Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  “Of course I’ve read it. And I didn’t have to take out eighty thousand dollars in student loans to have some professor put it on a required reading list.”

  And my snappy comeback? “It’s called a syllabus.”

  “Everything’s ready for Paige,” I now told Maria, who was rinsing a spatula in the sink.

  “Why’d you let him go?” she asked.

  “Who?” I feigned indifference, as if I had better things to remember than the handsome lawyer who’d just disappeared into a gray March afternoon and left me stirred up south of the border.

  Maria frowned at me, a frown that said she knew I was full of shit.

  “Were you spying on me?” I teased. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why all the concern? Why are you watching me with those beady Sicilian eyes?”

  “That’s what the little glass window in the kitchen door is for, isn’t it?”

  “The window is there so I can spy on you.”

  “You’re right, I’m usually more interesting.” Maria held up the wet spatula and pointed toward the front of the boutique. “He’s back.”

  “What?” I turned around and saw that Maria was right. Through the kitchen door’s window I could see Charlie standing on the black floor mat I kept in the entryway to keep customers from tracking sand and salt throughout the gallery.

  “I know you haven’t done this in a while, but maybe you should go see what he wants.” Maria smacked the spatula against the side of the sink and I jumped. “Go!”

  “Don’t tell me you have another client who can’t bear the thought of some other bride viewing her cake?” I tried not to seem too anxious as I approached him, but after spending my days in the realm of pre-marital planning, I’d all but forgotten what went on between men and women before the reception hall was booked.

  “You wouldn’t like to go to dinner sometime, would you?” Charlie asked, forgoing any small talk that would have given me a chance to collect myself before practically croaking, “Sure I would” like a death row prisoner who’d been asked if she’d like to take a call from the governor.

  Charlie tipped his head to the side and smiled, once again regaling me with what I was sure was the result of years of teenaged orthodontist bills. “Great. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I have a date,” I sang to Maria, who was sterilizing the long, sharp dowel rods we used to keep the tiered cakes from shifting.

  “Will wonders never cease?”

  Talk about taking all the guesswork and risk out of relationships – with our joint abilities, Charlie and I would know right away if we were a sure thing. And, if we were, who knew where it could lead?

  “A date,” I repeated, “Do you believe it?” Had it really been so long since I’d met a guy who was even vaguely interesting that the mere idea of a date could obliterate seven years of hard earned cynicism and get me wondering if the diaphragm buried under my bathroom sink with a crusty bottle of Nair and a curling iron was more than a shriveled up disc of cracked latex that had seen better days?

  “Stranger things have happened. Maybe he’ll even find you mildly attractive.” Maria turned to me. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “I have a date and I didn’t even have to leave the comforts of my own boutique,” I announced proudly and dipped my finger in a bowl of buttercream. “Maybe he has a friend for you, a nice elderly lawyer who’s looking for a little Italian lovin’.”

  “Get out of here, you’re making a mess.” Maria smacked my hand with a dowel. “See what you make me do? Now I have to sterilize again. Out!”

  I danced through the swinging door to wait for Paige and Steve, regaling Maria with my best Ginger Rogers impersonation even as the door smacked me on the side of my head.

  “That ought to knock some sense into you,” I heard Maria grumble in the kitchen.

  But neither the lump growing above my ear nor Maria’s grumblings could wipe the smile from my face - because, even though I hated myself for becoming the very cliché I despised, I was already wondering how Charlie felt about raspberry-filled almond cake with chocolate ganache and a view of the Charles River.

  Chapter 4

  When Paige and Steve rang the buzzer at five o’clock, I could already tell that we were in for a long night. As I went to unlock the door, they stood outside solemnly, without sending a wave or a smile in my direction. And this from a couple who mailed out Ground Hog day cards and actually celebrated Sweetest Day and other specious Hallmark holidays.

  “Let me take your coats,” I held out my arms and waited as Paige slipped off her leather trench and Steve peeled off his LL Bean layers. “Can I offer you a cappuccino, herbal tea or sparkling water with lemon?” I asked instinctively, clicking into hostess mode.

  “Hot tea sounds great,” Paige answered, rubbing her bare hands together. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “I told you to wear gloves,” Steve reminded Paige and then turned to me. “It’s March and she refuses to wear gloves.”

  “I wear gloves, but I just had a manicure and I didn’t want to ruin the polish.” Paige held up her hands for my approval.

  “Very nice.” Paige seemed vindicated by my show of support and smirked at Steve, who’s own hands were covered in the kind of rugged fleece-lined gloves favored by men who shopped for clothes in catalogs that also offered hip waders and kerosene lanterns.

  “Water’s fine for me, thanks.” Steve attempted to fold his body into one of the pristine leather chairs. “Do all your clients get such special treatment?”

  “They do if their check clears,” I called back over my shoulder before disappearing behind the ivory door. When I returned, they were both seated at the tasting table, where Paige was anxiously tapping her glossy nails on the glass and Steve looked like he was preparing to choose his last meal.

  “We’re still eligible for the family discount, right?” Paige took the fragile china cup from me and held the steaming tea up to her lips.

