The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  “We start much the same way as we did with the batter. Cream the butter.” I watch intently as she turns on the mixer and starts to measure out other ingredients. “One cup of powdered sugar at a time…and a tablespoon of milk to moisten as needed. Salt…vanilla…” She dips her finger in and gives it a little taste. “And one more tablespoon of milk. Give it a try.”

  I dip my pinky in and bring the frosting to my mouth. Good God. How could I have ever thought this was canned?

  “Good?” Mom asks.

  “Perfect. So now we just sit back and wait for the cakes to be done?”

  Mom gives me a look that says I’m so far off the mark it’s not even funny. “Nice try.” She turns around and pulls stuff out from under the giant island table in the middle of the room. “Now we garnish. This is the hard part, so please pay extra special attention, Candy.”

  The hard part? I’m screwed.

  The last thing mom retrieves is a bag of lemons. She pulls a few out of the bag and sets them on the table in front of us. “We’re going to candy these.”

  “Candy?”

  “Yes, you’ve seen the little candied fruits on top of the cupcakes, haven’t you?”

  I’m not about to tell her that I thought they were all store bought. “Oh, right, of course,” I say instead, trying to play off my ignorance as best I can. “So, what do we do?”

  “First, we slice. You want them to be about a quarter to an eighth of an inch thick.” She demonstrates and I’m impressed by her knife skills. Each slice is exactly the same width as the next. “Then we drop them into the boiling water for about three minutes.”

  When did she put water on to boil? And where did that stove come from, anyway?

  I tap my fingernails on the metal table as I watch her move the slices around in the boiling water. No timer goes off, and she doesn’t even look at a watch or clock, but somehow she just knows they’re done.

  “Now we drain them and move them into cold water. Meanwhile, I have another cup of water boiling in that pan over there. Do you think you can add the sugar?”

  “Of course!” I say. How hard can it be to add a little sugar to some water?

  “One cup, and then give it a whisk.”

  “No problem.” I follow Mom’s instructions and then stand back as she brings the lemon slices over and drops them into the boiling sugar water.

  “Now we reduce the heat and let them simmer for an hour. After that we’ll put them on a drying rack and let them dry overnight.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. “But don’t we have to get the order out today?”

  “I have some already made up, but I had to teach you sometime, didn’t I?” She retrieves a Tupperware container from the fridge that’s filled with candied lemons.

  The timer goes off on the oven and Mom glides over to it with the finesse of someone who’s been doing this for…well, for thirty years, I guess. She dons her oven mitt, removes the cupcakes and sets them on the table, then quickly deposits each one onto a cooling rack. They all look perfect and my head swells with pride that I was the one to fill the liners. I’m a bit surprised at the excitement it gives me to see my cupcakes all laid out, but I totally think I could get used to this.

  “Another special order, sweetheart.” Dad has poked his head around the door to the kitchen and is holding out another pink slip.

  Mom’s face lights up when she sees him, and she crosses the room to give him a kiss and retrieve the order. “Thank you, my love.”

  I’ve heard other people refer to their partners as “my love,” and I have to admit, it always grinds my gears a bit. But there’s so much sincerity in my mother’s tone. It only makes me hopeful that true love does exist somewhere out there.

  “Aha! This one will be fun,” Mom says as she heads back to the mixing station.

  She’s left the pink slip on the counter, so I pick it up to read. “Girlfriend seems to be losing interest,” is all it says. I’m confused.

  “This one,” Mom continues, oblivious to my confusion as she begins the next batter, “is called Don’t Ya Want S’mores.”

  “Okay,” I reply, drawing out the aaaay.

  Mom looks back at me with a smile. “It will rekindle the girlfriend’s interest. This is much easier than trying to rekindle a marriage, though. Sometimes you just have to help them to let go.”

  I stare at my mom, dumbfounded. What is she talking about? “Okay, are you ever going to explain this to me or am I supposed to figure it out on my own?”

  Mom stops what she’s doing and turns around to look at me. Her expression is kind of blank, so it’s hard to know what she’s thinking. Finally, she says, “What do you think is going on?”

