Frosting on the Cake

by Karin Kallmaker

  The night air was rich with the scent of eucalyptus and the sea. Jamie was encouraging when Val stopped to kiss her, and they quickly became lost in the warmth of each other’s bodies.

  “You’re a good kisser,” Jamie mumbled into Val’s mouth.

  “I’m out of practice,” Val answered. “Honey, I want to talk seriously about something. Really. I was going to wait, but I’m just completely fed up with us being apart so much. I know it’s my fault—I’m the one who has to do the traveling. But I miss you so much. When you came to New York it was like heaven.”

  Jamie had been unsettled ever since, and still didn’t want to think about why. “So what are you proposing?”

  “I make a lot of money, you know that. We haven’t talked about mingling our assets and that’s just stupid. Let me contribute to the bottom line, if that’s what it takes, so that you can travel with me just a little. Hire another chef—Marco’s really good. Let him run things during the slow months and hire him an assistant. Jeff O’Rhuan would make a great official caretaker and he could handle the boarders. I’m sure I could rearrange my shooting schedule so I’m filming now and free during the summer when you need me here.”

  It made sense. It all made perfect sense. “No,” said Jamie. She started walking.

  “No?” Val wasn’t moving yet and her voice followed Jamie. “That’s it?”

  “My life doesn’t need fixing,” Jamie said, not sure Val could hear her.

  “I’m not saying it does.” Val was hurrying after her, but Jamie did not slacken her pace. “I’m the one who misses you like crazy. I’m trying to figure out a way to be together more.”

  “By taking me away from all this.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m not Julia Child—yet. I can’t film the cooking segments from my own house. I have to go to a studio. I have to do promotional appearances in studios. I have to do the renovations we film on location. Do you think I wanted to spend last summer in Alabama? I wanted to be here. I wanted to be in your beautiful kitchen and your bed.”

  I don’t believe her, Jamie thought, though she knew Val was telling the truth. I don’t want to believe her. God, what’s wrong with me? My bread won’t rise, my piecrust is crap and she has all the solutions. “I’m sorry Mendocino is so far off the beaten track.” She picked up the pace, but Val had no trouble keeping up.

  “What is with you?”

  “Nothing is with me.”

  “You’re mad about something, I can tell.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re mad at me because I have to go away.”

  “I am not.” Jamie snatched open the back door to the inn and marched inside. She hurriedly shed her heavy coat and boots on the mud porch. It was useless. Val matched her move for move and was right behind her on the stairs.

  “Then what are you running for?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Jamie spun around on the second-floor landing. “If you don’t like the temperature in here, you have choices.” Val looked stricken. “What are you saying?”

  Jamie burst into tears and dashed for the top floor.

  Damn Val and her long legs, shapely and muscled and too damn fast. She passed Jamie on the stairs and opened the door to their private suite. “After you,” she said stiffly, hardly out of breath.

  Jamie threw herself on the bed not so much for melodramatic purposes but because she could not bear to look at Val. She was making a fool of herself for reasons she could hardly put into words. How could she complain that Val was… was too perfect?

  “Maybe you don’t want to talk about it right now, but I’m not sleeping anywhere else,” Val announced from the doorway. “Maybe in the morning you can tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong.” Jamie sobbed into the pillow.

  “That makes sense, then.”

  “It’s me. I’m the one who is messed up.” Jamie rolled over to find the tissues. She hiccuped. “It’s me.”

  “What have you done wrong?”

  “I’m jealous and petty and envious and stupid.” Jamie mopped her eyes, then twisted the tissue until it shredded.

  “That does not describe the Jamie Onassis I know and love,” Val said slowly. She closed the door, then crossed slowly toward Jamie. “Come on, Jamie. Do you really think so little of me that I’d love the person you described?”

  “You just don’t know me.” Good God, I’m a basket case, Jamie thought.

  “What is it?” Val sat down on the bed close enough to stroke Jamie’s hair.

  Jamie shied away from any contact. “Don’t be so damned patient and understanding.”

