“On the prowl?” I suggest with a wide grin.
“Oui!” He rolls his eyes.
“Well,” I sip on my coffee, “good luck to you, Oliver. I’m sure your dream man is out there somewhere.”
Oliver takes my drained teacup and offers me a freshly filled one. This time the cup is white with a bird on it. Hmm, would be cute at my wedding, I think.
Oliver leans over the counter, nearer to me, and says in a hushed voice, “I just might have.” He pulls back, winks quickly, and dispenses some ground espresso beans into the machine’s basket.
I raise my brows, both curious and happy that Oliver’s prowl—or hunt—for true love might be coming to a lucky end.
Oliver makes a motion with his head, and I look behind me at the still very full room. I look back at him. “He’s here?” I ask.
Oliver shrugs casually and says, “Just prowling…”
I lift my head higher, trying to see if there’s anyone who has his eyes locked on the barista-of-the-night. There’s no one—just a sea of men in suits, and none of them looking directly our way.
Oliver begins to brew a fresh batch of espresso, and, as I’m about to wish him good luck and goodnight, he discreetly points in a vague direction towards the crowd. I try to follow, and he says, “Over there. Had my eye on him all night. Not bad at all.”
I squint into the collection of people, not really sure who he’s talking about, so I ask, “What’s he wearing?”
“Armani.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Black, pin-striped, two-piece.” Oliver hands one of the freshly prepared espressos to a woman nearby. “Cerulean blue tie, very well-groomed. Tall, brunette…”
I’m searching and searching, and then, now wait a minute. I can only see one guy who fits that exact description. And it’s—
“Him?” I look at Oliver with a twisted expression. “That guy? There?”
I turn back around and point at the man in question, and Oliver makes one swift nod.
I try my best to contain my laughter, but Oliver’s barking up the wrong tree here.
“Oliver, not to burst your bubble—”
His face twists confusedly, and I’m afraid I’ve thrown an unfamiliar Americanism on him.
“Not to disappoint you,” I correct. “But…that’s John.”
“So you know him? The Armani-wearing man has a name.” Oliver’s cheeks flush a light shade of pink.
“Yeah,” I say in bewilderment. “His name is John. That’s Sophie’s brother.”
Oliver makes a long, comical face.
“And he’s not gay. Sorry, Oliver.”
However, despite the news that I was certain would “burst Oliver’s bubble,” Oliver is grinning slyly. My news doesn’t seem to faze him one bit. Oliver passes off the second espresso. “And you’re one hundred percent sure about that, Claire?”
The way Oliver poses this question makes me think that this is not a question. This is a “check your facts, sister,” kind of thing.
I giggle unsettlingly and take a quick sip of my hot beverage. Stepping back from the counter, I say, “Well…good luck with that, Oliver.” I give him a warm smile. “It was very nice meeting you.”
“You too, Claire.”
As rapidly as Oliver is working the controls of the wheezing and whistling machine, I turn on my high heels and trot over to Jackie and Lara’s table. Girl gossip just got hot.
Chapter Seventeen
I know why I’ve never waitressed. I also know why the first and only shot I had at waiting tables at a dark and dank diner back home in Oregon in high school was a total flop. I can’t move fast enough on my feet, because my head is in one place, my feet yards ahead (or behind) me, and then…what was that order?
It’s not even like I’m at a real restaurant or even a simple diner that has a very standard menu. No, I’m at The Cup and the Cake, where I know all of the items like the back of my hand (and can even make stellar recommendations), and where the day’s specialties are either written obviously overhead on a huge chalkboard or displayed right there behind the glass case.
Yet somehow I’ve already managed to fudge three orders, forget one entirely, and undercharge customers twice. I won’t blame Sophie for saying, “Thanks, but you can just be a patron,” when this first day is done.
The day’s going really well—my flops aside—and the traffic has been unbelievable! If today’s robust patronage is any indication of the future days at The Cup and the Cake, then Sophie’s sure to be a huge success.
