The Cake Therapist (16 page)

Sam looked over at Ellen waiting for him at the center of the long table. “I think your good-luck charm worked, Grandpa.”

Back inside, while they sat down and the reception officially began, I still stood sentry by the cake, trying to make sense of what I had just witnessed. So, Ellen’s beautiful ring had originally belonged to the Habig family, to Edie and Olive. Edie had left it for Shemuel when they were running away together the day after Pearl Harbor, before she disappeared.

And then one day, out of the blue, Mrs. Amici saw that same ring on Ellen Schumacher’s hand. It must have been after the cake tasting when we all tangled with Barney’s leash out on the sidewalk. I remember now that she seemed stunned to see it when Ellen held out her hand. I had attributed it to the beauty of the ring, but it must have been shock.

If I had lost my sister seventy years ago and suddenly there was a clue to her disappearance, I’d want to know. Now it made sense that Mrs. Amici and Diane had started frequenting the bakery, probably hoping we’d talk about Ellen’s wedding or that Ellen would come in again. And it probably solved the mystery of the missing trash. They had been looking for answers in their own inept way, not for my electric bill.

When they heard Maggie and me complain about the Whyte Trash story in the
Voodoo
, they had Ellen’s name and where the wedding would be held. If they found Ellen, they would find the ring, and they had to get it back.

But did Mrs. Amici recognize Shemuel as Samuel before she fell? Did she understand that he was the last person to see Edie? Maybe he knew something that could shed light on Edie’s disappearance. Hopefully, it would still be possible for Mrs. Amici and Samuel to reconnect.

And then there was something else. I wasn’t so sure that Edie was missing so much as
hiding
. When I thought about Edie, I tasted lemon meringue pie, the sunny counterpoint to the caustic lemon flavor I had been experiencing. But what did that mean?

I sighed. My work was not yet done, neither in Olive and Edie’s troubled past nor in the bridal couple’s happy present.

The champagne toasts and the cutting of the cake passed by in a happy blur, with that buzz of delight that I wished I could put on my playlist and listen to as a wedding cake meditation for a stressed-out baker.

As soon as the banquet manager wheeled the rest of the cake back to the kitchen to be cut and served for dessert, my duty was done. I breathed a sigh of relief and satisfaction combined.

I packed up the van with the few things I had left—the tub of buttercream and a couple of tools—and wheeled the cart back to the service kitchen.

Ben came out to see me off, and I plucked a stray bit of mulch from the shoulder of his suit coat.

“Do you have any plans for later on?” I asked him. “I think we could both use a drink after this. And Finnegan’s happy hour goes until eight on Friday evenings.”

He smiled. “I thought you’d never ask. If I can escape early from my second gig, I’ll join you. I’ll text you later.”

On the way home, I tilted the rearview mirror up and caught myself smiling, which made me smile all the more.

Was it just my imagination, or did the sky look bluer, the sun brighter, the trees greener? Life in general looked better, I decided, when you had good friends and maybe the promise of more with one man in particular. It didn’t hurt to have a two-hundred-dollar tip in your purse, either. Courtesy of Sam Whyte, Senior.

“Mr. Whyte wanted me to thank you for being so kind to Olive Habig,” the wedding planner said when she discreetly handed me the envelope before I left, “and the groom said that was the best cake he had ever tasted.”

MAY 1955

Olive wrapped the meat in white butcher paper, taped the package shut, then used her red grease pencil to mark it with “cottage ham” and “2½ pounds.”

“You’ll need green beans, potatoes, and an onion with that, too, won’t you?” she asked Mrs. Schramm. “Maybe a jar of horseradish?” Everybody knew that you simmered the cured and smoked pork shoulder with the beans and onion until it was all tender, then added the potatoes to cook for the last fifteen minutes or so. Some people liked their cottage ham with yellow mustard, but Olive preferred horseradish. It livened things up.

