A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  She put her hand on her hip and stared at Bendrix as though she was about to scold him—although, frankly, she treated everyone this way.

  “He’s back,” she said. “Mmm-hmm. He’s back, all right.”

  “That’s great, Aunt Nag,” Bendrix said. After Arlene had died, Aunt Nag had become a second mother to him, which was why they needed no pretense.

  She held up a piece of paper. “He’s back from Haiti, and I have his number.”

  “Are you dating someone, Aunt Nag?” I asked, hoping to decipher her code.

  Her eyes were darts. “Stop being foolish. Anthony. Anthony is back. He called me today and he left me his number.”

  “Where was he?” I asked.

  “Haiti. That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. He was there for a year, helping people after the tornado.”

  A large question mark materialized above Bendrix’s head and mine. “Tornado?” Bendrix said. “You sure you have that right?”

  “Whatever went on there last year about this time. He went to counsel those kids after he got money from the government.”

  “Do you mean a grant?” I asked. “He got a grant to help kids in Haiti?”

  “Listen, you two. My point is that he called me and I have his number.” She held the paper in front of Bendrix’s face.

  I grabbed my friend’s hand and jumped up and down. It was all coming to me. “Anthony’s back! Anthony’s back! I get it! Aunt Nag, we were just talking about Anthony on the way here!”

  “Good for you.”

  “I think it’s a sign. Bendrix, he called Aunt Nag because what he really wants is to talk to you. He gave her his number because he wants you to contact him. He wanted you to know he’s back! Bendrix, he’s making contact. He misses you. He still loves you.”

  Bendrix stared down at my hand, which was currently clasping his. I let it go.

  “Aunt Nag, Abbey: I have no idea why neither of you will listen to me. I obviously have no speech impediment. I use my words clearly and, more often than not, say what I mean and mean what I say. However, since you refuse to listen or believe me, I will say this one last time: I don’t want to talk about Anthony. What we had is over.”

  Aunt Nag moved so close, her nose almost touched his shirt. “You don’t know what you talkin’ about. You don’t tell me what to do. Your mother asked me to watch over you. Anthony is the only person I know on this earth who can put up with that attitude of yours, besides this one here”—she chucked her thumb at me—“and why she puts up with you, that’s between you two. Now, your mother asked me to look after you, and I know she doesn’t want to see you alone like you are. And you and Anthony were good together.”

  “Oh God,” he moaned.

  “I agree. I started dating someone recently, Aunt Nag, and we’re crazy about each other, and I want Bendrix to be as happy as I am. His name is Samuel and he’s—”

  “Abbey, this isn’t about you. Did you hear me say your name? I’ll hear about you in a second. Right now I need to talk some sense into this Harvard-educated fool standing before me.”

  Bendrix arched a brow.

  “That’s right. Just because you got brain sense don’t mean you know a thing about your heart. You focus on all that intellectualizing and don’t know how to love a person.” She kept her hard glare on Bendrix while taking the paper with Anthony’s number on it and shoving it inside his front pocket. “You act like you’re too good, but your shit stinks just like everybody else’s. Born and raised in East Oakland. That’s you. You don’t think I can’t put you in your place because you went to a few fancy colleges? You need to stop acting like everybody owes you something just because you walk the earth. I don’t know what went on with you two, but you know Arlene wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

  They didn’t call her Aunt Nag for nothin’.

  “I’m fine,” Bendrix said. “More than fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve heard everything you have to say.” He picked up the two trash bags. “I’m tired and I have work tomorrow and I think it’s time we end the discussion.”

  Aunt Nag continued to keep her eyes fixed on his, then began wiping at his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to knock that damn chip off your shoulder. It’s buggin’ the hell out of me.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “Try to make him call, Abbey,” she said, before turning to leave.

  “I’ll do my best, Aunt Nag.”

  After she was gone, Bendrix took the number from his pocket and tossed it into one of the trash bags.

  “Bendrix!” I shoved my hand in the bag and retrieved it. I opened the paper and stared at the number and Anthony’s name. One reason I was fighting so hard for Bendrix to make up with Anthony—and I’m sure this went for Aunt Nag as well—was that we missed him. When I was at my lowest, right after seeing the documentary, Anthony came to the studio I was renting with takeout from a Vietnamese place and warmed the soup and made sure I ate it. He sat next to me on the couch—where I’d been for days, mind you—and told me I didn’t have to talk if I didn’t want to and didn’t have to do anything except try to eat. He stayed for several hours and we sat and he let me put my head on his shoulder while we watched TV and ate soup. He was my friend.

  I looked at Bendrix. It was his life. I needed to let go of the idea that we would all be friends again. I opened the trash bag and put the paper back inside.

  I then touched Bendrix’s breast pocket. “You are an island, Bendrix. And now that your mom is gone, I’m the only person you let in. I won’t mention a certain person ever again except to say that when I was at my lowest he once told me the heart is stronger than we think and it always rebounds. Thing is, you have to try. You told me the same thing. I won’t bring him up anymore, but you need to do something besides push people away. You can’t be happy closed off the way you are.”

