confused for the bride because she's just so into it. Her freckled cheeks are flushed, her pale green eyes are glittering behind her cute librarian glasses, and I swear she's living vicariously through me, but she's too wrapped up in the fantasy herself to notice that I'm not as excited about all this as she is.
I think my mother has noticed that I'm pre-occupied, but she probably thinks it's just normal wedding planning stress.
Macy looks up suddenly, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Livia, did you know that the first wedding cakes were meant to encourage the bride's fertility? And originally the top of the cake was saved not for the first anniversary but for the birth of the first child? How soon are you two having kids, because you could follow the original tradition and have the cake on the day the first baby is born. That would be soooo romantic,” she gushes tucking a strand
of curly red hair behind her ear.
All eyes are on me now, and I realize there was a question in there. My mother chimes in with, “Yes, Livia, when will I get to be a grandmother? I hope you're going to try for babies soon. Babies are so wonderful! I've wanted to hold another fat chubby-cheeked cherub in my arms for just ages!”
I swear the longer my mother is involved in this process the more she sounds like the affluent older women at the country club. It's like it's contagious.
“We haven't really talked about it yet.” I'm not even sure if Soren wants children. It's probably something we should have already discussed but I was expecting someone to make a normal proposal after which obviously we would have started discussing things like kids, but the subject hasn't come up so I don't even know if he wants them.
But if he doesn't, maybe Griffin or Dayne? What happens if I get pregnant? Will there be jealousy or anger? Will it all fall apart?
“Livia, you need to talk about it!” my mother chides. “What if you don't want the same number in the same time frame?”
What if the father could be any of three different men? I ask silently in my head as if I would ever say these words out loud. And then I have a new fear. What if I have a kid and it looks like the father—not me—but the father isn't Soren? Will they notice? Or will they imagine they see one of our family member's features in the baby's face, making everything okay again?
My mother pushes the strawberry cake toward me. It's far more delicious than I expected. I have to stop the moan from slipping past my lips. It's moist and fluffy and perfect. And it's the most beautiful shade of pink, prettier than any strawberry cake I've ever seen. Suddenly I'm imagining myself in the blush-pink wedding gown I tried on at the third wedding dress shop and thinking maybe the cake is the secret to making everything come together.
Macy and my mother each take a bite of the cake as well.
“What do you think?” Claudia, our award-winning baker, asks.
“It's incredible,” I say, feeling pretty certain I'm never going to narrow this down.
She already has all the important information, the wedding date, the venue, the number of guests. Patrice sent her a three page missive which I was email cc'd on last week to organize this tasting.
Claudia is in high demand, and Patrice told me I was lucky she was willing to squeeze me in and do my cake. And I am now a true believer.
I'm less enthralled with the hazelnut, marble, red velvet, or vanilla. They're all very good, don't get me wrong, but they don't have the same magic as the strawberry.
Patrice is furiously texting in her phone all of a sudden. She looks up after a frantic back and forth. “Sorry, strawberry is out,” she says.
“Soren doesn't like it?” I ask, feeling somehow betrayed.
“His uncle is allergic to strawberries.”
I sigh. “No strawberry.” But I finish that slice of cake, knowing it's probably the last time I'll taste such a perfect strawberry cake.
The cinnamon spice is really promising, but it's a summer wedding and cinnamon spice feels more like a winter wedding cake. The last two remaining choices, German chocolate, and lemon stare back at us—the last two kids picked for dodge ball. All of us have already had a bit too much cake, but we soldier on for these last two options.
“Holy shit, that's amazing,” Macy says when she tries the lemon. “Oh my god, Livia, you have to try this.”
“Oh. My. God,” my mother says when she takes a bite of the German chocolate. “This is the one, Livia, I'm sure of it.”
“You haven't tried the lemon,” Macy tells my mother.
I haven't tried either of them. I grab the plates before the two of them can devour these last two choices, and I take a bite of each.
“I can't decide. I love them both,” I say, much to Patrice's annoyance.
She sends another text, and I'm sure she's asking Soren for more money for babysitting me.
“Great news, nobody is allergic to lemon or German chocolate,” she says cheerily a couple of minutes later.
But I still can't decide.
“We could do the lemon for the wedding cake and chocolate for the groom's cake if you like,” Claudia says.
“Yes! That would be perfect.” And I think I might be developing just the tiniest bit of excitement about this whole wedding thing after all.
Assistants come in and clear the table of all the cake plates, careful to wipe up the crumbs before Claudia places a large book on the center of the table. The book is filled with huge glossy color photos of cakes.
