“Mr. Craddock,” I repeat to the stubborn bald man who’s sitting in his wheelchair, his back purposely turned to me. I was trying to tell him that he needed to continue to eat his heart-healthy breakfast. His strict diet isn’t something to be cheated on.
I’m not the only caretaker of Mr. Craddock’s, however. I’m one of a handful the hospital sends his way, and unfortunately there’s one among us who doesn’t raise much hell when Mr. Craddock has a suspicious green and white paper carton protruding from his trash receptacle.
“I don’t know why you continue to hurt yourself,” I tell him, waving about the Krispy Kreme box for added emphasis of my point.
It’s not worth it, since Mr. Craddock’s chosen to tune me out. When he starts doing that, there’s no end. Once he’s chosen to say “See ya, girly!” (and he actually says that, with a spin on his two large wheels), there’s no going back. It’ll be a silent day.
“Mr. Craddock,” I repeat, still maintaining patience and composure, “I’m only looking out for your best interest.”
“Hmph.” He actually makes a noise in reply. That’s a rarity.
“Mr. Craddock.” I walk around to face him and he refuses to meet my eyes. “Sir?”
He gruffly crosses his arms and continues to deflect my questioning with an aggravating silence and a glare at the front room window.
I give up. If the man refuses to help himself, then how can I even try?
I toss the empty box of doughnuts into the recycling bin, where it belongs, and make a small scowl when I realize the bin is empty, whereas the garbage can is overflowing. Boy, that really peeves me. What will happen to our planet if we continue to trash it?
“Ugh,” I groan. I start to tidy up the kitchen: take out the garbage after attempting a sort of recyclables from the trash, wipe down the crumb-covered countertops, put in a load of dishes, and sweep up the equally crumb-covered floors.
When I finish I look over at Mr. Craddock. He’s now wheeled himself to the television and is trying to turn it on, muttering to himself things like, “Confounded contraption!” and “This infernal machine!” and a single, but loud, “Dagnabbit!” as he waves a wrinkled fist at the confusing electronics.
I toss the drying towel onto the counter and offer to help him find the channel he’s looking for. Still refusing to meet my eyes, he shoves the remote at me, then points to the top of the DVD player and says something about how I should turn it on already.
Ah, yes. Of course. It’s that phase again where all Mr. Craddock wants to do is sit in front of the boob tube and watch Patton over and over and over again.
I turn on the machine, tuck a blanket around his waist, bring him a cup of tea that I know he won’t touch, then dash back into the kitchen. Making sure he’s not looking, I snag the small mason jar of sugar that I spotted on the counter upon my entry and hide it in a cupboard that he will certainly never find. It’s for his own good, I tell myself. Then I grab my car keys and purse and wish him a pleasant evening.
“Yeah, yeah!” he mutters, staring at the screen, probably just as happy I’m leaving as I am to be on my way home for some time with Sophie and baby Rose.
***
Sophie’s wiggling her fingers with her arms outstretched to Rose, who is slowly but surely trying to take a few steps towards her.
Sophie and I offered to babysit Rose so Robin and Bobby could go to a company dinner across town. There’s one thing Robin can count on since her very best girlfriends all live within an easy driving distance: There will always be a babysitter for Rose.
Emily, in fact, had even suggested that she could watch Rose all day when Robin and Bobby are at work (they work at the same publishing house as book cover designers, by the way). Robin insisted Rose stay in daycare, though, since it had been working out really well for a whole year already. (Wow! Time does fly. It always surprises me…) I’m sure Robin thought any minute Emily would have a one-way ticket in her hand to Mozambique or Guatemala. Best to keep Rose in daycare and Emily doing whatever she wished.
It’s working out for the best, I think. Sometimes Emily might offer to do daycare duties, say on a random Friday or something, just for some fun. She’s always up for babysitting duty like the rest of us. Emily’s job as a freelance photographer for a local magazine is going all right. It’s a little bit of work here, a little there, and quite commitment-free, so she can take off and travel when she sees fit, or babysit. Although, Sophie’s been chatting with her about possibly working a few hours a week at The Cup and the Cake once the doors open.
