The Icing on the Cake (22 page)

“I’m, so, so sorry,” I cried. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s, all right,” Viola said quietly, her voice shaky.

“No, really, I, I . . .”

“Annabelle?”

I looked up and saw Isaac standing in front of me.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Um, I, I nearly killed Arnie,” I said, leaving out the part about Patrique hugging me and me pushing him away.

“Ah,” Isaac said as if he had knocked over a sea lion sculpture just yesterday and completely understood my predicament. “But you’re all right?”

Before answering, I quickly glanced over at Patrique. He was chatting with the tight-dressed bystander, acting as if he had nothing to do with Arnie’s near-death experience. I was angry, but at the same time glad that Isaac and I could talk without Patrique’s interruptions. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered. Then I turned to Viola. “Are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” Viola answered. “I do Pilates. It gives me good core strength.” Viola forced a smile.

“Is the sculpture okay? I mean, is there any damage?”

Viola began inspecting the sculpture. “I don’t think so.” Then suddenly she fell to her knees. I had no idea what she was doing until she whispered, “A few of his whiskers fell off.”

Viola looked up at me from her kneeling position. She held up her hands, and in them were four whiskers that had fallen to the ground. As she inspected the whiskers in her hands, her shoulders hunched forward, and she looked smaller somehow.

“I’m so sorry, Viola,” I said. “I’ll pay for the sculpture.”

“It’s all right. Maybe I can solder them back on or something,” she muttered.

“No, I’m buying
Arnie of the Sea
,” I insisted. I had just deposited a bit of money into my account, so it wouldn’t be a problem. “How much do I owe you?”

“He was priced at seven hundred seventy five,” Viola explained.

Oh. Well. I hadn’t quite deposited that much. I bit my lip.

“Will you take a post-dated check?” I asked Viola hesitantly.

“I usually don’t but . . .”

I glared at Patrique. I considered this to be just as much his fault as mine, maybe even more his fault. He should cough up some of the money.

“Patrique,” I called out, trying to snap his attention away from Miss Tiny Dress.

Patrique looked at me. Then it seemed like he noticed Isaac for the first time and a strange look crossed his face. “Yes,” he answered, raising his eyebrows.

“Do you have any money I can use to pay for Arnie?”

“All I’ve got are two twenty spots,” Patrique said, pulling two dirty, wadded twenties from his pocket.

I rolled my eyes.

“I can loan you some money,” Isaac offered.

“No, Isaac, I could never ask you to. It’s way too much.”

Isaac touched my cheek gently. “I want to help,” he said.

“Are you sure? I asked, Isaac’s touch making me feel suddenly lightheaded.

“I’m sure.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay you back when I get my check next Friday.” I sighed heavily and looked into Isaac’s eyes. “Thank you. You’re always saving me.” I threw my arms around him gratefully.

At that moment, Patrique’s attention left the woman in the tight dress, and he focused wholly on me and Isaac. He watched us with an odd, glaring look on his face. But Patrique was always making weird looks, so I just ignored it.

I
was driving to Carrie’s house for Paint and Popcorn night when my cell rang. Keeping my eyes on the road, I answered the phone quickly without checking the Caller ID. I hoped it would be Isaac. He had left the art festival early so he could go check out a photo gallery that was interested in his work, and so we hadn’t really gotten much of a chance to talk.

But it was Mom’s voice I heard on the line. “Annabelle, do you know who—”

“Oh, Mom,” I interrupted in my best voice of lamentation. “Why do these things always happen to me? How am I going to come up with eight hundred dollars?”

“We can talk about that in a minute but first—”

“It wasn’t even my fault that I almost killed Arnie,” I said, cutting poor Mom off again. “It was Patrique’s fault. All I was doing was hiding behind Arnie so I could see Rona and Isaac through his whiskers.”

“Who’s Arnie?” Mom asked.

“He’s a sea lion.”

“You were looking at Rona and Isaac through a sea lion’s whiskers?” Mom said, sounding confused. “And you almost . . . killed the sea lion?”

“Yes. But like I said, it was Patrique’s fault. That’s why I had to buy Arnie. But it’s okay. I’ll find a place for him.”

“You bought a sea lion?” Mom said the words slowly, as if she were waiting for me to correct her.

“Yeah. Hey Mom, listen, I just got to Carrie’s house, so I’ve gotta go. Carrie was expecting me about an hour ago, but I had some trouble getting Arnie to the car, and he was pretty difficult to transport, so I’m pretty late and . . .”

“The sea lion is in the car with you?” Again Mom’s words were slow, bewildered-sounding.

“Yes. But don’t worry. He’s small; I can handle him. I’ve really gotta go, Mom.”

“But wait—”

“Oh, sorry. What did you call me for?” I asked.

“I was calling to see if you knew the final Jeopardy question,” Mom said in a hurried voice. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is—”

“Oh, sorry about the Jeopardy thing Mom,” I said. “I’ll call you later. I have so much more to tell you.”

With no further comment, I flipped the phone closed with my chin, put the car in park, and headed toward Carrie’s front door.

“Tell me how the wedding plans are going,” I instructed Carrie as I painted my toes carefully.

Carrie was doing Yoga on the living room floor and was practically folded in half in Head to Knee Pose, which I think should be called Hamstring Torture Pose. I’m pretty sure that Carrie must have been the inspiration for both Gumby and Pokey.

Carrie sat up from her position, and I looked at her white cotton yoga pants and matching white tee. Although a white on white outfit would make me appear to be that huge marshmallow man in Ghostbusters, Carrie looked like the angel of yoga. I instantly hated her. Until I remembered how much I loved her.