With a grand opening going extremely well the night before, topped off with a little late-night after-party over at a club that came well-recommended by Jackie, I’m surprised any of us have the energy to tackle opening day. But we’re here. We’re all taking shifts: some baking in the kitchen, others cleaning up tables, or serving, or operating the cash register, or at the espresso machine.
I haven’t had to pull serving or ordering duty in a while, and I think Sophie made it public knowledge that I was not to be included in that circulation. Can’t say that I blame her. I was doing really well helping Sophie make new batches of baked goods, until I started to pinch off the tops of muffins and cupcakes, forgetting for a moment where I was and thinking sampling while cooking was commonplace. Whoops.
Now I’m washing dishes. Although it was drab at first, dozens of tiny cups and saucers and silverware later I’ve found a rhythm and have been using the time to think of the things I want to cover with Melissa at our next meeting.
It’s gotten to the point where I’m sort of scared about the meetings with her. I mean, I’m always looking forward to planning a new stage of the wedding or getting all the little details hashed out. The chances that Melissa will screw something up or tell me that my dreams will have to be dashed because of some God-forsaken reason, however, makes me grit my teeth and drag my feet to that familiar Starbucks table.
“Claire?” Sophie says, popping her head around the corner.
“Yup?”
“I need help rolling the croissants.”
I realize that all of the dishes have been cleaned and I’ve been, for who knows how long, aimlessly swirling my hands around the murky dishwater.
I unplug the drain and rinse out the soap bubbles clinging to all sides of the deep, stainless steel sink. Sophie had the countertops built for her height—five foot nine—so for the half-a-foot-shorter me, I needed a stepstool. I descend from the stool and rub my wet hands across my apron.
“You want my help?” I ask her.
“If you promise not to pinch and pick, then yup.” Sophie disappears around the corner, and I follow.
“It’s going really well, wouldn’t you say?” I ask as we begin the prep for the croissants.
“It’s more than I could have dreamed,” Sophie says, sounding baffled.
“Everyone seemed to really love all of the food,” I tell her. “And did you see that ballot box?”
“Mmhmm. Lara took them home and is going to tally them for me.” Sophie hands me a bowl of dough. “I can’t wait to find out what the top recipes are.”
“All of them,” I say with a giggle. “All of your cupcakes were amazing. You can trust me—I tried all twenty-two.”
“I also think the coffee went over well, don’t you?” Sophie lightly coats her fingertips in flour, and I follow suit.
Sophie and I used to make croissants or pain au chocolats (my favorite) when we lived together. It was hard work but always worth it. We had to outfit ourselves with rolling pins then, and labor forever with the rolling, but now Sophie has this really neat electric roller thingy that takes all of the work out of it. It’s super cool.
Sophie sets the rolled disc of dough onto the cutting board and, using a pizza cutter, she mechanically begins to make triangular cuts.
Okay…I remember this. I can do it. I give it a go with the roller and, voila! It actually works.
“Oh, yeah,” I finally answer Sophie. “The coffee w
as great. You offered all of the stuff I imagine coffee connoisseurs would want.”
“Now I just need to make sure I know how to make all of those drinks,” Sophie says. Her cutting is at two, maybe three, times the speed of my own. “Oliver was so helpful last night. Don’t know what I would’ve done without him. You got a chance to meet him, didn’t you?” Sophie doesn’t look up from her task.
“Oh…uh…” Goodness. Oliver. What am I supposed to say? That is, if Jackie and Lara haven’t beaten me to it, yet.
I know Sophie has her suspicions about her brother’s sexuality, and I’m fairly certain that John isn’t gay. But the possibility was one that Sophie had been considering because of John’s lack of commitment to any one woman—always finding something wrong with them. I thought she was acting silly, but after Oliver last night… I mean, can’t gay guys tell when other guys are gay? Isn’t there some unwritten gaydar rule or something? I think I read that in a magazine. Yeah! It was in a magazine. In one of Conner’s issues of Maxim, I think.