  Great. Guessing games in a hot kitchen.

  The ideas I’m formulating in my head are just way too far-fetched for me to even think about voicing them aloud. “I really don’t know, Mom.”

  She cocks her head. “Are you sure? Don’t you want to take a gander?”

  I sigh. “Can’t you just tell me and save us both some time?”

  “Candy, you already know, you’re just too stubborn and skeptical to say so.”

  “Fine.” I pause, trying to decide if I really want to say what I’m going to say. “I think that perhaps…you cast a spell over the cupcakes.”

  Mom squints as if contemplating my words, and I second-guess myself.

  “Or…maybe you make up some kind of—I don’t know—love potion to put into the batter or something.”

  She shrugs and gives me a sort of Robert DeNiro face. “Interesting theories, darling.” And then she turns back to the giant bag of flour and begins scooping it into the mixer.

  “That’s it?” I say, my frustration mounting. “That’s all you’re going to say about it? Aren’t you going to confirm whether my theories are correct or, God forbid, tell me what the hell is actually going on?”

  “Candy, you don’t need to get all bent out of shape over it,” she says, talking loudly now that the mixer is whirring beside her. “You haven’t even had your twenty-ninth birthday yet. It will all become much clearer after that.”

  I roll my eyes. I would rather not be reminded that I’m about to celebrate the start of my last year in my twenties. That particular milestone is only a week away. I suppose I can wait until then to know what the hell my mother is talking about.

  “What are we doing for your birthday, by the way?”

  “Nothing,” I say automatically. “Other than pretending it’s not happening.”

  “Oh, come on, Candy.” Mom stirs with her wooden spoon and then scoops the batter into the muffin pans. I should probably be helping, but the Pucker Ups really wore me out. “We have to do something. Just a little family party.”

  I sigh again. I’m starting to feel like an obstinate teenager with all my sighing and eye rolling, but my parents just bring that out in me. “All right, fine. A small party.”

  Nine

  I’m seriously beginning to question my Mom’s ability to differentiate between big and small. I’ve just arrived home after a forced trip to the grocery store. There are cars hidden in the trees and in front of other people’s houses as I drive up to my parents’ home. I shut off the car and brace myself. I’m about to be bombarded with a giant “Surprise!” from about forty people, I just know it.

  It’s fine, though. I know I said I wanted a small gathering, but I actually haven’t had a real party in years. Not since I moved out of Mom and Dad’s. They used to throw Holly and me great birthday parties when we were younger.

  Once I’m out of the car, I run my hands over my blouse—the one I chose especially for this evening in anticipation of my surprise party—and head up the stairs to the front door. Okay, pause. Give them a moment to get settled. A surprise should be like timing in theater. Hand on doorknob. Beat. Open door. Beat. “SURPRISE!” Beat. “Oh, my GOD!” Beat. Tears. That’s how a good surprise should happen.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, wait and then fling op
en the door, ready to receive my surprise.

  Only nothing happens. There’s no surprise. No one’s even in the living room, which opens up right off the foyer. Huh.

  I look to my right. The dining room doors are closed. Aha! I head for that door, and repeat my surprise routine.

  Nothing. Are they kidding me? Where are all the people who belong to all the cars out there?

  I begin my search of the house. Kitchen, basement, backyard, all the bedrooms. I even go so far as to check the bathrooms. But there’s no one. Mom and Dad aren’t even home.

  My cell phone buzzes, telling me I have a message. I must have missed the call in my frenzy to find my surprise party.

  “Hey, Candy, it’s Holly. Listen, Mom and Dad dragged us to this lame surprise birthday party at the neighbor’s house. If you want to come have free booze and hang with Colin and me, come on over. See ya.”

  Ah. So that explains all the cars. The party wasn’t for me after all. I know I should be elated I don’t have to socialize with forty of my parents’ friends (most of my friends are in New York, after all), but I have to admit I’m kind of disappointed. Now I’m going to celebrate someone else’s birthday on my day.

