Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  Nash placed a foot in the hole of the tire swing and stepped up. His hands grasped the chain above my head, and he swung his whole frame to the left, sending us careening out over the riverbank.

  “Nash! Is this thing going to hold both of us?”

  “I won’t let you break, China Doll.”

  He let centripetal force do the work, and we swung in lazy circles, the cicadas madly singing their vibrato chorus over our heads.

  “My mom paid too much attention to the bottle. Drank herself into a nursing home by the time I was ten.” He gave a wave to Logan, who was next in line for the big slide. “His age.”

  “Then it was just you and your dad?”

  “Yep. Me and Nutso Nash. That’s what everyone called him, after he came back from the Gulf War. He and my mom were high school sweethearts. She couldn’t handle his mood swings. She loved him, but she had to escape.”

  “I don’t get how people can leave behind the ones they love,” I blurted.

  “Love is like a soldier, Dani. Even if it comes back, it’s never the same.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes, and I turned away. I didn’t want to hear that. I didn’t want to know that.

  I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

  Nash’s foot dropped like an anchor, raising dust and bringing us to a halt.

  “So, whatever happened with Bingo?” he asked.

  “I discovered boys that next school year. And so by summer, Bingo blew past me with like a hundred more words, and I was lost. So I never learned any more signs.”

  “I’ll bet you probably learned to be a better kisser than Bingo, though.”

  “You’d probably win that bet,” I said with a grin. It was a pity our best moments of true intimacy seemed to always happen when no one was around to see.

  “Would you teach me the signs you know?”

  “Nash. Of course.”

  He kissed my cheek in thanks, and helped me off the swing.

  • • •

  My phone line buzzed like it was Old Home Days, with Laney’s news. Even my mother wanted the scoop, with her usual ulterior motive of telling me how well some of her friends’ children were doing in their more respectable professions.

  “Sheila Blakesberg’s daughter is making eighty-seven thousand as a PT in Northport, Danica. Did you know that the average salary for massage therapists is half that on the island?”

  “Well, good thing I’m not taking a job on the island with an annual salary.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I know, darling. You love your ‘gig.’” I could practically hear her air-quoting. “But you should know your options.” The festival life made no sense to her. My mother didn’t like the idea of me handling strange, tattooed men under what she called a sideshow tent, and brushing my teeth in the woods using bottled water.

  “That’s Posy on the other line.” I was grateful at that moment for my sister clicking in.

  “Go, dear . . . and will you please tell your sister I’m sorry again for the frozen monkey brain? She’s threatening to join PETA.”

  “Frozen what?” I asked, but she had already disconnected. I had no choice but to click over and get an earful from Posy.

  “This is worse than the time Dad conducted that double-blind ‘controlled tickling’ experiment on us to see if children would still laugh in the face of danger!”

  “What did they do now?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know. Although I remembered making double my allowance money just for wearing a killer clown mask and being told to tickle my sister mercilessly, she had never quite recovered.

  “I was planning on surprising Pat this weekend with reservations at Jezebel,” she explained, “that new upscale Cajun place in Williamsburg. You know, for our anniversary.”

  Oh, I knew. The year marker of meeting Mick didn’t have a chance of slipping my mind, not when he kept slipping me hints of how great a reenactment would be since I had arrived in town.

  “And then I was going to do the whole sexy candles, blindfolds and dessert thing, and serve him a piece of our wedding cake. Remember, from the top tier I had painstakingly arranged to have transported from New Orleans and back to Mom and Dad’s freezer while Pat and I were on our honeymoon?”

  Uh-oh. I think this was where the frozen monkey brain came in. “What happened?”

  Posy let out a dramatic sigh. “Hurricane Sandy happened, that’s what. Causing power outages and mandatory evacuation of their neighborhood, so she loaded stuff from the deep freeze into a cooler and brought it to work, where there was dry ice to be had. Then power went out at work; everyone was scrambling to save lab work and specimens. And remember, Mom had been part of that team brought in to measure the social behavior of amygdala-lesioned rhesus monkeys?”

