One Day Like This: A feel-good summer romance

by Laura Briggs

  Besides, it was too late. When the lease arrived, she hadn’t signed it. No renewal, no apartment. She and her remaining possessions had to move.

  Plenty of shop owners lived above their business, she knew. Ama’s family, for one. Then again, they had more than one paying customer in their restaurant nightly, something the little negative voice in Tessa’s head whispered that Wedding Belles might never have in its parlor.

  * * *

  With a sigh, Ama closed her latest baking cookbook at a recipe for a three-tier Black Forest gâteau which involved an expensive cream filling. None of these were quite right for Molly and Paolo. Expense, size, style—there were plenty of reasons why she didn’t feel these were options.

  “Ama, did you see it?” Her mother entered with a basket of flatbread for today’s lunch menu. She laid the morning mail on the table: a few bills and an Indian-American magazine that Ama hadn’t bothered to flip through today.

  “See what?” Ama asked.

  “The ad. Your papa is so proud of it. He worked hard,” said her mother.

  “What?” Ama reached for the journal and flipped it open—to the section she used to read in jest with her sisters, the matchmaking ads. “No, no,” she groaned.

  “What?” Jaidev was reading over her shoulder, along with Rasha, who was tugging her sari-style hostess dress into place with a few extra sari pins. “Hey, he went through with it after all,” he said, spotting their family’s contact information beneath an ad for a marriageable young woman from a Punjabi family.

  “How could he?” said Ama. “I thought I told him I wouldn’t meet any of these boys.”

  “Hush! Your father is proud of that ad,” scolded Pashma. “He put some of it on the profile on the web. The computer.”

  “The internet?” echoed Ama. “He put me on a matchmaking website?”

  “Oh, Ama, this is so exciting,” said Rasha, squealing a little.

  “No, it’s not, it’s unfair,” groaned Ama. “How could he create a matchmaker’s profile for me? How could he even begin to write something about me? Does he even know how to upload a photograph?”

  “At least he didn’t put ‘homely’ in the ad,” pointed out Jaidev, who was trying not to laugh.

  “Shut up. It’s not funny.” Ama snatched the journal away from him and tossed it back into the pile of mail.

  “Hey, it’s not so bad,” he said. “Come on. We’ve all been there, Ama.”

  “You could meet a really nice boy,” suggested Rasha. “Anything could happen, Ama. What if you meet the perfect guy?”

  “From an ad our father posted?” Ama asked hotly.

  “It’s only for a month.” Pashma opened a jar of lentil paste. “It’s cheap that way.”

  “Mom’s Rajasthani economy at work,” teased Jaidev, as he unloaded packages of meat into the fridge. “She’s probably hoping you get married before next month’s issue comes out, so Dad won’t buy another one.”

  “Not the ad—the profile,” said Pashma, as she reached for some grated carrots and dried tomatoes. “He only keeps it online for a month, unless it brings some nice boys to meet her.”

  “I don’t need an ad to help me find someone. Honestly,” said Ama.

  “It will be good for you,” Pashma insisted. “It will get you into a dress for a change. A real one, not one of those things made out of… of denim or jean or whatever they call it.”

  “I’m wearing a dress already,” protested Ama. “This is a perfectly nice dress. What’s wrong with it?” She spread her hands toward her skirt—the funky printed one with the New York skyline, matched with a lace t-shirt today.

  “It’s nice,” said Rasha hesitantly. “It’s just… you know… a little subdued.”

  Rasha’s own fashion choices tended to be bright and showy, even when she wasn’t in a hostess’s sari. Yesterday, she had worn a bright pink blouse with blue and purple flowers printed on it, with sequined denim jeans that didn’t have their mother’s approval, even with the pink and red flowers bedecking its pockets.

  “I like it. I think it’s nice,” said Ama defensively.

  “If you could just wear something a little nicer when you meet a boy,” began her mother. “Away from those aprons and all those sugar icings you play with.”

