The Cake Maker's Wish, page 12
‘Good to have you here, Ma,’ she said, running her hand over the chest. Inside, it was lined with racks holding bottles of fragrant water, including versatile lavender, uplifting neroli orange blossom, earthy chamomile (perfect for banana bread), lilac, elderflower and, of course, Olivia’s favourite, rose.
During her time as an apprentice, Olivia had visited a rose farm in the north of Tasmania that produced both essential oil and the delicate floral water. The farmers were of Iranian descent, and they harvested the roses and distilled the rosewater in the same way it had once been done in Iran – the world’s largest producer of rosewater – before the factories were conquered by mass production. She’d joined the family and their workers in the fields just before dawn, donning long sleeves and thick gloves to protect herself against the chill and the thorns. Rose bushes grew in rows up to her shoulders, dark green leaves supporting delicate stems, with gentle pink buds just opening. A family member showed her how to pluck each bud along with a section of the stem, which held some of the scent, and drop it lightly into a cotton mesh bag tied around her waist. As they returned to the shed with their harvest, she sat in the back of the ute surrounded by mounds of cotton bags filled with soft pink roses, dizzy with the heavenly scent.
Fires at the shed had been stoked in readiness for their arrival. Three large copper pots filled with purified water sat on a long bench above three separate brick hearths. The roses were poured into the pots, where they floated on top of the simmering water, and then the lids were clamped down. With a steady, gentle heat to avoid cooking or burning the buds, the roses were coaxed to gradually release their fragrance into the water. The farm’s small-scale, traditional operation meant that their products were expensive, but Olivia had never bought any other brand.
Now, she opened her bottle of Tasmanian-Iranian rosewater and inhaled. The aroma filled her nose and head, making her feel instantly joyful. The smell was also quintessentially romantic, which didn’t help her confusion about Helge right now.
In the quiet of her store, more questions presented themselves. He’d said he loved her, but in what way – as a friend, as the mother of his child, or as something more?
‘Just bake, Livvy,’ she told herself. The sound of Helge’s name for her made her smile.
She was piping the last pink buttercream rose onto the sponge, singing along to Buddy Holly’s ‘That’ll Be the Day’ blaring on the speakers when Juliet Cabot entered the shop with a cheery ‘Hello!’
Olivia waved, hurrying to turn down the music. ‘Sorry. I was totally lost in the song.’
‘No need to apologise. I wish more people were as enthusiastic about music.’ Juliet smiled, and Olivia remembered that she was a music teacher.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘It’s only plunger coffee, but I’ve got some great vanilla cream I can put with it for a Vienna coffee if you’d like something a bit fancier?’
Juliet was a beautiful woman, with dark hair and brows, thick lashes and olive skin. She was immaculately put together, her blouse and long skirt entirely suitable for a vicar’s wife. ‘No, thank you anyway. I’ve just had coffee and I’m on my way to school for my music classes.’
‘What instruments do you teach?’ Olivia asked.
‘Piano, cello, violin, viola, guitar and a little bit of flute and clarinet.’
‘That’s so impressive.’
‘The wind instruments aren’t my specialty. After a certain point I need to direct students over to Fahren Way to a colleague there. I had parents who valued music, but I see a lot of kids with real interest or talent whose parents aren’t supportive.’ Juliet shrugged, sadly, but her smile returned quickly. ‘Anyway, I came in today to order a cake.’
‘Of course. What sort of thing were you after?’
‘Anthony and I have organised a wine and cheese event at the manor house Friday week.’
‘I walked past it yesterday. It looks gorgeous! Does anyone live there?’
‘Not anymore. It’s now a hotel and function facility, extremely popular for weddings. We’ve kept the ticket prices low – we only want to cover costs. It will be good for people to feel like it’s still a part of Stoneden, in some small way. I hope you’ll be able to make it. It’s part of our efforts to unite the community.’ She clasped her hands together fervently. ‘We firmly believe it’s difficult to fear or hate people if you get to know them. And we’d like to order a large cake decorated with the words Stoneden’s bright future.’ She waved her hand across the air as she spoke the words.
