by Kim Davis
While I crammed my body into too-tight blue jeans and a short-sleeved red plaid western-looking shirt, I hunted in my bureau for a bandana. I tied it around my neck and tried to strategically position the knot to cover the red mark. The glint of my gold wedding band sitting on my ring finger caught my eye. I tugged the ring off, threw it into a drawer, and decided I’d throw it off the end of the pier the next time I walked to the beach. Satisfied with my decision, I brushed the tangles from my hair the best I could, grabbed a scrunchie, and twisted my hair into a messy bun. After shoving concealer and mascara into my purse, I picked up my decorating tool box, along with extra frosting and gum paste decorations. I always took them with me in case the cake needed minor repairs after the drive.
Carrie was sitting in her van with the engine running. I looked back and saw my cake already in the cargo area, as far away as possible from anything that might fall onto it or bump it.
“How did you get that heavy cake in here all by yourself?”
She said nothing and instead drove off before my seat belt was even secure. I sipped on the latte and stared out the window. Brown hills rolled by as we headed south on the 73 toll road. I waited for Carrie to answer me. Instead, I heard blessed silence, except for her fingers tapping on the steering wheel… a sure sign she was mad at me.
“Carrie, it wasn’t my fault.” I gulped the latte, waiting for her response, but there was nothing except more silence. Uh-oh. This wasn’t good.
“I mean, I didn’t know Philip was having an affair, and I would never have thought Tori would stab me in the back like that…” I shuddered when I realized my bad choice of words. “You have to believe I’m innocent. I didn’t kill Tori!”
Carrie let out a long sigh and shook her head back and forth. “Mother called me at five this morning, waking up the twins. Do you know what it’s like dealing with her when she’s having a meltdown over your situation? On top of dealing with twins who are demanding breakfast? And needing to get organized for this party?”
The van sounded extra-quiet once my sister stopped screeching at me. She clamped her lips together so tightly they started to turn white.
“You should have told Mother to call me instead.” To be honest, I was very glad she hadn’t.
Carrie rolled her eyes. “And risk you not being able to finish the cake?”
“How did you…?” Of course she knew. I think she understood me better than I did myself.
“I don’t understand how you find yourself in situations like this. Trouble always seems to find you.”
Okay, that was an exaggeration… kind of. One time in high school, I tripped over a huge canned goods display at the supermarket, and the entire thing came crashing down. The manager claimed I did it on purpose and called the police. Even reviewing the store’s video footage didn’t exactly exonerate me, but Lars somehow managed to get me off the hook. Seriously, it was an accident. But things like that happened to me more often than I liked, and they never happened to my sister.
I glanced back at the cake and yelped. “Pull over, Carrie. It’s going to fall!”
Chapter 7
“What?” Despite not knowing what could be wrong, Carrie slowed the vehicle and steered the vehicle toward the right shoulder.
“The cake. It’s leaning over!” I whimpered when I envisioned all my hard work collapsing into one sticky, crumbly mess.
As soon as the van came to a complete stop, I jumped out, ran to the back, threw open the doors, and surveyed my cake. I apparently missed the mark on my first attempt at a topsy-turvy design. Even though I had studied several YouTube videos on how to do it, I hadn’t figured out how to keep the cake stable. Now it tilted at a decidedly unplanned angle, ready to topple over.
“What frosting did you use between the layers?” My sister stood right behind me.
“My normal fluffy buttercream.” That buttercream tasted light and airy, unlike the heavier, cloying sweet versions favored by bakeries. My clients loved it.
“I think that’s the problem. It’s too hot, and the frosting isn’t firm enough to hold up the weight of the cake on top of the heat.”
I sighed. She was right. With everything involving Philip and Tori going on, I didn’t think about the supporting structure for the cake design.
