How to Eat a Cupcake

by Meg Donohue

  My mother looked at me and blinked. “Well, they were together, of course. Lucia and Curtis. They were—let’s see—I suppose you would say they were dating.”

  As my mother spoke, a long-forgotten memory flashed through my mind. I must have been ten or eleven years old at the time. I was walking down the hall to the kitchen when I spotted Lucia and Curtis standing close together in the little room off the hall where the staff ate their meals and stashed their coats and bags for the day. I remember feeling there was something vaguely off-kilter about what I was seeing, the slant of their bodies toward each other was both unfamiliar and unsettling. Curtis looked over then, suddenly, and without changing the look on his face at all, without saying anything, abruptly closed the door. I remember thinking that he must not have seen me there—the hall was dark—and that, anyway, there was probably nothing strange at all about what I had seen. This was simply the other side of the lives of the people that worked for us. Even my beloved Lucia had a whole other life that didn’t involve me. That sounds like it was a weighty moment for me—some pivotal awakening. The end of ignorance. It was not. I simply kept walking down the hall and forgot the whole thing had ever happened. Until now.

  “I can’t say I ever understood exactly what Lucia saw in him,” my mother continued. “But she saw something and I decided that was enough for me. I certainly didn’t want to let Curtis go and risk losing Lucia—and little Annie!—to boot. That was out of the question.”

  “But Mom,” I said, “we lost Lucia and Annie years ago. Why have you kept Curtis around all this time if you don’t really trust him?”

  My mother’s eyes softened. When she spoke, her voice, too, had softened. “Well, because Lucia loved him. And I missed her. She was a dear, dear friend. She took care of all of us really, not just you and Annie. With Curtis still around, I could imagine Lucia was still here, too. I suppose it made me feel that I remained close to her, even in her death. I couldn’t lose all of you in one fell swoop.”

  I thought of my mother clicking briskly around our huge house in the year after Annie and I had left for college and Lucia had died. It had never occurred to me that she might feel unsettled by the house’s yawning quiet in the same way I sometimes did. I always pictured my mother hurrying toward something, always busy, always efficient, never allowing herself to linger too long over unproductive feelings like loneliness or sadness.

  As though reading my thoughts, my mother sat up a little straighter on the bed and toyed with the thin gold band of her watch. “The whole thing is really very silly. In fact, I remember having the distinct sense that things between Lucia and Curtis had cooled a bit that fall before she died. So, there you have it. The truth revealed: I’m a sentimental fool and I can’t bear to let him go.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “No, no. Really, the fool is your father. He is very attached to Curtis, you know. I’m sure if he caught Curtis trying to steal the shirt off his back he would just throw open his closet to give Curtis a few more options.”

  My mouth fell. “So you really do think it’s been Curtis all this time! Why haven’t you said anything? Why hasn’t anyone confronted him?”

  “Oh really, Julia darling, what’s the point?” my mother asked airily. She stood from the bed and busied herself with an examination of her forehead in the mirror over her nightstand, her long, arched brows raised high, undoubtedly checking to see if this unpleasant conversation had noticeably aged her in any way. “We have the money to spare. If he needs it that badly, let him have it. He’s practically a member of the family at this point.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. “If he’s stealing from us,” I said, “I don’t think he feels the same.”

  The corners of her mouth quivered. She looked at me for a long beat of time in the mirror before turning around to face me. “Julia darling,” she said, not bothering to mask the sorrow in her voice, “I’m afraid you’re probably right.”

  That night, after we’d locked up the shop and I’d dropped Annie off at her apartment, I pulled a sheet of paper from my bag and studied it below the light of my car. It was a list of the contact information for each of our family employees; I’d printed it out in my father’s office that morning after the conversation with my mother. My finger moved slowly down the page until I reached Curtis’s name. I knew he lived down in Daly City, but I’d never been to his house before. I don’t think any of us had.

