Heartbreak Cake (18 page)

“Yep, they pretty much were. Russell took over Coral Reef three years ago when they were trying to sell the place. He’s a retired commercial fisherman who had the reputation of being the town drunk, but when there was talk that the city was going to demolish Coral Reef and turn it into a Chipotle, the locals went into save-mode and Russell ended up buying the place—cash. He just walked in to Mayor Lemmings office and handed him a grocery bag with $200,000.”

“He’s my hero,” Noah said, looking at Russell at the grill, margarita in hand, wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt that has seen better days and charming all the ladies waiting in ine.

“He looks like a salty bastard, that one.” Noah grins at me and wiggles his eyebrows. “He’s like the George Clooney of the Sea!”

“He is. And he’s not a drunk, just a beach bum who is actually one hell of a businessman.”

“It’s amazing. I’m glad you told me about it. I would have missed it because I’m a bona fide workaholic. But leaving the Peach Keeper was all about trying to do things I’ve never done before.”

“Does that include befriending the neighborhood home-wrecking Betty Crocker?”

“That’s especially something I’ve never done before, so cheers to both of us for stepping outside our normal lives.”

Noah and I clink plastic cups and I take a sip from my margarita.

“I don’t listen to gossip. There’s always another side to every story,” he says. “All I know is that I met you, I like you, you’re unbelievably talented, plucky, and you look great in a pair of jeans. That’s all I need to know. And,” he says, as I sit there blushing, trying to think of something deprecating to say. “I’m really hoping that you’re going to give me a few of your recipes to take back to my restaurant, with proper credit given to Cake Pan, of course.”

“I knew it. You don’t want me. You want me lemon shortbread recipe. What a cad.”

We both laugh, and there’s no denying that this is a date. He’s got his hand on my knee and my cheeks are warm from both the tequila and the flirting.

I can’t stop grinning. And it feels right.

“Wait a minute, before I forget, what happened with Samantha? You had her running scared in one minute.”

“I told her that I understood she was very upset with what you had done and that you were possibly a threat to all that is good and Godly in society,” Noah explains.

“Thanks a lot.”

“I also told her that rumors do get around and that, in fact, I had heard that she was sleeping with the Farmer’s Market honey bee keeper. A woman. And a Buddhist.”

Noah gives me a wicked grin and I’m too shocked to say anything, so instead I burst into peals of laughter.

“NO!”I push him playfully. “Is it true? Please tell me it’s true. It’s just so juicy?”

Shaking his head yes, Noah reaches out and slides me right up against him so he can cover my mouth with his hand as I cackle loudly. Suddenly being that close to him takes my giggles away, and I can’t remember what I was laughing about. All I can think about is how close his lips are to mine.

“Yes, it’s true, but it’s your secret weapon, so use that information wisely,” Noah warns, his hand still covering my mouth and his other arm around my waist pulling me close to him.

“Mmmffffpphhff,” I try to answer back.

“I’m going to let go now,” he says, slowly removing his hand from my mouth. “Behave yourself.”

“Noah. That’s the best piece of gossip I’ve heard in years.” Well, well, little miss pearls and Ann Taylor silk skirts has a female lover. People never fail to shock me. “How did you find out?”

“I have my ways. You know what a gossip mill Crystal Cove is, remember?”

“Oh yes. You see all and know all at The Cove,” I snicker. Noah leans down to grab his jacket that fell off the table, and I spot his peach tattoo peeking out from his sleeve.

“That’s a great tattoo, when did you get it?”

“When I was twenty-two and leaving Lodi to move to Europe, I wanted to always remember where I came from, so a peach was perfect.” Noah touches his tattoo fondly and lifts his sleeve so I can get a closer look.

“Are you always so sweet, or do you also have a secret life I am unaware of?” I say jokingly. But there’s a part of me trying to find out what his secret is. Seems like everyone I know has something they are hiding, dodging, or trying to forget.

“What you see is what you get. I work very hard to keep things simple. And on that note, how about we go have a few more margaritas and play a rousing game of darts. Simple fun. Maybe I can get you to join me in a little off-key karaoke?”

“Deal,” I say, and we shake hands firmly. He pulls me up from my chair and we make our way back to the bar where a rowdy rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” has the bar in a very loud sing along.

Being here with him, drinking margaritas under the fall moon with the smell of wood burning from bonfires on the beach, I feel the smallest ember of possibility beginning to kindle. And that’s something I haven’t felt in an extremely long time.

“You go get us a dart board, and I’ll be back with more drinks,” he says loudly as we enter Coral Reef and are instantly swept into the noise of the bar. Noah disappears into the mob of people, and I make my way to the back of the bar where the dart boards and pool tables are, away from the main room and the screeching wails of the drunken karaoke singers.

I take a quick step outside onto the patio and relish the sound of quiet, craving the comfort of my cozy apartment. I’m getting old, I think, just as I feel a tug on my hand and I spin around with a smile on my face.

“That was fast!”

But it’s not Noah with the drinks. It’s Josh.

“You?” I snap angrily. “I don’t want Noah to see you and think there’s something going on, so please leave.”

“He’s still in line, don’t worry.” Josh looks over his shoulder and shifts uncomfortably under my angry stare.

“Food for the mother-to-be?” I ask snidely when I notice his take out bag, and I regret showing any emotion. I pull my arms up tightly against myself, hoping it will keep the anger I feel from spilling out into disappointed tears.

“I don’t want to upset you. I just saw you and wanted to say hello. I still want to be your friend, if that’s ever possible. I want you to be happy. I really do.”