  “Enough. I don’t want help with my fashion choices, and I don’t want help finding a husband,” said Ama. “Let me make my own decisions, please.” She gathered up her books and dropped them into an oversized tote bag printed with a sequined Taj Mahal—a gift from Rasha for her last birthday.

  Her family exchanged glances—her brother’s was one of sympathetic amusement; her mother and sister’s looks conveyed their disappointment and exasperation. Ama pretended to ignore them as she shouldered her bag.

  “You’re not leaving now, are you?” said Rasha.

  “Hey, what about the bread pudding?” asked Jaidev. “You haven’t made the milk sauce yet.”

  “There’s some in the fridge, and I sliced the almonds already,” said Ama. “I said I was going out for a while to run some errands. I’ll be back before the lunch crowd.”

  She went for a walk, trying not to think about the strict Indian fathers reading her profile as a prospective bride for their sons—or the girls like herself who would make fun of her father’s old-fashioned wording for his magazine ad, which did stop short of the euphemism “homely,” at least—a word used in Indian culture to imply that she was good housewife material. Jaidev was right about that bit of luck.

  She brushed aside a trace of almond powder from her sleeve, and tried to think about the perfect cake for Bianca’s family’s wedding instead. If this were an Indian wedding, it would be easier—either it would be an American cake dressed up with a sari theme, or it would be finger sweets, traditional Indian desserts. Punjabis love their sweets, and her sister’s wedding buffet had been loaded with sweet and sticky gulab jamun like Ama made for the restaurant weekly, and other mithai decorated with gilded leaves.

  The window display in Icing Italia had changed to feature traditional cookies, bones of the dead and biscotti; beautifully white iced cuoricini cookies which looked as spicy as gingerbread. There were macaroons, and even a Sicilian cake frosted with chocolate and garnished with almonds, also a favorite ingredient in Indian desserts. A Sicilian puppet was displayed in the window, too, one with a crackly, painted face and the shiny aluminum armor of a miniature knight.

  She pushed open the door and entered. An older woman behind the counter was placing several cannoli into a bakery box for a waiting customer. Ama saw Natalie at the other end of the counter, sliding a tray of chocolate-frosted cupcakes into the display cabinet. Her business partner waved at her.

  “Hi,” said Natalie. “Are you here for some fine Italian cookies? Ma’s very proud of that window display.”

  “Go on, will you?” said the woman behind the counter—a tall, fine-boned woman with dark hair, who had flour stains on her apron. “So I put a little extra effort into it. It pulls the customers in, what can I say?”

  “Ma, this is Ama. She works with me at the new event planning firm we’re starting. She’s from the restaurant down the street, the Indian one. She’s a pretty great baker,” said Natalie.

  “I’ve seen that place. The one with the big tiger on the sign, isn’t it?” said Natalie’s mother. “I’m Maria, by the way—that’s my son Roberto, and that’s Guido in the kitchen.” She pointed toward the half-open door, where a thin, deeply tanned man was visible kneading dough at an old table. “Somewhere around here is Louisa, who worries about whether our baked goods are Italian enough for the customers.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Ama. “I was out for a walk, looking for inspiration, and thought maybe something sweet would help me figure it out.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” said Maria. “Natalie, give your friend something from our best, all right? On the house.” She turned to the next customer, who was asking for some macaroons lightly glazed with c
hocolate.

  “What do you like?” asked Natalie. “Chocolate? Pastry? Sweet mascarpone?”

  “I get enough sweet milk in Indian desserts,” said Ama, smiling. “That’s the preferred flavor for them—sweet milk, sugar syrups, and nuts. Lots of rice and wheat puddings.”

  “If you want something totally different, then try these.” Natalie popped a rich slice of cake into a box. “This is Italian wedding cake. It’s layered with fruit and nuts—it’s so rich that it used to be confined only to holidays, before Italians started serving it for special occasions too.”

  Ama nibbled a broken edge from it. “Wow,” she said. “That’s really good.”

