Heartbreak Cake (26 page)

“It’s perfection. I think we should serve it classic, nothing fancy. No jars, no deconstructed nothing. Let’s make a traditional three-tiered cake. I’ll make some edible sugared flowers, in red, turquoise, and a sunny yellow. But let’s just let the cake speak for itself.”

“A pure white cake with a pop of color. It will be beautifully understated.” I sigh happily.

“Excuse me.” Lindsey steps away from the corner where she’s been quietly taking notes. “I have to ask, is this the big plan? To make a cake?” She looks a little confused at all of us standing around eating left over cake.

“Well, it’s not really a plan. We’re just trying to get people focused back on what we do. Bake and create. Even you said this was amazing, right? So we just want to do what we do, and hopefully the spotlight can be taken off of me and back to the business of baking.”

“Indira, that is the most naïve thing I have ever heard.” She sets down her notepad on the table to let me know that this is off the record.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, this cake is amazing, but what people are saying about you can’t be fixed with a cake. Do you understand that? You are being judged for your bad choices. By a lot of people. And it’s not fair, but it’s happening. The wedding world is waiting for some kind of penance on your part and this cake isn’t going to suddenly make everyone forget that you had an affair with a married man.

***

“You’re where?”

“In Malibu with Noah.”

“Why aren’t you at the shop trying to salvage your business?”

Rebecca takes a big breath. I can tell she’s frustrated and trying to choose her words carefully. Although, she’s never been very good at holding back.

“Becca, listen to me. I am not doing Pedro any favors by being at the shop right now. Lindsey is with him, he’s showing her how he makes sugar flowers, which I’m sure she’s loving every minute of. When I’m around, all it does is take the focus off of him and the shop and puts it back on me. This is for the best.”

“Okay, I get that, but what in the world were you thinking announcing to thousands of people that you slept with someone’s husband? I told you to keep things upbeat and to not say anything! But you turned the Pink Sprinkle into a freaking confessional. I swear, Indira, if I was your attorney I’d quit today.”

“I wasn’t going to lie to all those people. They wanted answers, and I felt like they deserved an honest one.”

“You’ve been watching too many after-school specials. No one wants an honest answer. Deny, deny, deny.”

“Can you be my friend, Rebecca? Not an attorney, and definitely not a judge. I’m the same girl who carried you from a house party after you drank too many Jell-O shots and puked on the host. Try to remember that.”

“God, I hate that you know shit about me like that.”

“I know you do.”

“But have you seen the video? It’s gone viral. Last I looked, it had been viewed 364,000 times. That’s in a forty- eight-hour period.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Someone made a version of it with the theme song from
Titanic
.”

“The Celine Dion song?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, that’s bad in so many different ways.” I close my eyes and start humming “My Heart Will Go On.” Damn, that’s going to be hard to get out of my head now.

“Look, I have to run. Noah just came out with his mom, and we’re going to get a tour of the kitchen at Cliffside Cucina. And then I’m going to make gelato hot fudge sundaes for everyone after lunch.”

“Is that the gorgeous restaurant right up on the canyon that has a turret facing the ocean?”

“The very one.”

“Do you know that I don’t eat anywhere that doesn’t involve chicken fingers and paper menus that you can color on? Where did my adult life go?”

“I’m sure your gorgeous daughter makes it all worthwhile.”

“Yeah,” Rebecca says resignedly, but I can picture her smiling when I hear Maggie calling her “mama” in the background.

“Call me later. I have a nude two-year-old vying for my attention, but I have some ideas for you and Pedro that I want to go over with you.”

“Thanks for caring Becs. I’m sorry for not taking your counsel.”

“You went rogue on me, but I should’ve known better. Now try to stay off YouTube today.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Hanging up, I turn around and see Noah who looks sweet with his arm draped around his mom’s shoulder. She’s tall and lean just like him, with loose khakis, navy blue flats, and a crisp yellow button up shirt. She looks like an L.L. Bean catalogue model for the older set, but when I see her throw her head back and laugh, she has the same open and warm attitude her son does.

As I rush over to them, I remember what it was like to watch Josh and Eloise leave to visit his parents in the Bay Area. I was never invited to go. Josh always told me how complicated it would make things for his parents.

Just as I reach Noah, his mom gives me a warm smile and leans over to give me a hug. And there’s nothing complicated about it.

***

I take the last bite of the homemade rigatoni ricotta I ordered for lunch and sigh happily.

There’s nothing like playing hooky from life and spending it seated in an 18th century balcony that faces the ocean with a table full of delighted people who have no idea who I am outside of the “new” girl Noah brought to lunch.

All my problems feel far away.

I lean over and whisper into Noah’s ear, “I’m glad I came out here with you. This is a great way to spend the afternoon.”

“It’s the Italian way,” he says with a content smile. “Food, friends, and family.”

I think of Rebecca and vow to bring her here for a girls’ day out. She will love it, and I’ll let her drink as much as she wants.

“So has Noah told you about how his grandma taught him to cook?” His mom scoots her chair over to us and plants her elbows on the table.

“He’s told me a bit about his Nonna.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be embarrassed?”

“What’s to be embarrassed about? This little guy loved working side by side with her. He wore the cutest apron, and he would wash all the fruits and vegetables while she talked about everything she was cooking.

“She took me to the kitchen because she was scared that I was going to end up in the orchards with my grandfather,” Noah laughs.

“Well, she didn’t want him to be a farmer. She said it was hard work that involved getting up before the sun.”

“I can assure you, Noah hardly ever sees the sun before 10 a.m., so please let his grandma know her dream came true,” I say.

Mrs. Cavatelli laughs and wags her finger at Noah, who preens under his mother’s attention. It’s clear how much they enjoy one another as friends, and how easy it was to give up his seaside bistro in Italy when it came to family.

