“Keep your fingers to yourself, Bob! Two reasons: one, raw eggs are supposed to give you some sort of food poisoning; and, two, if you keep this up, there won’t be enough batter for your gran’s cake. So back off, kiddo!”
Bob giggled. “Okay! But can I have one more taste after you put the cocoa in? Just to see if it’s chocolatey enough?”
“One. Then we will have to pour it into these two cake pans and bake it. And I have some reservations about this whole project. I have never made a cake in my entire life. This thing may be horrible.”
Bob bounced, sending off a cloud of powder, which made her and me cough. Then she laughed even louder. “You SEE, Beck? You need me as a taster! ’Cause if it is awful, then we will have to go to the bakery for Gran’s cake!”
Ella was turning eighty-four the following day. Bob had planned this “surprise party” and invited me, Theo, Hallie, Hallie’s mom, Gail, and, of course, she had written to her father to tell him all about it. She was wound up tight.
“Bob, although I am not the Ace of Cakes, I think we can pull this off. I got already-made roses at the store, so we won’t have to try to make those—they will be pretty. I have this can of white icing—ready to spread. And I have here three tubes of décor frosting: pink, green, and blue.” I pulled out my cell phone. “So while the cakes are baking”—I slid them into the oven—“we can watch this YouTube video on how to write on cakes.”
We sat down on the linoleum, directly in front of the oven, so that Bob could peer in constantly. We hunkered over my cell and watched the expert write HAPPY BIRTHDAY in fancy script on a perfect Martha Stewart confection. It looked so easy-peasy! We smiled at one another smugly.
Two hours later, the layers sat cooling on waxed paper. They looked a little small. We leaned over the kitchen table to inspect them.
“They look dinky.” Bob touched an edge.
I agreed, but we had to press forward. “I know. But we have to take this one step at a time. If we by some miracle manage to get this thing iced and decorated, then we can surround it with the flowers I bought. I was going to give them to your gran for the table, but if we need them for the cake, we can use them. Carnations go with everything. It will look okay.”
Dubious, Bob picked up the tube of pink gel icing and absently squeezed it. She was unaware that this tube was the one I had opened. Icing squirted out and landed in my hair. Bob gasped.
“Hey! We can’t waste this stuff! I only have three tubes! It has to be enough for all of the writing AND the swirls and squiggles!” I squirted some on Bob’s nose.
“I know! It’s precious!” Bob snorted and squeezed some of it directly into her mouth.
“Stop right now. I have to concentrate. It says here in the recipe that you are to smooth some of this frosting”—I pried open the seal on the buttercream vanilla can—“onto the top of the first layer, but not too much. Because you need to use most of it to ice the cake once the second layer is on.”
I used my spatula, the one that I normally scramble eggs with, to spread the icing on the first layer. As I tried to smooth it smoothly, crumbs detached from the cake and mixed with the frosting, also making HOLES in the cake. “OMG, this is a DISASTER!”
Bob grabbed the spatula out of my hand. After taking a generous lick of the mixture covering it and smiling with satisfaction, she said, “Beck, I think this is the wrong tool! Gran uses a skinny metal knife thing to frost cakes. Should I go over and ask her for it?”
I looked at her as if she were a fool. “And just give away everything? Just announce that we are over here making a cake—oh yeah—and she will never make the connection between that and her birthday??” I poked her in the ribs, and she collapsed on the floor in a paroxysm of giggling.
“No, Bob, I am afraid we have to forge ahead on our own. But you may be right about this implement.” I put the spatula in the sink. Bob got up, grabbed it out of the sink, and continued to lick it.
I opened my silverware drawer and pulled out a metal cake-cutting thingy that Mom gave me, in hopes I might use it someday on my wedding cake. “Shall we try this one?”
Bob nodded, her mouth still full of icing.
“Okay, here we go.” The instructions had directed that I decant the cakes onto waxed paper, cut in circles slightly larger than the cakes. I had somehow managed circles that were ragged, but just barely larger than the cakes. I slid my hand under the waxed paper and very gently lifted the second layer. I placed my free hand on the top. “Wish me luck, kiddo. If this layer crumbles into smithereens, we are bakery bound!”