“These are all my designs. I can do any of these or we can discuss something else if you don't find anything you like in here.”
If I had to guess there are about five hundred photos in this enormous book.
Sensing my overwhelm, she says “Would you like fondant or buttercream for your frosting? I've got the book divided into two categories by frosting type so it'll narrow the choice down quite a bit either way.”
“Well, I like the sleek look of fondant but I like the taste of buttercream,” I say.
I'm sure this is going to earn me another sigh from Patrice, but Claudia speaks before that can happen.
“Oh, I have just the thing!”
She leafs through several pages in the book and opens to one of the most elegant cakes I've ever seen. It's a large three tiered cake with greenery and delicate white flowers on the top of each layer. The top of each layer is flat, with the most perfectly even spread of frosting.
“It's not fondant?” I ask.
“Nope. This is the looks-like-fondant-but-really-is-buttercream compromise. It's a very popular choice. The frosting is just a tiny bit thinner than usual but it doesn't affect the flavor. If you look at the side of the cake, you can see where the frosting is spread.”
I can see it now. At first glance it does look a lot like fondant, but now that I'm looking more closely, I realize it's not.
“It's perfect. Lemon cake with buttercream frosting and this design,” I say decisively.
“I can change the flowers on it to something else if you like,” Claudia says.
“No, I want it exactly like the picture.”
“Fantastic. What we'll do is have a few sheet cakes which will be cut in the kitchen for guests so you don't run out of the pretty cake. You'll want to save and freeze the top layer for your anniversary, and you'll be cutting into the second layer at the reception when you feed each other. For this particular cake there won't be enough for two hundred and fifty guests but with the sheet cakes there should be more than enough.”
Patrice is practically beaming. I haven't seen this woman this happy since I met her. I can practically read her mind. Finally an easy decision.
“Do you want the same kind of frosting look for the groom's cake or something different?” Claudia asks.
“We can do more traditional-looking buttercream for that,” I say.
“Chocolate frosting on the German chocolate cake? Or I could do a cream cheese frosting.”
“Chocolate,” I say, earning further brownie points with Patrice for my rapid-fire decision making in the face of infinite sugary possibility.
“Great,” Claudia says, jotting down notes. “Now, what I would suggest for this is having a groom's cake for the guests who might want it at the reception, but since a lot of people won't eat two different cakes at the same time, you could additionally do these as cupcakes and send them home with the guests. I've got these fantastic little boxes for them.” She shows me a picture.
“Yes!” I say, and suddenly it looks like Macy isn't going to be confused for the bride anymore. Who knew all it was going to take was sugar?
Claudia shows me a few photos of groom's cakes. “I can do any of these but I can also do something completely custom. Most groom's cakes are unique to match the groom's hobbies or something he likes. Do you have any ideas of what he might like? You can take a day or two to think about it and ask him. I know this is all overwhelming.”
I take just a moment to think about it, not wanting to have a goofy groom's cake marring such an otherwise elegant event.
“Well, we met at the art museum on third and main,” I say. “This may be too difficult but what about a cake to look like the museum building?” The museum is a sleek and interesting design that, if possible, would make an amazing cake. And though it seems a bit insane and extravagant, I have full confidence Claudia can make this happen.
“Yes!” she squeals, having caught the excitement bug I've come down with. “I can absolutely do a groom's cake of the art museum!”
The meeting ends and I part ways with my mother and Macy who came together in a separate car to meet me.
Patrice walks with me out to my car and shoves a black binder into my hands. “This is a list of all the things we still have to do and decide and the dates by which everything must be done to stay on schedule. I'm afraid we don't have a lot of time to lock everything down.” I can feel the judgment in her voice.
She goes to her own car and I'm sure she's going to leave, but she comes back with three books full of wedding invitations to choose from. There's a trendy high-end local designer option, Vera Wang, as well as Crane and Co.
“I need a decision on your invitation design by the end of the week. I would go with Crane,” she says, piling them onto my passenger seat and closing the door. I'm sure the weight will make the electronic sensor in the seat think there's a passenger, and I'll have to click the seatbelt around them to keep the beeping light off my dashboard.
“Why Crane?” I ask.
“Tradition. Soren loves tradition.”
This confirms my suspicion that she and Soren know each other somehow and he didn't just randomly pick her out of a list of wedding planners.
She tells me this about Soren and tradition like it's some new revelation. I fight not to roll my eyes at her. I know it sounds stupid and paranoid, but there's this small part of me that thinks Patrice is some kind of spy and that she'll report back anything I say to him.