Miss Invisible, page 18
“What else you need, boss lady?”
“Can you grate some more fresh parmesan please?”
“No problem.”
I fluffed the rice again. Finished—and just in time, too. I spooned it onto the serving platter, making sure to leave enough in the pan for our chicken man. Then I topped the rice with the shrimp scampi and some bits of parsley.
Shane’s stomach growled as he reached for the platter. “Oh is that for me? You shouldn’t have.”
“Hands off, helper boy. I’ll treat you to a Big Mac when we blow this popsicle stand.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Why don’t you take in the garlic bread now, and when you come back, I’ll have chicken man’s plate ready to go.”
“Whatever you say.” He picked up the bread basket. “You know, you’re really good at this, Freddie. A natural. If only Anya could see you now.”
I shuddered. “If she saw both of us now, she’d fire our butts.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He winked and disappeared through the archway.
I tested the chicken, relieved to find it done, and removed it to a smaller platter along with the rest of the rice. I drizzled the cooked parsley and butter over the top of the chicken and finished off the plate with a liberal sprinkling of fresh parmesan.
“All set?” Shane rejoined me.
“Let’s do this.”
He carried in the shrimp-and-rice platter while I followed behind with the chicken. Too late, I realized I’d forgotten to ask Shane which guest was the allergic one. But Mrs. Harris noticed my hesitation and flicked her eyes discreetly to a balding man at the end of the table.
“Here you go, sir.” I smiled and set the plate down in front of him. “I hope you’ll enjoy your Tuscan chicken.”
When we returned to the kitchen, Shane and I both collapsed on barstools at the island.
“If I were a drinking woman, I’d say give me a dry martini right about now.” I affected a British accent. “Shaken, not stirred.”
Shane rubbed his eyes. “I’d rather have a Corona.”
I reached down into the refrigerator drawer and grabbed a couple of bottled waters. “Here’s the next best thing.”
Shane tapped his water bottle against mine. “Here’s to you, Queen of the Caterers. Good job!”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Number One Assistant.” I gave him a tired grin and tapped back.
My cell vibrated in my pants pocket.
“Oh my gosh. I totally forgot about Lydia in all this craziness.” I yanked out my phone and flipped it open. “Deborah? How’s Lydia?—Oh, hi, Samuel. How’s it going? Are you a grandpa yet?” I nodded. “Uh-huh. I hear it can take a long time.”
I glanced across at Shane. “Everything’s just fine. Don’t worry. No, no problems at all. They’re eating dinner right now, and I’ll be serving dessert in a little while. Now, tell Deborah to stop worrying about me, and the two of you just focus on Lydia and that new grandbaby you’re about to meet.”
I smiled into the phone. “Everything’s smooth sailing over here. Don’t worry about a thing. Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Give Lydia my love and tell her I said to push.”
“No problems at all,” Shane mimicked. “Other than having to whip up a whole new main course at the last minute.”
“Just call me Wonder Woman.” I twirled an imaginary cape. “Guess we’d better start cleaning up now,” I said. “Would you check and see if they’re done yet, or if they need anything?”
When Shane left, I filled the sink with soapy water and began washing all the pots and pans by hand. I didn’t know if such expensive pans could go in the dishwasher, but I wasn’t taking any chances. And I’ve always found there’s something soothing about washing dishes. The warm soapy water, the taking something dirty and making it clean, the chance to reflect . . .
I was reflecting on the singles potluck and Simon and what a fun time I’d had when footsteps on the slate floor behind me interrupted my train of thought. “So are the guests all happy campers, Shane?” I murmured.
“Very happy campers, young lady,” a deep voice answered.
I whirled around, dripping dishwater onto a pair of Italian leather loafers belonging to bald chicken man.
“I’m so sorry.” I grabbed a dishtowel and bent to wipe off his shoes, but he waved me off.
“No, no. I’m the one who should be apologizing for putting you to so much trouble.” He gave me a warm smile. “My compliments to the chef. That Tuscan chicken was absolutely delicious.” He sent me a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share the recipe, would you?”