  “Even better. My wedding gift to you is the cake of your choice.”

  “That’s really generous,” Steve acknowledged and smiled for the first time since they’d arrived. I also thought I noticed his shoulders relax a little once he realized he wouldn’t be footing the bill.

  “Yeah, that’s me, Miss Generousity.” I winked at Paige and sat down on my chrome stool across the table from them.

  “Well, you’re not the only generous one. I have a great place coming on the market and it has your name all over it.”

  “Does she ever stop?” I asked Steve, who just shrugged at me before taking a sip of his Perrier and frowning at the bubbles.

  “Let me finish before you say no. It’s a two-bedroom brownstone on Comm Ave, it’s got hardwood floors, crown molding, built-in bookshelves in the living room, and – get this - a rooftop deck. The kitchen should really be gutted, but you have a kitchen here, so you’d survive while it was under construction.”

  “Comm Ave’s so far in,” I started to object, but Paige cut me off.

  “It’s four blocks from the river,” she corrected me.

  “But I want something overlooking the river.”

  “You and everyone else. Look, Lauren, you’re going to have to compromise – with your expectations you’ll never find the perfect apartment, but this place is so right for you.”

  “You’re right, it sounds great,” I agreed.

  “So why don’t you save me the trouble of listing it?”

  “Because I’m not looking to buy a place right now,” I told her for the hundredth time. “Now let me go get the tray and we can start.”

  “Don’t do anything special for us,” Paige called after me. “Just act like we’re any other couple that comes in here expecting you to create miracles with sugar and flour.”

  I returned from the kitchen carrying a sterling silver Tiffany tray with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d done this a million times, and the care of some
one who understood that in Paige’s mind, today was unlike any other.

  I carefully removed the six pieces of cake from the tray and placed the Waterford dessert dishes between the forks I’d already laid out. This was all about showmanship, and the performance was about to begin.

  “We’re going to start from the inside out. Here we have five samples of our most popular cakes, and the blackberry filling with white chocolate mousseline that you requested. As you taste each one, note what you like and don’t like – the texture of the filling, the consistency of the icing, the bounce of the cake. I’ll make notes and then we’ll move on to the client portfolio, where we’ll go over the design, coloring and shape of the cakes.”

  “We can mix and match what we like, right?” Steve asked, eyeing the plates suspiciously.

  “Absolutely,” I assured him. “Your cake is a reflection of you, I like to say.”

  I took my place back on my four legged chrome perch, ready to silently observe their reactions to each impeccably sliced and plated piece of confectionary perfection. As Steve slowly and methodically savored each bite, Paige moved swiftly from one plate to the next, as if she knew exactly what she was looking for. They were a study in contrasts, those two.

  I’d always thought they made a nice couple, if not exactly a predictable one. While people always commented that Neil and I looked like we belonged together, meaning that we were both well-educated, equally attractive and took a good picture, Paige and Steve were more like the people you saw walking down the street and thought what could they possibly have in common? Or, my first thought, after noticing the obvious difference in size, how they hell do they have sex? Not only is Paige a successful real estate agent with lines on the hottest properties in the city and a cell phone glued to her diamond-studded ear, she also happened to be all of 5’2” with a perky brunette bob that bounced behind her like it was trying to keep up. Steve, on the other hand, stood a foot taller, could palm Paige’s head like a basketball, moved with all the grace of a man on stilts, and taught earth science in Roxbury – and he even looked the part, with Coke-bottle glasses, shaggy blonde hair that was perfect for windswept beaches but not for huddling over Bunsen burners, and khaki pants that always needed pressing.

  Paige was the most organized person I knew (she still cursed Bloomingdales for discontinuing those undies with the days of the week printed on the front, they had saved her a lot of time), while Steve could walk around for hours looking for the glasses that were inevitably resting on top of his head.

  When Robin and I first met Steve we thought maybe Paige was just clinging to the dwindling remains of a waning tropical romance. There was no way Paige would have given Steve a second look if they’d met in on the murky shores of Boston harbor instead of on the turquoise blue waters of the Florida Keys. Then Robin and I figured it was just a stage Paige was going through, getting back in touch with her rural Vermont roots or something. But even after their tans faded, Paige and Steve still looked at each other like they were more than just a vacation hook-up. Almost a year later, they were still going strong and we’d grown used to Steve turning bike rides along the Charles into good-natured lectures on aquatic ecosystems.

  Finally, Steve placed the last fork on its plate, and Paige sat forward in her chair, anxious to hear his verdict. “You first.”

  “No, you,” he acquiesced, like most men did in this situation – after all, most of them had more experience comparing the synthetic filling in Twinkies to SnoBalls, not the difference between royal icing and buttercream.

  “You.” She lobbed the ball into Steve’s court again.

  Steve forced a smile and pointed back at Paige.

  I was about to put an end to this nauseatingly cute banter that seemed more than a little strained, when they both said their choices aloud at the same time. It sounded something like carrot cupcakes with spiced marzipan.

  “What was that?” I asked, thinking surely I’d heard wrong.