  “I know. My mom makes this every Christmas. I love it,” Natalie said. “Maybe it’ll help. I mean, it was a pretty popular wedding cake in its time. And Paolo has Italian roots.”

  “Too bad we can’t talk Bianca into this,” said Ama, taking another bite. “I could make this. Maybe with lots of berries and two kinds of nuts layered together. And a really light frosting.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite elaborate enough for Bianca’s tastes,” agreed Natalie wryly. “Unless we put some big marzipan doves on it.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Ama. “I just wish I could find something that would make all of them happy. I tried three different designs, and none of them feels right. None of them fitted the wedding’s budget, either. Of course, it would help if we had an actual figure to work with.”

  “I think the figure Tess is recommending is simply ‘cheap,’” said Natalie. “But good.” She raised one eyebrow. “I still haven’t figured out how that’s going to help us in the dress department.”

  “Ninety-nine dollar sales,” said Ama. “That’s how a friend of mine got an affordable dress. Of course, in my family, you’re supposed to be married in something a little different.” She thought of her sister-in-law’s pink and red sari with its gilded embroidery, from the last family wedding.

  She was still sampling the cake as she walked out of the bakery; pausing for a moment she noticed a thin cake on a stand in the window with a doily pattern on it, made with powdered sugar. A rococo-style cake, she knew from an Italian cookbook. The elaborate stencil design had been traditional at Sardinian weddings, where the names of the bride and groom would form part of the decoration.

  It was a beautiful design. Just like a doily of the finest lace was covering the top of the spice cake.

  * * *

  “I think I’ve found an answer,” Ama said.

  All three of them were in the new kitchen—which wasn’t painted yet, although the secondhand fridge and stove were in place, and Blake was installing the stainless steel counters and backsplashes as they spoke.

  She turned around the sketch she had made to face Natalie and Tessa. “When Natalie talked about Italian wedding cakes, and I saw the one in the window, something clicked. I thought, why not use those techniques to make something special. So here it is.”

  Three tiers of sponge, two vanilla and the middle one chocolate, each sliced in half and layered together again with a rich cream flavored with dried berries. There was ivory frosting over the top of each layer, with a fanciful lace pattern stenciled in cocoa powder and gold dust over the surface.

  Gold cake pillars separated each sponge tier, and instead of a miniature bride and groom, a few gilded nuts and white-coated raspberries were arranged amongst edible gilded leaves on the top.

  “It’s still a little rough,” admitted Ama, showing them a sketch of an individual slice on a plate, revealing the rich pink and violet streaked cream filling between two layers of chocolate sponge. “But I think it’s a start.”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” said Natalie. “It’s so different. It looks delicate and refined.”

  “I could do a lace frosting pattern over the sides using a fine-tipped point,” said Ama. “I’m thinking we’d leave the sides partially bare—the ‘naked cake’ look would really accentuate the topmost frosting and the stenciled lace.”

  “It looks like something Bianca would admire,” said Tessa. “How can she not love it? It’s way better than the two big marzipan doves on top of a white cake.”

  “I imagine it with beautifully stenciled spice cookies to match,” said Ama. “Maybe some other traditional Italian desserts, and something Irish to round out the sweet finger foods. I think I can find a way to create an Irish tiramisu, sort of—a whiskey-laced vanilla coffee soaking the sponge; a mint cream for the layering. Maybe something with the Celtic love knot motif for some filled cakes or petits fours… cut into bite-size squares.” She closed her notebook.

  “Can we do it cheaply enough?” asked Natalie.

  “If it’s me and your family making everything, sure,” said Ama. “We can swap the frosting for fondant, even—there’s this great cheat recipe that’s easy, delicious, and affordable. The cakes are simple to bake. All the flavor comes from the dried berries and the sweet cream.”

  “My mouth is watering,” said Natalie. “I’m sold.” She glanced expectantly at Tessa.

  “So am I,” said Tessa. “So let’s show it to Molly and see if she likes the idea. And get Bianca to love it, if we can.”