  It was ten p.m.—late to show up unannounced. But I knew my parents were staying in that night and didn’t need Curtis to drive them anywhere, so he’d likely be at home by then. I don’t know what I wanted from him exactly. But I knew I didn’t want to embarrass him or make the situation any more awkward by confronting him in our house. I wanted him to be honest with me. I guess, really, I just wanted some control. I wanted things back to normal, back to the way they were supposed to be. My body had betrayed me, but there was nothing I could do about that. This, though, I could do something about. I wanted to feel safe again. If I’d learned anything from my newly strengthened relationships with Wes and Annie, it was that I needed to be brave, to take risks, and to be honest. I plugged Curtis’s address into my car’s GPS and pulled out onto the street.

  Chapter 27

  Annie

  I can’t say exactly why I returned to Treat that night after Julia dropped me off at home. I wish I could hang the impulse on the hook of intuition, but I think it was something more along the lines of run-of-the-mill insomnia that drove me down to the bakery at eleven o’clock at night. Julia had tasked me with developing a new cupcake for her wedding and I’d found myself stumped by the challenge. I wanted to create a cupcake that reflected Julia herself in some way—beautiful and immaculate on the outside, with a flavor profile that was elegant and brave and laced with surprising, but delicate sweetness. I’d been playing with the idea of a classic lemon cake with a hidden heart of wild berry custard, topped with sweet vanilla buttercream, but so far I hadn’t been able to get all of the flavors quite right. I could have continued working on the recipe at home, but something—I really can’t say what—prompted me to pull on my jacket and walk the long blocks back to Treat.

  When I stepped through the cupcakery’s door, I sensed immediately that something was wrong. The air, usually warm and sweet, smelled acrid and thin. Distracted, I must have forgotten to turn the deadbolt on the door. I flicked on the light and scanned the shop. Nothing seemed astray: the register gleamed beneath the chandelier and the glass display counter bore a few streaks from the wipe-down Devi had given it earlier that evening.

  Then I saw it: a thin, steady plume of dark smoke rising up from the crack below the kitchen door.

  Now, I know what I should have done at that point. I should have turned right around, walked out onto the sidewalk, and called 911. But the smoke was coming from my kitchen. The kitchen that had become my second home. The kitchen that was the very heart of the little shop Julia and I had turned into a successful business. Without giving myself a second to think too deeply about what I was doing, I grabbed a burgundy dish towel from a shelf behind the counter, held it to my mouth, and nudged open the swinging door to the kitchen with my foot.

  The smoke in the kitchen was still diaphanous at that point, a dark haze moving through the air in a manner that in any other circumstances I might have described as beautiful. I stepped inside and felt a suffocating blanket of heat drape over me. Across the room, a wide crest of fire lapped at the back wall, eating its way up toward the ceiling faster than I could ever have imagined, coughing out black clouds with each leap upward.

  Peering through the thickening smoke, I made out what appeared to be a pile of recipe folders engulfed in flame on top of one of the ranges. How the hell did they get there? I reached for the fire extinguisher that usually hung beside the refrigerator and saw that it was gone. My heart began to beat even more furiously in my chest, my mind racing indignantly. I remembered seeing the fire ext
inguisher there earlier that day—someone must have purposely removed it. Who would do this?

  Enraged, I lowered the dish towel from my face and began to whack it against the flames. I’m not sure how long I stood there, smacking that towel against the wall, determined to stop that fire from devouring my kitchen. Time seemed to slow and then quicken at the same pace as my ever-shifting thoughts. A searing heat pulsed against my face as the fire grew until, exhausted and defeated, I turned back toward the door to the shop and saw that the path had been swallowed up by smoke. My eyes were stinging by then, leaking hot tears that further blinded me. I stumbled toward where I thought the door should be and slammed my foot into the stand mixer. Foot throbbing, I fell to the floor. A strange, itching, tightening sensation clamped down on my throat. Suddenly, I couldn’t stop coughing.

  And then I felt the hot floor beneath my cheek, and then nothing at all.

  I awoke to find myself lying on a stretcher in an ambulance, a darkly bearded EMT hovering above me.