“I’ll sit in the back with the cake and try to keep it steady while you drive.” I climbed in and tried to squeeze myself between several food bins. “If we put it in the fridge when we get there, I can cover up the sags with more decorations. Maybe it will hold up until we serve it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Carrie shook her head and grimaced. “I’m glad we’re not charging anything for the cake. It would be embarrassing.”
I scowled but said nothing. Despite the near accident, I could repair the cake, and no one would be the wiser… I hoped.
Carrie climbed back into the driver’s seat, cranked her air-conditioning to as high as it would go, and carefully pulled into traffic. I found a stack of napkins and wedged them beneath a corner of the cake board to raise it so the cake would be more level. With a napkin in each hand, I steadied the top layer to keep it from sliding even more, but the heat of my hands made the fondant soften until indentations marred the surface where my fingers touched. I hoped I had enough extra decorations with me.
The party was being held at a therapy riding stable for one of the little girls who rode there each week. Alina Hansen, turning seven, loved horses, so Carrie planned a western-themed party. Not only was there a barbecue with a horse-themed cake, my sister had finagled a country-western band into donating an hour of their time to play for the party.
When we pulled into the parking lot, my sister backed up to the loading dock space, and we jumped out to unload. An older man, who looked to be in his late seventies, ambled our way. Dressed in a red western-style shirt, blue jeans, and highly decorative cowboy boots, he was the epitome of a cowboy.
“Howdy, ladies.” The white handlebar-mustached man offered us his hand to shake when he reached us. “I’m Bill, and I’ve volunteered to help you unload and set up. Can you show me what you’d like me to start with?”
My sister and I eyed his thin limbs and somewhat unstable walk. I didn’t want him getting anywhere close to the cake I had worked so many hours on, especially given its precarious state. Carrie gave me a quick look, thanked Bill for his help, and handed over plastic sacks that contained tortilla chips and plastic- and paperware. While the elderly man tottered off, my sister grabbed the edge of the heavy cake board and slid it toward me.
“Let’s get the cake into the refrigerator, and then I’ll try to find the light stuff for Bill to help carry in.”
“Thanks. I was worried he would want to help with the cake, and I could envision what might happen if he lost his balance.”
With the heavy cake board between us, we crab walked through the party room and made our way to the kitchen, which, fortunately for us, wasn’t very far from where we parked.
The party room was already decorated with pink gingham covering each table. Mason jars filled with pink and white daisies and garnished with straw raffia bows dotted the room. Hot pink and white balloons floated in bunches, secured by horse-shaped wood carvings. The buffet table boasted a pink gingham tablecloth while a couple bales of hay bookended the fabric-covered slab of wood. A large wagon wheel sat at the center of the table, with raffia and daisies woven through the spokes. Pink bedazzled cowgirl boots were placed next to the wheel, along with a chalkboard menu of our food offerings written in an old-fashioned font. Alina’s mom and her friends had gone all out for this party.
After getting the cake stashed into the walk-in refrigerator, we hustled back to Carrie’s van. I grabbed the cupcakes while Carrie collected a large ice chest to take to the kitchen. Apparently, Bill had picked up several more bags from the back of the van.
The cupcakes in the party room were arranged on wagon-wheel-shaped stands. I added more colorful sprinkles to the kids’ cupcakes and th
en spread a large handful on the table below the stands for decoration. I made sure to carefully label the adults-only Cowgirl Colada Cocktail Cupcakes. Coconut and pineapple flavors mingled in the little cakes, while peach schnapps and peach nectar added a zing of sweetness. Even though the grown-up version appeared somewhat plain without the colorful sprinkles, they still looked delicious with the rosette tip I used to pipe the buttercream frosting. I took plenty of photos of the cupcakes and the decorated table to download to my digital portfolio. Eventually I would have the photos professionally edited and printed for a book to show prospective clients.
I fetched the serving container of the matching Cowgirl Colada Cocktails and placed it on a tall table, along with the cocktail cupcakes. That arrangement made them difficult for little hands to reach accidentally. I made sure the label “Adults Only” was prominently displayed. Carrie and I kept an eagle eye on the table so underage guests couldn’t help themselves.