  “Um, if you say so.”

  Posy and my parents could discuss their peer-reviewed JAMA papers until they were blue in the face, but all I heard was the sound of adults speaking to Charlie Brown and the other Peanuts kid characters: Mah-wah, mah-wah, mah-wah.

  “Well, coolers got confused, the monkey project got scrapped due to compromised data of the specimens, Mom restocked her freezer once the power came back on and voila! The big foil-wrapped object that I picked up yesterday to thaw out for my darling husband turned out to be one hundred percent genuine Macaca mulatta brain.”

  “She threw out your cake?” I bit the back of my hand to keep from laughing.

  “Yes, Einstein. And no bakery worth its salt around here is going to be able to bake a replica with this short notice.”

  “Maybe no bakery around you . . . ,” I said.

  • • •

  “I just have to stop at my sister’s,” I told Nash, the bakery box resting carefully on my knees. “Then you can drop me in the Village.”

  “I’m not coming in,” Nash warned. “Not quite up to twenty questions from the in-laws just yet.”

  “Oh, but I can meet your whole fam-damily?” I challenged. “That was hardly a walk in the park. Don’t worry. It’s a doorman building. I can drop it at the desk.”

  “Doorman building, eh? Fancy.”

  “Says the man driving the eighty-five-thousand-dollar Cayman.”

  There was no need to page Posy at the front desk; she was waiting by the concierge and practically jumped on me the minute I walked in the door.

  “You got it?” She waved her hands out frantically like I was a drug runner, delivering the goods.

  “Exact replica.” I cracked open the box so she could take a peek, and the aroma of bananas, coconut, pineapple, and pecans was enough to leave us both breathless.

  Mick had remembered the exact type of cake Posy had ordered with the automatic accuracy of a savant. “Hummingbird cake,” he had recalled. “Three tiers . . . garnished with dried pineapple flowers.”

  “Yes.”

  And ribboned charms. The words were traded, unspoken, between our gaze.

  “Rebekkah played it safe with just a sweet cream cheese frosting. But I would’ve used a pineapple almond butter cream cheese instead.”

  “Go for it now,” I’d told him. “Posy and Pat will love it.”

  It was an exact visual replica, down to the lone, paper-thin and fluttery pineapple flower on top . . . but I had no doubt it would taste even better than the original recipe, because Mick had made it. As a favor to me.

  “Thank you!” My sister threw a quick hug my way, careful not to upset the cake in my hands. “And you . . . you’re doing okay?” She peered over my shoulder at the sleek Porsche sitting at the curb. “Anybody you want to tell me about?”

  Anybody. Not anything. Fancy PhDs aside, my sister was a smart cookie.

  “He sends his regards.” I smiled, relinquishing my hold on the box. “And he hopes you enjoy his cake.”

  “A baker? And with a car like that? You didn’t
tell me you were dating Jacques Torres!” she called after me as I breezed out the lobby. “Wait, is that a ring on your finger?”

  Dani

  VERA CAUSA

  “Holy huge rock, Batman.” Laney breathed hard enough to fog the two-carat diamond in its prongs.

  “It’s not like I need a magnifying glass to find the one Noah laid on you,” I said, pulling my hand away and cramming it in my pocket. Today was all about Laney. I hated the thought of my drama with Nash Drama taking any of the spotlight—or the heat—off of her.

  I had recounted the last few months’ surreal circumstances as we walked arm in arm through our old neighborhood. To hell with Riggs’s confidentiality agreement. What had started out as a one-week charade had grown to biblical proportions, as Nash’s family and friends pushed us closer to the altar with every well-intentioned piece of advice. I needed to bend my best friend’s ear. She responded with typical Laney zaniness and zeal. “Out of all the scenarios I’ve imagined WWDD . . . this one takes the cake!” She threw her black nail-polished hand over her mouth to suppress her chuckle. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

  “All right, enough. You’ve got me for two hours. Where to, Superbride?”