  “You’re going to be okay,” the EMT said loudly. He smiled a rueful smile at me—was he disappointed I wasn’t in worse shape?—revealing a row of small, coffee-stained teeth.

  “Okay,” I croaked. My voice was foreign-sounding and muffled by what I discovered was an oxygen mask over my mouth. My head throbbed and my throat and eyes burned, but a quick test of my limbs reassured me that he was right. I was okay.

  A dry crescendo of a cough rose from a corner of the car. I lifted my head to peer around the EMT—the movement required a surprising amount of effort—and there, hunched on a seat near the foot of my stretcher, wearing his usual hooded sweatshirt but now an oxygen mask over his face, too, was Our Guy. The Mystery Man. The Stalker. I pressed my head back down against the stretcher, panic and confusion colliding painfully in my already pounding head. My mind raced. I motioned for the EMT to bend down closer to me and pulled the mask from my face.

  “That man,” I whispered hoarsely. “What is he doing here?”

  The EMT glanced over his shoulder and then looked back at me, his dark eyebrows knotted close together. “He pulled you out,” he said slowly, enunciating each word as though clear diction might help me understand. “He got you out of the fire.”

  I closed my aching eyes, but, annoyingly, this motion sent hot tears down my cheeks. The man released another torrential cough behind the EMT. I pulled the mask aside to speak again, but the EMT moved it back over my face. His face was blurred now by my involuntary tears.

  “Keep the mask on,” he ordered. “Don’t try to talk.”

  I shook my head, the motion sending another crackling peal of pain through me, and yanked the mask aside. “No,” I choked. “No! You don’t understand. That’s him! That’s the guy who set the fire!”

  The EMT looked back at the man and then at me again, concern spreading over his face. “She’s confused,” he murmured, and hearing myself spoken about in the third person only served to confuse me more. His eyes did a quick scan of a machine that I realized was connected to me via a cord clipped to the end my finger. Apparently satisfied by whatever he saw on the screen, the EMT turned his attention back to me, lowering his face close to mine. For a moment, it almost seemed like he was planning to whisper something in my ear, but then he stopped inches from my face. His eyes were strange—slightly yellow and catlike—and he looked tired.

  “That man saved you,” he said again, settling the oxygen mask back on my face. “That man,” he said, “is your father.”

  Chapter 28

  Julia

  Curtis’s house was dark when I pulled up. It was a small, detached bungalow with some straggly bushes dotting a mostly paved front yard, stucco walls, and a stark white door that seemed to glow in the inky night. So this is where Curtis lives, I thought, a little ashamed to realize I’d never wondered what his home looked like in all the years I’d known him. I parked in the street, crossed the yard, and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, I returned to my car and sat in the front seat, my hands on the wheel. I decided to wait there, figuring he’d most likely be home soon. Somewhere nearby a dog barked sharply, and my hand immediately shot out to lock the car doors. I sank down into the seat and took a few deep breaths.

  At some point, despite my unease in the unfamiliar neighborhood, I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes, I was blinded by Curtis’s car lights swinging across my face as he pulled into the driveway. I sat up, a sharp crick in my neck adding to my flustered, disoriented haze, and glanced at the clock. Midnight? Was it really possible that I’d been asleep for more than an hour? The sound of Curtis’s car door shutting was jarring in the still night air. He ambled up to his front door, hands pressed deep in his pockets. Oddly, despite the late hour and my reasons for being there, I felt relieved to see him.

  “Curtis!” I called, stepping out of my car. I rubbed at my sore neck with one hand and walked toward him.

  He turned, his sunken eyes squinting in my direction. His face fell into a frown as I approached.

  “Julia,” he said slowly. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to speak with you about something,” I said.

  Curtis glanced beyond my shoulder into the street, and then back at me. “Little late for a chat, isn’t it?” he asked. He seemed different here, out of the context of my house and the city I knew. His broad face was shadowed, deep wrinkles cutting into his forehead. It occurred to me that he might have been drinking, and the relief I’d felt at seeing him moments earlier evaporated. What am I doing here? I wondered. Then I straightened my shoulders, determined to chase the worry from my thoughts. I’m taking charge, I told myself. I’m getting my life back.