“Oh, no. I got all of that at Alberino’s yesterday,” Mrs. Schramm said. “They were out of cottage ham.”

Olive wanted to leap over the butcher counter and smack that woman in the head with the package, but instead, she passed it across the high counter without comment. Alberino’s. That big new grocery store south on Millcreek Valley Road. You had to have a car to get there. It was too far to walk from here, then haul your groceries back.

She and Frank didn’t have a car. They didn’t need one. Everything they wanted was right here. And if, by chance, they had to go somewhere farther, they took the bus or a taxi.

Mrs. Schramm looked around the store absently, then back in the meat case. “But I do need some goetta. Maybe a pound?”

Olive took out the loaf pan of goetta. She placed a waxed paper on the scale and expertly cut the breakfast pork loaf out of the pan in one piece. “It’s just a little over a pound; is that okay?”

Mrs. Schramm nodded.

Olive knew that very few people objected to just a little over a pound. It was a way to get more from every sale.

“And does your husband like ketchup on his?” Olive asked as she wrapped up the goetta. “My Frank likes his goetta sliced thin and fried really crisp and then puts on lots of ketchup.”

“My husband likes his with extra salt,” Mrs. Schramm replied. “It’s probably not good for him, but you can’t tell him that.”

“Are you all fixed up for Friday? Maybe a tuna noodle casserole? We’ve got all the makin’s for that, too, and nothing to go bad in a few days.”

“No, I think this will be it.”

Olive painted a smile on her face as she handed Mrs. Schramm her change and heard the bell clang on the back of the door as she left.

Olive barrelled out from behind the meat counter, grabbed a feather duster, and furiously attacked the tops of cans and boxes on the shelves. Some of their Kellogg’s cereal boxes were so old, they still had Singing Lady stories printed on the back. Olive moved them to the front of the shelf. Maybe they should have a sale on cereal and get rid of these. She didn’t want any more reminders of Pickle than she already had.

If only Frank were here. Frank was nicer to customers, but they didn’t sell as much when he was in the store. He didn’t have the same knack as his father, God rest his soul. Frank was just plain nice. And Olive was grateful she didn’t have to carry the burden of their little store alone.

But it was better if Frank did the school run. He didn’t seem to mind the endless repetition, the monotony of small children. How Diane dawdled on the walk to and from kindergarten, noticing every pebble, every stray cat, every crack in the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to care how much time it took to do a simple thing like find her socks or tie her shoes. And the questions. Always questions.

Olive had about an hour before Frank brought Diane back to the store after feeding her lunch at home. It was hard to keep Diane occupied in the store. She didn’t like coloring books. She couldn’t read yet. She was always messing up Olive’s displays or getting in the way of customers. But what else could they do? Olive couldn’t wait for September when Diane would be in school all day. Then she would get the business moving again.

Since that new Alberino’s opened, Olive had noticed a drop-off in sales. Leaving Frank in charge of the store one morning, she’d taken a taxi to check out the competition.

Alberino’s was huge. At least five times the size of their corner grocery. Alberino’s had wheeled carts to get about the store, not just baskets you carried. They had a bigger selection of almost everything. Housewives with cars looked like they bought enough to last them a week. They weren’t just buying enough for a day or a meal, like Amici’s customers.

When there was no more to dust, Olive made a list with her grease pencil on butcher paper, then tacked it up in the storeroom. Under “More Selection,” she detailed “sliced white bread” and “hamburger buns” from Oster’s. Customers couldn’t get Oster’s bakery goods at Alberino’s, and having them for sale in the store would save them an extra trip. Another item on the list said “Advertise Free Delivery.” Why not remind people?

Taking stock and facing facts usually made her feel more in control. But Olive couldn’t shake the feeling that a big boulder was rolling down Benson Street hill, gathering speed, coming right at her.

“Drinks are on me!” I told Roshonda.

