The Cake Maker's Wish, page 24
On Saturday morning, she had the gratification of presenting her creations to a series of delighted clients. The woman who came to pick up her mother’s sixtieth birthday cake was thrilled. The cake was in the shape of a flamingo, with each individual bright pink feather, the eye, beak, long pale legs and a string of pearls around its neck crafted in fondant icing. It had been a lot of work to create but really rewarding. Olivia had taken several photos of it for her Instagram account and her lookbook.
The dog’s owner was equally impressed with her English collie’s peanut butter cake with whipped coconut cream topping and biscuit bones, and the triple-layered gingerbread cake with eggnog icing and lashings of salted caramel drizzled from top to bottom for the human guests.
‘It’s Lady’s fifteenth birthday,’ the woman said, her eyes going bright. ‘We won’t have her for much longer. We’ve invited all the people who love her, and a professional photographer will be there to capture the day.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Olivia said. ‘It’s been a joy to make this cake for her. I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman said, nodding and choking back emotion.
Olivia helped her load the cakes into her car. ‘Give Lady a cuddle from me,’ she said, waving her off. Not for the first time, she marvelled that something as simple as a cake could become the focal point for so much human experience and emotion, and represent the crossing of a threshold from one stage of life to another. It humbled her to play a role in these traditions. It reminded her why she loved her job so much.
She was standing in the bathroom, a hair band between her teeth, separating her hair into three sections to weave a long plait down her back, when Grayson arrived, his truck crunching over the stones in the driveway.
‘That’s Grayson,’ she said to Darcy, who ran to open the front door.
‘Hi, Grayson,’ he called.
Olivia hurried to finish plaiting her hair and checked her make-up.
She heard Grayson at the door. ‘Hey, Darcy.’
‘Mum’s in the bathroom,’ Darcy said.
‘Nearly done,’ Olivia called.
‘Want to play Guess Who?’ Darcy asked him, closing the door.
‘Sure.’
Olivia stepped out of the bathroom as they were setting up the game on the kitchen table.
‘Mama, you look beautiful,’ Darcy said, pausing to beam up at her. She was wearing her dress jeans with a new black asymmetrical long-sleeve knit she’d picked up from Wilhelmina’s store. A gold chain hung down to her navel.
She walked over and squeezed him around the shoulders. ‘Thank you.’
‘I have to agree,’ Grayson said, grinning at her. Then he motioned to the board. ‘We’re just going to have a quick game.’
‘Take your time,’ she said, loving very much that Grayson would jump in and play with Darcy. She and Darcy were a package deal.
‘I go first ’cause I’m the youngest,’ Darcy said.
‘Sounds fair.’
‘Hm . . . Does your person have yellow hair?’ Darcy asked, seriously, like a miniature detective.
‘No.’
Darcy flicked down several cards.
‘Does your person have earrings?’ Grayson asked.
‘No!’ Darcy leant his chin in his hand, staring at his array of suspects. She loved him so much it hurt, and that was what made this whole dating thing so tricky. As they played, she let herself enjoy looking at Grayson, so tall and broad, his farmer’s fingers accidentally knocking down the wrong characters on his board. And when he lost, as he was always going to, he asked Darcy if he wanted to play again.
‘Maybe next time,’ Olivia interjected. ‘Eloise is waiting for you, Darcy. Have you got all your things to stay the night?’
‘I think so,’ he said, jumping up out of his seat. As much as he obviously liked playing with Grayson, the lure of Eloise’s company would win every time.
Grayson drove them down the hill to Katrina and Russell’s place, and they delivered him there with minimal chitchat, Katrina waving them out the door and saying she would drop Darcy back to Rambling Rose at midday. Then Olivia and Grayson were alone, driving down the dark roads towards his farm.
‘Hi,’ Grayson said, sneaking a sideways glance at her.
‘Hi.’ His attention made her feel jittery – happy but nervous. Her mind jumped unbidden to Helge for a moment, and she wondered what he was doing this weekend with the kids.