‘That sounds great. Just let me make some notes.’ Olivia reached under the counter for a notebook and pen. ‘How many people are you expecting?’
‘We’re hoping for a hundred.’
‘Did you say next Friday?’ Olivia frowned. ‘Do you think you might need a bit more time to organise this?’
‘Oh, no. This is Stoneden! The whole village will know by this afternoon. Anthony will promote it at church this weekend too. Plus I’m asking the schoolteachers to include some artworks from the kids as an art show – that always gets the parents and grandparents along. Tickets will sell out in no time. For the cake, I’m thinking something stylish and beautiful, like a three-tiered wedding cake. I’m hoping it will subconsciously communicate to everyone there that the Renaissance Project is a marriage of two big families and something worth celebrating, and that it will lead to new children, so to speak. But you get it – new beginnings, growth. Oh, and blooms! We must have lots of flowers to symbolise all this blooming.’
‘Roses are my favourite,’ Olivia said, nodding towards the rosewater cake on its stand.
Juliet bent forward to inhale the aroma, closing her eyes. ‘That. Smells. Amazing.’
‘Here, take a piece to try,’ Olivia said, reaching for a knife and a takeaway box.
‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Juliet said, waving her hands. ‘It’s too beautiful to destroy.’
‘Nonsense. It’s nearly opening time. I’d be cutting it any minute now.’ Olivia sliced into the cake, enjoying the sensation of the knife slipping through the cream roses, then the three sponge layers. The wedge plopped into the box with satisfying weight, and her own mouth watered. ‘Here you go.’
‘It’s gorgeous. Thank you. I’ll take it home and share it with Anthony,’ Juliet said. ‘Now, just let me know the cost when you’re ready and we’ll sort it out.’
‘Any particular flavours or icing requests?’ Olivia asked.
‘No, absolutely not. This is your time to shine, so you make all the decisions. Whatever you choose will be perfect.’
Olivia closed her notebook. ‘Leave it to me,’ she said, already planning a cake in her mind.
‘Bye for now,’ Juliet sang, and swept out of the shop on her way to make children happy.
Two incoming customers passed Juliet in the doorway, and their eyes locked onto the rose cake. ‘We’ll have two pieces,’ the first woman said, removing her gloves and anorak.
‘And two coffees,’ said the second, slipping the scarf off her head. ‘Irish, preferably.’
‘Coming right up,’ Olivia said. She was happy to have customers, and dared to hope that the rat drama of last week was behind her and she could settle into some sort of normality. She’d just put down the two plates and coffees when she saw Grayson striding past the window. He smiled at her and she raised a finger, asking him to stop. She hurried to meet him at the door.
‘Hi,’ she said, noticing a definite tingle through her body, a self-consciousness. So, her business might be back on track, but her emotions were clearly all over the shop.
‘Hi,’ he said, giving her the warmest, loveliest smile, one that was so easy, offered so freely. She mentally compared this with Helge’s demeanour – wary or brooding until the clouds passed, revealing the burning sun.
‘I really enjoyed our walk yesterday,’ she said.
‘So did I,’ he said. ‘It’s not every day I get chased by a bull. If I have another midlife crisis, maybe I could ditch the farming and become a rodeo clown and let bulls chase me for fun.’
‘Oh no, don’t ditch the farming. I actually wanted to ask if I could place a standing order with you for butter, cream, milk and cheese.’
He looked genuinely excited. ‘Of course. I can deliver them to the shop each day.’
She felt her cheeks bunch up in a grin. ‘Amazing. I’ve never had the opportunity to buy straight from the farmer before. I’d love to support you, and the village economy. And it means low food miles, I’d be choosing local and all that good stuff.’ And then there was the added benefit of knowing she would see him every day . . .
He let his gaze rest on her a moment, and she felt herself grow warm despite the cold morning. ‘I’d better get back inside,’ she said, reluctantly.