I remembered what Deborah had said at the wedding when asked for her crab puff recipe. “I’m sorry. Company secret.” I smiled. “But we’d be happy to make it for you again another time.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal, young lady. Anyone who can roll with the punches as beautifully as you did tonight is someone I want to have on my payroll.” He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. “My name’s Phillip Turner, and I’d love to have A Taste of Honey do some catering for my company, beginning next month at a corporate retreat we’re having in the foothills.”
“Now, Phillip, don’t hog the caterer.” A buxom redhead strode into the kitchen and sent me a brilliant smile. “My dear, everything was absolutely delicious. I’d love to book you for a tea for my garden-club meeting. Are you free next Thursday?”
Um, was I? Or rather, was Deborah? “I’ll need to check with my partner, but if you give me your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Phillip, Belinda . . . there you are.” Mrs. Harris clicked into the kitchen with Shane on her heels, carrying a stack of plates. “I know what you’re up to, but let the poor girl at least serve dessert before you descend on her like a pack of wolves.”
“Dessert?” The bald Phillip guy’s eyes lit up. “How could we forget dessert? It’s something with either strawberries or raspberries, right?”
Shane, who’d set the plates down, retrieved the pink bakery box from the fridge, removing the raspberry-studded Danish-layer cake with a flourish. “Voilà!”
Mrs. Harris suggested to her salivating guests that they return to the dining room where the dessert would be served posthaste. Once the couple was out of earshot, she turned to me with a frown. “This looks like a Jorgensen’s cake. Did you buy this from the bakery?”
“No way,” Shane interjected before I had a chance to stammer a reply. “Freddie made this cake with her own two hands. She’s a fabulous baker.” He nodded to the cake, “Would you like us to serve this now?”
“Please. And we’ll take our coffee as well.” She clicked back through the archway.
“I think I’m going to have to start calling you Shane the spinmeister.” I shook my head as I sliced into the cake.
“At your service.” He gave a little bow as he filled a silver carafe with the coffee that had just finished brewing. Shane peered closely at the cake top. “I take it this was tomorrow’s anniversary cake?”
“You got it.”
“Nice cover-up.”
“Thanks. Fastest thing I could think of.” I sighed. “Now I just need to go back to the bakery tonight and turn Sunday’s birthday cake for Anya’s friend into tomorrow’s anniversary cake.”
“At least it’s already frosted.”
“Iced, remember?” I smiled.
“Oh that’s right. Frosting is for housewives.” He grinned and filled a serving tray with the cake and coffee. “And I’d better get these housewives and their husbands their cake before they get all desperate.”
Mrs. Harris was anything but desperate when she returned to the kitchen at the end of the evening as we were packing up. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “Everything was wonderful. Flawless. Loved the seafood martinis. And that cake was absolutely delicious—much better than Jorgensen’s!” She handed me an envelope. “Here’s your check and a little something extra for both of you, with my gratitude. Please tell Deborah I’m very impressed and that I’ll be calling her soon to schedule my next event.”
After we finished packing the gear in the van, I opened the envelope and pulled out two crisp fifty-dollar bills. I handed them both to Shane. “Here you go. Thanks again for bailing me out. I could never have done this without you.”
“We make a good team.” He pressed one of the fifties back into my palm. “But a deal’s a deal.” He chugged over to his car. “See ya tomorrow. Maybe I can help you with that third Danish layer cake.”
chapter eighteen
I looked at my watch as I clambered into the van. Ten forty-five. Surely Lydia’s baby had arrived by now. I punched in Deborah’s cell number, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Hey you—are you a grandmother yet? I’m dying to know if Lydia had a boy or a girl! Just finished up at the Harrises’ and am heading over to the hospital now, but first I need to make one quick stop. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
Back at the dark bakery, I stifled a yawn as I unlocked the back door. My bed was sure looking good to me now. The alarm screeched its ah-oooga melody, and I flipped on the lights as I hurried over to the keypad, where it took me several bleary-eyed tries to punch in the correct code.
