Courtship of the Cake (28 page)

“Um, if you say so.”

Posy and my parents could discuss their peer-reviewed JAMA papers until they were blue in the face, but all I heard was the sound of adults speaking to Charlie Brown and the other Peanuts kid characters:
Mah-wah, mah-wah, mah-wah.

“Well, coolers got confused, the monkey project got scrapped due to compromised data of the specimens, Mom restocked her freezer
once the power came back on and
voila
! The big foil-wrapped object that I picked up yesterday to thaw out for my darling husband turned out to be one hundred percent genuine
Macaca mulatta
brain.”

“She threw out your cake?” I bit the back of my hand to keep from laughing.

“Yes, Einstein. And no bakery worth its salt around here is going to be able to bake a replica with this short notice.”

“Maybe no bakery around you . . . ,” I said.

•   •   •

“I just have to stop at my sister's,” I told Nash, the bakery box resting carefully on my knees. “Then you can drop me in the Village.”

“I'm not coming in,” Nash warned. “Not quite up to twenty questions from the in-laws just yet.”

“Oh, but I can meet your whole fam-damily?” I challenged. “That was hardly a walk in the park. Don't worry. It's a doorman building. I can drop it at the desk.”

“Doorman building, eh? Fancy.”

“Says the man driving the eighty-five-thousand-dollar Cayman.”

There was no need to page Posy at the front desk; she was waiting by the concierge and practically jumped on me the minute I walked in the door.

“You got it?” She waved her hands out frantically like I was a drug runner, delivering the goods.

“Exact replica.” I cracked open the box so she could take a peek, and the aroma of bananas, coconut, pineapple, and pecans was enough to leave us both breathless.

Mick had remembered the exact type of cake Posy had ordered with the automatic accuracy of a savant. “Hummingbird cake,” he had recalled. “Three tiers . . . garnished with dried pineapple flowers.”

“Yes.”

And ribboned charms.
The words were traded, unspoken, between our gaze.

“Rebekkah played it safe with just a sweet cream cheese frosting. But I would've used a pineapple almond butter cream cheese instead.”

“Go for it now,” I'd told him. “Posy and Pat will love it.”

It was an exact visual replica, down to the lone, paper-thin and fluttery pineapple flower on top . . . but I had no doubt it would taste even better than the original recipe, because Mick had made it. As a favor to me.

“Thank you!” My sister threw a quick hug my way, careful not to upset the cake in my hands. “And you . . . you're doing okay?” She peered over my shoulder at the sleek Porsche sitting at the curb. “Anybody you want to tell me about?”

Anybody. Not anything. Fancy PhDs aside, my sister was a smart cookie.

“He sends his regards.” I smiled, relinquishing my hold on the box. “And he hopes you enjoy his cake.”

“A baker? And with a car like that? You didn't tell me you were dating Jacques Torres!” she called after me as I breezed out the lobby. “Wait, is that a
ring
on your finger?”

VERA CAUSA

“Holy huge rock, Batman.” Laney breathed hard enough to fog the two-carat diamond in its prongs.

“It's not like I need a magnifying glass to find the one Noah laid on you,” I said, pulling my hand away and cramming it in my pocket. Today was all about Laney. I hated the thought of my drama with Nash Drama taking any of the spotlight—or the heat—off of her.

I had recounted the last few months' surreal circumstances as we walked arm in arm through our old neighborhood. To hell with Riggs's confidentiality agreement. What had started out as a one-week charade had grown to biblical proportions, as Nash's family and friends pushed us closer to the altar with every well-intentioned piece of advice. I needed to bend my best friend's ear. She responded with typical Laney zaniness and zeal. “Out of all the scenarios I've imagined
WWDD
 . . . this one takes the cake!” She threw her black nail-polished hand over her mouth to suppress her chuckle. “Sorry, I couldn't resist.”

“All right, enough. You've got me for two hours. Where to, Superbride?”

“Well . . . a dress of some sort is in order.” She shuddered with horror and happiness, if ever such a thing were possible. “And I'm sure as hell not going through this alone. Say you'll play dress-up with me?”

With Mick's offer of cake tasting a constant temptation, and Sindy's daily pressure of setting a date ASAP for the big day, the least I could do was attempt to be in the market for a dress. “All right, all right.”

“Excellent! Now, pick up the pace . . . we're gonna go see our fairy gothmother.”

•   •   •

Bree welcomed us with open arms. “My girls! You're back! And what's this?” She pounced, pulling our left hands toward her in some sort of sixth sense. “The both of you? Oh, honeys!” Her eyelashes, all fattened up with mascara, flashed up and down like dancing girls in a kick line. “Wait. Not to each other, right?”

We both just laughed and shook our heads.

“Okay, honeys. Just making sure! But I do have two matching gowns that would've been fabulous. Sweetheart necklines, chapel trains . . .”

Laney snorted.

“Keep in mind, Bree,” I said, thumbing at Laney. “You're talking to the girl who played dress-up in her mother's wedding dress and Converse high-top sneakers . . . at the age of thirty-one.”