Grayson inclined his head towards the ladies sitting at the table in the window. ‘I think we have an audience,’ he said quietly.
Olivia peeked around. One of the women looked between her and Grayson, then raised her cup to Olivia in a cheeky salute.
‘First rule of small villages,’ Grayson said. ‘Everyone knows everything.’
Been thinking about what you said. Can we talk? x
Her text message flew off with a whoosh, destined for Helge’s phone. Sitting on the garden seat, Olivia watched Darcy and Eloise kicking a soccer ball around on the square of lawn behind the cottage. She’d offered to bring Eloise home after school for a play date, and the kids were happily working up an appetite for dinner. Darcy kicked the ball to Eloise, who mistimed her return kick, toppling over onto her backside with her legs in the air. The ball flew off into Mrs Wilson’s yard.
‘Are you okay?’ Olivia leant forward, about to run to her, but Darcy was already there, helping his friend up. Seeing that Eloise was shaking with silent guffaws, Olivia relaxed and left them to it. Giggling, re-enacting the event, they skipped around the row of apple trees and into Mrs Wilson’s yard. Olivia winced, waiting for her neighbour to come out and yell at them, but the house remained silent. Hopefully, Mrs Wilson was not at home.
She watched the pair return with the ball. They were still in their school uniforms; Eloise wore a light cardigan against the chill, but Darcy had shrugged his off. ‘Do you need your jumper, Darcy?’ she called to him.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, kicking the ball again to Eloise, who was already laughing in anticipation. Her cheeks were bright red, whether from the cold, the exertion or the excitement, Olivia couldn’t tell. She debated with herself whether to push the issue of a jumper with either child, but it wasn’t as if they weren’t used to cold weather. Tasmania and New Zealand both had their fair share of deep cold and snow.
She was so happy he’d made a friend in Eloise. Her heart positively sang. It was such a different story to his first year at school.
As a preschooler, Darcy had always made friends easily – at parks and playgrounds he happily chatted and played with other children. Yet when he started school, he struggled. The other boys were rough, loud and boisterous, where Darcy was reserved and thoughtful. He took his time to assess situations before jumping in, but that meant he was always a step behind.
‘Who did you play with at lunchtime?’ Olivia took to asking him when she picked him up from school.
‘By myself,’ he would say.
During the first term he often described being chased by a group of boys. His little brow furrowed and he looked at the ground, but when Olivia pushed him for more details he either couldn’t or wouldn’t give them. Olivia eventually told the teacher, who said she’d keep an eye on him in the playground. When he came home one day with a long red graze down his arm, she took photos of it to send to the school. ‘A boy hit him with a wooden block,’ she reported to the teacher, who was horrified and again said she would look out for him.
In the second term, the classroom seating arrangements changed. Darcy got on better with the boy he sat next to, and they sometimes hung out together at lunchtime. By term three, he still enjoyed the girls’ company but they had begun to form cliques among themselves from which he was excluded. He was friendly with all of the kids, but had no close friends. He never teased or spoke cruelly to anyone, just accepted everyone and played with whoever was there at the time. The result, though, was that he simply flew under the radar and was overlooked again and again for play dates and birthday party invitations.
At first, Olivia brushed it aside. ‘Not everyone can have a big party,’ she explained to Darcy. ‘Some people are only allowed to invite a few people.’
But another mum from school that she was friendly with would often complain, ‘Oh, another bloody birthday party this weekend,’ and Olivia would smile tightly and murmur in sympathy while Darcy went silent and his shoulders dropped. He would have given anything to have to go to a party.
Why could no one see how beautiful he was?
Then came the morning when she took Darcy to school and, as they stood waiting on the verandah with the other parents and children, one of the dads started handing out red envelopes with invitations to his daughter’s birthday. The girls squealed and flashed their invites about. ‘Shh! Just put them in your bags,’ the dad said nervously. Olivia gave him a sympathetic smile, assuming that the party was just for the girls. But when he started giving invitations to the boys too, her heart fell to the floor. Darcy watched as boy after boy got an invitation. The man gave an envelope to Olivia’s friend, for her son. ‘I’m trying to keep it quiet,’ he said. ‘We only have room for twenty kids, so a couple need to miss out.’ Olivia was mere inches away, but he avoided her gaze.