  “Well . . . a dress of some sort is in order.” She shuddered with horror and happiness, if ever such a thing were possible. “And I’m sure as hell not going through this alone. Say you’ll play dress-up with me?”

  With Mick’s offer of cake tasting a constant temptation, and Sindy’s daily pressure of setting a date ASAP for the big day, the least I could do was attempt to be in the market for a dress. “All right, all right.”

  “Excellent! Now, pick up the pace . . . we’re gonna go see our fairy gothmother.”

  • • •

  Bree welcomed us with open arms. “My girls! You’re back! And what’s this?” She pounced, pulling our left hands toward her in some sort of sixth sense. “The both of you? Oh, honeys!” Her eyelashes, all fattened up with mascara, flashed up and down like dancing girls in a kick line. “Wait. Not to each other, right?”

  We both just laughed and shook our heads.

  “Okay, honeys. Just making sure! But I do have two matching gowns that would’ve been fabulous. Sweetheart necklines, chapel trains . . .”

  Laney snorted.

  “Keep in mind, Bree,” I said, thumbing at Laney. “You’re talking to the girl who played dress-up in her mother’s wedding dress and Converse high-top sneakers . . . at the age of thirty-one.”

  “And Rainbow Brite.” Laney was quick to remind her of my Afro-wig award. “Maybe you can bleach one of Dani’s old bridesmaid dresses and pass it off for bridal white. But for me? I’m talking black. Short. With a corset. And a fascinator for my head. No feathers. Noah is allergic.”

  Bree’s lashes quivered as she took a moment to let Laney’s demands sink in. “Okay. If I don’t have anything in stock, I’ll make some calls. What about you, Dani?” She turned to me, desperate for the voice of reason.

  “I want to try on the Vera.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She quickly changed the subject, grabbing my hand to inspect Nash’s ring. “That’s quite a rock! You got yourself a sugar lovah, sweetheart,” she said, with a conspiratorial wink.

  An image of Mick came to mind, back in the bakery with gum paste up to his elbows.

  “Will you look at her?” Bree crowed. “You’re blushing like a bride!”

  “And you’re changing the subject. Why can’t I try the Vera? You always say it’s a gorgeous specimen.”

  “Oh, it is. It is. But for someone else. Not for you.”

  How about for someone who needs to look like she’s planning the wedding of the century to marry into rock royalty? I needed an impressive dress in hand. I had Nash’s credit card and his blessing. And judging from the stack of bills lining Bree’s counter, I bet she could use the sale.

  “Look at it. It’s perfect. You said it’s never been worn, right?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Bree hedged. “The bride never wore it.”

  Laney’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to her?”

  “It’s more a case of what happened to the dress,” Bree replied, and bustled off to the front of the shop. Laney and I exchanged glances. A mystery. Color us intrigued.

  “What size is it?” I asked, stalking Bree from behind a rack of ready-to-wear. “I’ll bet it’s my size.”

  She sighed. “Its label says eight. But its street size is a six.”

  “Dani’s a six.” Laney butted right into the conversation, pushing between two hangers. “Except in the boobs.” I flicked the dresses back in place, shutting the gap on her.

  “It retailed for ten thousand dollars.”

  “And now it’s a bargain at five. What is the harm in letting me try it?”

  “Because,” Bree sighed, pulling a mermaid-style gown and a corseted black dress from the New Arrivals rack. “You are going to fall in love with it.”

  “And?”

  And I promise you, I won’t. The dress would be a prop, just like the ring. And the king bed that Nash and I shared at the Half Acre.

  “It’s cursed,” Bree announced. “There. I said it!”

  “What the whaaa?” Laney actually stepped through the gap in the rack of clothes. Bree made a beeline toward the dressing room, and we gave chase.

  “In you go. I want you to try these on. And then I will tell you the story. Lemme just go lock the shop door.”