We were sitting at the bar at Finnegan’s, across the street from Rainbow Cake. It was the start of Friday night happy hour. It was also the end of my long, long day, but Roshonda was just getting going. She actually had a date afterward. Lucky her. Ben had texted that it was unlikely he would get away from his second gig in time to meet, so I had a date with an early night and my first sleeping pill. Lucky me.

When I caught our reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I had to say we looked pretty good. I was still in my “wedding cake lady” navy lace sheath dress with the long sleeves. Roshonda’s sleeveless dress was in that chartreuse green called “lemongrass” that looked so good against her skin. Roshonda caught me looking at us.

“You know, I could pass for Kerry Washington in this dress and you for one of those skinny women anchors on
The Today Show
. We’re gorgeous, I hope you realize.”

We both laughed, and when our glasses of wine came we clinked our “cheers.”

“So Ben had to tackle Diane Amici at the reception?” Roshonda asked, her eyes squinting as if this would make the story more believable. “At that Whyte Trash wedding at the country club,” she went on in that “just confirming this” tone she had.

I had told her all about it when I called her on the way home from the Carriage Hill Country Club.

“People have been talking about how unfair that
Valley Voodoo
story was,” Roshonda said. “People in the community genuinely like old Mr. Whyte. He’s always giving money to some cause or other.”

“Well, I know for a fact that he was generous to me today. I guess he knew Mrs. Amici’s sister a long time ago.” I didn’t explain about the ring Diane had come looking for or that old Mr. Whyte and Mrs. Amici’s sister had tried to run away together. It seemed like unnecessary gossip. And I didn’t go into my growing feeling that Edie was hiding somewhere.

“I didn’t know she had a sister. I’m sure there’s a story there, but you and I both know Diane doesn’t need any special excuse to go all unhinged like that. She’s happy to oblige for no reason at all. I swear, there’s a picture of that woman in the dictionary next to the entry for ‘menace.’ And speaking of menaces . . .” She took another sip. “Wait till you hear about my new tech entrepreneur bridezilla.” She took a longer sip. “I’m going to need a whole bottle just thinking about that girl.”

“Well, spill,” I said, laughing.

Roshonda sort of rolled her shoulders and wiggled a little bit, like she always did when she couldn’t wait to tell you something really juicy. “I’m calling her ‘Twitter,’ because she spends her entire day texting me dozens of crazy wedding ideas, each one more indecipherable than the last and all of them less than one hundred and forty characters. Her latest thing is that, instead of using boring old names on the place cards, we’re going to use selfies! So, not only do I need to collect a photo from each of the two hundred fifty people this insane person has invited to her wedding, but then, at the reception, I have to help each guest locate her own tiny face on a two-by-two card so that she can, at some point, find her table and eat her meal. It’s going to be chaos.”

“Ugh.”

“I’ve tried to explain to Twitter why this is a terrible, terrible idea, but she won’t listen to me. Maybe I should send her to you for the cake and you can text some sense into her.”

Just then, I saw another woman come in who put Roshonda and me to shame—Roberta Canfield. She sat down at a small table in the bar area. When I caught her eye, I raised my glass to her and she smiled. I hoped everything was all right. Maybe she was just getting out again after breaking up with her fiancé at the wedding cake tasting last month. Whenever I thought I had it hard in the relationship department, I thought of Roberta. How would she ever find someone? It would take an exceptional man to get over “baggage” like that.

As I smiled at her, I saw Thomas join her. He turned and looked at me, smiling nervously. I still hoped that he would find the strength to truly love her for the amazing woman she had become.

“You’re not listening to me, either,” Roshonda said.

“Sorry; I just saw somebody I knew from the bakery.”

“Here we are, out for fun, and we’re still talking about work,” she said. “For the rest of this evening, we are only allowed to discuss our personal lives.”

We clinked glasses yet again to seal the deal.

Forty-five minutes later, just as we finished our wine, Roshonda’s date showed up and she introduced us. Tall, good-looking, and dressed to impress. My, my, my.

