The Icing on the Cake (23 page)

“Because I’m looking for a caterer for my friend’s bridal shower,” I said, sounding a bit irritated.

“Why bother calling Jacqueline? I can arrange it for you. I work in catering at my uncle’s restaurant too.”

“Oh, no, I’m not talking about having La Bonne Violette cater. I could never afford that. I only have a couple hundred dollars to work with.”

“That’s no problem,” Patrique said. “I can get you a really great deal.”

“Are you messing with me?” I wondered aloud. “Because that’s just mean.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“What’s the catch?” I asked warily.

“No catch. You’ve done so much for me. More than you know. It’s the least I can do for you. When’s the party?”

“Two weeks from Saturday,” I said hesitantly. “At noon.”

“How many people?”

“About twenty.”

“No problem,” Patrique said. It sounded like he was smiling. “After your meeting with my uncle on Monday, you and I can meet and set it all up.”

I sat in silence. Two emotions were building inside of me. First, I felt extreme relief. And second, I felt a strange worry that I couldn’t seem to ignore.

“Annabelle,” Patrique began, obviously sensing my hesitance, “I want to do this for you.”

“And there’s no catch? I don’t understand . . .”

“Tempest called me,” Patrique explained. “She told me that seeing you and me together made her realize that she misses me. She wants to get back together.”

“Oh,” I replied slowly.

“And when Tempest told me that, I felt something, something . . . unexpected. And it’s all because of you. So please let me do this for you.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering why I felt so reluctant. “I accept your offer.”

After saying good-bye to Patrique, I sat on the bathroom counter, envisioning Carrie’s shower.

In my little vision, smiling women walked into the shower and were instantly drawn to the food table. They piled their plates high with the delicious fare and then turned to me and said, “Oh, Annabelle, this food is delish. How did you
ever
manage to get La Bonne Violette to do the catering?”

I told the women that I personally knew Chef Jean-Pierre and that he had given me a marvelous deal on the food. The women were highly impressed and told Carrie that I was a jewel of a best friend. Carrie proceeded to tell the women that I truly was the greatest best friend ever, and everyone toasted their delicious nonalcoholic drinks “to friendship.” Well, everyone toasted except Rona, who was in the background trying unsuccessfully to get some streamers to stick to the wall.

After the vision faded from my mind, I immediately dialed Rona’s number. She must have been on the line because her voicemail picked up after one ring. I left a message telling her about the fabulous catering that I had secured and smiled to myself in satisfaction as I hung up. Things really couldn’t be working out any better.

So why did I feel so worried?

H
i there,” Isaac said in his ever-gorgeous voice when I answered my cell phone on Friday afternoon.

I was sitting at my desk and was supposed to be editing a page of recipes for the Anniversary Issue, since in all the craziness of writing—or at least trying to write—I had gotten a little behind on my regular work. But although I was supposed to be editing, what I was actually doing was typing Annabelle Matthews on my computer in different fonts.

When I heard Isaac’s voice, I quickly closed the document as if I were afraid he could see it through the phone.

“Hi,” I said in a sweet voice. “What are you up to?”

“We just started setting up for the recital.”

I leaned back in my office chair. “You still want me to come help, right?” I asked.

“I sure do,” Isaac replied, his voice all low and insinuating.

“I can probably leave work a little early and come over,” I said, feeling excitement bubble up inside of me. “You’re at Ethan’s studio, right?”

“No,” Isaac replied. “We’re at La Bonne Violette. In the Rouge Room.”

“The recital is at La Bonne Violette? That must cost Ethan a fortune.”

“Actually, Jean-Pierre lets him use the room for free. And he gives him a really great deal on catering.”

“That’s cool. Pat—” I stopped myself. I had been about to say that Patrique was getting me a similarly great deal on catering for Carrie’s shower, but I decided against it. No sense bringing creepy Patrique into our pleasant conversation. So instead I finished my sentence with, “Pat . . . Pat him on the back, that’s great.” It made no sense, but Isaac didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah it is,” Isaac said. Then he lowered his voice and asked, “Do you like surprises?”

“Of course. I love surprises.”

“I was hoping I could surprise you with something after the recital. It should be over at about eight.”

“Hmm . . . I don’t know,” I said in a playful, flirty voice. “Should I agree to this?”

“Yes, you should,” Isaac said, flirting right back.

“Well . . . I suppose that would be all right.”

“Good. So when can I expect you over here?”

“Let’s see,” I said, playing with the mini stapler on my desk. “I’ll probably leave here in about twenty minutes or so. Then I’ll run home really fast to change, and then I’ll head over. So about an hour.”

You might be wondering why I wanted to take the time to go home and change instead of just rushing over to see Isaac. Well, it was possible-kiss day. And being such, I needed to wear something that said, “Don’t you want to kiss me? Well, go ahead and do it baby.” And not my work clothes which said, “Do you want to run down to Kinko’s with me and make some copies?” So you see, I definitely needed to change.