  I picked up the trash bags and started toward the door. It was a rare occasion when I had the last word.

  10

  For Heaven’s Sake

  In early November, I met with Nancy, my last consultation of the day. The bakery smelled of all things pumpkin and orders were already trickling in for the Thanksgiving holiday. By this point, Samuel was spending almost every night at my place and he had his own drawer and key. I was seeing him later that night but had to call and let him know I’d be running very late. I still needed to finish two wedding cakes and, thanks to Nancy’s missing fiancé, it looked like our meeting was going to run way over schedule.

  I tried to sound enthusiastic and upbeat during the consult, even though it also didn’t help matters that Nancy’s attitude veered toward noble gentry; that is, she was a bit of a snob. She was in her late twenties and registered her disapproval by raising her nose in the air as if my designs repelled her. Granted, her fiancé was so late we were forced to start without him, but usually choosing a wedding cake and discussing possible designs had the ability to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . make a person smile now and then.

  I clicked my laptop to a crowd favorite, hoping a more over-the-top, four-tiered concoction would force her out of her apathy. “Something like this is easy to modify to your taste,” I told her. “I could make a different type of flower if you prefer something other than lilies. Almost any flower looks nice on the side or on the top of a cake.”

  She studied the picture long enough that I thought I’d found something she liked, but then she raised her nose. “I don’t think so.” She spoke as softly as a lady in King Edward’s court and had the countenance of a woman who thought it a given that the world would lean in and listen to her every word.

  I moved my lips into what I hoped was a smile. Okay, so she’s not a big fan of extravagance. That’s fine. I clicked through a few pictures until I landed on a cake barren of flowers or sentimentality or, dare I say, romance.


  She looked from the cake to me as though I had to be kidding. She then glanced down at the face of her phone and rolled her eyes.

  “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic. Do you want to call him?” I suggested.

  “It’s not just this time. He’s been late for every consultation so far, if he shows up at all. I’ve been planning our entire wedding by myself.”

  “Some men aren’t invested in the wedding—not your man! I mean, he’s fine. I just mean you can’t equate how he feels about preparing for the wedding to how he feels about you. I’ve seen it a million times before.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  Her ladyship’s face soured and she went back to her phone as if anything the naive peasant sitting before her said mattered not a whit.

  I showed her another cake, a whimsical one with crooked layers piled one on top of the other. Pink and white stripes covered each layer, and on top, a little statue of the bride and groom. What can I say? Some people like whimsy.

  Her ladyship, though, regarded me as if she might send in the guards to whisk me off to the towers. “Are you kidding?”

  Just then, a man looking exasperated rushed inside and began searching the bakery as if in a panic. I prayed under my breath that he was Brett, Nancy’s very tardy fiancé. Sure enough, he hurried over and started to give her an apologetic kiss, until she blocked his oncoming puckered lips with her hand. “You’re late.”

  “I apologize.” He forced a smile at me. “Hi, I’m Brett. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re just glad you made it.” I caught Noel’s attention and motioned that he should come over when he had a second.

  Brett sat next to Nancy but kept his attention on me and said, “I am sorry. It couldn’t be helped.”

  Nancy turned and shot him a look. “Forty minutes?”

  “There was traffic.”

  “We’re a fifteen-minute drive away.”

  “Not when there’s traffic.”

  They both stared at me now and waited for me to—to what? Decide who was at fault? Save their relationship?

  I turned my laptop toward Brett. “I was just showing Nancy possible designs.”

  He studied the crooked cake and slowly arched his brow as if wondering what the hell he was looking at. I clicked to a new cake. Noel came to the table and Brett ordered an espresso. When Noel was gone, Nancy grumbled under her breath: “Forty minutes, Brett? Really? And you’re going to use traffic as an excuse?”

  “I said I’m sorry. What more do you want me to do, give blood?”

  I noticed that the song “For Heaven’s Sake” was playing and for a second I considered going for a joke to lighten the mood, but I let that idea go fast. I said, “Planning a wedding can be stressful, but I’m sure we can find a cake you both agree on.” I reached for my sketch pad and pencil. “Maybe you can give me a better idea of what you’re looking for?”

  “He doesn’t care about the wedding or the cake. If he cared he would have shown up on time.”

  “Nancy expects perfection from everyone; screw up once, and you can forget about it.”

  “Once? You haven’t been on time for a single appointment.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “Hardly. It’s your wedding, too, you know.”

  “Do I ever.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I interjected with the profound . . . “Uh.”

  Noel arrived with the espresso and we had a moment’s reprieve. I said, “I’d be happy to make a more modern or contemporary cake. My goal is always to have the cake reflect the couple’s love for each other.”

  They both stared blankly at me.

  Nancy said, “I’m not sure what kind of cake would reflect our relationship.”

  Brett took a sip of his espresso. “Make anything with darts?”

  Nancy continued to look at me. “Past actions predict future actions. . . .”

