Heartbreak Cake (20 page)

been quietly demoted from their position as lead baker for Celebutante Stephanie Hemsley’s wedding that is becoming the LA wedding of the season.

Speechless, I reread the post two more times, hoping to find something redeeming buried underneath the snark and innuendos. But no. It’s mean. It’s erroneous. And the worst part? The part that makes me feel sick to my stomach?

There is some truth to it.

“Indira, I want you to see one more thing, just so you can get an idea of what we are up against. And who the puppeteer is here.”

Scrolling down the page, Pedro stops at a Crystal Cove logo that sits at the end of the article about Cake Pan and it reads,
Paid Sponsor
.

“Wait, did Josh pay for this article?”

“I don’t know, Indira, but Crystal Cove is now an advertiser for Wedding Belles? Is that a coincidence? Or is it Josh?”

“He wouldn’t. He knows how much Cake Pan means to me,” I sputter.

But is it possible that I never knew him? Of course it’s possible.

Speechless, I get up from my chair, not sure if I should run, hide, or scream. So instead I just walk over to Pedro, who looks just as upset as I do, and he hugs me while I cry.

I cry about Josh and how everything has gone to shit. I think about Pedro and how disappointed he should be, yet here he is being the best friend a girl could ever ask for. And I think about all of our regulars at Cake Pan, who are going to think I’m the worst person and how can I explain to each one of them that I made a mistake. A mistake from the heart.

But worst of all, I cry because it doesn’t even matter what’s true or not. Everyone in the wedding world knows. Or they think they know. Every coordinator, florist, photographer, food stylist, dietician, hotel owner, and worst of all, every bride, just read this about the shop we all worked so lovingly to create.

“It’s not that bad.” Pedro pats my shoulder encouragingly.

“Please, this is not the time to get optimistic on me! Did you not read what they wrote? It’s worse than I ever thought possible. I had no idea Josh or Valentina were capable of full-on bridal wars. Had I known, I would’ve just stayed with Josh, being his secret girlfriend. It’s better than this. Now I’m going to lose you and Cake Pan while I’m at it.”

Looking back at the blog post, I start sobbing again as I notice that there are 143 comments from readers who all have plenty to say. And it’s only 1 p.m.”

“Don’t read the comments.” Pedro gently guides me away from the computer. “They don’t know you. They don’t know the whole story.”

“This is the end. We are done. I will have to close the shop, and I won’t even be able to get a job at Motel 6 making cinnamon toast after this.”

“I think it’s time for us to get in the ring and fight back. They’re attacking our business and we’re losing. Is that what you want?”

“Well, no. But what can I do? I can’t stop them from writing things about me.”

Pedro looks grim, but gives me a knowing, tiny smile. “No, but we need to really go big at Stephanie’s wedding. All eyes will be on us. And on you. This will be our one place to tell our side of the story. And, don’t forget.
The New York Times
writer is still coming. She actually called this morning asking for a few recipes. We have to be careful with this. We can’t lose the article. We can still tell the business side of our story if we handle this right.”

“If she hasn’t already read about this and cancels.”

“I doubt she’d cancel. If I was a writer, I’d want to come and dig for more information. It’s a good story.”

“Thanks a lot.” He’s right, and I know it. If I was reading this online, I’d be lapping it up like a soap opera.

“You have any ideas?” I ask Pedro, after we sit in silence staring at the article. I know the ideal thing to do is to be honest, focus on the business of baking. But I’d love to beat Valentina at her own dirty and manipulative game. “I think I may have an plan, but I need to make a couple of calls to get started. Can you trust me, even though I suck right now?”

“Of course. We’re family.” Pedro gives me a hug and walks to the door. “Family makes mistakes. Although, this is more like a natural disaster than a mistake, but that’s okay.” He smiles at me, and walks out, but then quickly comes back. “Promise me that you won’t do anything we will regret, see in the news, or involve me bailing you out of jail.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t get any sneaky ideas. Let’s just take the high road.”

Pedro and all of his token clichés that he really loves to use. If he tells me to let go and let God, I will scream.

“I promise, Pedro. I won’t do anything to endanger our business any further. I’m just trying to focus on what we do best.”

“Kick Ass Baking,” we both cheer, and even though we are smiling, I can’t tell who’s trying to hide our fear more—him or me—but that’s what we do. We rally, even when it hurts.

He gently closes the door behind him, and the minute I hear the click of the door latch, I leap out of my chair to grab my phone.

First I text Simon.

Anything yet? We really need your help!

Then Rebecca.

I need legal advice, call me immediately.

And even though I know I shouldn’t, I text Josh.

Have you seen Wedding Belles? If I go down, you are coming down with me.

And the last person I need to talk to requires a phone call. Punching in the number I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temple.

“Allo?”

“Hi, Dad. You got a minute?

***

The last time I had Tres Leches cake was on my 12th birthday.

I had spent the night before helping my dad with
Mamita’s
Tres Leches cake, a recipe she had inherited from her Nicaraguan mother who got it from her mother who actually learned how to make it from her neighbor who was from the Yucatan.

Needless to say, the recipe had generational street cred, and my father wanted to give me the gift of an heirloom recipe. He went on and on about the importance of family ties through food.

Sitting on a kitchen stool, I happily watched him split open a vanilla bean into two halves and gently scrape seeds from the pods, the sweet scent of buttery vanilla enveloped us both, and my mouth watered with anticipation.