“So you really think May is going to be the month?” I ask Sophie. She’s still trying to encourage Rose to walk all the way to her without falling down or resorting to crawling.
“Oh, definitely,” Sophie says.
“When, exactly?” I lay out the heavy load of magazines I’d brought in from the trunk of my car when I got home from Cranky Craddock’s house.
“End of May,” she says breezily. “I’m going to have a big grand opening. With invites and all. So I need to solidify a date sometime.”
I guffaw and page through an older copy of Brides. “Be sure about your date before you go and print your invites.”
“God, you poor thing.”
Seeing Rose fall flat on her bottom halfway across the living room floor, Sophie picks her up and brings her back a few paces, trying to attempt the walking routine once again. “Did Melissa figure that out finally?”
“Ugh!” I groan. “That was a nightmare! Can’t believe I didn’t update you.” I flip open another magazine and search for the page that has instructions on how to create your own bunting. That could be a fun project…
“What happened?” Sophie’s back to wiggling her fingers and making smiley faces at Rose. One step at a time, Rose inches closer and closer to Sophie. “She’s going to do it!” Sophie gasps quickly, looking at me, then right back to Rose, who’s no more than three full steps away.
I watch in anticipation. She’s going to do it. She will and— Bam! Back on her bottom. But Rose seems cheerful about it.
Sophie sighs and says, “One more try, little one.” She places Rose back at the starting line. “And?” Sophie asks me. “What happened with Melissa? She causing more work than relief?”
“No,” I say, feeling conflicted. “She’s doing her best, I’m sure. That one mistake with the invitations kind of threw me, that’s all. But we have new ones being made.” I make sure my tone registers positivity. I have plenty of my own second thoughts about Melissa and her so-called wonder skills at putting together a wedding thanks to that little invitation shenanigan. I don’t need to provide ammunition for others to use against her; to only confirm my worst fears.
“And the old invitations?” Sophie inquires. “You deducted that mistake from her invoice, didn’t you?”
I’m reluctant to say, since the truth isn’t rosy, so I reply with, “She says she has a good business relationship with the invitation people. That she can get a deal.” I shrug. “Apparently they’re the people who made her logo and business cards. Well, like five or six versions of her logo and business cards.”
“Damn,” Sophie almost whistles out, “a little difficulty making decisions, huh?”
“Who knows,” I say disinterestedly. “She was babbling on about finding the perfect logo or something like that. I don’t know. I’ve started to become a collector of her business cards. Version 1.0, 2.0—”
Sophie interrupts with a throaty laugh. “Well at least she can get you a good deal on the invites. With that much business she’s giving them,” she wags her head, “I’m sure they don’t mind her coming back over and over.”
So what’s the truth? The invitation mistake only ended up costing three-quarters of the original price. Not exactly a deal. I didn’t know how to tell Melissa that I expected her to eat it. I mean, I was the one who actually ordered the invitations, after all. She only offered to stop the order. So it could be my fault, really…
Sop
hie breaks my train of thought, gratefully, as she whoops and cheers for Rose, who has successfully walked right into Sophie’s outstretched arms.
“She did it!” Sophie cries. “She did it! She did it!” She’s swooped Rose up and is hugging her tightly, giving the cooing baby kisses all over her face.
“Hey!” Conner says, barging through the front door and heading straight into the bedroom.
“What are you doing here, baby?” I call out. Conner is supposed to be out for the night with Chad.
He seems out of breath and his hair is damp.
“Is it raining again?” I ask. Sophie and I were considering taking Schnickerdoodle for a walk, and taking Rose with us in the stroller Robin left with us.
“Headed for a downpour soon,” Conner responds, briskly returning from the bedroom with a small piece of paper in his hand. “Forgot my rewards card.” He flashes the card and heads back to the door, stopping to give me a damp kiss along the way. “One more pizza and they give me a free Guinness.”