“Okay, then I’ll see you in about an hour,” Isaac said.

“See you in an hour,” I echoed.

I was about to add something extremely cute and enticing that would leave him barely able to wait until he saw me, when my office phone rang. “Isaac, can you hang on for a sec?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Hello,” I said into my office phone.

“Pleasanton, George Kent here. I need to see you in my office.”

“Of course, I’ll be right there.”

Without another word, George hung up.

I put my cell phone up to my ear. “Isaac, I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay. Remember, come prepared for a surprise.”

“Oh, I will.”

I took a deep breath as I opened George’s office door. He was on the phone, so he motioned for me to come in and sit down. I lowered myself into the chair across from George and looked at a picture of him and his wife and son, which was sitting at an angle on the desk. I also noticed two walls had been painted a nice calming shade of blue since the last time I had been in the office—Arvin’s handiwork, I guessed.

George ended his phone call and spoke to me. “Pleasanton,” he began. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks. How are you doing? Are you feeling better?”

“Much better, thank goodness. Now, I called you in here to talk about your article,” George explained. “When I came back, I had an email from Jean-Pierre waiting for me. He sent the email last Friday, after you first met with him. In the message he complains about your professionalism.”

“What?” I asked, dumfounded.

“Let me read it to you.” George opened a file on his computer and began reading.

“Annabelle,” George began, using my first name. “Am I going to regret putting my faith in you?”

“No, no, of course not,” I responded, feeling the sting of the words. It wasn’t my fault Jean-Pierre’s refrigerator was a trap of death.

“Never mind about the email,” George said. “Have there been any other problems?”

“Um . . .” I stammered, remembering the fire. “There was one little thing. But everything is fine now. I’m still going to get the interview.”

“What do you mean you’re
going
to get the interview?” George asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“I mean . . . I . . .”

“Are you telling me you haven’t gotten the interview yet?” George looked at me with an appalled look on his face. “What have you been doing this whole time?!”

“I’ve been . . . it’s been really hard and ... I do have some of it and . . .”

“I can’t believe this,” George said, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. I have everything under control.”

“Everything under control? You have had an entire week to work on this and you have nothing. I should have known this was going to happen, especially after what happened last time.”

Ouch
. I knew I wasn’t exactly the world’s best writer, but I had worked hard. I had kept it together even after my first, and then second, meeting with Jean-Pierre had gone horribly. I had endured two excruciating trips to art functions with Patrique. I mean, I deserved extra pay for having to subject my eyes to
Le Cauchemar
. And this point is the best of all, even after everything seemed to work against it happening: I was getting my interview. And then I was going to write a fabulous article.

“I can do this,” I said, my voice confident.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now,” George said in an aggravated tone. “I can’t give someone else the assignment.” He rubbed his temples again. “I’ll just have to find a replacement article.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “I can do this.”

George stared at me as if he were contemplating whether or not to tell me to pack up my cubicle and never come back, when the phone in the office rang.

“Hello?” George answered, still sounding perturbed. “Oh, hi, dear,” he said, relaxing a bit. But the relaxation in his voice didn’t last. “What do you mean they don’t have any open rooms at Hotel Presidente for those days?!” he exclaimed angrily. “No, I don’t want to stay anywhere else. What? Peter wants to go to Cancun? But we already decided on Cozumel. Hang on, will you?”

George covered up the receiver with his hand and spoke to me. “I’ll leave you on this assignment,” he said. “But only because I’m really not in the mood to fire you today. Remember, your deadline is a week from Tuesday, five o’clock. I want an absolutely pristine article. I mean perfect. And don’t email it to me. Bring it to me on a USB drive. I’ll look the article over Tuesday night and see if I need to run another one.” George gave me an I-don’t-want-to-look-at-you-a-second-longer wave and got back on the phone.

I slowly walked out of the office. I could hear George’s words echoing in my mind: “Am I going to regret putting my faith in you?”

What had I been thinking all this time
?
That I could waste an entire week getting nowhere on my article and then put something wonderful together at the last minute? Of course that wasn’t going to happen. How could I have been so stupid?

As I made my way back to my cubicle, I peered out the dirty windows in the office and saw a garbage man emptying the contents of a dumpster into his truck.
That’s where I’m going to end up living
, I thought pitifully as I stared at the dumpster.

Back at my cubicle, I put my head down, trying to make myself invisible to my co-workers. Not like they would notice me. They were busy working. Probably doing a good job on their assignments. Probably being worthy of George’s faith in them.

Fitfully, I grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair—a gorgeous little black one that I would probably have to sell for food money after next Tuesday—and headed to see someone who always had faith in me.

Someone who had faith in me even after I traded her antique garnet jewelry collection for Ice Skating Barbie. Someone who had faith in me even after I slept through the SAT. Someone who would have faith in me even if my article was the worst article in the history of articles, including the ones in the tabloids about alien babies.

I went home to Mom.