How to Eat a Cupcake

by Meg Donohue

  “No,” I said, gravely. “I’m afraid I haven’t. And, geez, time is really running out!” I stood up and leaned awkwardly against the nightstand.

  “Ha-ha. Okay, listen.” Julia suddenly began wringing her hands—an uncharacteristic gesture that made me straighten up a bit. “As you know, lately I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching . . .” She paused, wincing at the expression. “ . . . and I just can’t seem to shake some of the second thoughts I’m having.”

  I’d been dreading this moment. I looked around the room, wishing that by sheer desire alone I could summon another, better, more practiced bridesmaid for Julia. But alas, I constituted her entire wedding party. “Oh, Julia,” I sighed. “You know I don’t know the first thing about marriage, or relationships, or, you know, normal, earnest human interaction, but I feel like I’ve heard that it’s totally common to have cold feet right before the wedding. The important thing is to remember that you really do love Wes. Focus on that.”

  Abruptly, Julia laughed, her expertly made-up face breaking into an affectionate, cockeyed grin. “You are absolutely bizarre,” she said, shaking her head. “Of course I love Wes. We’re about to get married, you moron. I’m talking about Treat.”

  I breathed. “Oh! You are? Thank God.” I blinked. “Wait, what? Why? You’re about to get married!”

  In the months after the fire, we’d rebuilt the cupcakery as quickly as we could—Julia’s old affirmation that lots and lots of money really could make people, even contractors, move more quickly, proved irritatingly accurate yet again—and reopened within two months. In the meantime, we’d filled catering orders out of the St. Clairs’ kitchen and managed to maintain, maybe even grow, the positive buzz for the cupcakery right up through our grand reopening party. It had felt indescribably right to step back into Treat’s kitchen again in April, to hear Julia out front in the shop, charming customers with her old flair, and to listen as the register rang up order after order, the air filling all the while with the sweet smell of cupcakes, the dank, bitter smell of smoke and water damage a quickly fading memory. That first day back at the shop was when I decided that all of the drama of that year had been worth it; stepping through Treat’s door with Julia by my side felt like coming home, and there was no better feeling in the world.

  Now, Julia rolled her eyes. “Getting married doesn’t mean the rest of the world stops, does it?” I eyed her, not sure if this was a trick question. “Treat’s business has been booming since we reopened,” she continued. “We’ve been written up in a slew of papers and there’s that article about innovative cupcakes coming out in Food & Wine next week—plus the mention that’s going to appear in our wedding announcement in the Times ‘Vows’ section tomorrow. I’d say things are right on track, wouldn’t you?”

  I nodded. I had no idea where she was going with all of this, or what “track” she had in mind for Treat, but I knew Julia well enough to know she was working herself up to something big.

  She put her hands on her hips and grinned. “In other words, I think the timing is perfect to consider expanding Treat to other cities! Los Angeles, New York—can’t you just see a Treat shop nestled into one of those darling little streets in Nolita? The neighborhood is practically begging for a cupcakery!”

  I didn’t have the slightest clue as to where Nolita was, but I decided to brush over that and get right to the point. “But Julia,” I said quietly, “you’re leaving. You’ve always said you just wanted to help get Treat off the ground, get married, and then go on your merry way. Which is totally fine—I get it. Running a cupcake shop wasn’t how you envisioned your career when you were networking your way through business school. But I can’t handle expanding the shop by myself. It’s hard enough to run one kitchen, let alone multiple ones spread across the country. And besides, I’m happy being a one-shop gal. I don’t need to run a cupcake empire.”

  Julia fiddled with the zipper on her white sweatshirt, pulling it up and down. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said. “What if I do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I wanted to stay on,” she said. “If I wanted to stay your partner—would you have me?”

  I breathed out, a swell of relief rising steadily inside of me as I understood what she asking. “Of course!” I said quickly. I hadn’t even realized until that exact moment just how much I’d been dreading the idea of running Treat on my own, how much I’d sensed I would miss Julia when she left. “It’s our business. We built it together. We’re building it together.”

  Julia shook her head. “No, it’s your business,” she said adamantly. “That’s the agreement we made at the beginning. As of today, Treat is yours.” Julia played with her zipper again, seemingly searching for words. “Listen, I know how you felt when you agreed to this whole thing. You wanted to own your own business and my involvement was a means to an end.” I tried to interrupt, but she held her hand out and smiled. “It’s okay! It’s okay. I know you don’t feel the same way about me now as you did a year ago. But I would understand if you wanted to uphold that contract. Really, I would. I know how it is to have a dream. And you’re right—the cupcakery was never mine. I was just borrowing it when I really needed something positive to dream about. At least, that’s what I was doing at the beginning. Everything is different now, but I would never want you to feel like I was forcing something on you. I want you to know this is entirely—legally, even—your decision to make.”

  I laughed. “Oh, Julia, come on. Legally? I think we’ve been through enough in the last year to not resort to invoking the law here. Treat is ours. Even if I wanted to, I would never be able to think of it in any other way. And honestly, it would be a huge relief to me if you remained my partner. You know I’d take balancing flavor profiles over balancing checkbooks any day. Besides,” I said, shrugging, “it turns out we make a good team.”