“Uhh,” I stutter. “Yeah, yeah. I did meet him.”
“Nice, huh?”
I suddenly become aware of the significant weight of the pizza slicer in my hand and the cold feel of the metal, even though it’s been in my warm hand for a while now.
“Claire?” Sophie asks, looking up from her perfectly sliced dough.
“Yes,” I say, coming to. “Oh, yeah. Yes. He was really nice. We talked for a while, actually. Small talk, really…” I slowly return to cutting my croissant pieces, not sure how I should broach the topic. I have to tell her. I can’t just share the gossip with the girls behind Sophie’s back. I mean, this is her brother—and her former co-worker. And I’m Sophie’s best friend!
So I come right out and just spill it. “Oliver thinks John’s gay.”
Okay. It was definitely spilled. So not smooth. In my defense, I’m not used to these kinds of situations. How do you tell your best friend that you think her brother’s gay? I guess you could do it the way I just did.
As taken aback as I was by Oliver’s reaction last night when I told him I was pretty certain John didn’t swing that way, I am surprised by Sophie’s rejoinder of, “Oliver probably hopes John’s gay.”
“What?” I say, confused.
Through a chortle she says, “John’s always had that metrosexual vibe going on, you know?” She looks at me briefly before returning to her work. “He dresses well, has coiffed hair. He’s handsome, but in that very metro way.”
“Aren’t you a little, oh, I don’t know…confirmed?” The words didn’t come out right. What I meant to say—
“Confirmed?” Sophie repeats. “Oh you mean because I thought that maybe John was gay?”
I nod.
“Oh, that was just me being daft.” She begins to roll her first croissant—so elegant and with precision. “He’s seeing a new girl, actually. Gemma or Gena or—it starts with a G.”
“Aww, well… Okay then...”
“Claire, you’re so funny.” She gives me a nudge with a soft swing of her hips. “I’m pretty sure John’s straight.”
“But all of a sudden? Just yesterday he was as gay as a fruit basket and now he’s straight?” I pull a twisted face.
“I don’t know,” she shrugs off. “Maybe a little part inside of me hopes he isn’t gay, so this new Gemma or Gena is an extra sliver of hope.”
“Does it really matter, though?” I lazily roll the dough, paying no attention to what I’m doing. “You certainly can’t care either way, Sophie; your parents are progressive; San Francisco is probably the ideal place to be if you are gay, I imagine…”
“I look at it this way,” she says with a straight face, “and it’s a totally selfish way to look at it. If John’s gay then that means Mom and Dad look to me to produce the Wharton grandchildren. Mom’s already got the ridiculous itch to diaper something.” She shakes her head, her loose bun starting to fall from atop the crown of her head. “John’s my only hope to beat me to the nursery line. Let’s be honest, Claire, you think I am anywhere near that line?”
“Any nearer than John?” I query matter-of-factly.
“True,” Sophie says with a smirk. “Whatevs. Anyway, whatever John is, or isn’t, doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. I only want him happy in the end.”
“And for him to provide that first grandchild,” I add in with a wide grin.
“Psh. Yeah!”
I giggle. “Okay, so you’ve decided John’s not gay. And Oliver?”
Sophie belts out one loud laugh. “Oliver! He’s as straight as a rainbow, honey. Love him to pieces, but he’s definitely gay and John’s just his type. I can see how Oliver would take a liking to him. His last boyfriend could be John’s long-lost brother.”
I give a little laugh to the situation, too. I look at Sophie’s workstation where she has half a dozen croissants all rolled out perfectly, ready to be baked. Then I look at mine. I haven’t even started one.
“Of course,” I say. “How cool would it be to set them up on a date? Oh, Sophie, playing matchmaker can be so much fun! I mean, if John was gay, you know? They’d fit well together, don’t you think?” I bite my lower lip through a thick grin and look over at her as I prepare to roll my first pastry. She’s still chuckling, lightly dusting her fingertips with flour. “Oh, Claire…” she says. “Claire, Claire… I love you…”
***
I can hardly contain my excitement. Not regarding the meeting that I’m about to go into with Melissa at one of the many Starbucks located downtown; I’m ecstatic because tomorrow is my dress fitting! I’ve even managed to rally all of the girls for this moment, except for Mom. I wish she could join, but at least she got to come to one of the dress trials.