“Remember, her curfew is midnight,” I said as I waved them off.

As I was waiting for my credit card receipt, I got a text from Ben confirming that he wasn’t going to make it.
Just as well.
I yawned.

I kept my phone with me. This was Roshonda’s first date with this guy, whose name I wouldn’t even try to remember until she had gone out with him a few times. Roshonda was picky. I had to call her in an hour to make sure everything was okay. My call would be her excuse to leave if the date had gone south.

Since I wasn’t meeting Ben, I decided to go back home.

As I rose to exit, I happened to walk out with Roberta and Thomas, who were holding hands.

“I’m so glad to see you two together again,” I said warmly.

“I was miserable without her,” Thomas confessed, bringing Roberta’s hand up to his lips to kiss it, and I saw the sparkle of a diamond ring again. “And I got to thinking that every relationship has its issues—maybe not quite like ours,” he said with a wry expression. “But we love each other and want to be together.”

“Well, come and see me again for a little cake therapy,” I said, smiling, and we agreed to set another tasting date.

The March winds had picked up and I shivered as I ran across the street. Because the day had been so cool, I had left my gear in the van parked in the bakery lot. I quickly unlocked the back door and started toting. The buttercream tub was still cold to the touch, so I put it back in the walk-in refrigerator.

I locked up the bakery and the van, then unlocked the gate to my backyard next door. Maybe if I unpacked my tote bag right away, I could hang up my chef’s jacket and it would miraculously unwrinkle. Or I could just throw it in the dryer with a damp cloth tomorrow.

At the bottom of my tote, I found an extra purse. I recognized Mrs. Amici’s handbag that I had found at the scene of her accident. In all the excitement, I had forgotten about it.

The beige leatherette pocketbook had seen better days. The metal clasp had tarnished and the corners of the purse were peeling. It looked like it was from the 1960s. Vintage, but not good vintage. Most people would have thrown it away. Nevertheless, I would have to get this back to her somehow. Ben would probably know which hospital she had been taken to.

I opened her purse to see whether she had a cell phone or her wallet inside. She would need her insurance card at the hospital. But her purse was empty except for an embroidered handkerchief, a ballpoint pen, and a distinct aroma of vinegar that made me wrinkle my nose. What had she been carrying around in there?

That simple question opened the door in my mind that I had kept firmly locked against Mrs. Amici and Diane. Unlike my wedding cake customers, whom I tried to get to know at a deep level, I had kept those two from getting in. What could be the harm in opening that door now? I wanted to know why Mrs. Amici and Diane wanted that ring so badly that they would try to tackle a bride at her own wedding. And maybe there was a reason, lodged in a story long ago, that explained why Mrs. Amici was so angry with the world. Maybe I could do something about that.

I turned on the gas fireplace in my parlor, kicked off my shoes, and wrapped the cashmere throw around me. I curled up on my comfy sofa with the phone in my lap and just watched the flames. I had to call Roshonda in forty-five minutes.

I felt myself get drowsy. I was in that half-conscious state where you’re dreaming but awake as I saw an old-fashioned gentleman who reminded me of plum and port. I saw two little girls who looked like they were from the 1930s in an old mom-and-pop grocery store. I felt a man’s hand over my mouth and the cold stones of a creek bed against my back on a dark night. I smelled a fire in a junkyard. I heard the noise of the Queen City terminal. I felt the peace of Bernadette’s grotto. None of it made much sense, but I’d learned to trust these sensations. To know they would lead me to the full story eventually.

And then I tasted the rest of the story that had been hidden in plain sight all along—one with the sour flavor of anger.

MARCH 1964

“Damn it, Diane, get down here. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

Diane heard her mother perfectly well from her bedroom upstairs. But she chose to ignore her. She’d rather listen to the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” for the umpteenth time.