  “Would you rather I yelled and stormed out?” “Yes, I think I would.”

  “Well, I’m not going to. You can’t make me.”

  “I could if I tried.” Jamie sniffed.

  “What the hell are we arguing about?”

  “Me. And you.”

  “Well that certainly turns on the light bulb.”

  “Did anyone tell you I can’t cook?”

  “No. Why would they? It’s not true.”

  “It is so true. Yesterday alone two batches of dough fell and today I burnt the bacon. Bacon! Do you know what it takes to burn bacon to the point of its being unusable?”

  “Is this really about cooking?”

  “Of course not,” Jamie snapped.

  “At some point this conversation will make sense. I know it will.” Val abruptly stretched out next to Jamie. Her nearness made Jamie want to cuddle and cry.

  “I want to do what you said,” Jamie said. “If you still want to try it.”

  “You mean about coming with me sometimes?” Val was obviously surprised by Jamie’s change of heart, but she didn’t argue. “I would so love it. You have no idea.”

  “I do.”

  “What are you jealous of?”

  “Everybody. All of them,” Jamie said in a rush.

  “I mean—do you think I’m having an affair? Or something?” Val’s tone indicated she thought this a ridiculous idea.

  “No. I’m jealous of all those women who love you because it seems like they have a piece of you I never saw before.” Finally, Jamie thought, you’re making some sense. “This morning, you were like that. You were perfect and poised and coiffed and delightful and charming.”

  “You don’t like that?”

  “I love it, but I also like you cranky and sarcastic and just a bit childish.”

  “You’re not losing that, you know. I’m sure eventually I’ll stop being delighted to be home again and I’ll do something cranky. I know—ask me to fix something. That usually does it.”

  “That second-story window still leaks.”

  “Shit. Get off my back, woman. I’ll fix it when I damn well feel like it.”

  Jamie went from tears to laughter in a split second. This was the Val she loved. “I guess I felt it the most when I watched you tape that talk show. I mean—that woman adored you. She had huge stars in her eyes.”

  “She was very sweet, but there was nothing—”

  “I know that, but I suddenly saw who she saw. VV, Valkyrie Valentine, The Complete Woman. I just never realized I was sleeping with her.”

  “You’re not, silly.”

  “I’m sleeping with her and I don’t know her.”

  “There’s nothing to know. She’s says vapid things sometimes and is quite the social butterfly. You’d hate her.”

  “And then you came home and you were so perfect—this morning you ran my kitchen better than I do.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I was just having the best time. I miss this place. I miss you.”

  Jamie rolled over into Val’s arms. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “I don’t. Unless you think you’re a failure because you’re not on TV. That would really piss me off.”

  Jamie shook her head. “No, that’s not it at all
. I don’t feel like you’re famous so I should be too. I was glad to write my cookbook, but I have no desire to corner the market. I love my life here, making people feel welcome and warm. It’s what Aunt Em did all her life and that’s what I want, too. But not at the cost of not knowing who you are.”

  “Let’s tell Marco tomorrow and then plan a vacation. Someplace warm and very, very soon.”

  “Maybe I was feeling a little bit country mouse. I feel that way when I think about Sheila Thintowski.”

  “Even a city mouse would feel dowdy next to Sheila. She’s gone from retro Sixties to steady Chanel.”

  “She’s good at what she does.”

  “Oh yeah—she’ll be CEO of Warnell when Mark retires, you can bank on that.”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “I was never mad at you,” Val said. She snuggled closer. “I just didn’t know what you were thinking, that’s all.”

  “Neither did I. That happens where you’re concerned, as you’re well aware.”

  They were quiet for a few minutes. Jamie burrowed her head into Val’s side. “I don’t suppose you would indulge me for ninety minutes.”

  “Babe, I’d love to.” One of Val’s hands crept over Jamie’s breast.

  “Not that—well, later.”

  “Hon, it’s after eleven.”

  “I want to make a pie. Breakfast pie.”

  “Now?”