But it, by some miracle, plopped right on top of layer one. It was even centered.
“SCORE!!!” Bob dropped the spatula and gave me a high-five with a fist bump chaser.
“Okay, Bob. Do you want to do the rest of this frosting, or should I? I believe that neither one of us is in any way qualified to do this, so it’s a toss-up.”
Bob picked up the cake tool and handed it to me. “I’ll do the writing and the roses.”
I took a deep breath and started spreading. I was sweating bullets, by God. But after a couple of false starts, confidence kicked in, and I managed to cover the entire cake with a relatively even layer of frosting, and when I set the cake tool down on the counter, I twirled the platter so that Bob and I could view the cake from all sides. Amateurish, but acceptable. I used my finger to smooth out a particularly glaring divot.
“It’s not like the bakery, that’s for sure,” Bob murmured.
I had to nod in agreement. “But maybe with the roses and the writing, it will look good.”
Bob bent to her task. She ran out of room on “Birthday,” so it read HAPPY BIRTHDAy, but with seven awkward looking roses placed strategically, it looked okay. Bob clapped her hands with satisfaction. “It’s perfect! But we really need to put the flowers around it.”
I had a sudden realization. “Yikes! We should have iced the cake after we put it on the cake plate!”
Bob looked at me and moaned. “Oh, no! Are we screwed?”
I decided not to comment on Bob’s use of slang, and got out my biggest pancake turner. “I am going to slide this thing under the cake. Get ready to steady it if it starts to fall off. But use your entire hand, not your fingers, so we don’t poke holes in the cake. If the frosting gets messed up, we can repair once it’s on the cake plate.”
I scooted the crystal cake stand that I got at a garage sale for occasions just like this (I had never used it in five years), close to the cake. “Okay, Bob. ON THREE.”
It was touch and go, but we got it on the cake stand with just a little crater on one side. There may have been remnants of waxed paper remaining, but that was the least of our worries. I repaired the crater as best I could, and stuck four toothpicks in it to keep the Saran Wrap from destroying our decorations, and covered it for the party. “Whew! It’s not worthy of Martha Stewart, but we did it! Bob, you had better go home and act casual. Don’t spill the beans about any of this; we want your gran to be surprised.”
Bob took a final swipe of frosting when she thought I wasn’t looking and sucked it off her finger. “Okay! Hallie is coming over right before. She is pretending that she wants to go to the park. We’ll signal to you from the front porch when it’s okay to come over!”
I clapped my hands. “PERFECT!”
Bob scuttled out the door.
▷◁
Theo arrived early, as usual. I had been counting on this, as I wanted to broach the subject of the grocery store girlfriend, but had not found the opportunity. I had only been home from Chicago for two days, and we had exchanged a few text messages, but nothing more. Plus, I was not exactly sure what my position on grocery store girlfriends should be. I appreciated Theo as a person. I had fun with him. He was great in bed. Blah, blah. However, I was the one who got the heebie-jeebies just thinking about the gravity of “going steady,”
followed by eventual marriage and the near impossibility of staying that way.
I opened my door, and there he stood, wearing a crisply ironed white broadcloth shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his Tag Heuer watch and tan forearms. His indigo and gold madras slacks were tasteful and also wrinkle-free. In one hand, he held a bouquet that I assumed was for Ella, and in the other, he had two bottles of pinot noir. The man was just too good to be true.
“Are you going to ask me in, or just stand there in awe?” He winked at me.
Okay. The wink. A little icky. “Oh, sorry. Come in. Is the wine for later? Looks delicious.”
Theo put the bottles on the mantel, set the bouquet on the coffee table, and glanced at his watch. “We have some time before the party starts. Do you want to have a glass of wine first?”
“Theo, let’s just sit down and talk for a bit. You know, we have never really addressed the phone call.”