It wouldn’t matter if she ran down the stairs as soon as her mother called her to dinner. It wouldn’t matter if she didn’t come down at all. The scene in the kitchen would play out the same way.

Her mother would be standing by the small kitchen table, hands on her hips. Her father would be sitting meekly, fork in the air over his plate of minute steak and peas—this was Wednesday, after all, not meat loaf night—waiting for the signal that he could start.

“Oh, go ahead, Frank. At least
your
dinner won’t be spoiled,” Olive would say acidly.

And then there would be the day’s special complaint. Maybe it was “What a mistake to finish the upstairs for that ungrateful lump of a teenager. All that beautiful white Formica with the gold flecks, the built-in shelves that took you forever to finish, even her own bathroom, goddammit. We scrimp on ourselves and spoil that girl.”

Or maybe it would be her lack of success in school. “Does that kid ever pick up a book unless I stand over her and make her read?”

Or how her father couldn’t do anything right. “It’s all down to me, all of it,” her mother would say. “Your father can hardly even do the books at the store, Diane! He gets orders screwed up when someone calls in. He gives people lamb chops instead of pork chops. He overcharges or doesn’t charge enough. And when he tries to make a delivery, he gets lost. He can’t find his ass with both hands.”

Stoop-shouldered, his eyes perpetually blinking behind his glasses, her father had faded, no doubt about it. He hardly resembled the young soldier in the black-and-white photograph.

“I wanna hold your hand. . . .”

Diane couldn’t imagine her father and mother holding hands. They could barely coexist in the same room.

“Diane!” Olive yelled again and thumped the ceiling with the stick end of a broom. “I’m on my feet all day and I can hardly get rid of the stink of meat by the time I get home,” Diane heard her mother rant. “I keep the house clean. I put a meal on the table. And Little Miss Priss thinks she’s too good to come down and join us.”

That was Diane’s cue. She galumphed down the stairs. Still in her light blue shirtwaist dress and saddle shoes from school, her short curly hair pinned back on both sides with bow-shaped barrettes, Diane quickly plopped down in her chair without looking directly at her mother.

“So glad you could join us.” Olive plunked down a plate in front of her daughter.

“I didn’t hear you, Mom.”

“Didn’t hear me!” Olive sputtered, pushed to the limit. “Well, you can hear me now. I’m leaving the dishes for you and your father. I’m going to bingo. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Olive stormed out of the kitchen. The front door slammed.

Diane started to cry. Frank patted her hand. “It’s okay, honey. Your mother has just had a bad day.”

“She’s always having a bad day,” Diane sniffed. “She doesn’t think I do anything right.”

“I know the feeling,” Frank said with a weak smile.

“She hates me.”

“No, she doesn’t, Diane. She loves you. We both love you.”

Frank finished his dinner, wiping his plate clean with a half slice of Roman Meal bread, then folded the soft bread in half, then in half again, and gently stuffed it all in his mouth.

He chewed for a few seconds, then pushed back a little bit from the table. “Do you want some lemon pie?”

Diane gulped down her dinner and a big slice of pie. She and her father cleaned up the kitchen together, enjoying the temporary calm. He washed; she dried. But even now the anger still hung in the air.

“Do you want to watch the six o’clock news with me? Topo Gigio is on
Ed Sullivan
. You always liked that little Italian mouse,” Frank asked her, turning on the television. He walked over to the worn purple chenille armchair and sunk down into it. He picked up his pipe from the end table.

“That’s okay, Dad. I’m going over to study at Helen’s house.”

Frank raised his eyebrows as he lit his pipe tobacco with the silver-plated cigarette lighter that Olive gave him long ago. “Helen O’Neil?”

“We’ve got a big geography test on Thursday.”

“Well, be home by nine, honey.”

Diane threw on her sweater and grabbed her book bag—to make it look good. She put a stick of chewing gum in her pocket for afterward. She ran the few blocks to the O’Neil house on Benson Street.