Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  On the morning of the wedding, we stacked twenty-one hundred tiny cupcakes, each topped with a handmade flower, and the cake into Aunt Melba’s van, and I navigated the long, curving, tree-lined driveway that led to the Jackson estate. There was a steep curve at the front of the house, and I slowed to a crawl, admiring the enormous tent stretching along the far side of the property. An army of florists, caterers, and musicians was busily transforming the tent into a wedding wonderland.

  It was warm for early June, and we didn’t want to risk a meltdown. We stashed the cupcakes in the air-conditioned kitchen: We would construct our landscape slowly, tier by tier, inside the tent.

  “I’ll be the mule.” Genie seemed tired and edgy.

  “Fine,” I agreed, beginning to lay the groundwork as she ferried cupcakes from the kitchen.

  It took all afternoon, but as the garden came together, I saw that Genie had been right: The masses of flowered cupcakes were even more beautiful than her drawing had been. It was breathtaking, like a painting by Monet, and a few people gathered beneath the tent to watch.

  By the time we were ready to add the final touches, the crowd had grown. The hairdressers switched off their blow-dryers, and in the sudden silence we could hear the musicians tuning up. Then the music stopped, flutes and violins going quiet as the players came to join us. There was a clatter of silver when the caterers put down the sterling spoons they’d been polishing. The bartenders came too, leaving ice cubes melting in the sun. I could hear the bridesmaids giggle nervously as I climbed onto a ladder, and when Genie handed up the first tier, there was a small whoosh, the crowd holding its collective breath. As I lowered it gently into place, a sigh rippled through the tent. The lights were bright, and as Genie handed me one tier after another, I felt triumphant, an artist completing a masterpiece.

  We had come to the final tier, the one where the tiny bride stands beside her tiny groom underneath a miniature arbor. I offered to trade places, so Genie could complete the cake; it was, after all, her invention. But she shook me off. “I’ll go get the last tier. I need to use the bathroom,” she called over her shoulder, “and you’re already up on the ladder.” She disappeared into the house.

  When she emerged, we all turned to watch her cross the driveway, her eyes focused on the two little figures on the cake cradled in her arms. She never saw the Jaguar come barreling around the curve. I doubt she heard the squeal as Beverly’s brother slammed on the brakes and rubber shimmied over tar. Then Genie was up in the air, the cake above her, pinned against the sky. And then they were both falling, the motion so slow it seemed she would never reach the ground.

  “DID SHE SURVIVE?” Sammy startled me. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away.

  I shook my head slowly.

  “So what you are telling me is that this sibling to whom you occasionally allude has been deceased for almost two years?”

  I nodded. “But I’m the one who should have died. That car was meant for me.” My voice cracked on the last word. “Genie should have been up on the ladder. It was my fault.”

  Sammy gripped my shoulder, hard. “No, Billie.” He sounded sympathetic, but I heard something else as well. Steel. “It was not your fault. It was a tragic accident.”

  “Don’t you see? Aunt Melba thought up Cake Sisters so I could have something I was better at than Genie! She did it for me.”

  I expected him to argue, the way Dad and Aunt Melba had, insisting I had no reason to feel guilty. But Sammy simply sat there, silently rubbing my back, letting me cry. After a few minutes I could feel my muscles relax beneath his hands as the scene began to fade.

  “What moved you to tell me now?”

  I thought it was something in Lulu’s letter, that feeling that everybody was looking at her differently now, thinking she had brought bad luck. It was exactly how I’d felt since the day that Genie died. I’d run away from everyone who knew the whole awful story—and kept it from everyone who didn’t. I couldn’t admit, even to myself, that Genie was really dead. I couldn’t bear the knowledge that when people looked at me, they’d be looking past my shoulder, watching for the telegram man with his tragic news.

  Sammy waited patiently as I marshaled the words. Then, tired of all the hiding, I let them go. “When Lulu said, ‘Life can change so quickly; one minute you’re happy, the next minute you’re not,’ it all came back. Because that was the minute when everything changed for me.”

