Heartbreak Cake (6 page)

We broke up before we left for our next stop in the Netherlands. He was disappointed that I was trying to box him in, and I was angry that he was an asshole and not an evolved man. He left the next morning for Amsterdam with the red head and it crushed me.

I made a detour to the South of France where I planned to indulge in an epic breakdown that only the French could appreciate or support with enough chocolate and carbs to get me through international heartbreak.

On my first morning in the seaside town of Nice, I woke at 6 a.m. to the smells of cinnamon and sugar coming from the bakery just below my small hotel, and it was intoxicating. I followed it like it was the Pied Piper.

I ordered from the bakery shopkeeper by pointing to my nose, then to my mouth, and she understood and set down a warm croissant and Mason Jar of blackberry jam. It seemed a tad cliché, but you don’t question the French, especially when it comes to food.

I took a seat at the uncomfortable wrought iron bistro table and slathered jam on the warm croissant, took a distracted bite as I thought about Jake, and was hit with a wallop of instant flavors so intense it impulsively made me close my eyes so I could feel what I tasted.

Sugar, hints of cinnamon, fresh ripe boysenberries that tasted like the actual fruit…but the star of the show was butter—creamy and sweet, savory and salty and perfectly transformed into this piece of delicate puff pastry.

I opened my eyes to see the smug shopkeeper watching me, but was pretending to towel the bistro table next mine.

“Bon, no?” she asked. “Oui, awesome good.”

“Yes, I know.”

Her name was Bea and she had unknowingly become my pastry Sherpa.

With nothing else to do, I found myself curing my insomnia by heading down to the shop and waiting for Bea to let me in like a stray cat looking for a scrap of food. She would seat me in the corner of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, and I’d take notes while she explained each move she made as if she was on the Cooking Channel.

She’d grow quiet and focused, and I’d marvel at her precision and strength while she folded layers of dough like pages from a book, liberally brushed egg wash on rustic tarts, and fluted the corners of pastry with her agile fingers.

She loved what she did; spoke passionately of tarts, palmiers, the purity of artisan chocolate, and how the croissant was the show horse of any baker who wanted to display natural ability.

“The heart of a baker is a gift. You are taking a science and giving it soul—your soul, your emotions, your creativity.”

Sounded like a bunch of yogi woo-woo talk to me. But I knew Bea had something special. Everyone did, which was why there was always a line of people waiting for her to open the front door.

After a month of early mornings with Bea, I had depleted my funds and had been hiding long enough. It was time to head back home.

The afternoon I left, Bea handed me a handwritten recipe for her croissant and made me promise to never give up trying to master her recipe.

“You have the heart of a baker. Trust that. If you listen to it, it will lead you to the right place. It led you here to us, didn’t it?”

I wanted to thank her for helping me heal my first official broken heart, but mostly I wanted to thank her for helping me find a part of myself I didn’t even know existed. The summer had changed me, softened me in many ways and given me a new hunger for life.

That summer I may have lost one love, but I ended up finding my true love.

It just so happened to be butter.

***

“
Pinche madre
, why do you have a phone if you don’t check the messages?” Pedro barks at me as I step through the back door of the bakery and he plants himself in front of me.

I scowl and quickly glance at my phone to read the message, and my stomach tightens into dread.

Valentina Oliver is here. Don’t come into the shop.

“Is she still here?”

“Yes, she’s waiting for you. Seems she may know your schedule.”

“Does she now?” I bounce up on my tippy toes and peek over Pedro’s shoulder, curious to see if I can catch a glimpse of her.

“She’s not happy...don’t let her see you.” Pedro gently shoves me out of the doorway and walks me out to my car with a nervous backward glance toward the bakery. “I’ll take care of this. You just go home, and I’ll call you when she’s gone.”

Pedro’s words jolt me as I remember how Josh said the same thing to me the night I left for work and he and Valentina were meeting to talk. I never imagined that to mean a packed suitcase and a feeble apology that started with “I have to give my family a chance” after he and I had shared a life together for four years. This time, she’s here in my space, in my world—one I had created with Pedro and plenty of hard work. And she’s attempting one of her melodramatic scenes like this is one of her soap opera sets.

“Pedro, I’m sorry, but I have a few things I wouldn’t mind saying to her.” I rush past him and charge toward the front of the shop while he trails behind me. Goddamn this woman and her love of unexpected grand entrances.

“I understand you are looking for me,” I say, and am surprised that my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as I feel.

Valentina is a visual spectacle. Stunning with legs that are a mile high, generous hips and curves that make her body look like a caricature of Jessica Rabbit. Her confidence has always been unfailing, and who can blame her really. She’s intimidating, in that model-perfect way, and I’ve always have felt like an awkward, underdeveloped thirteen-year-old in her presence.

“I would like you to explain why my husband is at home depressed, and, how do you say… moping.” She spits the word out like it’s a vulgarity. “He hasn’t said more than a few words to me all day, and I have a feeling it has something to do with the more than a dozen phone calls he has made to you in the last twenty-four hours. Would you like to explain yourself?” Her eyes quickly size me up. The lone customer standing by the display of homemade jams slowly shuffles out of the shop, but not before she takes a lingering look at me.