Relief. Silence really is golden.
I set my keys down on the island and decided to use the bathroom before I got to work. Afterward, needing a little caffeine fix to make it through the rest of the evening, I rummaged through our employee fridge. Past Nicole’s bottled Frappucino, Shane’s Calistoga mineral water, and Millie’s Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple, I finally found a lone Diet Dr Pepper from the six-pack I’d placed there earlier in the week.
Popping the top, I drained half the can, enjoying the fizzy, cold rush of my favorite soft drink down my parched throat. Then I stretched and popped my back, only now realizing my shoulders had been on stress alert all evening.
Opening the walk-in, I removed the iced cake for Anya’s friend and set it on the counter while I rummaged for my favorite writing tip. I attached it to the pastry bag of golden-yellow icing and began to inscribe the cake. I’d just finished the “Ann” in anniversary when I heard a car door slam.
I froze, and my eyes flew to the back door. Had I remembered to lock it when I first arrived? My heart thudded in my chest as I heard heavy footsteps approach. What if it was an ax murderer or a burglar? I gripped the pastry bag in a death grip and looked wildly around for a weapon.
The door flung open, and a rough voice barked out, “Freeze!”
I squeezed the pastry bag so tightly, icing popped out the top like a giant zit.
It was worse than an ax murderer. Anya peeked from behind the two massive cops holding guns on me. “Freddie! What are you doing here?”
The cops lowered their guns. “You know this lady?” one asked.
“Yes, she works for me.” Anya, in running shoes and a white velour sweat suit (the jacket unzipped enough to be provocative but still legal) glared at me as she stepped from behind them.
“At this time of night?”
Her eyes flicked from the pastry bag in my trembling hand to the cake in front of me. Ever mindful of the bakery’s reputation, the schmooze queen said, “This was a rush order for the morning.”
The cops shouldered their weapons. One reported in with his radio while the other gave Anya a stern look that encompassed me. “You’d better train her how to work the alarm.”
“Oh I will, Officer. I will. I’m so sorry you had to come out here. Can I get you and your partner something?” She smoothed her hair back. “Maybe some cookies?”
“You got chocolate-chip?” the shorter one asked.
“Of course.” She turned to me with a plastic smile. “Freddie, could you get a few chocolate-chip cookies for the officers?”
“Could I have peanut-butter?” the tall one asked.
“Sure.” I unlocked the dry storage box, a tall, sealed cabinet where we stored the leftover cookies each day. Using a pastry tissue, I grabbed a few chocolate-chip and peanut-butter ones, which I placed in a small white bakery bag and handed to the shorter officer. “Here you go. Sorry for the false alarm.”
He grinned and bit into a chocolate–chip cookie. “Just remember to call the alarm company next time when you have a problem with the code and set it off.”
Anya waved as they left. But once the door shut behind them, she whirled on me.
“Now would you please explain to me what in the world you’re doing here?”
I picked up the pastry bag and resumed writing. “Just like you said. I’m finishing up this rush order for tomorrow morning for the fiftieth anniversary.”
“Really?” Anya’s icy stare pierced me. “Well, that’s strange, since I saw the Westons’ cake finished in the walk-in earlier today.”
I set down the pastry bag and did a contrite George Washington. “You’re right. An emergency came up, and I needed to use that cake, so I’m now replacing it.”
“An emergency? A cake emergency?” Anya’s heavily shadowed eyes bored into mine. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What are you playing at? Are you trying to steal from me?”
“No, of course not! I’d never do that. I planned to pay for the cake I used earlier.” My fingers clutched the fifty-dollar bill in my pocket, which I pulled out and set on the counter. “See? There you go.”
“Like that makes it all right?” Anya said. “If you hadn’t been caught, I’d have never seen that money. What makes you think you can come in here anytime you please? Just because you can make stupid little frosting roses and leaf borders doesn’t give you carte blanche. I can get anyone off the street to do that. You don’t own this bakery, Freddie, I do. That’s why it’s called Jorgensen’s. And don’t you forget it.”