  “Billie, Billie, Billie.” Sammy’s hands dug into my shoulders. “How can you be so blind? Change works both ways. You must accept those moments, experience them, and let them go. Because if you allow yourself to get stuck in that minute, nothing will ever change.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am telling you that if things can change for the worse, the opposite is also true. But only if you open yourself to the possibilities. As Lulu did. It is what one finds so appealing about her.”

  It was too much to think about. I felt wrung out by the emotions of the afternoon. I didn’t want to talk about myself or my sister anymore. “Are there any more letters?” I asked.

  Sammy sighed, and I knew that he was reluctant to let this moment go. He wanted to go on talking, but he didn’t push it. “Just one,” he said, peering into the folder. He put his arm around me, drawing me closer, and I leaned in so we could read together.

  JULY 15, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  You were right; cooking for Mrs. C. did make me feel better. I made the panettone that she taught me at Christmas, because I thought she’d like to serve it after the funeral.

  The funeral was beautiful. They held it at St. Anthony of Padua Church, and, listening to the singing, I remembered what Mrs. C. had told me. When the church was built, all the Italian families chipped in, and she went around the neighborhood with a little red wagon, collecting food for the builders.

  When the service was over, we all went back to the apartment. People were crying and laughing, all at the same time, so different from the way it was in our house when Grandmother died. Mrs. C. told everyone I’d made the panettone, and then she kissed me. Before I left, I told her that I’d been afraid that she wouldn’t want to see me again, and she gave me a little slap and called me pazzesca—crazy. She said in bad times it’s the people we love who can help us. Then she gave me a big hug and said that Marco wasn’t coming back but we still have his memory and she was grateful that we have each other. It made me feel like I had become part of her family, and I went home feeling so much better.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  April Fool

  SAMMY AND I NOW SHARED A SECRET LANGUAGE, AND WHENEVER something bad occurred—the rain refused to stop, a pot boiled over, someone nabbed the taxi that was clearly meant for us—he’d look at me and mouth, “Pazzesca!” It was a little thing, but it made me feel safe, cozily anchored in the world. We had each other. I think that’s why I finally stopped stalling and got contact lenses.

  I didn’t see much difference, but Sammy was elated. “If you would also consent to a new coiffure, you might eventually join the human race.”

  “Don’t push your luck,” I warned.

  “Pazzesca!” he said, and I burst out laughing.

  This new easiness helped us weather a bad time in the library: Lulu had vanished.

  At first we’d been convinced the secret word was “panettone,” and we followed it for a full week, researching the background of the bread and sifting through regional variations and each of the ingredients, before admitting defeat. Bertie had become more devious, and we were trying hard to read her mind.

  “What about a parallel word?” I suggested. “Maybe ‘coffee cake’?”

  But that was fruitless too. We spent another week researching Christmas breads: “kugelhopf,” “la pompe des rois,” “julekage.” By the time we’d reached the unpronounceable “joululimppu,” we were both ready to admit we’d been following a false trail.

  And time was run
ning out. The weather was getting warmer, and I could see tiny green buds on the trees peeking over the walls of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral when I walked to Fontanari’s. One day in mid-March I ran my palm across the rough brick wall, thinking how Lulu had described the Mass at St. Anthony of Padua. It gave me an idea.

  “What are the most important saints?” I asked Rosalie when I got to the shop.

  “You look different. Have you gotten religion?”

  “No, only contact lenses.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? See how much better you look!” She gave me an impulsive hug. “Maybe you could get your hair cut now?”

  “Saints,” I said. “Tell me about saints.”

  “Everybody has their favorite.” She frowned slightly but dropped the subject of my appearance. “When I’m in trouble, I pray to St. Anthony; he’s always seemed like the most sympathetic. But Sal’s partial to St. Jude—you know, the patron saint of lost causes.”

  “Not so!” Sal was filling the case, turning each cheese until he was certain its most attractive side was facing the customers. “St. Bartholomew’s the one for me; he’s the patron saint of cheese-makers. But, Willie, you can’t go looking for clues among the saints; there are way too many.”