  “Please,” I said. “Can I come in?” Despite the little pep talk I’d given myself, my voice sounded small.

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure Curtis was going to answer. Finally, he nodded and turned back toward the front door. I followed him inside the house, down a short, dark hallway, and into the living room. Curtis flicked on the light. The room was cold and sparsely furnished with little more than a small brown sofa and a television on a stand in the corner. It felt like the home of someone who lived a very solitary life. How strange it must have been for him to have spent nearly every day in our spacious, professionally decorated Pacific Heights house, only to come back each night to those tight, sterile quarters. We live in two very different worlds.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “I’m getting a beer. Do you want anything?”

  “No, thanks,” I stammered. I perched on the edge of the couch, rubbing my hands on my legs to warm them. “I’m fine.” I’d known Curtis my entire life—why did I suddenly feel like I was talking to a stranger? I swallowed, realizing my mouth was dry. “Maybe some water,” I called after him as he crossed through an arched doorway into the kitchen.

  Alone in the room, I looked around. It was only then that I noticed several cardboard boxes beside the couch, including an open one filled nearly to the brim with miscellaneous household things. Was Curtis one of those people that lived out of boxes, never bothering to unpack? He didn’t strike me as the type. In our house, he always dressed neatly, if humbly, in tan slacks and neutral-colored sweaters. He filled every request the household threw at him quickly and with an air of silent efficiency. Did you need someone to pick up a visiting friend from the airport in two weeks? You only had to ask Curtis once. Did you request a ride to the gala and then realize you forgot the address? Curtis seemed to always know exactly where you were going and when you wanted to be there, turning through the city streets with quiet confidence, never relying on GPS.

  And yet, looking around, it did appear that most of his possessions were crammed into boxes. Glancing behind the sofa, I saw another open container packed full of things wrapped in newspaper. A small black box near the top of the heap drew my eye. My stomach flipped. Before I could stop myself, I was turning and kneeling on the couch. I
grabbed the small box, opened it, and found myself staring at my father’s Cartier watch.

  The sound of Curtis setting a glass of water down on the coffee table made me jump. Spinning around, I looked up at him, my heart racing, the watch still in my hand. Curtis was very close. I’d never realized how big he was, never before thought of him in a remotely menacing light. The air reeked of an acrid smell I could not place.

  “This is my father’s watch,” I said quietly.

  To my relief, he turned and walked back across the room. Folding his large frame into a metal chair by the entry to the kitchen, he took a long swig of his beer, then said, “Yes.” He voice was flat and I had trouble reading it. Was he apologetic? Did he feel ashamed? Embarrassed? Defiant? I couldn’t tell. “He gave it to me.”

  I looked at him. What would Annie do in this situation? I wondered. What would Lucia have done? “No, Curtis,” I said, drawing myself taller. “He thought he lost it.”

  He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does!”

  Curtis took another long slug of his beer.

  “It’s been you this whole time, hasn’t it?” I asked. “You’ve been taking my father’s things.”

  He shrugged again. “Did he miss them? Did not having those fancy things change his life in any way?” I realized I’d been holding out hope that he’d deny everything, or that he’d at least have some plausible explanation for his actions, and my heart now dropped. “Who cares, really?” His lips curled around these words, his face setting into a sneer I’d never seen from him before. I felt as though I’d been slapped.

  “I care, Curtis! We all care. We all trusted you. My father has known you for nearly half his life! He considers you one of his best friends.”

  “No!” Curtis slammed the side of his fist into his muscular thigh. My cheeks burned and I found myself wishing the unaffected Curtis of a moment earlier would return. “Was he my friend when he told me he wouldn’t loan me money fifteen years ago? When I’d gotten myself into a tiny bit of trouble and was about to lose my house? No!” A burst of spittle flew from his mouth. “You know what he gave me? More hours. He wanted me to earn that money. And he’s the boss, isn’t he?”