It was only a short drive to his farm. As Grayson pulled up outside the house, lit up invitingly from within, Olivia peered out his window, noticing something new since her first visit. Next to the cow paddock was a tiny house on wheels, no bigger than a standard caravan.
‘Oh wow!’ she said. ‘I love tiny homes. I’ve been fascinated with them for years. When did you get that?’
‘Just this week,’ he said, the truck’s engine ticking down in the sudden quiet. ‘Found it on Gumtree.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’ For now, the building had plain brown wooden planks for walls and a pitched roof, a door and a single window, but she could imagine it once it was done up, with a colourful exterior and window and door trims, curtains hanging inside. The possibilities were endless.
‘Not sure yet. The people I bought it from built it themselves, but their plans changed. It’s just a box, not fitted out inside yet.’ He shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, a new project to work on, and super cheap. The price alone made it impossible to pass over.’
‘Well, I can’t wait to see what you do with it. Let me know when you want to do a tiny house warming and I’ll bake you a tiny cake. I’ll even craft a figurine of Ruby.’
He grinned at her. ‘That would be cool.’
They climbed out of the truck and entered the house through the unlocked door. It was beautifully warm inside, and she could smell wood smoke and something else amazing.
‘What are you making?’ she asked, laying her coat over the back of a chair.
‘It’s a surprise,’ he said, shrugging off his own jacket.
‘Can I help?’
‘Absolutely not. Tonight is all about looking after you.’
25
Grayson returned from the kitchen carrying two pieces of pumpkin pie for dessert. They’d eaten on a rug in front of the fireplace in the lounge room, with lots of cushions and a low square table the perfect height for eating on the floor. The fire was crackling melodically. The evening’s pumpkin theme had already lent itself to soup, which tasted great with sour cream and crusty bread from Leanne’s bakery. That was followed by rosemary and lemon roast chicken, potatoes and, naturally, pumpkin, with gravy and vibrant green peas. Olivia wasn’t a pumpkin enthusiast, but the man could cook, that was for sure. He’d gone to a lot of effort and it wasn’t often someone cooked for her, so she wasn’t going to complain. Besides, going by the number of huge green and grey pumpkins she’d seen stacked in rows along Grayson’s kitchen walls, he needed to use them up.
‘This looks amazing,’ she said, taking the plate. The golden pie was served with a big dollop of thickened cream on the side.
‘I have to confess I didn’t make the pie shell,’ he said, lowering himself back down to the floor and adjusting a cushion. ‘It’s rather intimidating trying to make dessert for a pastry chef, so I didn’t even try. This one’s from Tesco.’
‘It’s all incredible,’ she assured him. ‘I’m so full, though; I’m not sure how much of this I can eat.’
He smiled at her, and the flickering firelight danced across his glasses. She’d been surprised to see him put on his blue-rimmed specs, but they suited him, framing his gorgeous eyes, which had so much detail within the iris it was like looking down through water and seeing the changing depths of the ocean floor.
‘All optometrists have glasses,’ he’d laughed, when he saw her looking. ‘But I usually wear contacts.’
She took a bite of the pie. It was sweet and creamy, with slightly too much nutmeg, but really good. Still, she was bursting. ‘That is delicious but I will absolutely pop if I eat any more.’
He turned his spoon upside down in his mouth and sucked on it like a lollipop, which she found ridiculously cute.
‘How did you end up with so many pumpkins, anyway?’
He chuckled. ‘They’re from my customers.’
She frowned. ‘Your milk customers?’
He put the rest of his own pie down on the table between the half-empty bottle of white wine and the salt and pepper shakers, which were fire-engine red. ‘I deliver milk to many older members of the community, a lot of them living out of town.’
‘Like Madeline.’
‘You know her?’
‘We’ve met a couple of times.’
An interested smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘You talked about me?’
She grinned in response to his flirtiness. ‘A bit. Anyway, go on. You were telling me about the pumpkins.’