  Laney and I exchanged another look. In the five years we’d known her, Bree was like the mailman. She didn’t close due to rain, sleet, snow or even when there was a gas leak in the building behind her. Her business was everything. Yet . . .

  “She must really mean business,” Laney whispered, and shoved the fishtail gown toward me. “I believe this one’s for you.”

  I shed my sundress, while Laney shucked her jeans, hoodie and tank top. “Here, zip me. Watch the hair.” I held my curls off my neck and she eased the zipper up.

  “Well?”

  I turned to her. The black was striking against her creamy skin and russet hair. It didn’t scream wedding, but it certainly screamed Laney.

  “Your mother is going to sit shivah for you if you wear that as your wedding dress.”

  “True.” She swished the skirt and pouted. “I guess it would probably violate our latest peace treaty. I can hear her now.” Screwing up her mouth, she did a dead-accurate impression of her mother’s heavy Long Island accent, “‘What kind of verkackte dress is that?’”

  I wanted to laugh, but the dress I’d tried on was so tight, I was afraid I’d break a rib if I tried.

  “How do I look?”

  “Like a mermaid porn star.”

  We both cracked up at my reflection. The dress was a shimmering beauty, but I was spilling out the top of it. “I wonder if Bree sells seashell pasties. I’d be all set.”

  There was a knock. “Are you ready?” Bree called.

  We opened the door, ready to hear the story of the cursed Vera. Not so ready to say yes to the dresses we had tried on.

  Bree stood there, with the Vera in her arms, shaking her head. “Silly girls. Those dresses were both for Laney. I would never size you that wrong.”

  “Oh, good. Because I think I punctured a lung in this thing.” Laney unzipped me and I hightailed it back into the room. Without a word, Bree hooked the Vera onto the back of my door and closed me in with it.

  “Laney. Into the room next to her.” I heard a door click shut. “Dani. Hand over the fishtail dress.” I did as I was told.

  “But I said black!” Laney protested.

  “I know.”

  “And short.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “So, do we get to hear the story of the Vera now?” I asked, tentatively touching its lacy edg
es. I stood in my red lace bra and panties, admiring it. The dress was a feat of technical engineering, its many drapes and layers so frothy and artfully arranged, it reminded me of a wedding cake. Which of course, reminded me of—

  “The curse!” Bree boomed, loud enough for us to hear her through the door. “It may be an urban legend, but a woman came into the shop, dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her English wasn’t very good, but she relayed she had been sent by the lady of the house. The lady’s daughter was all set to marry the man of her dreams. The haute couture dress, the Sylvia Weinstock cake, the fancy Park Avenue venue . . . every little detail was set. But the night before the wedding, the bride-to-be went out with her girlfriends.”

  “And she was never seen again?” Laney interjected.

  “Shush! No! Listen,” Bree hissed. “So after she left, the groom called a buddy or two to come hang out. You know. Guy stuff. Watch some football, play some poker, drink some beer. His bride-to-be specifically told him no bachelor party, no strippers.”

  “Sounds like your typical Bridezilla,” Laney groaned.

  “Well, his friends decided to surprise him. Body shots, lap dances, the whole nine yards. And when the bride-to-be arrived home that night, she found her husband passed out drunk. And the stripper . . .”

  “No!” Laney and I both cried out in unison.

  “Yes. The stripper was in the couture gown. Dancing and grinding on him, while the buddies cheered her on.”

  “Tell me she didn’t marry the asshat after that?” Laney said.

  “Oh no. She went ahead and she married him,” Bree replied breezily. “But the dress was ruined for her. She ran out and bought a new gown the next morning.”

  “Ugh, rich people,” Laney muttered. “What a waste.”

  I laughed. “Come on. Seriously? I call bullshit.”

  “Like I said, could be urban legend,” Bree said. “But for five years, that dress has hung in my shop, untouched.”

  “Um, maybe that’s because it’s the most expensive thing in your shop?” Laney ventured. “It should be in a bulletproof case for that price. Hell, the price tag itself should be locked behind glass!”