“Have fun!” I tell him as he disappears back into the rainy night.
“March Madness,” I tell Sophie with a half-roll of the eyes. “Game night down at the pub.”
“Chad with him?” Sophie asks, obviously making herself sound impassive.
“Would it be anyone else?” I say with a chortle. “Come on, I want to show you the glitter clothespins we’re going to have at the wedding. They’ll hold these adorable postcards I got at this secondhand shop the other day.”
“Another DIY project?” Sophie asks, eyebrows raised. Rose has escaped from Sophie’s embrace and is quickly crawling towards the kitchen. Before she can make it to the dining room, Sophie scoops her back up.
“Yes,” I say. “Another wedding project that the maid of honor just has to help with.”
Sophie situates a squirming Rose on her hip. “Deal,” she says. “Then after we glitter these pins, we’re baking a batch of cupcakes.”
“New recipe?” I snag one of the magazines from the coffee table and lead her into the office.
“Cotton candy flavor.”
“What are you trying to do, Sophie? Kill me before I get into that gown?”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sampling things constantly and I still have to fit into that bridesmaid dress.”
“Oh!” I gasp, turning to her halfway down the hall. “Don’t you agree they’re all adorable?”
She nods her head and says that the blue dresses, each their own unique vintage cut, were an excellent choice.
***
By half past eight, Sophie and I have successfully glued dozens of clothespins and coated them with a thick, gold glitter. The two of us superwomen not only pulled glitter duty, we also did a fresh guest count. I was thinking we were at one hundred and twenty, maybe thirty guests. But one hundred and fifty-two people? How is that possible? Even if I add in the names that Mom and Dad had suggested we invite…even the recent dozen or so….and if I include the few from Conner’s side of the family that they’ve recently added…okay. It adds up quickly. Frighteningly fast.
I write a quick reminder note to update Melissa on the headcount, then stick it on the fridge. It’s unbelievable.
As if wedding chores weren’t enough to keep us busy, we fed Rose dinner, gave her a bath, and even rocked her to sleep. Robin told us that it’d probably be tough for her to sleep tonight, since she’d taken three naps already during the day. Apparently Sophie’s Workout for Babies did the trick, though, and wildly walking Rose was tuckered out.
“Time for cupcakes!” Sophie says excitedly, rubbing her hands together.
We saunter into the kitchen and prepare for our ritual. I can’t tell you how long Sophie and I have been doing this—baking together. We were always saying some day these recipes would finally be offered in Sophie’s own shop. Now here we are, testing recipes for real! Just like me trying on my wedding dress and really feeling like a bride! Time flows on, life happens…and a life filled with wedding dresses and cupcakes, and getting to spend the evening babysitting the world’s cutest baby, is not exactly a life to complain about. Even if the wedding headcount is skidding dangerously out of control.
“So, girl,” I say, as I drop some blue dye into the batter. “What else is going on with you?”
“Café’s keeping me busy,” Sophie answers.
“That I know,” I say in an obvious tone. “What else is new?”
“Hmm. Did I tell you I think my brother might be gay?”
“What?” I nearly drop the dye bottle into the batter. “No. You did not tell me that!”
Sophie thickly churns her ingredients with a wooden spoon. She does it so expertly, it’s no wonder she’s the baker and not me. My station of the kitchen is a mess, no matter how routine baking has become—splotches of blue dye keep making their way onto the counter, and I’m quickly cleaning them up with a wetted paper cloth, terrified of leaving behind stains. (Even though these Formica countertops are ugly as sin.)
“Yeah,” Sophie says, almost waxing lyrical. “He won’t come right out and say it. Won’t tell me. But I’m starting to think he is.”
I guffaw and tell her she must be joking. John? Gay? It couldn’t be.
“Isn’t he with, like, different women all the time?” I ask. “A male Emily,” I add for jocularity.
“Yeah, and that’s just the reason.”
“Huh? I don’t follow.”