Stand firm, I say to myself, and regret I chose this day to wear my “Hang Loose” t-shirt with a kitten hanging from a tree branch.

“Valentina, you can’t come into my bakery and make a scene like this. I don’t care what is happening in your home. This is my shop, my business, and I will make sure you don’t scare away my customers with your antics.”

“Antics? You have been sleeping with my husband, Indira, and don’t bother denying it because I’d be happy to provide you with the evidence.”

I rub my eyes tiredly, not sure how she found out, but also not willing to admit to anything. Evidence or not, I am done with all of this.

“I don’t know what evidence you claim to have or what you think has been going on with Josh, but I think your real problem is with him. Not me. So I’m not sure why you’re here. I’m not married. He is. To you. Please take your marital problems to your husband and respect my privacy.”

Valentina laughs her big soap opera laugh and gives me a look of utter contempt.

“Respect? That’s rich. Thank you for sneaking around with my husband this past year. For making him a liar and for being the reason my family has not had a good chance to come together.”

“You can thank yourself for that.” I roll my eyes, annoyed that she’s unable to take any responsibility for her own role in the unraveling of her family.

I take a deep breath desperately wanting to defend myself, to get her to see her role in this whole mess, and to get her to understand that Josh and I meant something to one another. I want to fight and yell and tell her that he was mine. Stamp my feet and scream about how she fled to Italy to become a television star and left behind a broken family. One that I picked up and put back together. And then handed straight over to her.

I have a dozen excuses as to why her husband and I ended up having an affair, which seemed like a good idea up until two days ago. But in the end, none of my excuses matter. She’s right. She’s the wife. I’m the mistress. And I can’t defend what Josh and I did.

“This is a complicated situation,” I say, choosing my words carefully, not willing to admit to anything. “Josh and I had a life together. And then it was just gone overnight. Can you understand how that could affect me or even him? We never actually fell out of love, Valentina. We just put it away and hoped it would disappear in time.”

She waves her hand dismissively and paces in front of me. Her high heels click on the tile of my flooring, and I look down at my soft, well-worn clogs that have splotches of frosting on them.

“I’m European. We know love is layered with complications. I left and he had to move on. I understood. But this relationship, the one he is carrying on with you now, whatever that may be, it has to end. I’ve been back for a year trying to show him that I have rededicated myself to him and Eloise. This is why I ignored his divorce requests when I was in Italy. I always knew I would come back. And so did he.”

I widen my eyes at her. “Excuse me?”

“Yes, of course he knew, Indira. Don’t be naïve.” Valentina looks at me like I’m a small child being told the wonders of life.

“He was always my husband. We’ve always talked about everything. He told me about you from the beginning. He told me when things started to get serious, and when he asked you to move in. I’ve known every step you two have taken. This was why I came back when I did. Things had gone too far, and it was time for me to come back and reclaim what was mine.”

My brain goes through my relationship with Josh like a silent movie in fast forward as I try to remember the moments where I could’ve seen that he was just lying to me about how he felt…about any of it.

Could she be lying? I watch her nervously strum her fingers against her hip while she walks around me.

“I guess I really never knew him,” I finally say, because regardless of what’s true or not, the Josh I knew wouldn’t have just thrown me under the bus like he did. Clearly, I don’t know Josh. I know a piece of him.

“I will fight for what is mine.” She tosses her honey- colored hair back like a model in a shampoo commercial. “I’m sure it would be very hard on you and your business if everyone suddenly knew that you like sleeping with married men, no?”

My heart stops and my whole body turns cold as I take in Valentina’s face, her eyes now smug and taunting.

“That would probably destroy my business, and Josh’s reputation,” I say flatly, trying not to let her know how much power she has over the situation. “With no proof, it would just be a rumor, though.”

“Would it? But a rumor that would be enough to get you away from my family.”

“Fighting is unnecessary. This is done. And I’m ready to move on with my life.” I follow her as she walks toward the front door, the point of her visit much clearer to me. She wasn’t here to have a cat fight. She was here to win.

“I don’t want you in this town or anywhere near my husband and family. I will do whatever I need to make sure of that.”

She slips on her oversized sunglasses for a dramatic Jackie O look and walks out the door, leaving me alone with Pedro who stands behind me protectively. As he always has.

“Is what she’s saying true?” Pedro asks, his voice tinged with disappointment and confusion.

I know he’s shocked that I would jeopardize our business. Something that had taken us so much to build and fight for is now being threatened by a hot-headed Italian wife.

“Please tell me you knew better than to get involved with a married man?”

“Josh was always married,” I say defensively. And rather lamely, since I know what Pedro is really saying.

“I knew you were acting different the last few months, but I couldn’t let myself believe that you would put our business on the line. Or yourself."

I shake my head hoping I can think straight, figure a way out of this mess. To be honest, I never really thought we’d get caught. We were so careful, so discreet. I never thought the affair would end with us getting found out.

I feel Pedro’s hand on my shoulder. “Indira?”

I still hear the concern in his voice, which only makes me cry as I crumble to the floor.

Chapter 6