  Tears sprang to Julia’s eyes. “We do, don’t we?”

  “Oh no. None of that!” I ordered. “The makeup artist already left and if I’m required to do touch-ups you’re going to walk down the aisle looking like a cross between Tammy Faye Bakker and Lady Gaga.”

  Julia grimaced and waved her hands at the corners of her eyes, drying her tears. “I just wish,” she sighed, “that your mom was here today.”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Me, too.”

  The knowledge that my mom’s death had been caused—accidentally or not—by Curtis still pierced me as sharply as it had the day I’d read her final journal entry. She’d written, her cursive growing long and shaky, that she’d confronted Curtis about his stealing and he’d shoved her against a wall. My head, she wrote, still throbs. Those words were written three days before she collapsed in the St. Clairs’ kitchen. I wasn’t sure if the acute pain of that knowledge would ever lessen for me, nor was I sure if I would ever want it to. The fact that Curtis was now in jail—and would be for a long time—didn’t help me feel any more at peace with what had happened. It confused me that a part of me still mourned the loss of the Curtis I had known and loved for my entire life. On the other hand, I burned with rage over what he had done to my mother and felt immeasurably relieved that he was out of all of our lives for good. As much as I wanted to come to terms with everything that had happened, I understood that for the pain to truly lessen I would have to let go of my mom in some way, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for that. I wanted to feel her with me every time I baked. I wanted to think about how proud she would have been of Julia and me and our bustling little business. I wanted to read the recipes in her book and hear her voice reciting them to me, as clear as if she were standing beside me. Still, I knew my mom would not have wanted Julia to dwell on the past on her wedding day.

  “But at least we’re not alone,” I said brightly. “Your mom is here. And your dad.”

  “And your dad,” Julia said, smiling.

  “Yes,” I said. “How crazy is that?”


  After the fire, Miguel had returned to Ecuador to see his children, but had flown back to San Francisco a couple of weeks before Julia’s wedding so we could spend some time getting to know each other. He was helping me with my Spanish, and as I improved in the language, I realized that underneath his shy exterior and halting voice, he had a wicked sense of humor and a loud, crackling laugh. Julia had pressed him to extend his visit long enough to be a guest at her wedding, and to my surprise he’d accepted. I’d caught a glimpse of him through the window earlier as he’d stepped off the bus the St. Clairs had chartered from San Francisco. It was hard to believe that this man who looked so dapper in a gray suit, his hair slicked back against his head, had once terrified Julia and me on dark nights in the Mission. There’s my father, I thought when I saw him. Even thinking the word still felt like a trial run—the title didn’t yet quite hold. But I was getting there. He was trying to convince me to visit him in Ecuador later in the summer to meet the rest of my family. Strange how things turn out. I wasn’t ready to meet everyone, and of course Treat was just getting back off the ground, but maybe, I’d said. Maybe in the fall.

  “And Ogden,” Julia said. “He’ll be here, too. Have you seen him yet?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’s out there. He’s always early.” I rolled my eyes. “Farmers.”

  Julia eyed me appraisingly, looking disconcertingly like her mother for a moment. “He’s going to say you look beautiful.”

  I shrugged. “I think he likes me best in an apron.”

  Now it was Julia’s turn to roll her eyes. “Farmers.”

  There was a light rap on the door and then Lolly herself was peeking her head into the room. “Julia St. Clair!” she rasped. “Why on earth aren’t you dressed? The guests are already seated!”

  “Well, they’re not going to start without her, are they?” I said, striding over to take Julia’s gown off its hanger.

  “They might,” Lolly warned. She clicked the door shut behind her. “This will not be one of those weddings that starts twenty minutes late. I’ve already informed the wedding coordinator in no uncertain terms that we will be sticking to a strict schedule. ‘St. Clairs are schedulers!’ I told her just this morning. We are! Aren’t we?” She was, I realized, looking at both of us when she asked this.

  Julia and I glanced at each other, communicating a thousand things in one arched brow, one hint of a smile, and then burst into a fit of laughter.

  Chapter 32

  Julia

  I took a deep breath as Annie and my mother helped me into my wedding gown and shoes. This was the very moment I’d been so anxious about all year, but now that it was here I felt exactly how I’d always wanted to feel on my wedding day: calm and confident. I watched in the armoire’s mirror as my mother slid the veil’s diamond-studded comb into the crown of my blond hair.

  “Oh, Julia,” she said, stepping back for a moment. “You are absolutely stunning.” She looked back and forth between Annie and me, her cool blue eyes glistening. “Both of you girls look beautiful.”

  “I’m a bride,” I said. I heard the dreamy softness in my voice and didn’t cringe. I was beginning to see the benefit of allowing a little candor, a little vulnerability into my life.

  My mother walked up beside me, looked for a long moment into my eyes through the mirror, and took my hand in hers. Ever since the Curtis incident, things between us had been warmer. We seemed to be on the same learning curve of figuring out how to express our emotions more freely. When I’d finally told her about the miscarriage, she’d begun to cry immediately.