She slapped her hand on the counter, breathing hard. “Why, you wouldn’t even have a job if it weren’t for me. And if you’re not careful, you won’t have this one much longer.”
I stared at her for a moment. Then something snapped.
Straw. Camel. Back.
And something else—a rush of something that felt strangely like courage.
“You’re right, Anya. I won’t.” I took a deep breath. “I quit.”
I picked up my purse and headed to the back door, adding over my shoulder, “Oh, and you might want to find someone off the street to finish decorating those cakes for tomorrow.”
I walked out with my head high, feeling all confident and powerful at making such a bold move and reveling in the memory of Anya’s gaping mouth and stunned expression.
I am not invisible!
Hear me roar!
I drove away with my windows down and the cool night breeze blowing through my hair.
As I drove along the Pacific Coast highway with my Isadora Duncan scarf blowing in the breeze, I thought about the latest ballet I’d be performing the next day with my troupe of big woman dancers. Unencumbered with a regular nine-to-five job, and living off the trust fund my famous but reclusive mother had left me, I was free at last to unleash my artistic sensibilities and let them take flight. As a result, I was also singing in a girl group and writing poetry in cafés while wearing a black beret and painting in my Monterey art studio overlooking the ocean. My first art exhibit—sculptures of large, joyful, Rubenesque women—would be held that weekend in one of San Francisco’s toniest galleries, to which I’d fly in the pilot seat of my own Cessna. Initially, I’d tried my hand at pottery a la Demi Moore in Ghost. I’d even had my own Patrick Swayze husband come up behind me at my potting wheel and distract me with romantic kisses while “Unchained Melody” played in the background. But—
A car honked behind me, and I drove through the intersection where the light had long since turned green.
My free-spirited fantasy crumbled about me. What was I thinking quitting my job? Yes, Anya was definitely the boss from down below, but at least she’d been a source of gainful employment. And now I was leaving Millie and Shane in the lurch.
I glanced at the digital clock on my dashboard. Ten after eleven—way too late to call Millie and give her a heads-up. She was in bed by nine thirty most nights. But Shane should still be up. As I pulled up to another red light, I punched in his number. “Shane? Have I got news for you . . .”
When I hung up after filling Shane in, I saw that I had one missed call—from Deborah. I listened to the message as I neared the hospital.
“Freddie?” Deborah was alternately crying and laughing. “I’m a grandma! My baby girl had herself a beautiful little boy— twenty-one inches long, eight pounds, seven ounces. Ten fingers and toes. He looks just like his mama. And he’s got a gorgeous full head of soft, curly hair. Thank you, Jesus! Lydia still hasn’t quite decided on a name yet, so for now he’s just Sweet Baby Boy.”
She giggled. “Lydia’s sleeping now—she’s tuckered out. We all are. This was quite an evening. I wanted to catch you before you drove out to the hospital, but since mother and son are doing fine, Samuel and I are heading home to bed now.”
She expelled a tired sigh. “I haven’t even asked about the dinner, so you’ll have to fill me in tomorrow—we want you to come meet our little grandson as soon as you get off work. Samuel said he checked on you a couple of times tonight, and everything went fine. I knew it would. I had every confidence in you, girl. Thanks again for gettin’ my back. I’ll see you tomorrow. ’Night.”
I did a U-ey in the hospital parking lot and drove back home. I kept it together all the way home. But once I got to my room, the pity dam burst.
I was really happy for Lydia and for Deborah and Samuel— although it was weird to think of Deborah as a grandmother since she was only nine years older than me.
Only nine years older . . . and look at her life. Married to a wonderful man, with terrific children—and now a beautiful grandchild— a beautiful house, a job she loved, and a tight relationship with God. And on top of all that, she was comfortable in her own skin.
And then there was me. What did I have? No husband, no kids, no home, and now not even a job! And my skin was breaking out all over. And I was fat. Who could be comfortable in this skin? I burrowed my head in the pillow and kicked my feet on my futon.