I give Noah a big grin and he takes my hand, keeping it right there snuggled in his for the rest of lunch while he and his mom talk about the Peach Keeper’s move from greasy spoon to gourmet destination.

I can’t help but let my heart swell with hope. This is so simple, so easy, and so effortless. As it should be.

“Indira, did you know that Noah’s first love was peaches? We couldn’t pry him away from the orchards during peach season. He would be out there with his grandfather and Teodora all day long, picking peaches and trying to find the best and sweetest ones.”

“I thought I’d follow in my father and grandfather’s footsteps and become a farmer. But then my Nonna showed me how to turn a sweet peach into a gallette, eggs into omelets, and a chicken into a pot pie. It changed my world.”

“Who’s Teodora?” I ask Mrs. Cavatelli, who looks at me with such surprise that I turn around to make sure there isn’t something sneaking up behind me.

“Noah, you haven’t told her about Teodora?”

I think I just found out who the “T” in his peach tattoo belongs to.

“Mom,” Noah says sharply. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. Let’s enjoy our day.”

His mother looks at him confused, and I can tell she’s wondering if she should drop the subject or push him, but given the scowl on Noah’s face, she drops it.

The server comes around and picks up our plates and lets me know I can head to the kitchen to set up the sundaes whenever I’m ready. Perfect time to exit the awkward mother and son moment.

“Sorry, Indira, sometimes I say too much. How about we go and make those sundaes, I’d love to help you,” Mrs. Cavatelli offers.

“Mom, I’m sure Indira wants to work alone. You know how it is,” Noah says to her gently.

But his mother ignores his suggestion and heads toward the kitchen. I give Noah’s hand a squeeze. “I could use the help. We’ll be right back.”

***

Teodora.
The girl in me wants to know everything I can about her. But the woman in me has a bad feeling about Noah’s reaction. What kind of name is Teodora? God, why am I picturing a Grecian goddess in a toga? That’s all I need. Another ghostbusting job with some guy who is hung up on his ex. Who you gonna call?

Not this girl. Not this time.

Mrs. Cavatelli works quickly and with a comfortable ease in the kitchen, much like her son. She talks to me about how much she misses working at the Peach Keeper full-time, but her husband and Noah both won’t let her work more than two days a week. And if she sneezes, she’s out for the week.

“Noah told me you’re a marvel with pastry,” she says as I lay out all the ingredients on the kitchen station.

“I like having fun. It’s dessert! This is just a simple play on the traditional hot fudge sundae, but it’s my homage to Italy. First, I add a scoop of Espresso gelato for the base, a scoop of vanilla bean, and then a dollop of mascarpone cinnamon cream.”

I hand Mrs. Cavatelli a squeeze bottle with hot fudge. “Squeeze,” I instruct, and she timidly squeezes a speck of chocolate on top of the cream. “Mrs. Cavatelli, I know you want more than that. It’s chocolate, not medicine.”

She generously pours the fudge until it starts to look like soup.

“Perfect.”

We add fresh strawberries and pistachios and sprinkle the top of each sundae with candied espresso beans for crunch.

“That’s a serious sundae.”

“If you’re going to have a sundae,
just do it
. Don’t try and make it healthy. Don’t try and make this a parfait. It’s not.”

“I can see you’re just as passionate as my Noah is. He gave me the same lecture, but for heavy cream and bacon fat.”

“He’s a good man, your son. A damn fine man.” Laughing, we put the sundaes on serving trays and slowly walk back to the lunch party where Noah and Mrs. Cavatelli’s friends are waiting for the last course.

“I can see why Noah wanted me to meet you,” Mrs. Cavatelli says as we leave the kitchen and slowly make our way through the restaurant carrying our trays. “You’re the first woman Noah has brought around since…well, a long time. And it is really a pleasure to see him happy. It’s been something his father and I have hoped he would let himself have again. We tried to fix him up with one of our friends’ daughters when he moved home, and he nearly went back to Italy after that stunt, so we stay out of his personal life.”

“Has it been since Teodora? I give Noah’s mom the look. The woman-to-woman look that says I know what’s up, lady, so just fess up.

“Yes, since Teodora.” She looks guiltily toward the table where everyone is waiting. “She was his childhood sweetheart and she broke his heart over and over again. But please don’t tell him I said anything. He’s just too soft- hearted for his own good.”

“I won’t say a peep, Mrs. Cavatelli. And I can tell he’s a good guy. Trust me, I’ve had my share of bad peaches.”

We get to the table and his mom’s friends all chatter happily and burst into giddy applause as we set down the sundaes. I note that Noah is looking out into the ocean quietly, the carefree smile he wore all afternoon nowhere to be found.

“Oh my! I’ll have to skip dinner and possibly breakfast tomorrow, but it’s so worth it,” says Mrs. Barbera, owner of the Cliffside Cucina. You can tell she keeps herself in tip-top Malibu Housewife condition, with plenty of early morning Cardio Kickboxing and rosewater facials that keep her looking so fit.

“Indira, we may have to make this a permanent part of our menu. People will love this. It’s so playful.”

“Just let me know and we can put recipes together for you, Mrs. Barbera. Gratis, of course. Just give Cake Pan a nod in your menu, and it’s yours.”

“Cake Pan? I feel like I’ve heard that name recently…” Mrs Barbera drums her fingers on the table, shoving a spoonful of gelato in her mouth.

“Heavenly,” she drawls. “Oh wait a minute, now I remember.” She snaps her fingers. “I was reading somewhere about the owner of a bakery who sleeps with her grooms. Can you believe that? How awful? I remember the name of the shop being called Cake Pan…”