  “I don’t ever want you to go through anything like that again!” she’d said, nearly growling with rage. Her eyes had glimmered angrily through her tears—anger directed not at me, but at a world that dared to do something like this to her daughter. “But if you do, I want to be by your side. Promise me you’ll let me.” I’d never seen her look so ferocious, and I’d nodded, struck mute by her reaction.

  Someday, I’d told myself with a searing burst of faith, I will love my own child this much, too.

  It was moments like those that made me realize just how much Wes’s unflagging optimism had worn off on me. My old confidence was blooming again under the warmth of his support; even in the weeks following the terrifying hours when Curtis had held me captive in his house, I’d felt buffered from the possibility of sleepless nights by Wes’s attentiveness and concern. Of course, I still couldn’t see exactly what the future held for us, but I now felt certain we were each better off facing that uncertain future together.

  Interestingly, in the weeks after the fire, my mother had seemed to take cues from Wes’s relationship playbook. Before I even had a chance to worry too deeply about how Curtis’s betrayal and subsequent absence would affect my father, my mother had started eschewing her morning power walk in favor of joining us at the breakfast table. There, she’d pestered my dad for sections of the paper, loaded up his plate with three slices of melon for each slice of coffee cake, and one day had even shocked us all by expressing interest in finally learning how to play golf. The grin on my father’s face when she’d continued to appear at the table morning after morning was priceless. I’d watched my mother’s efforts with admiration and relief and as I’d packed my things and prepared to leave the family home for good, I’d taken comfort in knowing that I left each of my parents in good company.

  Now, the grandfather clock in Woodstone’s hall began to chime loudly. “Showtime!” my mother rasped. “I’m going to duck outside and check that your father is ready for the big walk. Annie, you’ll make sure the two of you are on the other side of that door in thirty seconds?”

  “Aye, aye!” Annie said, snapping her silver heels together.

  As soon as my mother shut the door, I threw my arms around Annie, nearly smothering her with my veil.

  “Death by bride!” she mumbled through a mouthful of tulle. “After this year, I probably should have seen this coming.”

  “Thank you for being here,” I said, still hugging her.

  She pulled back and looked at me, jutting her chin into the air. “Where else do you think I would be?” She gripped my arms gently before releasing me. “Now let’s get out of here. There’s a scary mother to obey.”

  “And a handsome man to marry,” I said. My gown rustled elegantly as I made my way across the room.

  “And cupcakes to eat!” Annie added, pulling open the door.

  “Yes.” My mouth watered a bit at the thought. “Always.”

  Acknowledgments

  I am eternally grateful to my wise editor and dear friend, Jeanette Perez, who has made a dream come true. It is both a comfort and a luxury to have such an insightful editor ready and willing to flip on her flashlight when darkness falls on the writing path. My heartfelt thanks to all at Harper who have helped along the way, including, but not limited to, Carrie Kania, Brittany Hamblin, Jennifer Hart, Mary Sasso, Eleanor Mikucki, Dalma De Leon, and Elizabeth Thompson. Thank you also to my wonderful agent, Elisabeth Weed, for taking me under her wing, and to the talented Alyce Shields, for giving me insight into life as a pastry chef.

  Thank you to my parents, whose generosity, voracious love of learning, and enthusiasm for life will always inspire me.

  Above all, thank you to my husband Phil—my happily ever after, my voice of reason, and my first reader—and to our children, for giving me the gift of knowing infinite love.

  About the Author

  MEG DONOHUE has an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University and a BA in comparative literature from Dartmouth College. Born and raised in Philadelphia, she lives in San Francisco with her husband, two young daughters, and dog. This is her first novel.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Advance praise for Meg Donohue and How to Eat a Cupcake

/>   “How to Eat a Cupcake is a sparkling, witty story about an unlikely, yet redemptive, friendship. Donohue’s voice is lovely, intelligent, and alluring. Grab one of these for your best friend and read it together—preferably with a plate of Meyer Lemon cupcakes nearby.”

  —Katie Crouch, bestselling author of Girls in Trucks and Men and Dogs

  “Beautifully written and quietly wise, Meg Donohue’s How to Eat a Cupcake is an achingly honest portrayal of the many layers of friendship—a story so vividly told, you can (almost) taste the buttercream.”

  —Sarah Jio, author of The Violets of March and The Bungalow

  “A heartwarming and unpredictable tale of friendship, family, and frosting.”

  —Zoe Fishman, author of Balancing Acts

  “An irresistible blend of sweet and tart, this book is truly a treat to be savored.”

  —Beth Kendrick, author of The Bake-Off and Second Time Around

  “Deliciously engaging. Donohue writes with charm and grace. What could be better than friendship and cupcakes?”

  —Rebecca Rasmussen, author of The Bird Sisters

  “Donohue’s sweet debut is a clever exploration of how a West Coast mean girl grows up and gives in to friendship, love, and dozens of delicious cupcakes. . . . Donohue’s culinary romantic thriller will keep readers hungry for more.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Credits

  Cover design by Robin Bilardello

  Cover photograph © Edward Simons/Alamy; © Art Kowalsky/Alamy

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.