  Ama studied her list of ideas. “I know we’ll probably need a few more options,” she said. “This is finger food desserts only, with no dinner—I know Bianca will worry if there’s not a tableful of choices for their guests.”

  “You sound Italian,” said Natalie with a grin. “A full buffet for the wedding.”

  “There’s always something light, like macaroons,” pointed out Tessa. “They look pretty on wedding dessert tables.”

  “Irish macaroons,” suggested Blake, as his measuring tape snapped closed.

  All eyes were on him. He gave a shrug.

  “You know,” he said. “Because of Molly’s heritage. They could be mint. Or berry flavored. With some Irish cream in the middle.” He went back to his work as the three of them stared at him a moment longer.

  “That’s not bad,” ventured Tessa. She looked at Ama.

  “No,” echoed Ama. “I like it, actually.” She wrote it on the list—Irish macaroons—deciding not to add a question mark to its end. “I’ll go put together a portfolio to show Molly and Bianca,” continued Ama, gathering up her sketches. “At least we have one option to show her, finally.”

  Blake had almost finished installing the first countertop as Tessa rose, the last one to leave the table. She paused. “Thanks for the menu suggestion,” she said. “It was a good idea.”

  “You don’t have to say that,” he answered. He shrugged his shoulders. “It was just an idea off the top of my head. I think a real wedding planner could do better.”

  “No, I like it,” insisted Tessa. “I just didn’t realize you were paying that much attention to the details. Or that you knew anything about desserts.”

  “Maybe I’ve done more in the kitchen than just rewire appliances and install countertops,” he added, as he placed a level on the counter’s surface. “Maybe I’ve read a cookbook or two in my time. Ever think of that?” He glanced at her. She couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. Not that it mattered, because she got the point—that he was trying to help them out in whatever way he could.

  “That’s how I got started in this business,” she answered. “Not a cookbook, but an open magazine. Some perfect party… I don’t remember what it was or where it was… just that I looked at the picture and thought, ‘I want to make that real.’ You know, make it happen in real life, a beautiful party full of lights and food and fun.”

  Blake didn’t say anything in reply, but she could tell he was still listening. He picked up a screwdriver from his toolbox but didn’t use it for anything, merely held it in his hand as she talked.

  “When I grew up, I couldn’t shake the idea. That picture in my head—it stayed with me all that time. I pursued different, sensible ideas for a while in college, but all roads I followed just led back to wedding receptions and enga
gement parties and all kinds of celebrations.”

  The dream had never vanished. Unlike the secret dreams of a personal happily ever after from Tessa’s past, the desire to make people’s special moments as memorable as possible had blazed brightly through every obstacle—even through the tiny eyeholes of the stinky T-Rex mask at Party 2 Go.

  She lifted her planner’s notebook and tucked it under her arm. “Did you want to be a— a handyman when you were a kid?” She knew the correct term was probably “master carpenter” or “building contractor,” because he did more than fix leaks and rewire appliances. There was an art to what he did for the buildings he worked on, judging by his portfolio. The rest of the proof was in his words and passion for it.

  “Let’s see.” Blake tossed the screwdriver aside, reaching for his carpenter’s pencil. “I wanted to be an inventor when I was young. In fact, I built a time machine in my family’s garage when I was eight.” A brief, quick smile came and went. “A cardboard box and some old pipes, it seems. It was powered by materials from our recycling bins.”

  “Sounds sophisticated,” Tessa answered. “Just where did you travel in your device?”

  “Everywhere,” said Blake. “Colonial times, the Civil War, the Wild West. I liked history better than most classes, so I had lots of inspiration. Outer space… future cities. In a way, my childhood fantasies ended up coming in handy in my real future, by the time I grew up.” The screwdriver pried aside a small blemish in the plaster, letting the steel panel fit tightly against the wall. “All that history paid off, anyway.”

  “For the houses you work on,” Tessa guessed. “You need it for restoring their past, right? That’s why your truck is so full of… stuff. Nice stuff,” she added, in case he mistook her tone for labeling all the antique corbels and iron railings as junk.