  Whatever. It’ll be fine. Free booze and free cake. Not that I should be eating more cake. Mom’s been forcing me to taste all the cupcakes I make to be certain they taste—not just good—phenomenal. They do, for the record. My mom’s recipes are almost unbelievable, they’re so good. But I’m starting to notice my clothes aren’t fitting so well anymore. And I’m reaching for the blousier tops in my collection to hide the ever-growing bulge in my mid-section.

  Oh, God. I’m going to have to start working out, aren’t I? The last thing I want to do, though, is join the one and only gym in our small town. That’s what I love about New York–you can be anonymous.

  I sigh. I’m not in New York anymore. I’m here, in Connecticut, in the town where I grew up. Anonymous isn’t an option. I might as well get used to it.

  With nothing better to do, I walk across the lawn and through the little copse of trees until I’m on the neighbor’s property. There are people on the front porch with glasses of wine. The front door is open and the noise from the crowd wafts out to greet me. I try to act cool, but the truth is I feel really out of place, and the people on the porch are staring me down, probably wondering why I just emerged from the trees to join the party. I would be weirded out too if I saw someone enter a party that way. Maybe I should have walked around and come up the driveway, but it’s too late now.

  “Candy! Over here!”

  At the far end of the porch, Holly and Colin are nestled on a couple of rocking chairs, glasses of red wine in hand. I take a breath. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t help the racing of my heart every time I see Colin. Or the shortness of my breath. Or the clamminess of my hands. Especially after my mom made me imagine that kiss. It’s unacceptable. And my head is telling me there are so many reasons to let go of this Colin dream. I mean, he’s my sister’s boyfriend and my co-worker. I would be violating my cardinal don’t-date-people-you-work-with rule as well as my never-sleep-with-someone-your-sister-has-slept-with rule.

  Ew. That last one snaps me momentarily out of my Colin trance. It’s one thing to share clothes and makeup with your sister; it’s another thing to share lovers. I really don’t know how those Sister Wives do it. I would constantly be wondering if he was comparing me to Holly. Does she have better breath than me? Does he like her boobs more? Is her ass tighter? Her stomach flatter?

  After spending a week in the bakery, I can tell you the answer to all those questions is yes. Except the breath one. Mine perpetually smells like baked goods now, and who doesn’t love the smell of baked goods? Holly always smells like coffee and lipstick. Not nearly as appealing.

  “Hey, you want a glass of wine?” Holly asks as I approach. “I’m heading in for a refill.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, trying not to feel awkward. It’s not working. “Thanks.”

  Holly bounces away and disappears inside the house, and I’m very aware I’m alone with Colin. Okay, not entirely alone. This is a party, and there are bunches of people out here with us, but still…

  “Seems like a great party,” I say as I stick my hand in my pocket. Then I realize the pocket on this skirt is really small and I look ridiculous with my three fingers stuffed into it, so I take it out and place it on the banister instead. That feels awkward too.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” Colin says and then he narrows his eyes at me. “Are you all right?”

  I make a show of shaking my head and laughing. “Oh, yeah, fine. Just, um, tired is all. Crazy week at the bakery, ya know?”

  “You’re doing a great job.”

  I’m caught off guard by his kindness, and my heart gives a familiar flutter. No one has really praised me for my progress yet, but I do feel I deserve it. I’ve worked really hard. “Thanks,” I say.

  “No, really,” he continues. “I tried your cupcakes the other day and I can’t tell the difference between yours and your mom’s. Not bad for someone who didn’t know how to boil water a week ago.”

  I smile. “Very funny. But thanks. That’s really nice of you to say. I still feel like a fish out of water, ya know? From executive to baker in less than two weeks. It’s kind of discombobulating.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Here we are!” Holly is back and she’s holding a nearly overflowing glass of wine out to me. I take it from her, a pit of guilt forming in my stomach. I really shouldn’t be flirting with Colin, but I can’t help myself. “I’m filling them to the top so we don’t have to go back in as often. You can’t imagine how hard it was to dodge all the dirty old men just to get to the drink table.”