  “You can help. You make up the filling. I’ll do the crust.”

  Val reluctantly followed her down to the cold kitchen. Jamie assembled shortening, flour, salt and ice water while Val beat cream and soft Jack cheese together. She was slicing Pippins by the time Jamie finished cutting the shortening into the flour.

  The rolling pin felt like a magic wand in her hands. Jamie dusted the pliant dough with flour and turned the pin this way and that until she had an approximate circle. She fetched her favorite glass pie plate and greased it. Then she slipped the feather-light dough onto the plate, fluted it with precise pinches, trimmed the excess, then pricked it with a fork around the sides and across the bottom.

  Unbaked, it looked like perfection.

  Val brought her chopped apples and mixing bowl over to the assembling counter. “I almost don’t want to ruin that.”

  “Go ahead,” Jamie said.

  “I’m honored. You usually won’t let me within a foot of your pie crusts.” Val quickly combined some crushed apples and simple syrup with the cheese mixture and spread it into the shell. Then sliced apples were layered carefully and topped with crumbled brown sugar.

  Jamie moved it to the preheated oven and set the timer. “Now we wait.”

  Val yawned. “Fifty minutes? Wow, you’ll need to think of something to keep me awake.”

  Jamie pulled Val toward the stairwell. She held up the timer. “It can go with us.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Val said. “No peach delight, no chocolate sauce. Let’s just get down to business.”

  “We will have to come back downstairs, you know. To taste the pie.”

  “The proof will be in the tasting,” Val said philosophically. “That’s the business I have in mind right now”

  Jamie felt as light as her pie dough as she tickled Val and chased her back up the stairs.

  “We have breakfast pie again today,” Marco observed. “That looks quite delicious.”

  “It is,” Jamie assured him. “My crust, Val’s filling.”

  Marco grinned. “By the way, I dropped in on Jeff last night. Just to chat. And to take him some of those scones he seemed to really like. Since I had some leftovers.”

  “Liar.”

  “Well, when you make a dozen all for yourself, there are leftovers.”

  Just then Jeff O’Rhuan came through the back door. He beamed at the sight of Jamie filling his favorite coffee mug, then looked sideways at Marco.

  Jamie gaped. Jeff was blushing.

  “Scones, eh?” That was all she said, but Marco laughed delightedly and Jeff blushed harder.

  “Something smells wonderful,” Val said from the back stairs. She cinched an apron around her waist. “French bread?”

  “Sourdough,” Jamie corrected. She had removed the picture-perfect loaves only a few minutes earlier.

  Val unceremoniously helped herself to a slice, ooching as the hot bread burned her fingertips. “This is wonderful.”

  “I know,” Jamie said.

  “Excuse us for a moment, fellas.” Val lifted Jamie onto the counter and kissed her thoroughly. “What do you think of Key West?”

  “I’ve heard it’s lovely.”

  “Good. We leave tomorrow.”

  Jamie felt a tinge of anxiety, but then she sighed and pulled Val against her again. For quite a while she had thought she was married to the Waterview, but that had been mistaken priorities. “Marco, how would you like to be chef for a while?”

  When there was no answer, Jamie looked up from the beauty of Val’s eyes. They were alone.

  “We’ll ask later,” Val whispered. She kissed Jamie again. Published: Characters:

  Setting:

  Watermark

  1999

  Rayann Germaine, advertising executive Teresa Mandrell, artist

  San Francisco Bay Area, California

  The Ninth is for Never-Never Land

  The Tapestry

  (1 year) The door slammed with finality. Teresa fumbled her way to the bed and huddled under the cold blankets.

  She was numb with panic, with self-recriminations, with Rayann’s white-hot anger.

  Thirty minutes ago, Rayann had left Teresa gasping with satisfaction. Thirty seconds ago she had said with deadly calm, “Don’t be here when I get back.”

  At moments of crisis, Rayann tended to run. She knew that much about herself and there had been plenty of crises in the last two years to finely hone the art of running away.