“Let’s see . . .” Carrie began. “I’ve chosen the colors for the reception: yellow and white. And I think I’ve chosen the kind of cake I want. It’s made with a blend of whole grain flours and sweetened with vegetable glycerin rather than sugar.”

“So in other words, I should definitely bring a pack of Twinkies to your reception,” I joked.

“I bet if I hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t have even noticed,” Carrie said.

Carrie’s always telling me stuff like that. Like she’s always saying that soy ice cream tastes just like real ice cream and tofu tastes just like meat. Yeah right, and yellow paper tastes just like banana cream pie.

As Carrie leaned further and further forward into her pose, she told me between yoga breaths that she was researching caterers in the Oakland area. This instantly reminded me of the fact that I had told Rona Bircheck that I would call her about the caterer for the shower. I really, really didn’t want to call. But what I wanted less was for her to “relieve me of the responsibility,” as she had suggested she would. So I decided to go for it.

“I have to go make a call real fast. Be right back,” I informed Carrie. “Then you have to tell me all the rest of the details.”

“Okay,” Carrie said as she moved into Staff Pose.

Walking on my heels so I didn’t get any polish on the bamboo-fibers area rug, I made my way to my bag, which I had left by the front door. I bent down and located my phone. I moved into the bathroom down the hall so Carrie wouldn’t hear me talking and stood there for a second, thinking.

In my thinking session, I decided that I was going to tell Rona the truth. I was going to tell her that the caterers I had checked out were entirely too expensive, and that I was still searching, but I would think of something. I would tell her she could trust me, I would come through for Carrie.

I flipped open the phone and dialed Rona’s number. On the second ring, she picked up. Now, if you promise you won’t judge me, I’ll tell you the rest.

Do you promise?

All right.

I hung up. I heard Rona’s voice and hung up.

I just couldn’t do it. I could imagine her condescending tone as she told me how she had depended on me, and I had failed. She would remind me that the party was in little more than two weeks and it would be nearly impossible to secure a caterer now. Then she would tell me she would just take care of it herself. Then she would wish that she could un-invite me, and would be mad that since I was Carrie’s best friend she couldn’t.

No. I was going to find a caterer before the night was over. And it was going to be the best caterer in the whole Monterey Bay area.

I tapped the side of my mouth with my phone as I thought of who I could call at eight o’clock PM about a caterer. Then I had an idea: Jacqueline from La Bonne Violette. She had to know tons about the catering business. Plus, she was really nice.

I dialed the number I had for La Bonne Violette. No answer. I disconnected the line with a frown on my face. I wondered who else I could call. Immediately, Patrique’s name came to mind. He would probably know Jacqueline’s number.

You probably shouldn’t call him
, my brain immediately said to me.
He’s bad news. Think of something else.

But it’s just a phone call
, I argued with my brain.
What can happen over the phone?

I dialed Patrique’s number—which he had given me just in case I couldn’t find him at the fairgrounds—and reached his voice mail. “Bonjour, you’ve reached Patrique Poitier. If you are calling for business please leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. If you are calling for pleasure please leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. And if you’re a beautiful woman calling for business or pleasure, please leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call immediately.”

Now I bet you’re expecting me to say that I’m just pulling your leg about that being Patrique’s outgoing message. But that really and truly is his message. In fact, if you want to, you can call him and see for yourself. His number is 555-0987.

The tone sounded, and I left a brief message. “Patrique, it’s Annabelle Pleasanton. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”

Willing Patrique to call me back before the night was over, I went back into the living room.

“Ready for a movie?” Carrie asked as I sat down on the couch and stretched my arms over my head.

“Definitely,” I answered.

Carrie put
Father of the Bride
into the DVD player, and I popped a bag of all natural popcorn. It wasn’t exactly the most balanced dinner, but hey, corn’s a vegetable, right? Or maybe it’s a grain. I don’t know.

As Carrie and I sat on the couch watching the movie, I felt my eyes beginning to grow heavy. I leaned back into the cushions and gave into the heavy feeling. I was half-asleep when I heard a faint electronic ringing sound coming from Carrie’s front door.

That’s funny,
I thought in my cloudy state,
Carrie’s doorbell has the same ring as my cell phone.

“Annabelle, it’s that Patrique guy,” I heard Carrie say. Her voice sounded far away. And like she was in a tunnel.

“Is corn a vegetable, Mom?” I mumbled in a weird, half-conscious voice.

Carrie instantly began giggling. The giggling brought me to full awareness, and I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

I looked over at Carrie. “Was I talking about corn?” I asked groggily.

“Mm hmm,” Carrie replied, still giggling.

This happens to me a lot. In fact, back when I was in Young Women and went to girls’ camp, the favorite nighttime activity of the girls in my cabin was to get up in the night and listen to the crazy things I said. I heard that by my fourth year at camp, girls were requesting to be in my cabin for this reason alone.

Carrie handed me my cell. “It’s Patrique,” she said, stifling a laugh.

“Hey, Patrique,” I said into the phone. “Did you get my voice mail?”

“Yes,” Patrique replied. “And I saved it so I can listen to that succulent voice anytime I want to.”

“Whatever. Listen, I was wondering if you could give me Jacqueline’s phone number. You know, the woman who does catering at your uncle’s restaurant?”

“I know who she is,” Patrique said. “What do you need to call her for?”

“Well . . .” I stood up from the couch and went back into the bathroom down the hall so Carrie wouldn’t hear the conversation. “I need to ask her something,” I said as I sat down on the bathroom counter.

“You need to ask her what?” Patrique prodded.

“I have a question about catering.”

“Why?”