The Icing on the Cake (3 page)

I drove straight to the house Carrie inherited from her grandmother, located just two blocks up the hill from the famous Cannery Row in the city of Monterey. For those of you who are not Steinbeck fans, Cannery Row is this ocean-side street that used to house sardine packing plants but has since been turned into a sort of tourist strip and the home of the famous Monterey Bay Aquarium.

I parked in the driveway next to Carrie’s Toyota hybrid and gazed at the organic herbs she had planted in wooden boxes in front of her house. While Carrie was checking her mail, I let myself into her house with the key I have on my key ring. Carrie has a similar key to my condo, which is also in Monterey. The condo eats up pretty much my entire salary in rent, but I live there because it’s safe and quiet and beautiful. And because the alternative is living with my parents.

Once inside, I plopped down on Carrie’s all-natural cotton living room couch and kicked my shoes off. Carrie glided into the living room, flipping through an issue of
Organic Woman
. She lifted my feet up off the couch, sat down, and then set my feet on her lap.

“Thank you so much for coming with me today,” I said to her. “I know it wasn’t a very convenient thing to do on a Thursday afternoon.”

Carrie closed the magazine and set it on the coffee table. “I had a nice time. I like seeing new places.”

“You know,” I said, “I just remembered, it’s Paint and Popcorn night. Do you want to buy a new shade of toenail paint? And maybe rent a movie?”

At Cal Poly, which Carrie and I attended together—Carrie majoring in fruit science, me changing my major three times and finally settling on journalism—Carrie and I started Paint and Popcorn night. This is where every Thursday night we paint our toenails and eat popcorn while we hang out, talk, and watch girl movies.

“Actually, Miles wants to do something tonight,” Carrie said apologetically.

I frowned. Miles was a good enough guy. In fact, he was pretty much perfect for Carrie, but the peeling paint on my toenails was proof that he had begun to monopolize my best friend.

You know, I just realized that I’ve been telling you that Carrie is my best friend this whole time, but I haven’t really explained. I should probably do that, huh? Okay, here goes.

It all happened at a youth conference when Carrie and I were both fourteen. I was in the bathroom, totally shattered because my nylons had a big hole in them that I noticed just as Robert Beatty was walking toward me, about to sit next to me for the talk on missionary work.

In the bathroom, where she had been washing her hands, Carrie noticed my broken state and told me that the bare leg look was in, and besides, nylon was a manmade fiber that didn’t let the body breath the way it was meant to.

So, I threw away my nylons, squared my shoulders, and went back to my chair in the gymnasium with Carrie’s arm around my waist. Soon, Robert Beatty came back and sat next to me, and in the middle of the speaker’s address he told me I had nice ankles.

That night, I went home and found my pink diary, which I hadn’t used in quite a while, and made what I called a Pink Note. My first Pink Note.

Carrie and I have been best friends ever since.

And after I made that first note, I kind of made a tradition of my Pink Notes. I filled up my diary and then a couple of notebooks—all pink in the Pink Note tradition—with entries on people who inspired me, people who had an impact on me. And though I have a fair number of entries, I still look back to Pink Note #1 and smile.

So there you have it, the me-and-Carrie story.

Carrie and I sat on her couch and chatted until Miles called for Carrie. I got up from the couch after the three hundredth time Carrie called Miles her little “Milesy Muffin.”

“Call me,” I mouthed before heading to the door.

“Okay, love you,” Carrie mouthed back.

I left Carrie’s house and drove home.

As I drove, I found myself wishing I had someone to talk with on the phone. I even entertained the idea of calling Bob’s Bait and Tackle just to, you know, say that I found the bakery and thanks again. But I immediately discarded the thought. I would just go home and do what I always did: have a little date with Mr. Comcast and Ben & Jerry.

I
strode into the conference room at ten minutes to eleven on Friday morning. When I was about five steps inside the room, Arvin, my coworker who also happens to be on the singles ward activities committee with me, put a muscular arm around my shoulder. “Dude, what’s up?” he asked.

Arvin works at
Central Coast Living
to supplement his professional surfing income, and he’s pretty much the reason I got an interview at the magazine even though I had no experience outside of my college degree and a short-lived internship working on the weekly newsletter of an organization called Pets are People Too. He’s a pretty cool guy. Although for every ward activity he suggests surfing.

But before you go thinking something like, “How cute would it be for Annabelle to get together with her fellow activities committee member?!” let me just tell you that Arvin and I would never and could never be a match. Arvin likes girls who are blonde and tiny and into surfing, none of which I am. And I like, well, a guy who doesn’t call me “dude,” for starters.

“Just delivering a cake George asked me to bring,” I answered Arvin as I headed toward the buffet table in the back of the room.

Arvin followed me. “Did you make it?” He lifted the box’s pink lid and looked inside.

“Nope. Bakery bought. George asked me to bring it.”

Arvin nodded his head in understanding.

“Trying to impress the big boss, huh?”

I frowned at him. “Be quiet.”

Arvin laughed in his laid back way. “Speaking of the boss, check this out.” He held up a shiny silver key. “George asked me to do some things for his office remodel. I’m gonna change the whole vibe in there.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were a decorator in addition to your many other talents.”

Arvin glared at me. “Dude, do not call me a decorator. I’m a re-modeler.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were a
re-modeler
.”

