Heartbreak Cake (30 page)

For most of the wedding, I was too busy enjoying myself to think about Josh, Valentina, or Noah. I left a message on his voicemail, apologizing for how complicated my life was and told him that I hoped to still see him one day over a plate of peach flapjacks. Who knows? Love is all about timing sometimes.

And my timing seems to really suck these days.

By mid-morning, word had spread that Noah had stepped down as the Chef in Residence, and Josh had also put in his notice that he would be leaving Crystal Cove as Director of Food and Beverage all in one swoop.

Samantha Tate, was the first person to call me to apologize for her behavior the last month. It was her call that made me realize I would be accepted back in by my peers. I'd been forgiven, not because of Josh or Noah. But because, of me, Pedro and our business. It certainly didn’t hurt that there was some rumbling of scandal at Crystal Cove that was taking the heat off of me. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure if I'd be able to forgive everyone as easily. They had all turned on me so quickly, and it was painful to know that the friendships I had depended on were really so shallow.

I didn’t know where Josh was going, which was a first, but it was also a good time to just let it all go. The only person I wished I could say goodbye to was Eloise. She was so young and had already had a few different people leave her, but Josh was a great father, and I knew he would make a good life for her. He had thought he'd made the best choice for his daughter, and that was what mattered most. She was his priority.

“Excuse me, miss, would you like a pillow?” A cute flight attendant gives me a relaxed smile as he holds up a small pillow.

“I’d love one.” I set my magazine down on my lap.

He fluffs the pillow before setting it behind my neck securely. “I saw you reading and thought this would be better for you. We have a long flight to France. You don’t want to cramp your neck.”

“I’m sure I’ll be plenty relaxed.” I point to my cheese plate and the plastic cup of wine I'm sipping on. “But thanks for the pillow. It will be perfect when the movie starts.”

“Oh yes, everyone loves when we play
Under the Tuscan Sun
. I think it gets everyone motivated and ready for love in Europe.”

“Not me. I’m looking for coffee and croissants.”

“Sounds like love to me, sweetie.”

He leans in and takes a peek at the
New York Times Magazine
that’s open on my lap.

“You reading about cakes? That’s a gorgeous one. What is it?”

“That is a Tres Leches cake with sugar flowers.”

“Looks scrumptious.”

“It was.” I say with a soft smile on my face. “Good article?”

“A surprisingly wonderful article.”

I think back to Lindsey who never asked me any questions about Josh or Noah. She surprised me by coming into the shop a few days after the wedding to give me a big hug and thank me for letting her intrude on my personal space.

She was flying back to New York with Simon. The two of them wanted to spend more time together before he went back to London.

“I’ll go get you some headphones. The movie is going to start in fifteen minutes. More wine?” the cute flight attendant asks.

“Keep it coming.”

I close my eyes, and the plane’s gentle turbulence feels like the beginning of a roller coaster ride. I try not to think about how much I'm going to miss Cake Pan, Pedro, and Rebecca. A week after Stephanie’s wedding, I sat in my apartment, which was entirely packed. The only room untouched was my kitchen. The oddest thing about it is that I had no idea where I was going. I just knew it was time to go.

I called Bea and she answered the phone on the third ring, sounding very French over the crackle of an international call.

“Allo!” she barked.

“Bonjour, Bea. It’s me, Indira,” I said and smiled when I heard the whir of the espresso machine in the background.

I asked her if I could come and work as a baker in her kitchen for a while. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay, I told her. I just knew it was time to spend a little time in the kitchen that had healed my heart so many years ago.

“But of course,” she said without hesitation.

Everything fell into place quickly in the few weeks since Stephanie’s wedding. Pedro understood and told me to come home when I was ready, he would manage the shop while I was gone, and I was to just go take care of myself. I helped find him a catering manager, and Rebecca was going to handle PR and paperwork for a while since she wasn’t going to be going back to work as a lawyer. Seems she was pregnant with baby number two, and her litigation days were going to be saved for her growing babies that would soon be argumentative toddlers. I was very confident that she would whip everyone at Cake Pan into shape, as well as scare a few people.

I lean back into my chair and take a bite of my brie, salami, and whole wheat cracker sandwich and watch the opening credits of
Under the Tuscan Sun
, Diane Lane’s face coming onto the screen.

Everything is going to be fine. I just know it.

Chapter 23

Three Years Later…

Rebecca knocks loudly on the glass door, her face pressed against it, giving me an excited smile.

Of course she’d be here, I think, as I wipe the flour off my hands and onto my apron. I pad over to the front door and unlock it.

“Do you sleep? Or have you completely given up on it?” I point to my watch. “I can’t believe you’re here. It’s six-thirty. I don’t open for another half hour.”

“Once you have kids, your time is not your own. With Maggie it was bad enough, but now with Maxwell? I’m lucky if I get five minutes to myself in the bathroom. Richard is on baby duty because he knew I had to be here.” She comes in and shakes her red hair loose from the beanie she’s wearing.

“How could I miss being here for the first day you open? It looks gorgeous, Indira. You and your parents did an amazing job.”