  He was right about that. When the religious angle led us nowhere, we tried “little red wagon,” and then, in desperation, “grandmother.”

  As April approached we were right back where we’d started; Bertie had definitely become more devious. For the next two weeks we went over and over the letters, unable to figure out the next clue.

  The weatherman predicted a fierce rainstorm on April 1, which exactly suited my mood. I was eager for thunder and lightning, but in the end it was just a paltry burst of rain that thudded down for a couple of hours before passing out to sea. In its wake came beautiful dry weather, and the next day, when Sammy came bounding into the mansion, jubilant over the unexpected sunshine, I growled at him. “What are you so cheerful about? It’s April, and it’s been six weeks since we found a letter.”

  “I propose,” he replied, “that we contemplate the possibility that we have arrived at the termination of this project.”

  “No!” I was positive he was wrong. “The last letter we found was dated July of 1944. The war lasted another whole year. She must have gone on writing to him.”

  “Perhaps she no longer sent the letters to Delicious! Or perhaps Bertie grew fatigued with the project. Possibilities abound. I, for one, require a respite. Will you indulge me for a day?”

  “How?” I glanced at the calendar, wary of our shrinking window of time.

  “Ask me no questions. We shall embark upon on a lunchtime expedition.”

  At noon he led me north on Washington Street, detoured west on Little West 12th Street, and turned up Tenth Avenue. “Where are we going?” I kept asking, but he refused to say anything until we arrived at a small boutique tucked beneath the High Line. I shrank back, but Sammy took my arm and led me through the door.

  “Is Hermione available?” he asked the woman behind the desk. In answer, a slight young woman with a mass of black curls came whirling toward us, throwing herself ecstatically into Sammy’s arms. “Where’ve you been?” she cried, hugging him.

  I relaxed a bit. With her round cheeks, red lips, and wild hair, she looked nothing like the frigidly elegant saleswomen who patrolled the uptown shops. She put her hands on her hips and said to Sammy, “When I left you in Marrakech, you promised to stay in touch. And how long ago was that?”

  “Far too long,” he admitted, drawing me toward them. “This is my friend Billie, who has been contemplating a makeover. Do you think you might be of assistance?”

  Hermione studied me frankly, her eyes traveling from head to toe. “Do you mind?” She reached out to touch me. “Hard to tell what’s underneath those baggy clothes.” Patting me down like one of those TSA guards at the airport, she cried, “You’re so thin!” She directed Sammy to a chair. “Sit! We’re going to amaze you. What fun!” She tugged me through the shop, loading her arms with flimsy skirts, skinny slacks, and sweaters in Easter-egg colors.

  “I’m just trying to get a preliminary idea.” She nudged me toward the dressing room. “I want to see what colors work for you.” As we passed a rack of pants, I grabbed a pair. Hermione peered at the tag and gave a little snort. “Twelve?” She snatched them from my hands. “You’re kidding, right?” She replaced them with a six.

  I stared dubiously at the scrap of cloth. “There’s no way these are going to fit.” I was still protesting as I pulled the zipper up.

  “Perfect!” Her voice was smug. “I’m guessing you buy most of your clothes in thrift shops.”

  Was it that obvious? “I’m pretty hopeless when it comes to fashion,” I admitted.

  She handed me a purple silk blouse. “Try this. I know women who’d kill for your body. And I bet you don’t even belong to a gym.”

  It was so strange, having her hand me clothes and scrutinize me as if I weren’t there. I felt like a life-size doll. She handed me another blouse. “Put this one on. Green’s a difficult color.” She stood back, eyeing me critically. “But obviously not for you; that’s great. Let’s try this.” A red sweater. A yellow one. “Is there any color that doesn’t look good on you? And you’ve been running around in this.” She scooped the drab oatmeal sweater from the floor and then, as an afterthought, confiscated my khakis as well. I made a little squeak of protest, but she stopped me from retrieving them. “Embrace the change! Wait! I’ve just had a thought. I’ve got something that’s going to be perfect.”

