The Icing on the Cake (37 page)

“It’s amazing,” Carrie said, looking at everything in awe. She then made her way around the room, hugging every one of the women there.

After the hugs, Carrie inspected the food table. She read the label in front of the plate of fortune cookies and held one up. “These are organic?” she asked Mom.

“One hundred percent,” Mom replied with a smile.

Carrie grabbed a bamboo plate on which she set two of the fortune cookies. Then she said, “I don’t know about all of you, but I’m going to eat.”

And with that, the party began in full swing. Everyone talked and laughed as we ate the delicious food, oohed and aahed as Carrie opened her gifts, and then played Miles and Carrie trivia.

I was in the kitchen putting ice into a pitcher of water when Carrie came up beside me and slipped something into my hand. She hugged me tightly and said, “This is for you.” I noticed there were tears in her eyes. Then as quickly as she had appeared, she disappeared.

I opened my hand and found a small fortune. The fortune said, “You are a true, cherished friend.”

Soon, there were tears in my eyes too.

M
om and I were plopped on the couch in my living room, exhausted from after-party cleanup, when my cell rang. Quickly, I hopped up to answer it. I immediately recognized the number on the caller ID. And while I’d love to say that it was Isaac’s, it wasn’t. It was George’s.

Filled with at least the confidence that I would still have people who loved me after I lost my job, I answered the call. “Hello,” I said weakly.

“Pleasanton,” George’s powerful voice greeted me. “I have been trying to get a hold of you since Wednesday. I need you to come down to the office as soon as possible.”

“But it’s Saturday,” I said.

George laughed humorlessly. “The Anniversary Issue is out in less than a week. I’m in the office twenty-four seven until then.”

“Well, okay, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Great,” George said, and he disconnected the line.

I guess he wants to fire me in person
, I thought miserably.

I told Mom I had to go to the office, and she hugged me good-bye and left for home, leaving me with a refrigerator full of leftover party food. I was suddenly grateful that the shower venue had changed to my condo.

After saying good-bye to Mom, I dressed in my best please-let-me-keep-my-job outfit, a pair of sleek black pants and a cream-colored designer top, which I got for less than twenty bucks at a charity sale in Carmel. Then I headed out the door, munching on my second, all right sixth, homemade fortune cookie.

On the way to the office, I turned on the radio in an attempt to distract myself. I pushed Preset 1, which was set to my favorite station.

“Out of work?” a commercial blared. “Call our experts at Temployment, and they’ll find you work to help you make ends meet.”

I groaned and punched Preset 2.

“Can’t get that dream job because you’re not qualified? At Westside Technical Institute we provide you with the training you need to get the job you’ve always dreamed of. Call or visit us online at . . .”

I hit the radio off and drove the rest of the way in silence.

I pulled into the parking lot at
Central Coast Living
and felt strangely like a high school senior on the last day of school. Was this the last day I would be here?

I made my way to George’s office. The door was wide open, and I could see George motioning for me to come inside. Reluctantly, I stepped into the office.

“Please sit down,” George instructed.

“I’d rather stand,” I replied. After all, it would only be moments before I was sent on my cubicle-clearing way.

“Okay,” George said. “I called you down here to tell you—”

“Wait,” I cut George off. “I know that you’re disappointed in my article. Maybe even angry. But I want you to know, I accept that I’m not cut out for writing. I accept it, and I’ll never ask to write again. Nor will I run around the sweaty heat of the San Joaquin Valley looking for a cake to impress you so I can trick you into letting me write. But if you’ll let me keep my job editing, I’ll be the best editor imaginable. I will.”

A smile formed on George’s lips. I found it kind of offensive that he was getting so much joy out of firing me.

“Can I speak now?” he asked, the smile growing.

I nodded, readying myself for the blow.

“I called you down here to tell you that I thought your work was great.”

“And another thing—” I began. I had more things to explain. More begging for my job to do. More . . . “Wait, what did you just say?”

“I enjoyed your article. We’re going to run it.”

I sat down. “What?”

“When you came in here on Tuesday and told me how much trouble you’d had writing and that you needed more time, I was expecting something awful. But when I read the piece, I was nicely surprised. You really came through for me, Pleasanton.”

I stared at George. “I . . . I did?”

George nodded.

“But that article . . . it wasn’t what you wanted.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t,” George replied, raising his eyebrows. “But the thing about your story is that it puts the human element into an article about food. We’ve been trying to come up with a way to do that for years. Ever since those
Chicken Soup for the Soul
books came out and sold like hotcakes.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Really?” I asked in disbelief.

Okay. So let’s just recap here. I had a horrible, awful time trying to write about the glitz and glamour of Le Bonne Violette and ended up not being able to get an interview with Chef Jean-Pierre. So I wrote another story about the restaurant, the story that deep down I really wanted to tell.

But then I lost my nerve and didn’t want to give that story to George. However, somehow, in a strange twist of events, George ended up with it anyway. And he thought it was good. And it was going to be in the magazine. My story was going to be in
Central Coast Living
! Not the story I thought everyone else expected me to write, but the story I truly believed in.

“And to think I tried to give you Missy Phat,” I muttered under my breath.

“Excuse me?” George asked.

“Nothing. Let’s just say, this is, well, this is craziness.”

“Craziness?” George repeated, and it was obvious he didn’t often use the word.