We stand in the middle of my new croissant shop in the foothill community of Altadena, just east of Pasadena. After living in France, I moved back home with my mom, not really feeling like I belonged in Long Beach anymore. And this shop was an American version of Bea’s place in the South of France. Small but mighty. Not a lot of frills, but an espresso machine that made coffee magic, and plenty of fresh croissants.

I moved back to America after spending two years with Bea, perfecting the art of croissant making and learning how to bake like a true Parisian. Which really just meant a lot of swearing and using almonds in everything I could, but I also finally accomplished the classic croissant.

Years ago, I had found myself unable to recreate Bea’s butter croissants no matter how many times I tried. But this time, I had lived enough, and maybe had my heart broken enough, to pour my soul into my baking.

Bea grabbed my hands after I made my first batch and said, “I told you you had the heart of a baker.” She clapped loudly and took another bite of the croissant. “Heaven,
amie!
Pure heaven. Now make me three dozen of these because people are going to love them!”

And love them, they did. We began to sell them to restaurants, ship them to shops in Italy, Austria, and Germany. Simon did a segment on the bakery, and Lindsey, who by then worked in the London bureau of the
New York

Times
and lived with Simon, wrote a story on a former Los Angeles baker who had won over the Parisians with her French croissants with an American disposition.

I did miss LA. I also missed my mom and dad, who had started dating each other despite loud protest from me and my brother Glenn. I missed Pedro and Rebecca, who were running circles around the wedding world now that they'd joined forces. I could hear how much fun they were having every time we chatted, and it only confirmed that everything did turn out for the best.

When it was time to go back and start over again, I knew that returning to Cake Pan no longer felt right. So I just waited, working on the online business for Bea’s shop and setting up business meetings for her new location in Paris. Bea was finally leaving Nice, and she was ecstatic to head back to the city.

I was out for a walk with my mom in downtown Altadena one day when we came upon a small stretch that seemed to have a life of its own. Next to a couple of new bars, a pizzeria, and a vintage shop, there was a small 600 square foot shop that seemed like a great spot for a little European-style coffee house that served nothing but fresh croissants.

My mom looked at me and said, “Do it,
beti.
You can do it. Your dad and I will help you.”

We refinished the wood floors, and they're now a rich dark mahogany. We painted the walls a creamy white and the outside frame of the shop a pale yellow, the color of buttercream. The store sign was made of turquoise wood letters and simply read: Butter.

And here we are, opening day. I’ve barely slept the past three days while preparing the kitchen, but I've never felt more exhilarated. It reminds me of when we opened Cake Pan. But this time, I'm not doing it to escape anyone. This is just for me.

My mother and father are wearing aprons and ready to work. My brother Glenn said he and his family would stop in this weekend. Pedro and Sofia are heading in after their morning rush at the bakery. And Simon and Lindsey will come by next month, after Simon wraps up filming for his show and Lindsey is done with her big exposé on Foie Gras in France.

“You ready to do this?” My dad claps his hands enthusiastically and rubs them together. “We have all the croissants out. I didn’t know that you could make so many. I thought there was just one, and maybe a chocolate one, but you have six different flavors for every day of the week. I never knew.”

“I know, papa, that’s what makes us so special,” I say. “And you've really been a great taste tester, by the way.”

“I’m going to lose my girlish figure,” he says, touching his belly.

“Never!”

“It’s 7 a.m.,
beti
, unlock the doors,” my mom shouts nervously from the kitchen. “We don’t want to be late.”

Rebecca unlocks the door and lets the small group of runners who have been waiting outside in.

“Good morning. Welcome to Butter,” I say warmly, excited to already have people inside, their faces pressed against the pastry case, gasping over the croissants.

“We’ve been waiting for you to open,” says one of the runners as he orders a latte and a Nutella croissant from my mom.

“Who’s we?”

“The community,” he explains, and takes a cautious sip of his coffee. “We’ve been watching you in here working and getting things ready. It looks wonderful,” he says. “We were so worried that we were going to get a discount mart in this spot. We were overjoyed when we heard someone of your baking caliber was opening a shop here. It’s not the most obviously hip place in Los Angeles.”

“No, and that’s what I like about it.” I smile at him. “I was looking for a nice community, and this seemed perfect.”

Our doors were busy most of the day as locals came by to welcome us to the neighborhood, which reminded me a lot of when we opened Cake Pan. The camaraderie and excitement from a neighborhood that was invested in seeing their town grow. It feels good to be back here, I think to myself while in the middle of making one last batch of chocolate croissants before we close for the day.

The tinkle of the front doorbell and the scurry of a child’s impatient feet draw my attention, and I look up from brushing egg wash on pastry dough to see a little girl with long honey blonde hair, who looks about nine years old. She’s wearing a yellow polo shirt, a khaki knit blazer, and a pair of navy blue slacks. Looks like a school uniform, I think, as I search her face and see the deep dark ocean blue eyes that I could never forget.

They’re just like her dad’s.

“It smells like heaven in here. Do you remember me?” Eloise asks shyly.

How could I forget her, I want to say, but I step away from my work station to walk over to her so I can give her a hug.