  Carrying my old clothes, she left me alone to look in the mirror for the first time. There was a waist I’d never noticed, and in these pants I actually had hips. I turned sideways; had my body changed?

  “Try this.” Hermione was back, holding out a gossamer dress of rainbow chiffon so airy I thought of fireflies on a moonlit night; the colors winked and changed with each motion. I put it on: The bodice clung tightly to my breasts and waist, but the full skirt was like a tutu, the fabric brushing my legs seductively. It was the girliest garment I’d ever seen, let alone worn. I loved it.

  “Go show Sammy.”

  I looked at the price tag. “Oh, I don’t think so—”

  “Show him!” She pushed me out of the dressing room.

  Sammy was sitting out front, but his eyes were carefully trained on a magazine. The dress gave me courage, and suddenly I wanted to be more than a doll for Hermione’s amusement. I grabbed a gray jacket, cut as severely as a man’s, and put it on over the dress. Hermione’s head jerked up. “Oh, my God!” she said. “That’s perfect! What made you think of that?” She towed me back to the dressing room and made me look into the mirror. “And you said you had no fashion sense!”

  The combination was great: The severity of the jacket underlined the fragility of the dress. Hermione was gathering up all the clothes I’d tried on. “Forget these. I want you to go out there and look around. Grab everything you like; don’t worry about size or how you’ll wear it. Just bring me everything that speaks to you. Anything at all.”

  Bewildered, I prowled the store for things that appealed to me. I could feel the fabric of the dress brushing against my legs and I began to move by instinct, not editing at all, picking up anything that caught my eye. On the first foray I grabbed a few simply cut but colorful clothes and went back to the dressing room, ignoring Hermione as I layered a short red skirt over a pair of orange leggings with a pearly T-shirt. I added a pair of red sneakers. She stood watching, arms crossed, saying nothing.

  Next I tried tight black pants with a soft white linen shirt whose billowing sleeves and lace cuffs covered my wrists. I pulled on a long black Victorian vest and twirled, liking the effect. Hermione smiled. When I’d put on a man’s black shirt with the black pants, I added a red suede jacket so soft it seemed made of air.

  “Fabulous!” said Hermione. “Those colors are so good on you!”

  “I was just playing,”
I said apologetically. “I’d never actually have the guts to wear this jacket.”

  “Why not? You look incredible. You’ve got the perfect body for clothes like that. Go show Sammy.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No! Please believe me: You’ve got a good eye and a certain style that’s all your own. You just never knew it. Go show Sammy,” she repeated, pushing me out of the dressing room.

  “She’s insane!” I said when I saw him. “Utterly out of her mind. She thinks this ridiculous outfit looks good.”

  “It does not look good.” Sammy was walking around me, taking it all in. “It looks fascinating and oddly elegant. It looks pazzesca!”

  “You’re serious?” I touched the soft jacket. It was unlike anything I’d ever worn before, and yet it felt right. Comfortable. As if it belonged to me. I wondered what Genie would have said if she’d seen me dressed like this. But I knew the answer: Genie would have refused to let me leave the house. She would have barred the door and told me not to be an idiot. Then I wondered about Aunt Melba; what would she think of this outfit?

  I went back to the dressing room and put on the long white cotton shirt and the Victorian vest. I looked at myself in the mirror, liking what I saw, and went back into the store.

  Sammy turned to Hermione. “Pack it up, please. We shall take all of it. As for those …” She was holding my old clothes. “Burn them!”

  “But I can’t afford all this!”

  “Am I remembering incorrectly? Did your father not create a trust for you with the proceeds from Cake Sisters?”

  “But I can’t touch it till I’m thirty!”

  “You have merely to request a small advance from your father.” Sammy reached out to touch the lace cuff. “I am persuaded that he would be very pleased to oblige.” He turned back to Hermione. “Pack it up, please,” he said again, grandly. “And have it delivered to my abode. My friend here is sadly lacking in amenities. No doorman.”