‘Many of these people don’t have much money but they do love the idea of getting fresh milk from a local farm – that’s one part of the Renaissance Project they appreciate. It’s the restrictions on selling property that are hurting some of them.’
‘So, they pay you in pumpkins.’
He nodded. ‘Yep. I can’t eat them all, so I feed them to the cows. They love them.’
‘Then I guess they are kind of paying you, aren’t they? They’re giving you feed for your cows.’
He lifted one burly shoulder. ‘Not really. Pumpkins aren’t a staple for the cows, they’re more of a treat. But yes, they’re trying to pay in their own way.’
They were silent a moment and Grayson held her gaze for long enough to make her face flush. ‘I’ve really enjoyed having you here tonight,’ he said, his voice low.
‘I’ve enjoyed being here. Thank you for making me dinner.’
‘Pleasure. I’d love to do it again.’
‘So would I.’
Grayson looked pleased at that, and shuffled towards her. ‘Is it okay if I come and sit over here?’
‘Yes.’
He kept inching towards her, making fun of the stiffness in his knees, which made her laugh, and she watched his body move closer and closer to hers. She took in the strength of his broad shoulders under his soft-looking tartan shirt, the curve of his hips sinking towards the floor, the straight outline of his thighs up to his knees. His woollen socks. The five o’clock shadow of whiskers on his jaw. The scent of nutmeg on him. The pressure of the air between them intensifying as he brought all of that over to sit beside her. She liked it all.
‘I’m glad I moved to Stoneden,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ he said, his voice husky.
She was suddenly aware of the silence in the room, the only sounds the occasional popping of the fire and the pounding of her pulse in her ears. Momentarily unnerved, she blurted out, ‘Do you have any addictions?’
Grayson blinked, then burst out laughing. ‘I think that’s the most original question I’ve ever been asked on a date.’
She buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with giggles. ‘I can’t believe I just said that.’
‘No, it’s fabulous. People should be a lot more careful about who they’re getting into . . .’ he caught himself – before he said ‘into bed with’, she guessed – and finished, ‘. . . involved with.’ He took a sip of wine, thinking, then placed the stemless glass back on the table. ‘To answer your question: no drugs or alcohol or gambling or sex addictions, but, as well as my large collection of pumpkins, I have been collecting anchors for many years.’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Anchors? Like, off boats?’
‘Yes.’ He pointed up above the fireplace. ‘That’s one.’
She followed his finger, staring up at a large mixed-media artwork on canvas. Black and white stripes formed the background to a red anchor with a rope twisted around it. She’d noticed it when she first came into the room but hadn’t thought much of it, just taken it in as part of the generally masculine vibe of the room, with its dark brown leather couches, cowskins on the floor, and a wine rack made from horseshoes. Looking around the room now, her eyes fell on an actual anchor in rusty brown iron, about the length of her shinbone, propped up beside the bookcase.
‘Yes, that one too,’ Grayson said.
‘What made you collect anchors?’
He shrugged. ‘My grandfather was a sailor so I spent time on his boat as a kid. He gave me a real anchor for my tenth birthday and it seemed like something straight out of a pirate story.’
‘How many do you have?’ She was fascinated.
He turned his eyes to the ceiling, mentally counting. ‘Including the big ones in the milking shed and the smaller ones around the house, the painting, the fridge magnets . . . I don’t know. Thirty, maybe?’
Anchors – she could deal with that. ‘You’ll have to give me the tour sometime.’
‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘Any addictions?’
‘Hm, none of the usual ones, like pumpkins or anchors, but I would have to confess to marshmallows.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Go on.’
‘Only Pascall marshmallows, though.’
‘Ah – this is what Darcy was referring to the other day.’
‘Yes – sadly, I think I’ve passed my addiction on to him, but it’s only for the pink and white ones.’
‘Very specific.’