I gave George a never-mind wave. “It’s a long and boring story, and I don’t want to waste your time.”

“All right then,” George said. “The next item of business is the Anniversary gala. It’s this coming Friday evening. Invitations have been sent to you, your family, and the individuals featured in your article.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

George nodded. “Good.”

I smiled at George, not quite sure whether I was excused or not.

I was about to say good-bye when George spoke. “You know, Pleasanton, the best thing about your article is that it hits home. Folks want to know people like the ones in your story. That part about that woman Jacqueline who took in her cousin’s kid, well, that part was good. My son is adopted, you know.” George paused for a moment and picked up the picture of him and his wife and son.

“I was working for a national magazine, doing a piece on orphanages in Romania. It was . . . heartbreaking. I wanted to bring them all home with me.” George’s voice was filled with emotion. It was the first time I had ever heard him speak like that. “Later I went back with my wife, and we brought home our son. He turned eight yesterday.”

“I had no idea,” I said reverently.

“Not many people do,” George replied as he set down the photo. “So,” he said, his voice returning to normal, “like I told you, our readers are going to love your story. They’ll eat it up like cake. And I have a feeling they’re going to want seconds.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, my eyes wide.

“I’m saying you should plan on writing a lot more in the future.”

I smiled to myself, already beginning to plan which Marjorie Pleasanton recipe I would include in my next article.

After leaving George’s office, I was halfway down a deserted hallway when I was suddenly overcome by a deep, warm sense of gratitude.

I was grateful that once I had asked God to help me in my endeavors, He had done just that. He had helped me write something meaningful, something inspired by the goodness in some really incredible people. Silently, I thanked Him for the opportunity, for helping a fallible girl like me use her talents for good.

The sense of gratitude was soon accompanied by giddiness. A giddiness that for some reason made me want to sing. So, I did—I started singing. I mean, there was no one around, so it was fine.

Before I knew it, I was singing to the tune of “Popcorn Popping.” But that’s not all, my friends. I wasn’t just singing the cute little song. No. I was making up words of my own, singing in a hard rock voice, my hands playing, well, they were playing the air guitar.

“I came to the office and what did I see,” I belted as I strummed the air guitar, my eyes tightly closed.

“George is publishing an article by me.

“Is it really so?

“Yes it seems to me.

“George is publishing an article by me!”

At this point, I played a solo on the air guitar, my head bobbing in an oh-yeah kind of way.

“I don’t think that’s how the song goes,” a voice came into my ears.

My eyes shot open, and I stopped strumming my invisible guitar. Isaac was standing in front of me, smiling. No, it was more like chuckling.

I turned my head down toward the floor, thinking,
Okay floor, this is where you swallow me up.
But the floor just stared back up at me.

“Isaac,” I choked out in humiliation, “I, um, didn’t know you were there.”

“Well I’m glad you didn’t because you looked so . . .” Isaac made a weird face and cleared his throat. “So . . . is George in his office?”

“Yeah, I just talked to him.” I wanted to tell Isaac everything. To tell him about my conversation with George. To tell him about how everything had somehow worked out. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“Good. I have to ask him something before I leave.”

“Leave?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m going out of town for the week. I have some projects to finish up in Los Banos.”

“Oh,” I said simply.

Right here there was a very long pause.

“So . . .” I mumbled uncomfortably.

“So ...”

“Are you going to the gala?” We both asked the question in unison.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go,” I answered first.

“Me too,” Isaac said. “Maybe we could go together.”

My eyes suddenly got all wide and doe-like. “Really?”

“Yeah. We did work on the article together. So it might be good to go together. You know, as friends.”

“Yes, of course, as friends,” I said, nodding my head a little too emphatically.

Isaac played with a button on his shirt. “So, I’ll pick you up a little before seven on Friday?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Great,” Isaac said, beginning to walk away.

“Yeah, great,” I echoed.
Just great.

I
hate friends. Okay, I don’t exactly hate friends. I just really hated that I was being forced to be friends with Isaac. It was too hard. I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t know what to say. And I certainly didn’t know how I was supposed to go to the Anniversary gala with him and not think about how handsome he was, how much I wanted to hold his hand, how much I wanted to kiss him, how much . . .

I put an abrupt end to the thoughts and focused on my reflection in the full length mirror in my room as I smoothed some Foxy Glossy onto my lips. He was just Isaac. Isaac my friend. My friend Isaac. My buddy. My pal. My chummy chum.

I smacked my lips together and did one last mirror check of my red party dress, the fabulous strappy shoes I found on clearance at Macy’s, and my hair and makeup, which I had gotten done by Kiki, the stylist I go to for special occasions.

Satisfied by my reflection—after all, it’s always nice to look good for one’s friends—I went into the living room to distract myself from my thoughts on Isaac by doing my new favorite activity: looking at my article in the Anniversary Issue of
Central Coast Living
. It had provided me with many moments of joy, so I thought it would be a good diversion.

I flipped to the article—which by then the magazine pretty much fell right open to—and reminisced about the moment George had called me into his office and handed it to me. I had taken it into my hands carefully, almost ceremoniously. Then I had walked to the privacy of my cubicle and done four things.

1. I sniffed it. Though I’m not quite sure why.

2. I looked at the gorgeous, glossy cover and just soaked in the fact that my article was inside.