He sat, but on the edge of the sofa, as if he had been expecting something like this. I swear, he looked like a kid in the principal’s office. Clasping his hands, he leaned forward, his forehead furrowed. “Beck, I swear it was nothing. Okay. We were not really at the grocery store; I admitted that. I don’t know why I said that—you caught me off guard, and I lied. But it was really just a drink.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Okay, okay. She came on to me. I knew she was flirting the whole time this office building deal was coming down, but I am telling you the God’s truth here: I did not encourage her!”
“Theo, Theo. Come ON. If you knew she was interested in you, and you met her in a bar, then it was a date. You can rationalize all you want, but two single people having a prearranged drink together in a bar is a date.”
Theo sank back into the sofa cushions and put a hand over his forehead. “So what exactly are you saying, here? Are you breaking up with me?”
Good question. I studied the man beside me on the sofa. Tall. Nice looking, in an all-American, totally non-threatening way. Good taste in clothes. Thoughtful. Excellent manners. Soft, genial eyes. The kind of man who would never serve meat to a vegetarian.
I sighed. “Theo, I am not breaking up with you. But I think we need to establish the parameters of our relationship. If we are going to date other people or not. Because it is never fun to think you are in an exclusive situation and have the other person in the relationship think otherwise. We need to be in an open or a closed relationship.” The little voice inside my head said Huh?
Theo looked understandably confused. “Beck, what are you asking? Do you want to have an exclusive relationship, or don’t you?”
Good question. I wanted to hit a rewind button and start over. I sat in silence. The little mental voice became a bit more annoyed in there: Just what the hell are you doing here, Beck? Theo looked once more at the Tag on his wrist.
“Beck?”
“Ugh, Theo, here’s the thing: I am not sure what I am asking! But I guess the fact that I was unhappy when I thought you were with another woman means that I was a little jealous.”
“Jealous, or possessive? I will be honest here, Beck. I have never gotten the feeling from you that we are headed towards a happily ever after. I don’t feel that you are 100% in our relationship. Am I right? So what is this about?”
Theo crossed one impeccable leg over the other. He rested his arms against the back of the sofa and challenged me with a pointed look.
I caved. “Theo, I’m sorry. I am selfish and insecure. After Bryan and I split, followed by his marriage to my sister, I lost all of my perspective on relationships. Can you bear with me on this? I don’t want to break up. I want to have trust, is all.” As the voice in my head screamed you are a total chickenshit! I scooted over to Theo on the sofa and put my hand on his chest. I could hear his all-American heart beating.
Theo’s kind eyes darkened. “Let’s face facts, here. This relationship isn’t going forward; it’s stalled out.”
He scooted backwards so that there was at least a foot of distance between us. I started to say something, but he waved me off. “As much as I enjoy being with you, I can tell that the feelings I am developing for you aren’t mutual. I think the best thing to do here would be to stop trying so hard to be a couple and just remain good friends.”
The “good friends” speech. Oh, no. All the saliva in my mouth dried up. “Theo, I am so sorry. I am such a jerk.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he rumpled his hair dejectedly.
I didn’t know exactly how to proceed. “I don’t know what to do or say. I feel terrible, because I really like you.” Pleading look in his direction. “I really do!”
Of course, the logical, objective portion of my brain (very small portion overall) spoke up. Beck, be honest. You have been grasping at straws here. Theo is absolutely right to feel that you have been stringing him along. Because you have. I tried to ignore it, but it kept on, doggedly: You are totally scrambled up right now. Bryan. The past. Your fear of commitment. Your gaping wound from your parents’ divorce. I was reeling. I must have shot Theo a beseeching look.
Theo, bless him forever and ever, slapped his knees with both hands and stood up, an optimistic smile on his face. “I know what to do. Let’s just enjoy one another’s company, but give up on the whole boyfriend/girlfriend idea. Friends. Not the kind with benefits, though. Just friends. We can still go out, have fun, can’t we? Who says men and women can’t be just friends?”