“And Rainbow Brite.” Laney was quick to remind her of my Afro-wig award. “Maybe you can bleach one of Dani's old bridesmaid dresses and pass it off for bridal white. But for me? I'm talking black. Short. With a corset. And a fascinator for my head. No feathers. Noah is allergic.”

Bree's lashes quivered as she took a moment to let Laney's demands sink in. “Okay. If I don't have anything in stock, I'll make some calls. What about you, Dani?” She turned to me, desperate for the voice of reason.

“I want to try on the Vera.”

“Oh, sweetie. I don't think that's a good idea.” She quickly changed the subject, grabbing my hand to inspect Nash's ring. “That's quite a rock! You got yourself a sugar lovah, sweetheart,” she said, with a conspiratorial wink.

An image of Mick came to mind, back in the bakery with gum paste up to his elbows.

“Will you look at her?” Bree crowed. “You're blushing like a bride!”

“And you're changing the subject. Why can't I try the Vera? You always say it's a gorgeous specimen.”

“Oh, it is. It is. But for someone else. Not for you.”

How about for someone who needs to look like she's planning the wedding of the century to marry into rock royalty?
I needed an impressive dress in hand. I had Nash's credit card and his blessing. And judging from the stack of bills lining Bree's counter, I bet she could use the sale.

“Look at it. It's perfect. You said it's never been worn, right?”

“Well, not exactly,” Bree hedged. “The bride never wore it.”

Laney's eyes narrowed. “What happened to her?”

“It's more a case of what happened to the dress,” Bree replied, and bustled off to the front of the shop. Laney and I exchanged glances. A mystery. Color us intrigued.

“What size is it?” I asked, stalking Bree from behind a rack of ready-to-wear. “I'll bet it's my size.”

She sighed. “Its label says eight. But its street size is a six.”

“Dani's a six.” Laney butted right into the conversation, pushing between two hangers. “Except in the boobs.” I flicked the dresses back in place, shutting the gap on her.

“It retailed for ten thousand dollars.”

“And now it's a bargain at five. What is the harm in letting me try it?”

“Because,” Bree sighed, pulling a mermaid-style gown and a corseted black dress from the New Arrivals rack. “You are going to fall in love with it.”

“And?”

And I promise you, I won't.
The dress would be a prop, just like the ring. And the king bed that Nash and I shared at the Half Acre.

“It's cursed,” Bree announced. “There. I said it!”

“What the whaaa?” Laney actually stepped through the gap in the rack of clothes. Bree made a beeline toward the dressing room, and we gave chase.

“In you go. I want you to try these on. And then I will tell you the story. Lemme just go lock the shop door.”

Laney and I exchanged another look. In the five years we'd known her, Bree was like the mailman. She didn't close due to rain, sleet, snow or even when there was a gas leak in the building behind her. Her business was everything. Yet . . .

“She must really mean business,” Laney whispered, and shoved the fishtail gown toward me. “I believe this one's for you.”

I shed my sundress, while Laney shucked her jeans, hoodie and tank top. “Here, zip me. Watch the hair.” I held my curls off my neck and she eased the zipper up.

“Well?”

I turned to her. The black was striking against her creamy skin and russet hair. It didn't scream wedding, but it certainly screamed Laney.

“Your mother is going to sit shivah for you if you wear that as your wedding dress.”

“True.” She swished the skirt and pouted. “I guess it would probably violate our latest peace treaty. I can hear her now.” Screwing up her mouth, she did a dead-accurate impression of her mother's heavy Long Island accent, “‘What kind of
verkackte
dress is that?'”

I wanted to laugh, but the dress I'd tried on was so tight, I was afraid I'd break a rib if I tried.

“How do I look?”

“Like a mermaid porn star.”

We both cracked up at my reflection. The dress was a shimmering
beauty, but I was spilling out the top of it. “I wonder if Bree sells seashell pasties. I'd be all set.”

There was a knock. “Are you ready?” Bree called.

We opened the door, ready to hear the story of the cursed Vera. Not so ready to say yes to the dresses we had tried on.

Bree stood there, with the Vera in her arms, shaking her head. “Silly girls. Those dresses were both for Laney. I would never size you that wrong.”

“Oh, good. Because I think I punctured a lung in this thing.” Laney unzipped me and I hightailed it back into the room. Without a word, Bree hooked the Vera onto the back of my door and closed me in with it.

“Laney. Into the room next to her.” I heard a door click shut. “Dani. Hand over the fishtail dress.” I did as I was told.

“But I said black!” Laney protested.

“I know.”