With my usual armload of magazines in tow, I rush through the café doors and make a beeline for the To Order line. I have to be at the hospital by eleven today, so that means this is an early and quick meeting with Melissa. Oh, there’s never enough time in a day!
I was in such a rush this morning that I almost forgot all about Schnickerdoodle. The poor puppy was so hungry and whining at my feet as I was about to bound out the door. Then it clicked: He needs his breakfast! I don’t know why I assumed Conner did it, because he was out of the house in a stressed hurry before half past seven. Something about a monthly reporting tool falling by the wayside and the jeopardy of scores of clients’ financials. He’d barely showered and dressed in his usual suit pants and dress shirt before he was in his truck and barreling down the sleepy neighborhood road well before he usually does.
I have to tell you Conner and I have been pretty “off” lately (as if it’s not very apparent). You know that feeling where you’re not quite in sync? Where, instead of completing each others’ sentences or knowing exactly what the other one means, like you usually do, you’re asking questions to be repeated, misinterpreting gestures, and forgetting conversations were ever had.
I chalk it up to the wedding stress, and, judging by Conner’s office emergency today, work stress. Once the wedding’s here and gone, though, we’ll be back to our regular old selves. As comfy as an old shoe—I’m sure of it.
It doesn’t take more than a sweeping glance halfway around the room until I spot Melissa, her hair looking even brighter than usual. Ahh, a touch-up job, no doubt.
“Morning,” I say as I approach her. I want to tell her that I think we should change our meeting location to this really new, unique, and amazing café over in Capitol Hill (you know the one!), but I decide against it. See, I’d already suggested a location change. What was Melissa’s response? I quote, “Starbucks is working great for me.” She drew out the “great” part in that familiar valley-girl style. So, here we are, yet again.
“Well,” I say, settling into the cold, wooden seat. “What’s on the agenda today? I’m assuming dress fitting…”
Melissa is busying herself with her new iPad, moving her hot pink acrylic-nailed finger all about the screen in a rapi
d way that tells me she’s already made herself quite acquainted with its technological possibilities.
“Umm,” I mumble, hoping she’ll stop flipping through what looks like her inbox, then Facebook, then back to her inbox.
“So,” Melissa says suddenly. She looks at me, aglow, and after complimenting my hair (which I know looks like complete crap because I’d only pulled the elastic band from its well-slept-on position in the car ride over here), she suggests we get started.
I sigh and smile, then say stoutly, “The fitting. That is tomorrow, correct?”
“Yes it is.”
“Excellent!” I sip on my coffee, desperate for its magic to do its thing. My eyelids feel so heavy. I bet I have rings under them. If not now, then surely I will by the end of the work day. “What else is on the to-do list?”
“Girl,” Melissa says with a bold air of confidence, “you are so set for your dream wedding. Really, there’s not that much left to be done.”
“Great. So…” I let this last word linger, waiting for her to tell me what’s left. What’s next. Why the hell I’m here, actually, if everything’s all set for show time? Which, by the way, I cannot possibly believe. Reconfiguring simply because of the new headcount means some amount of work needs to be done, however miniscule. I mean, at least some more invitations have to be ordered and sent out thanks to the ever-growing guest list.
Melissa is sitting there, shoulders back, just the way my mom always told me to hold them (especially because I needed all the help in the world when it came to being vertically challenged). She’s savoring her large iced coffee, and while she drinks she bobs her head to the music playing softly overhead. She has her iPhone in her hand now; it’s white and matches her iPad, as any “I’ve got my act together” girl would have, naturally. Not to sound like a mean girl or anything, but really…Melissa’s as—as coiffed as John’s hair. So pristine, so put-together. It’s kind of annoying, really.
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