“Josh, you are clueless. You really are. You have no idea what is happening in my world, do you? Do you know that Samantha Tate showed up at my shop today with a sign that called me a home-wrecker? A home-wrecker, Josh. That’s what people are calling me. My reputation is ruined, you came in and muscled your way into the Hemsley wedding and now you want to be my friend? No thanks. With friends like you…”

I don’t even finish my sentence because I see Noah headed in our direction. But he’s been pulled into a conversation with a group of drunk girls who have him circled him like their prey.

“I better go,” Josh says finally.

“Nothing to say? How like you. Good night, then. Enjoy your tacos.”

Josh runs his hands through his hair like he does when he’s trying to solve a problem. “I…” he stammers.

Waiting for him to say something, I wonder if he’ll finally give me some kind of closure that I’m looking for— anything, even if it’s a simple, “I don’t love you,” would work for me at this point.

“I’ll see you at the wedding, Indira.”

***

“My wife.”

He said it just as I took a bite of a Vietnamese crunchy spring roll. I instantly stopped chewing, but knew it was a joke. It had to be because what would I be doing on a date with a married man?

So I smiled and giggled, pointed at him like he’d just told me the most fantastical story I had ever heard, and he gave me the sweetest smile. The same one that made me a babbling idiot whenever he came around me.

But wait…he said it again.

“My wife. She found our beach bungalow in Laguna that we were able to get for a steal. It was a friend of a friend who’d gotten deported back to Italy and they needed a quick sell—Portofino. You been? It’s gorgeous. A fishing village. But my wife, she’s actually from the countryside. “Though, she’s more of a city girl and hates the idea of ever being near a farm again.”

I let him go on for five minutes. I just nodded slowly as he explained how he and Eloise ended up living in this gorgeous doll house in the hillside of Laguna Beach with an amazing view from the front porch. I remember looking into his big sea-blue eyes that grew more animated as he told his story, and I felt like I was in a Peanuts cartoon. You know that part when any adult would talk, but all you could hear was, “wah, wah, wah.”

“My wife, she—”

“Wait a minute, Josh,” I interrupted. “Let’s back up here. You have a wife? What are you doing on a date with another woman if you have a wife?”

“I thought you knew,” he said innocently.

He thought I knew?
What kind of answer is that,
I nearly screamed. How he thought this was a good answer for a woman who had just shaved her legs—above the knee, thank you very much—was astounding.

“If I knew you were married, I would not be here.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out my emergency cash. A stash I always carried when out on dates because you just never knew when it would be time to go. And it was truly time to go. “I don’t date married men. It’s rule number one on my stupid-shit-not-to-do list.”

I threw a twenty down on the table.

“See you at work.” I quickly hurried out and pushed the front door open before I could change my mind, but since I didn’t have a car, I crossed the street and took a seat in front of the bus stop, waiting for #242 to pick me up and take me home.

“Give me a chance to explain!” Josh yelled from across the street. “Just five minutes,” he pleaded pitifully. “Please, Indira. If after five minutes you still want to leave, I’ll pay the check and we will never speak of this night again. I promise.”

With a sad puppy dog face, Josh stood across the street from me, his hands folded together in an altar boy position. “I will beg if you think it will help.”

“It won’t,” I yelled, but I gave him the tiniest grin.

A couple walked passed him and gave us both a knowing smile. Ah yes, two lovers quarrelling.

In one’s life story, there are scenes where you can actually see yourself making the wrong choice. You turn left instead of right, and you take one last lingering look behind you, but it’s too late. The choice has already been made. I knew I was supposed to get on that bus ride home to settle in for a night of chocolate, wine, and the Hallmark channel.

But I didn’t leave. I went back inside that restaurant with him, and I fell in love. And with each day that followed, I felt stronger and more connected to Josh. I found myself willing to accept certain terms that I normally wouldn’t, all so I could have a piece of him and a life together.

But his wife—well, she was always with us.

She was everywhere in our lives. From the color of his bedroom walls to the kitchen table where I sat every morning getting Eloise ready for school. She was on the mantle in a framed photo and in the spare bedroom where her clothes were still in the closet. I was reminded of her every time I took a shower and looked down at the tiny rubber sunflowers she had put there so no one would slip. It was a great idea, but still.

And then there was the sweater. Josh's favorite hunter green sweater that he pulled out during the fall season and wore until the beginning of spring. It was the one she bought him during their first Christmas together in Italy. I hated that sweater. Something about the way he protected it made me want to throw it in the dryer and have it become a blanket for the cat. The sweater felt like an unspoken connection he had with her, and maybe I just made it all up in my head, but it felt like a big fat piece of wool wedged between us.

When Valentina showed up at the hotel, I never told anyone this, but I was relieved. Finally, I could stop holding my breath.

The night I moved out, I took that green sweater and my toothbrush and walked out of the house. As I curved my way through the Pacific Coast canyon, the neon glow of the ocean guiding me out, what Josh had said to me continued to echo in my ears much like it did the first night I’d heard it.

“My wife.”

***

I’m holding a four-tiered wedding cake in a small pastry box trying to balance it slowly from the bakery’s kitchen out to our delivery van where Pedro is waiting with the engine running. He doesn’t get out of the car to help me even though he can see me struggling with the towering cake that sways from side to side as I walk, unsure of why this is happening. We don’t normally transport cake this way. We usually store each layer in individual boxes and put the cake together at the wedding.

I take tiny shuffles to the van, and I inch, inch, inch my way over until I’m in front of the open door. I take a deep breath and hold it in when I feel the cake wobble in my hands.