  “The carrot cake with orange-scented cream cheese filling and vanilla spiced buttercream icing,” Paige told me, as sure of herself as any thirty two year old bride who’d waited long enough and done all the things a modern woman was supposed to do before succumbing to marriage – college, a career, the requisite girls weekends where she’d leave Steve behind to assert her independence. This was where it ended, where she gave in to the impractical impulses left over from a childhood spent marrying off Ken and Barbie. She knew exactly what she wanted to be feeding her guests on her wedding day. And it was carrot cake with orange-scented cream cheese filling and vanilla spiced buttercream icing. Period.

  . “I’d like cupcakes with marzipan fish,” Steve weighed in.

  “What?” Paige and I cried in unison.

  “Fish cupcakes.” Steve couldn’t miss the look of horror registering on Paige’s face, and he attempted to clarify his selection. “Lauren could stack them on different tiers so it looks like varying ocean depths.”

  “Varying ocean depths?” I’ve pretty much done it all at Lauren’s Luscious Licks, including a collection of jagged coconut crusted cakes protruding from a bear skin rug for a couple that met in Aspen, but I’ve never created varying ocean depths with cupcakes.

  “You know, because we met scuba diving off the Keys,” Steve explained. “I meant tropical fish, not bass or trout or anything..”

  To recap what had just happened, I repeated it slowly aloud so we were all on the same page. “So, Paige would like a carrot cake and Steve would like cupcakes with fish on top.”

  “Marzipan fish,” he corrected me. “My mom used to get us these marzipan snowmen every Christmas, and my brother and I would devour them. And this way, every guest gets their own fish. Cool, huh?”

  Steve watched me and waited for the light bulb over my head to go on. It didn’t. “Right. Marzipan fish.”

  I looked over at Paige, whose mouth was firmly set in a straight line. She was less than thrilled with Steve’s selection. In fact, she looked like she was ready to throttle him.

  “I thought you were both interested in the blackberry filling with white chocolate mousseline,” I reminded them, but the frost had already set in. Neither Paige nor Steve was interested in blackberry filling or my attempt to avoid what I could tell was coming.

  “I thought we decided to nix the cupcakes,” Paige kept her voice even and avoided looking directly at Steve.

  “No, you’d decided to nix the cupcakes. I told you I liked the idea of everyone having their own personal cake. It’s fun.”

  “Fun?” Paige’s voice was rising and she turned to face Steve. “This is a wedding, it’s not supposed to be fun.”

  Steve let out a breathy laugh and Paige realized how she sounded.

  “What I meant was that cupcakes are for children’s birthday parties, not two hundred of our closest friends.”

  “Let’s not go there again, Paige.” Steve turned to me. “Can I use your men’s room, Lauren?”

  “Sure.” I pointed toward the ivory door. “Through there and to the right.”

  Once Steve was out of earshot, Paige shook her head. “Sorry about that. We seem to have different ideas of what it means to plan a wedding. It was all figured out and now he wants a small, intimate gathering – not a lavish affair, as he likes to call it.”

  “And he’s telling you this now, after you’ve already booked the hotel? Why didn’t he say something earlier?”

  Paige hesitated. “He kinda did.”

  “Paige, you know better.” And she did. Paige had heard my horror stories about wedding-obsessed women who would give away their first born for a Badgley Mishka gown and the ballroom at the Ritz.

  “Lauren, it’s my wedding! He just doesn’t understand how important this is to me. You only get married once, right?”

  Not if you’re husband wants aquatic cupcakes and you want carrot cake, I wanted to say. Instead, I kept my mouth shut. Paige was practically pleading with me to understand, and I did. I couldn’t fault her f
or wanting a day as perfect as the magazines promised, any more than I could blame Steve for wanting a day that was simple and personal.

  “I know it’s about the money, but he won’t admit it,” Paige continued in a thinly veiled attempt to convince me that Steve was the one who was all wrong here. “I can afford it, but whenever I say anything he acts like I’m rubbing it in his face. Can’t I just have this one thing? I mean, it’s not like I’m naïve, I’m a realist. I know all the things that can go wrong, but I have a career in case he leaves me, I have my own savings and investments. Can’t I be indulged this one little girlhood dream?”

  “We’ll see what we can do,” I promised Paige, and she reached over and gave my hand a thankful squeeze.

  When Steve returned, I suggested we move on. “Let’s take a look at the portfolio and see if that helps us narrow down the choices.”

  Although I always presented it as something akin to the holy grail of wedding cakes, the portfolio was really nothing more than a black leather-bound photo album containing snapshots of the cakes we’ve created for clients. Sometimes the pictures included the happy couple slicing the cake or performing the ritual fork-feeding that was supposed to symbolize something, although I never understood how spoon-feeding your new spouse like an infant demonstrated anything other than that it was time to reevaluate wedding traditions. But mostly the photos were of the cakes situated atop linen-draped tables, looking untouched, unreal and too perfect to eat.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked, after closing the book.

  “I think cream cheese is for bagels, not a wedding cake. Besides, a carrot cake has no meaning.” Steve insisted.