One of our catering secrets was after mixing up large amounts of nonalcoholic drinks for parties, I always froze a couple of large blocks of the mixture to use instead of ice to keep the drink chilled. We could then add alcohol to the remaining mixture for an adult party or leave as is for a children’s party. That way the drink could sit out as long as necessary without being diluted with melting ice.
Bill ambled into the party room and admired the table. “Anything else I can do for you gals?”
“If you don’t mind, would you be able to keep your eye on the adults-only cupcakes and cocktails?” I pointed at the separate table. “Even though guests aren’t here yet, I don’t want a child to wander in and help themselves.”
“No problem, ma’am.” He settled down in one of the chairs dotting the room and pulled out his cell phone. “I’ve got arthritis in my knees, so it’ll be good to rest them for a while.”
“It’s nice of you to volunteer and help us out, especially if you’re in pain.” I walked over to the cupcake tower and plucked a cupcake from the stand. “Can I offer you a cupcake and a cup of coffee while you’re sitting here?”
“That’s mighty nice of you, but I’ll wait until after lunch.” Bill held his phone up. “My grandson loaded a new book on that Kindle thing and showed me how to read on this phone. What’ll they think of next?”
After I left Bill to guard the cupcakes and read his book, I entered the walk-in refrigerator and worked on making the topsy-turvy horse-themed cake presentable. The short time under refrigeration had helped firm it up, and I inserted three dowels for extra support. I hoped it would keep the cake from completely toppling over. A few extra pink gum-paste cowgirl boots and pink-and-brown paisleys covered up the indentations and minor cracks. After taking photos of the cake with my cell phone, I followed the smells of smoked barbecued ribs to help Carrie prepare the food.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked my sister, who frantically opened containers of her famous Rootin’ Tootin’ Potluck Beans and dumped them into a huge soup pot.
“You can finish filling up the pot and heat the beans for me. I’ve got to find out where to turn on the air-conditioning in here. This heat is making me melt.”
My sister’s face looked beet red, and a sheen of moisture dotted her forehead. I reached out and touched her cheek. “It’s not that hot. You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“Bite your tongue. I can’t afford to be getting sick. It’s just hot in here, is all.” She was already halfway to the door.
I plucked more containers out of the ice chest sitting on the floor. Then I opened and added the beans to the halfway-full pot then turned the flame to medium heat.
“Be sure to stir the beans. You’d better not let the bottom of the pot burn.” Carrie must have thought she needed to remind me, since she’d returned to the kitchen without starting the air-conditioning.
I sighed but ignored her comment. After spending so much time helping Carrie with her catering, I knew what to do without her telling me. Since Philip usually worked on the weekends, catering was a good way for me to make a little extra money and gain experience. She even helped cover the costs of the ingredients I used for the cakes and cupcakes I provided. Because the kitchen was unlicensed, I couldn’t sell the baked goods, so we told Carrie’s clients it was our birthday gift or anniversary gift to them. While my labor for creating the cakes and cupcakes was essentially free, I looked at it as a great opportunity to build up my portfolio. When I finally had the chance to open my bakery, I’d have lots of photos, recipes, and expertise for my clients.
When the beans reached a simmer, I turned the flame down to low and covered the pot. Next, I unpacked Grannie’s Colonial Coleslaw, placed it in decorative serving bowls, and put Mama’s Cornbread Muffins and my Cowgirl Cookies into large baskets lined with pink and white gingham napkins. Carrie had the air-conditioning on full chill, which wouldn’t be a bad thing by the time we had the ovens cranked on and the cooktop simmered pots of food.
“It looks like the band just got here. Go show them where we want them to set up and make sure they can find the electrical outlets.” Carrie pointed out the window toward a white van.