  “Well, it’s not surprising you had trouble, hot stuff.”

  And the spell is broken. Colin is staring at Holly with thinly veiled lust, and it makes me gag to think about the thoughts I was just having about him. Because while I was thinking lustfully of him, he was thinking lustfully of Holly. Gross.

  Holly smiles and leans in for a kiss. A peck on the lips would have been an acceptable form of thanks for his comment, but unfortunately for me, they’re still in the “honeymoon” phase of their relationship and it turns into a full-on make-out session.

  I guzzle my wine, wishing I could call Lucy to meet up for drinks and an I-hate-men-and-my-sister session. But I can’t. Colin and Holly are my only friends here in Connecticut, so it’s either hang out with them or go back to Mom and Dad’s and hide out with a dozen cupcakes in the basement. Actually, that sounds like a pretty good idea.

  Colin and Holly have pulled away from each other now, but they’re still gazing into one another’s eyes with that “I can’t wait to get you back to my place” look.

  “You know what, guys,” I say, shattering their romantic moment. “I think I’m just gonna head back. I’m pretty tired.”

  Holly assumes a scrunched up “Don’t go” face that I know is totally fake. “Don’t go, Can! I promise we won’t make out anymore.”

  “It’s not that,” I lie. “Really, I’m just tired.” And completely depressed that I’m alone on my birthday while you get to make-out with my crush.

  Holly shrugs and says, “Well, we’ll see you later then.”

  That’s my cue to leave. I don’t really want to. What I want is for them to remember it’s my birthday and start lavishing all their attention on me. I want them to drop everything and take me out to an expensive dinner, then for drinks and dancing. But they’ve already forgotten about me. They’re staring at one another again, completely oblivious to the fact I’m still standing here.

  Why am I still standing here? “Okay, goodnight,” I say as I set my glass down.

  No response. It’s just as well. I head down the porch stairs and across the lawn to the row of trees that separate the properties. Once I’m safely on the other side, I let the tears come. I know I’m
being a big baby. I mean, I’m twenty-nine, not nine. I shouldn’t even care about birthdays anymore. I should be more concerned with world peace and creating a better tomorrow for my children.

  Who am I kidding? I can’t even get a boyfriend. I’m never going to get married. I’m never going to have kids, and that’s fine. I don’t really want them. I’m not sure why the hell I’m so emotional over this whole thing. I feel like a big baby and I hate that. I was an executive. Executives don’t care about birthdays—they’re too busy doing…executive things. I mean, geez! I didn’t even cry when I got canned. What is wrong with me?

  God, I’ve already forgotten what executives do. I’m losing touch with my old self, and that sucks, because I really liked my old self. I liked that I could be self-absorbed and snobbish about the kind of wine I was being served, or particular about the cleanliness of a bathroom in a 5-star restaurant. Or that I could even afford to go to a 5-star restaurant. I’ve already put a considerable dent in my bank account, and I haven’t even been shopping or eating out.

  Okay, maybe I’ve shopped just a little, but I had to. You really can’t spend all day in a kitchen in the kinds of clothes I had in my closet.

  As soon as I walk through the door I head to the kitchen to get the cupcakes I’d brought home with me that afternoon. We were testing out some new fall flavors for which I have to come up with catchy names. I’m not in the mood for naming, but I am definitely in the mood for eating.

  I head downstairs to the basement and click on the TV. You’ve Got Mail is on TBS again. I’ve seen it about 8,000 times, but it’s one of those movies that if it’s on, I have to watch it. It’s at the part where they’re going back and forth about the Godfather and Tom Hanks is telling Meg Ryan to “Go to the mattresses.”

  I pull out the first cupcake. It’s pumpkin nut with cream cheese frosting. It smells amazing. Like fall. Or heaven. They’re pretty much the same thing in my book. The Bon Voyage cupcake is even better, all buttery with fleur de sel and chocolate drizzle. It’s the one we’ll have at Mom and Dad’s going-away party.