“And short.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So, do we get to hear the story of the Vera now?” I asked, tentatively touching its lacy edges. I stood in my red lace bra and panties, admiring it. The dress was a feat of technical engineering, its many drapes and layers so frothy and artfully arranged, it reminded me of a wedding cake. Which of course, reminded me of—

“The curse!” Bree boomed, loud enough for us to hear her through the door. “It may be an urban legend, but a woman came into the shop, dressed in a maid's uniform. Her English wasn't very good, but she relayed she had been sent by the lady of the house. The lady's daughter was all set to marry the man of her dreams. The haute couture dress, the Sylvia Weinstock cake, the fancy Park Avenue venue . . . every little detail was set. But the night before the wedding, the bride-to-be went out with her girlfriends.”

“And she was never seen again?” Laney interjected.

“Shush! No! Listen,” Bree hissed. “So after she left, the groom
called a buddy or two to come hang out. You know. Guy stuff. Watch some football, play some poker, drink some beer. His bride-to-be specifically told him no bachelor party, no strippers.”

“Sounds like your typical Bridezilla,” Laney groaned.

“Well, his friends decided to surprise him. Body shots, lap dances, the whole nine yards. And when the bride-to-be arrived home that night, she found her husband passed out drunk. And the stripper . . .”

“No!” Laney and I both cried out in unison.

“Yes. The stripper was in the couture gown. Dancing and grinding on him, while the buddies cheered her on.”

“Tell me she didn't marry the asshat after that?” Laney said.

“Oh no. She went ahead and she married him,” Bree replied breezily. “But the dress was ruined for her. She ran out and bought a new gown the next morning.”

“Ugh, rich people,” Laney muttered. “What a waste.”

I laughed. “Come on. Seriously? I call bullshit.”

“Like I said, could be urban legend,” Bree said. “But for five years, that dress has hung in my shop, untouched.”

“Um, maybe that's because it's the most expensive thing in your shop?” Laney ventured. “It should be in a bulletproof case for that price. Hell, the price tag itself should be locked behind glass!”

I opened the dressing room door.

“Oh, Dani!” The owner of Diamonds & Fairy Dust clasped her hand to her heart. “Will you look at that? No more ‘always a bridesmaid' for you!” She fussed with the hems. With one tiny tug, she covered just a hint of my red bra peeking out, just as expertly as Mick had repaired the white icing on his red velvet cake the other day. “Vera is a master. That is Chantilly under here, layered with esprit lace. Feel this? That's horsehair; it gives it that lift. God, look at the way the light and the shadows play when the skirt moves; it's light as a feather, isn't it? And speaking of feathers . . .”

Laney pushed open her dressing room door. “No feathers. No
black. Long, not short! Bree, it's perfect.” And it truly was. Laney looked divine. Her body fit like the dress had been molded to her exact measurements. The fitted bodice accented her small hips, and the top that had betrayed my assets tastefully enhanced hers. “Look. It's got a corset.” She twirled, and I spied her phoenix wing tribal tattoo in all its fiery glory.

“Oh, Hudson. That is it,” I breathed.

Bree nodded sagely. “Now, that's a Badgley Mischka. Last season, but nothing to sneeze at.”

“I love it.” Laney hugged herself. “I love it more than Mary Jane Watson's dress on the cover of the giant-sized annual, #22, of
The Amazing Spider-Man
when she married Peter Parker.” Giving the size and seriousness of her comic book collection, I knew that was Laney's weird way of giving high praise.

Bree clipped a white fascinator with a birdcage veil on Laney and stepped back. “Perfect.” She shook her head and smiled. “Why don't we find you some shoes up front?”

“No, no, all set. I'm wearing Chucks. Red.” Laney smiled at her reflection in the mirror, relishing the memory. “So is Noah.”

Bree collapsed on the plump, white pouf in the corner by our dressing rooms, exhausted by the effort of transforming Laney, one bridal accessory at a time. “Perhaps another day.” She waved her hand in defeat.

“Inside joke,” I assured her. “I guess we had to be there.” No one had been there, save for Laney and Noah. And he had saved her from frostbite by lending her his sneakers during the Chicago blizzard that had grounded their flights, when all she had were flip-flops. “He warmed her toes, and her heart.”

Laney's dress needed to stay behind for some minor alternations, but since the Vera had fit like a charm, I was good to go. Except Bree wouldn't accept Nash's card. “Save your sugar lovah's money. Borrow the dress, and bring it back,” she pressed. “Our little secret.”

“But Bree,” I protested. “Look at all those bills. This sale could help.”

“These?” She waved her hand at them. “Please.
My
sugar lovah pays those for me.”

“Wait, is that—?” The rock on her hand seemed to have increased in size. “What happened to Mr. Five Time's the Charm?”

“Eh, you know. Easy come, easy go. But number six? He's the one!”

•   •   •

After leaving Diamonds & Fairy Dust, I messaged Jax and cashed in my rain check for carnitas and margaritas at the Rocking Horse. Like Laney, my other best friend had big news to celebrate—Jax had sold his first novel to one of the Big New York Five. I was over-the-moon happy for him. It was like I had never left, howling with laughter at our favorite corner table as he regaled me with his latest plot ideas, and I shared my craziest tour stories from the road, including my first night on Nash's tour bus.