We had toured the stable facility several times while planning this party. We wanted to be sure we knew where everything needed to be set up so the event flowed smoothly. I walked to the covered picnic area, which had a small stage set to one side. The band’s van had backed into the parking space close to the gate that led to the picnic area. A man, bent over at the waist, was fumbling with mounds of equipment in the cargo area of the van. I noticed the backside of his blue jeans fit just right, and though he wore a plaid cowboy shirt, you could tell he had a V-shaped torso. Even if this band wasn’t any good, I would at least enjoy watching them.
“Excuse me.” I tapped the cowboy on the shoulder. “I can show you where to set up your equipment and where the electrical outlets are located.”
The cowboy turned around. My heart dropped as I stared into his deep sapphire-blue eyes.
Chapter 8
“Emory! What are you doing here?”
Randall…. What in the heck was he doing here? My mouth refused to talk, and I was sure it hung open like a fish gasping for air as I bent my neck backward to look at him. I should have been angry he had taken part in the compromising photo Tori had posted. But somehow, as I peered into those sapphire-blue eyes, my irritation was replaced with an unexpected attraction. I wished I could remember what it had been like to kiss him.
“Are you okay?” His eyes darted to the handkerchief tied around my neck.
I finally stuttered as if I had no control. “Um, um…yeah, I’m okay, okay?”
He looked at me like I should be saying something more than “okay,” but my mind was still whirling, and I wasn’t ready to talk to him, especially after what happened between us last Friday night. Oh my god, Tori! Tori is—or was—his cousin. Shouldn’t he be in mourning instead of playing at the party?
“What are you doing here?” His eyes flashed again to my handkerchief.
I noticed that he also had a bandana tied around his neck. I hoped he wasn’t wearing it for the same reason I was.
I licked my lips. “My sister is the caterer for the party, so I help out when I can. I’m the one who made the birthday cake and cupcakes, so be sure to give them a taste.”
I mentally slapped my forehead, wondering why I had to tell him that. Why was I letting this man rattle me so much?
“Cool,” he answered in a voice that was anything but cool. In fact, it was hot... smokin’ hot.
My sister stood at the corner of the building, frantically waving at me. I turned to Randall, tried not to stare at the handkerchief tied around his neck, and instead focused on his close-cropped chestnut-colored hair. I wondered if he had been in the military. “The band can set up over there by the picnic tables. You’ll find plenty of electrical outlets if you need them. I’m really sorry about Tori. Please know it wasn’t my fault.”
Randall looked at me like I was ou
t of my mind. “What?”
I glanced back at Carrie, and even from a distance away, I saw she had gone pale. She waved at me again, in the manner of telling someone to hurry.
“I need to go help my sister with the food. Truly, I’m sorry about Tori.”
He glanced another time at my neck. “We need to talk. Can we get together after the party?”
“Um, I don’t think that will work. I have to help my sister clean up, and then my job is to go home with her and do all the dishes. It’s going to be a late night. Let me give you my phone number, and you can call me tomorrow.”
A Cheshire-cat grin appeared on his face as he rolled up a sleeve on his plaid cowboy shirt. He thrust his forearm in front of my face, and I almost fainted. In hot-pink, bold Sharpie, someone had written my phone number accompanied by the words, For a good time call Em xoxo!
“I didn’t write that,” I choked out.
Carrie waved even more frantically.
“But that is my phone number, so call me. I’ve gotta go help my sister.”
I didn’t give Randall the chance to respond and instead hurried away toward my sister. She wasn’t looking so good. Her pale skin looked a little green, and sweat droplets beaded on her forehead.
“Carrie, you’re sick!”
“You’ll have to run this party without me. I need to get home, but Thomas will be here in a while to help you.”
“Please don’t tell me you have the flu.” My mind was going a mile a minute, thinking of everything that needed to be done. “What about the food? Is it safe?”
My sister’s skin turned even greener, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “It’s perfectly safe. It’s not the flu.”
“Well, what’s wrong? Are you contagious?”
“I sure hope not.” A small smile played at the corners of her perfectly glossed lips.