Sophie looks back at me but doesn’t stop what she’s doing, methodically so. “Always in and out of relationships,” she says. “Avoiding commitment when things get too serious. He’s always been kind of weirdly anti-marriage, too.”
“A male Emily,” I repeat with a two-beat chortle.
“He’s thirty-two and can’t seem to hold onto one woman. I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I really think women just aren’t his cup of tea. He dates gorgeous women. We’re talking some could be—some even are—models! Yet, he doesn’t seem interested in anything long-term.”
“Maybe he just hasn’t found the one,” I suggest. “His career’s always taking him from San Francisco, to London, back and forth. I imagine being a lawyer’s pretty tough work, anyhow.”
“Maybe,” Sophie says in a low voice. “His anti-marriage weirdness is what really sets me off, though. You know?”
“Conner was that way,” I say. “So I thought. You want to talk about taking forever to come to?”
“It’s different,” she says. “With John it’s… I know my brother. I see how he is with women and it’s not… I don’t think it’s really there. And he lives in San Francisco.” She gives me a look like I should say, “Oh, then obviously he’s gay.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I reply. “Have you come right out and just asked him?”
“Yup.” Sophie brings her bowl to mine and starts to situate the cupcake pans.
“And?” I stop what I’m doing, too engrossed in the conversation. I love girly gossip, and hardly ever does something this juicy come up.
“He laughed and said I was a dork,” she replies. “Says he doesn’t know where I got that idea, and that was it.”
“So, that was it,” I tell her. “What’s the big deal? If he is, he is. If he’s not, he’s not.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Sophie says. She begins to place cream-colored cupcake liners into the cupcake pans. “Of course it doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t. I’d just rather him be honest with me. I’m his sister, after all.”
“Well, he just might be telling you the truth, Sophie.” I stick my finger in the batter for a taste. It’s delicious, as I expected. “He’s not gay.”
“Maybe,” she says.
“And,” I interject, “speaking of honesty here, what is going on with you?”
“What are you talking about?” She looks at me questioningly. “Me?”
“I’m talking about you asking if Chad’s with Conner at the pub tonight.” I lower my voice as if I’m sharing a secret th
at someone might hear. It’s no secret that Sophie and Chad once had something, however small or fleeting it may have been.
See, back in college, Sophie and Chad had a one-time fling. That’s Sophie’s story to tell, but something with a pool, his parents’ house, and too much booze—do I have to paint a picture? I’d really rather not.
Well, they’ve always been a little hostile with each other, despite their fling. But it’s usually just in a kittenish sort of way. Love-hate isn’t really how I’d describe it. Just awkward conversation that I think shows understated passion or wanting. Maybe longing for another quickie in the pool. Oops, yes…I’ve opened my mouth. I have painted that naughty picture.
Anyway, they have their past, but it’s not as clear-cut as a one-time “super crazy thing!” back in college. When Sophie was in Paris last summer, oddly enough Chad was there as well. Chad hung out with Conner when Sophie and I did some window shopping along the Champs-Élysées or did some real shopping at Le Bon Marché. But he was there a heck of a lot longer than the week Conner and I were. No doubt he and Sophie crossed paths more than a few times in the ol’ City of Lights when we weren’t around.
Sophie and I are really close friends—like sisters. However, she’s always been rather reserved about Chad since their “encounter.” And she was definitely very reserved about Chad in Paris. I’ve asked ad nauseam what, if anything, happened. All she ever says is that he was in Paris doing some strange art thing—something with a big dealer over there who wanted to buy one of his paintings—and then she’d run on about the cooking school she attended and the handsome French men she dated. That was all there was to say about Chad Harris.
Of course I was wildly curious about these handsome Frenchies, but why reserve details about Chad? Maybe, just like John, there really wasn’t anything to discuss. No, John wasn’t gay; he just didn’t want to settle down. No, nothing happened with Chad; he happened to be in Paris the same time Sophie was, and there’s nothing to report.
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 9