  “Here we go.” Brett sighed.

  “Based on Brett’s previous actions, all I can do is assume that my future husband will be late for the wedding”—she touched the table with the tip of her fingernail—“late for the birth of our first child”—tap—“and late for her high school graduation . . . if he remembers it at all.”

  Brett: “Based on previous actions, I can expect my future wife to hang on to my every mistake and never give me a fucking break!”

  Nancy: “That would be impossible. You make far too many mistakes to keep track of.”

  Brett crossed his arms and muttered, “You are a real bi—”

  “Don’t say it!” I burst out. I glared as harshly as I could and he looked down at his espresso. “Once something is said, you can’t take it back.”

  He glanced at Nancy, who showed no expression at all except for her lower lip, which twitched ever so slightly. Brett rose from the table and finished off his espresso, then drummed his fingers. “Cheers,” he said. And with that, he was off.

  Nancy remained immobile while I craned in my seat and watched as he walked directly out the door. I turned back to her, my mouth agape. “Soooo . . .”

  “Let’s go with the first cake—the design with the stenciled damask. Four tiers. The stencil in antique white set against ivory icing. A spray of rosettes on top in antique white. For the cakes, I’d like two lemon, one white, and one carrot. Brett hates those flavors. For favors let’s do sugar cookies with the same pattern but in pale blue.”

  She was typing in her phone now. “Maybe we shouldn’t make any decisions right now,” I suggested. “Let things cool off. It’s probably best not to make your choice when you’re angry.”

  Her ladyship trained her large green eyes on mine: “How dare you say a word against her ladyship’s request. If I say make cookies, you will make cookies! To the towers!” Her ladyship’s guards in full armored regalia grabbed me by the arms. “Off with her head,” she commanded. “No later than when the cock crows at dawn.”

  “No!” I screamed. “Please, Your Majesty! I plead for mercy! I am your most humble servant and cake baker!” But her ladyship only turned in disgust, and her two knights pulled me from the table, kicking and screaming. “Noooooo!”

  In truth, she continued to stare, her eyelids at half-mast. “If it’s no trouble to you, I’ll decide if I’m angry or not, and when I should or should not order my own wedding cake. Does that work for you?”

  I rubbed my throat, grateful that we lived in a time when I couldn’t be beheaded. I smiled politely and began taking notes. “Carrot, lemon, and two white cakes.”

  • • •

  It was almost nine by the time I arrived home. Samuel’s car was parked in front of the house when I pulled up. After the day I’d had, the thought of a glass of wine and a hot bath sounded so good.

  I started to open the door but could hear music coming from inside. Loud music. I stood and tilted my head. Was that . . . electronica? Rap? Samuel still wasn’t the biggest fan of jazz, but he hadn’t told me he liked rap so much that he’d play it loudly enough for the entire block to hear.

  I opened the door, and my first impulse was to cover my ears. The music wasn’t only loud; it was dreadful, painfully so.

  I stole a peek around the wall separating the short entryway from the living room. A man who looked to be in his early twenties stood in front of my fireplace with his arms outstretched and his palms facing the ceiling. He wore flannel over a sleeveless T-shirt and let the flannel hang loosely off his arms. I would’ve screamed except that Carmen was on the love seat, one leg thrown over the armrest, watching TV with the volume on mute. Dahlia and Samuel were on the opposite couch—Samuel engrossed in something on his laptop while Dahlia traced her finger around the edge of Samuel’s ear and cooed while pressing her cleavage against him. Okay, yes, I exaggerate, but only a little.
She did sit close enough so that her right breast touched his arm anytime either of them moved.

  The guy in front of the stereo started shouting along with the chorus of the song: “I found my kitty. She found my kitty. He found my kitty. We found my kitty.” The chorus was on infinite loop and the rapper had a synthesized voice that sounded like a satanic leprechaun. “I found my kitty. She found my kitty. He found my kitty. . . .”

  The guy was blue eyed with dark blond hair shaved into a crew cut. His flannel shirt fell down his arms, showing off perfectly toned muscles. He had the kind of bravado that made him look like he’d be perfectly cast in a movie about young men sent off to war; hard to tell if he’d be the hero of the film or set to die within the first thirty minutes.

  I found the remote on the table behind the sofa and turned the music off, but the silence was lost on Mr. Performer, and he continued to sing at the top of his voice: “I found my kitty! She found my kitty. I found—! Yo, what happened to my song?”

  I stepped out from hiding.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I live here. Who are you?”

  Carmen clicked the TV off. “Jake, this is my sister Abbey; Abbey, Jake.”

  I noticed Dahlia moving her boobs away from Samuel as unobtrusively as she could. “I already saw you, Dahlia. In the future, please sit at a respectable distance from my boyfriend.”

  Jake covered his mouth with one hand and pointed at Dahlia. “Ahhhhh!” he laughed, kicking up his sneakered foot. “She told you! Sit at a respectable distance! Ahhhhh!”

  Samuel rose from the couch and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Hey, babe. Finish everything okay?”