“What can I say; I’ve got skills,” he said with a shrug of his surfing-sculpted shoulders.

When Arvin and I reached the buffet table, I carefully lifted the cake out of the box and set it down. I cocked my head to the right and examined the dessert. It was one good looking cake, if I do say so myself.

“It looks delicious,” I heard a voice say from behind me.

I knew the voice was George’s, and I turned around to face him. “George,” I said, my voice sounding kind of like the squawk of a goose. I cleared my throat. “I, um, I’m glad you think so. I hope you enjoy it.”

I smiled brightly at George and then flashed a smile at Gidget, George’s teeny-tiny, always-perky assistant, who was standing beside him in a white suit and the cutest pair of shoes. “Great shoes,” I said before turning to walk away.

Gidget called out a high-pitched “thank you,” and Arvin began flirting with her.

I made my way to my usual meeting seat next to Patty Pearson, a short, feisty, single mother of three college students and associate food editor at
Central Coast Living.

“Hey Patty,” I said as I lowered myself into the seat. “What’s up?”

“My children are torturing me.” Patty said the words with melodramatic exhaustion. “You’ll never believe what Elizabeth has chosen as this month’s ‘life ambition.’”

Elizabeth is Patty’s youngest daughter, and I’ve heard quite a few interesting stories about her. And from what I’ve heard I think she and I might just get along. “What?” I asked.

“She wants to save the African flea. I told her, ‘Honey if you want to save something, try the thousands of dollars I give you for college in hopes you’ll earn a degree one of these years.’”

“What’s an African flea?”

Patty shook her head. “I have no earthly idea.”

I was about to ask Patty why exactly the African flea needed saving, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that George, who remained by the buffet table in the back of the room, had picked up a white china plate and was placing food onto the plate.

I held my breath as he served himself chicken, then a roll, then some salad, then . . . a slice of the Portuguese sponge cake. I smiled and released a long breath. And then my smile grew into this huge, face-swallowing thing—which I think may have scared Patty—as I watched George add a second slice of the cake to his plate.

When the meeting was over, I decided it was time to visit the buffet table one more time—the dessert area of the buffet table to be exact. Right after I had placed a slice of chocolate silk pie on a plate, I was approached by George.

“Pleasanton,” he said. He always refers to me by my last name for some reason, kind of like I’m the center on his football team or something. “I need to see you in my office.”

“Oh, okay.” I disappointedly put the pie back onto the glass serving platter and hoped that the treat would still be there when I returned.

I followed George to his office. Once inside, I took a seat in the blue canvas-covered chair facing the desk, and George settled into his leather swivel chair.

“Well, Pleasanton,” George began. “I have been very impressed with you lately. You have been willing to step up and do what is required of you. When I asked you to bring that Portuguese cake to the meeting today and gave you very little notice, you took it all in stride and remained impressively poised. You have proven you can meet a deadline, and deadlines are what the magazine business is all about.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m glad you liked the cake. I—”

George cut me off. “This isn’t just about the cake. It’s about you.”

I looked at George in confusion. He must have sensed this, because he continued speaking. “I need you to write a piece for the Anniversary Issue. Patty is having surgery tomorrow, so she won’t be able to write. She’s taking three weeks of sick leave.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Is Patty okay?”

“Patty’s fine. It’s an elective procedure, if you know what I mean.” George gave me a weird look.

“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure I did know what he meant.

George continued. “The article is to be on the restaurant La Bonne Violette in Carmel and its owner and executive Chef, Jean-Pierre Poitier. Jean-Pierre—that’s how he prefers to be addressed—has agreed to do an exclusive interview for the article. This could quite possibly be the best piece ever to appear in the
Central Coast Living
Cuisine section.” George’s eyes lit up.

I stared straight ahead, a dumbfounded look on my face. George was asking me to write an article on La Bonne Violette? La Bonne Violette was the most posh restaurant in the area. Only the rich and famous dined at La Bonne Violette. And Chef Jean-Pierre was a huge deal. In fact, just a few days earlier I had seen a little blurb on him in one of those weekly celebrity magazines as I was reading it over the shoulder of the lady in front of me in the grocery store line. This was a big-time assignment. And it was mine?

George smiled at my state of speechlessness. “Okay, Pleasanton, you have a lot of work to do. I’ve set up a meeting with Jean-Pierre for an hour from now. A photographer will meet you at the restaurant.”

“You mean I need to get started in an hour?” I asked. “What about research, what about—”

“That’s the magazine business for you,” George said. “Is it too much for you to handle? If it is, I can give the assignment to Arvin in subscriptions. He’s always trying to tell me he can write.”

“Oh, no, I can handle it,” I said emphatically.

“All right then. Your deadline is two weeks from Tuesday. I’m giving you a little extra time since you’ll still be expected to do your editing. And I’d like you to bring me a draft on Wednesday, by five o’clock. Just so I can check your progress.”

“I will,” I promised. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Now get to work.”

George flashed me a thumbs-up sign and I awkwardly flashed one back before getting up to leave.

Back at my cubicle, I did some quick internet research on La Bonne Violette and Jean-Pierre. As I looked at stunning pictures of the restaurant, my stomach felt all fluttery, and I found myself looking forward to stepping foot into the glamorous restaurant. And I was totally excited to meet Jean-Pierre.

Of course, that was until I actually did meet Jean-Pierre.