She stared straight ahead at her boy, with his huge eyes and his collapsing shoulders. She offered him a smile but he turned away and busied himself signing his name on the roll. There were twenty-two kids in the class, two had to miss out, and one of them was Darcy. He’d been rejected again.
When the classroom door opened, she got him settled at his desk, put his morning fruit snack in the bowl, his water bottle in the water crate and his homework bag on the pile on the spare desk, and kissed him goodbye. She barely made it through the classroom door before she burst into tears, feeling as though her own heart had been ripped in two.
When Katrina arrived at half-past five to pick up Eloise, she didn’t look herself. She avoided Olivia’s eye as she came through the front door, unwrapping the loose-knit purple scarf from around her neck. The tip of her nose was red, perhaps from the wind.
‘Where’s Russell?’ asked Olivia, closing the door behind her.
‘At the farm. A leaking water trough or something,’ Katrina said, irritably.
‘Ah, shame. And how are you?’
Katrina crossed her arms over her body and sniffed. ‘All good, fine.’ She still hadn’t ventured past the coat rack.
Olivia put her hand on her friend’s elbow. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said gently. ‘What’s wrong?’
Katrina’s drawn face suddenly twisted and she covered her eyes with her hands, taking a big gulp.
‘Here, come into the kitchen. The kids are upstairs.’
‘Oh God, sorry.’ Katrina flapped her hands at her face.
‘Don’t be. Sit down, tell me what’s happened.’
Katrina sat on one of the kitchen chairs and leant forward on her elbows, using both hands to wipe at the stream of tears falling from her eyes.
Olivia’s mind raced with scenarios that might explain the loss of the tall, confident woman’s usual demeanour. She lifted one of Katrina’s long black dreadlocks and moved it behind her shoulder, revealing a Maori tattoo just below her ear.
‘It’s . . . I’m just . . . kind of homesick,’ Katrina squeaked. She pulled the sleeves of her grey cardigan down over her hands and tucked them under her armpits, hugging herself tightly. ‘My best friend, back home,’ she clarified. ‘We spoke on the phone before, and just hearing . . .’
‘Her voice,’ Olivia finished for her, nodding.
Katrina shook her head. ‘His voice. That’s the problem,’ she said, her tone hardening. ‘No one understands.’
A double peal of laughter drifted down through the ceiling, and Katrina managed a small smile. Behind Olivia’s back the oven whirred gently, browning shepherd’s pie for dinner, warmth radiating through the small kitchen.
‘Russell doesn’t get it.’ Katrina rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘He could never accept that Ian and I were just mates. We worked at the same hospital, both nurses, and just had a great, easy working relationship. We laughed so much.’ Another tear slid down her face. ‘I grew up with four brothers. I just get along with guys, I always have.’
‘But Russell is jealous.’
Katrina nodded. ‘It’s a big part of why we moved here,’ she said, her shoulders shaking as sobs burst up from her chest. ‘I didn’t really want to come, but Russell was so keen and I’m sure it was about getting me away from Ian, at least in part. I’m supportive of the project and I do like being able to reconnect with the English side of our family roots, but I do feel like I was pushed into it because if I fought too hard then it would have looked like I wanted to stay with Ian.’
‘And you did?’
‘Yes, but he’s only my mate! My best friend just happens to be a man. On an average day, I spent more hours in Ian’s company than Russell’s.’
‘That’s so tricky.’ Olivia got up to fetch a box of tissues from the sill. ‘Is he married?’
Katrina nodded emphatically. ‘Four kids. His wife is fine about us.’
Olivia wondered for a moment if that was true or if it was just what Ian had told her. But then, Olivia’s own son was upstairs playing happily with a girl right now. Except that he was seven and didn’t know anything about romance and attraction yet. His friendship with Eloise was pure and platonic and uncomplicated.