  You ought to have stayed and just had it out with her, she told herself. You can’t just end it this way. She asked herself where she was going, but she was just following her feet. Around the building, toward PacBell Park, which was lit up for a night game. She forged through the crowds, calling herself a fool.

  She was trying to tell you something. You haven’t been listening. A Muni train was disgorging passengers for the game and she got on after it finally emptied. Where could she go? To the Lace Place, or her mother’s? Old habits die hard.

  She put her head down in her hands and waited for the train to get going. Who are you to throw her out? What has she done to deserve you walking out like this? Go back and listen.

  I can’t, she thought. I can’t.

  She had not known she could still hurt like this. “I brought home Sumi’s,” she had called out, laden with sushi boxes and her endlessly bulging briefcase.

  “Yummy,” Teresa had called from the bedroom. “I’ll be right there.

  Rayann set the food down on the counter and paused, as she always did, to admire the view. She had only lived in this building for eighteen months, and it still felt new. The last of the sun painted the bay orange as it stretched almost from her feet toward Oakland and the East Bay. Lights on Treasure Island were starting to show, but the distant hills were bathed in the golden glow of a glorious fall evening.

  “Tell me you got lots of California roll.” Teresa bounded out of the bedroom to peck her on the lips.

  “Enough for even you,” Rayann promised. “How was the day off?”

  “Wonderful. I slept until eleven.”

  “You deserved it.” Teresa had been working too many hours. No matter where she worked it was a bad habit. Her current freelance job, creating and producing backdrops and sets for an art program on PBS, was proving to be a real challenge, but Teresa loved every minute of it.

  “Then I went for a walk and ended up at MOMA. They have an exhibit of chairs that was killer. Then I had a Jamba Juice and watched soap operas all afternoon. Did you know that Erica Kane’s daughter is gay?”

  �
��I’d heard that,” Rayann said. She popped the lid on the first container of California roll. “This is spicy. The other one is regular.”

  “Share.” Teresa held out her plate and Rayann dumped four slices of the crab, avocado and cucumber sushi delicacy on it. “So that was cool to find out. I saw the new Beakman’s campaign.”

  “I didn’t know they were buying daytime ad space.” Teresa coughed and reached for her water. “There’s way too much wasabi on this.”

  “I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Rayann said. She loved wasabi. “Wimp,” she added fondly.

  Teresa was blinking away tears. “That totally cleared my sinuses in a very painful way.” She shook her head fiercely.

  Rayann was rinsing the dishes when Teresa pinned her against the counter. Her hands cupped Rayann’s breasts, and she had to put the plate down before she dropped it. “Oh my,” she breathed. “I thought we were going to the movies.”

  “Maybe later. I love this blouse. You know what a few extra hours of sleep does to my libido.”

  “I most assuredly do,” Rayann said. “You slept in on Labor Day and we were almost late to the ballgame that night.” It had been…memorable.

  Teresa was unbuttoning her blouse with deliberate intent. Rayann shut off the water and welcomed the familiar rhythm of arousal. Though Louisa had been gone for over two years, she no longer felt guilty about the brief moment when she had to consciously tell herself that it was Teresa who held her. Time would take care of it, as it had the sharper pains of grief.

  It wasn’t that there were any similarities between the two. Louisa had been in her late fifties. Teresa was in her early thirties. Louisa had been close to Rayann’s height, while Teresa sometimes seemed to tower at five-foot nine. Teresa was mercurial and brazen and flashpoint funny while Louisa had rarely done anything without knowing exactly why and how she would do it.

  Teresa had her bra loose and Rayann knew it was Teresa’s hands cupping and teasing her breasts. It was just a moment that she needed to remind herself that this wasn’t infidelity. Louisa herself would be glad that Rayann had recognized Teresa’s love and her own tentative, growing feelings for a woman ten years younger than she was. The irony was not lost on her; she had been the younger lover with Louisa, twentynine years younger. But the way time marched these days, the ten years between her and Teresa sometimes seemed almost as vast.