I looked up at him. Who was this heroic guy, and what did I do to deserve him in my life? I said a little silent prayer of thanks to the ruler of the universe, God, Buddha, Mohammed, and every other one I could think of. I vowed to them all that I would face up to things. I shut my eyes and sent a thanks heavenward. Then I got up and went into the kitchen for the cake.
I brought it out, ceremoniously. “Here is our masterpiece. Bob and I worked very hard on this, despite the fact that it looks as if we dropped it at least once. But we have to put those flowers around it, so it won’t look quite so pitiful.”
Theo laughed, grabbed the flowers, and took them into the kitchen. “Where are the scissors? We have to cut the stems off.”
I followed him in, clanked around in the junk drawer, and handed him the scissors. He made short work of the stems, unwrapped the cake, and bent over, placing the carnations very carefully around the perimeter. “TA-DA!”
“Theo, you are an absolute artist. It looks divine,” I lied.
“Okay, then, friend. Let’s get this show on the road.” Theo balanced the cake carefully, and we headed out the door.
On the way across the street, I thought I heard a cat meowing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ella feigned complete surprise. When Bob and Hallie carried out the cake from where I had left it on the porch, Ella gasped, hands over her heart. “What is this beautiful thing? A cake? Who made this? Certainly you couldn’t have made this lovely cake, could you, Bobby?”
Bob beamed. Even her freckles seemed to flash. “Gran, Beck and I made it! From SCRATCH! Well, not the frosting and the carnations. But we did it ourselves! Does it look like it came from a bakery?”
Ella leaned over to kiss her great-granddaughter. “It looks like the cakes they make on the cooking shows! It’s just perfect!”
Ella reached out and swiped a bit of the frosting off the cake and tasted it. “In all of my eighty-four years, I have never tasted anything as delectable as this. Shall we all share it?”
Theo was already bringing in the plates and a knife. He set them on the glass coffee table and went back to the kitchen for forks. Gail beamed and pulled on her blonde spikes. Hallie and Marva applauded.
“There are nice napkins in the left-hand drawer under the sink!” Ella called out after him.
We all settled down in anticipation of the homemade cake. I hoped against hope that it was edible. Just as Theo returned with forks
and linen napkins, the phone rang.
Ella struggled to her feet. “I wonder who that is. Just a minute folks, I’ll tell whoever it is that we are very busy at the moment.” She toddled out into the hall, where her phone sat in a nook built into the wall, a Windsor chair beside it.
Theo sliced the cake into very generous portions. I decided to start counting carbs the following day. Hallie and Bob passed a piece to me, gave one to Theo, who was surreptitiously licking the cake knife, and then they pushed generous portions towards Gail and Marva. Then the girls each took a piece and sat on the floor to eat. “Shouldn’t we wait for Gran?”
I grinned. “I am sure she wouldn’t mind if we started in without her. After all, this is just so tempting!” I had my fingers crossed.
It was pretty damn good. Fudgy, and not too dry. We were all chewing away most companionably when we heard a loud thump, a crash, and then some sort of scrabbling sound.
It was Ella. “HELP!”
Startled, Theo and I jumped up. We ran into the hall, where Ella lay, crumpled, the phone still in her hand, the chair on its side beside her. Her face was white, her body trembling. Moans issued from her throat; I thought she sounded like a wounded animal. Before we could get to her, Bob shot into the hall and threw herself down next to her gran. “Gran, what’s wrong? What happened? Please be okay! Please!” Bob stroked Ella’s head very gently.
Ella suppressed her moaning long enough to grimace at Bob. “Bobby, I will be okay. Don’t fret.”
But I knew something was terribly wrong. Theo knelt over Ella, and tried to straighten her out, but when he touched her legs, she screamed. “NO! IT’S MY HIP! DON’T TOUCH ME!”
In the meantime, I whipped out my iPhone and punched 9-1-1. Bob knelt by Ella, sobbing and stroking. Gail wisely ran to open the front door, so that when the paramedics arrived, they would have a clear path. Hallie burst outside to wait on the curb for the paramedics. Honestly, children these days have such presence of mind!
Crossing the Street Page 15