He combined evaporated milk, sweet condensed milk, and heavy cream into a ceramic Easter-egg-blue bowl and whirled it around with a hand whisk while he added the vanilla seeds. He told me stories of his birthday party’s
Mamita
and his aunts would throw for him and his cousins in Nicaragua—that always ended with a towering Tres Leches cake. His mom’s recipe was legendary and now he finally had it, and it could be mine to make for my kids one day.

He poured the sauce over the two layers of airy sponge cake that had been cooling on the counter, and then we stood back and stared at it. We tilted our heads to the left and then to the right. No one wanted to say out loud that the cake looked like a mess.

It was slanted, crooked, and looked more like a bread pudding than a birthday cake. But I had stolen a taste with my finger, and the sweetness lingered in my mouth. It was the first time I’d realized that things didn’t always have to look good to taste amazing.

“Thanks Papi, it’s beautiful,” I said to him, and I meant it, especially the next morning when we pulled it out of the refrigerator and it had firmed up, resembling more of a cake than a mushy soup. My mom decorated it with fresh strawberries, put a “1” and “2” candle on top of it, and then showered it with rainbow sprinkles.

When it was time to bring out the cake, my mother asked me to go find my dad, who had disappeared in the crowd. He was probably in the garage, smoking a cigar, I thought, as I darted through the house and pushed open the door to find him kissing our neighbor, Mrs. Pasquel.

She was the only person I knew who called him “Iggie.” Not even my mom called him that. It was always Ignacio.

So when I heard her say “Iggie” between breathless giggles, I knew it was her before I saw them. I stood there for a second not sure if I should scream “stop” or say something. Instead, I quietly backed out of the garage, went back to the party and told my mom that dad was on the phone.

But she looked at me funny because there was only one phone in the house, and it was in the kitchen. Where she was.

I don’t remember much about that birthday afterward, just how I felt standing in front of my cake while everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” My dad sneaked up on the crowd and joined in on the singing, clapping enthusiastically and smiling. I saw the way Mrs. Pasqual stared at him, but he stared at mom. I didn’t understand how he could look at my mom that way, but kiss Mrs. Pasqual.

Now watching him from the comfort of my car, he sits outside Felix’s Cuban Bistro drinking his espresso and smoking a cigar. He wears a form-fitted tweed blazer, his black hair covered in salt and pepper, making him look distinguished and handsome in that way that men do when they age. His bifocals hang on the tip of his nose while he reads the newspaper. He is every inch a college professor, and it’s no wonder the coeds love him.

“I thought you were giving up your
cigaros,
Dad. You promised.”

I pull out a chair at the bistro table and take a seat in the slender wire chair. The waiter who knows us heads to the bar to grab two cold glasses of white wine and puts in our order for steak sandwiches and
tostone
s.

Felix’s has been a family place for as long as I can remember, and it continued to be the only place that we liked to meet to catch up.

But the last year, our relationship has been even more estranged and distant.

I’m not sure why, but my angry feelings toward Josh made me also feel angry at my dad. Both of them unable to live up to my dreams. But I have a misplaced loyalty for both of them, which just annoys me.

“I will give up
cigaros
, if you give up Josh.”

My father folds his paper and sets it down on the table. I roll my eyes. How like him to just go straight for the jugular.

“So that’s how we’re beginning lunch? Wonderful. How about we tone it down and start over again. How are you, Dad? I heard you’re dating Katherine Peeples. What is she? 25?”

“Wait a minute, you can’t start lunch that way either. Not fair!” But my dad laughs and I see the delight in his eyes. He loves it when I saunter back with just enough bite to make it interesting.

“Now, what’s going on with Cake Pan? Your mom tells me that you’re having serious troubles at the bakery. You want to fill me in?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say serious troubles…maybe, marginally serious,” I correct. “ We’ve had several cancellations.” I tug on my hair nervously, and my father swats my hand, just like he used to when I was girl.

“Tell me, Indira.”

“Well, there was an article that came out today that has really put a big dent on my reputation. And the bakery. I need something…that will put the spotlight back onto the business. Not me.”

“I see? So how do I come in?”

“Can you get me
Mamita’s
Tres Leches cake recipe?” My father looks confused. “The one I made for your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“You hate Tres Leches. You wouldn’t even eat it at your birthday party. I tried, but you refused it. I remember because I was really disappointed.”

“The cake was amazing, Dad. What I hated was you and Mrs. Pasqual.”

“Who?”

“Mrs.Pasqual. She was Annie’s mom, who lived three doors down from our house in Hancock Park?”

My father looks up at the sky pretending to pull a memory. I can see in his face he knows exactly who I’m talking about.

“Yes, I remember Mrs. Pasqual,” he says quietly.

“I saw you. I saw you with her on my birthday.” It’s been twenty-five years since I saw him with her, but a lump curls in my throat, and I’m on the verge of tears as I recall the excited little girl who went in search of the man who’d made her cake.

“I always suspected you may have. I saw your pink dress slip quickly out of the door.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

“I thought it would be better to let it go. Just to be there for you, and hopefully, you would know it didn’t mean anything. But you were never the same, and then everything with your mom fell apart. And there just never seemed like a good time to bring it up again.”

Leaning back in his chair, my handsome father takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes like a tired child. It’s a rare time when my dad isn’t attempting to charm his way out of something.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. “For?”

“All of it. For not being the father you needed when you and your brother should have had one. For letting you down, and for possibly being the reason why you have the worst taste in men.”