‘It is! They have this dry coating that cracks and crumbles when you first put them in your mouth, but if you can restrain yourself from biting into them, they start to melt around the edges, and then they’re silky smooth and stretchy, and when you finally can’t stand it any longer and bite down, the flavour of the raspberry or vanilla comes out.’
‘So, what, you eat whole packets of them?’
‘Sometimes, yes,’ she confessed. ‘Once I start I really can’t stop. I also love them in hot chocolate or melted over a fire, but I think they might be best frozen.’
‘Frozen?’
‘Yep. Put them in the freezer and they go cool and chewy. So good!’
‘You’re going to have to introduce me to these wondrous things.’
‘It’s terrible if I need to use them in a cake, though. I eat at least as many as I use.’
He smiled at her, then looked down at his jeans and tugged at the seam a moment. ‘Would it be okay if I kissed you?’ He raised his eyes to hers. ‘You know, after what we were talking about the other day, with my sister and all she went through, Me Too and all that, I want to do the right thing. I want everything to be really clear. I’m doing my bit to lift the standard.’
She nodded, impressed. ‘Yes.’
He scratched at his jawline. ‘Yes, you understand what I’m saying, or yes, it’s okay if I kiss you?’
She grinned at him. ‘Yes, it’s okay if you kiss me.’
‘Good.’ He moved even closer and she held her breath, waiting. But then he paused, inches from her lips. ‘So we’re really clear,’ he said, his voice rough with desire, his breath warm on her cheek. ‘Enthusiastic consent is the catchphrase of the moment. In that spirit, do you think I could get a bit more than a yes? Any chance I could get a hell yes?’
She leant in towards him and grasped the front of his shirt. ‘Hell yes,’ she whispered, and pulled him towards her.
Their lips met. He was warm and nutmeggy and all sorts of wonderful, and it was just as well she was already sitting on the floor, as she’d gone weak at the knees.
Olivia woke early the next morning. She hadn’t slept much since Grayson dropped her home last night. They’d spent a long time kissing in the doorway like teenagers, before he’d finally groaned and pulled himself away, blowing her a kiss as he climbed back into his ute. She smiled as she remembered it, glad they hadn’t done more at this stage than kissing – okay, a lot of kissing – but enough to know they definitely had chemistry.
It was dark and the house was quiet, Darcy still at Katrina’s, but Olivia knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep. She climbed out of bed and pulled on her hummingbird-patterned dressing-gown and slippers. Downstairs in the kitchen, she switched on her phone – 7.30 am – and put the kettle on to boil. A text message was already waiting for her from Grayson, who must have been up for milking.
Can’t wait to see you again.
Smiling, she replied:
Same. Give Ruby a kiss for me.
She made a plunger of coffee. Waiting for it to brew, she planned what she might bake for the shop today. It was cold enough out there to warrant some seriously stodgy comfort food. Perhaps a molten cake, moist chocolate cake around oozing warm caramel sauce.
Her phone tinged again. Grayson had sent a photo of one huge brown eye framed with long lashes.
Ruby bids you good morn.
Good morning, Ruby! She’s gorgeous.
She’d just sent off that text with a swish when an email came through. It was from Ferdinand with instructions for Ying and Oden’s wedding cake. With shaking hands she opened it, read their request, and jigged on the spot with excitement. Oh, this was going to be fun.
With Darcy out of the house, Olivia was able to leave for Rambling Rose earlier than usual. On a whim, she drove first to Madeline’s house, raindrops splashing heavily on the windscreen. She pulled up outside and cut the engine. The lights were on inside the house, as she’d known they would be, a lifetime of rising early still ingrained in the older woman.
She thought about Madeline preparing that coffin – painting it, varnishing it, lining it with quilts, and putting in photos of her parents, and finally a small brown teddy bear that Burton had had since he was a toddler. As Olivia had listened to Madeline describing the process of putting the coffin together, she’d felt great sadness but also admiration for her courage and her commitment to her brother, right to the end.
