Here lies Emma Kelly. She chose Tahitian vanilla but the cake was German chocolate.
“Well?”
Emma inhaled through her nose as she gulped at the glass of ice water, holding back a wince as she rinsed away the final traces of sweet icing coating her mouth. She didn’t like chocolate—she never had. Still, knowing what was expected of her, she smiled brightly up at her mother before patting her mouth delicately with a pale-pink paper napkin.
“I like the vanilla.” She pushed at the plate holding five different flavors of wedding cake, sliding it across the small table. She was relieved to be done with the tasting—she’d had three gingerbread cookies for dinner, and it had taken away her appetite for the cake. She regretted nothing, though—the sugar helped her get through the seasonal stressors of gift shopping and the inevitable holiday parties held by distant relatives and family friends she barely knew.
Still, making even the small decision felt like a victory, until she glanced up and saw the way her mother, Rosemary, was pinching her lips together.
“Are you certain?” Rosemary pushed the small plate back to Emma. “Maybe you didn’t get a good taste of the rest. I created the German chocolate just for this.”
Aah. There it was. Rosemary thought that Emma should choose the chocolate, and therefore was going to push until Emma folded and did as she was expected.
Just agree with her. If she just retracted her answer, she would be spared days of hurt feelings, passive-aggressive nudges, and those pursed lips. And she should want to make her mother happy, shouldn’t she? Especially since it was the Christmas season?
Emma opened her mouth to do just that—to take the easy route, the road she’d taken her whole life. The words caught in her throat, combining with the lingering sweetness of the cake, threatening to choke her.
I need to grow a spine and speak up for myself.
The words stayed caught inside. She coughed. “Maybe I should try the lemon and raspberry again.” She was stalling. As had been happening more and more often lately, the sensation of being trapped wrapped around her, locking in the resentment.
Swallowing hard, she looked up at her mother’s eyes, which were almond brown and filled with the kind of disappointment that only a parent seemed able to convey. The two women stared at each other for a long moment as the steam in the kitchen of her mother’s bakery made sweat bead on Emma’s brow.
Irritation rose, hot and tight. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be at home, watching reality TV and stuffing her face with more gingerbread—she liked cookies better than cake, anyway, and the Christmas treats her elderly neighbor Agnes had given her were full of cream and butter and deliciousness.
She wiped away a trickle of sweat with the back of her hand as the rear door thumped open.
“I hope y’all left me some cake.” Matthew Phillips, Emma’s fiancé, strode into the kitchen, the open door bringing in a wave of unseasonable warmth. Even now, three weeks before Christmas, the small town of Madison, Georgia, was hot. Not to mention the heat that lingered from earlier that day in the shop, when the industrial ovens had churned out countless cakes, muffins, and loaves.
“For you, always.” Rosemary smiled, an expression with genuine warmth, as the tall man in the well-cut gray suit dropped a kiss on her smooth cheek before crossing to the small table where Emma sat. Tossing a manila envelope beside the plate of cake samples, he dipped his head to kiss her. His lips pressed against hers, the embrace familiar and warm.
But there were no fireworks—there never had been. Maybe there had never been a chance—they’d known each other since they were children, had seen each other through skinned knees and braces and adolescent awkwardness.
But wasn’t a slow burn better than something hot and wild that would inevitably burn itself out?
“I’m starving. My day went cattywampus and I didn’t get a chance to have lunch.” Taking the fork that Rosemary handed him, he slid into the empty chair beside Emma and scooped up a big bite of the lemon and raspberry cake, moaning as he chewed. “As always, compliments to the chef.”
“Suck-up.” Rosemary grinned at her future son-in-law with an openness that she rarely showed to Emma. As always, it stung, but she understood why her mother and her fiancé had always been close. They’d had far more in common than Emma had with her own mother—Matthew had even followed Rosemary into the food industry, something that didn’t appeal to Emma in the least.
“Isn’t sucking up if it’s true.” Quickly working his way through the other pieces, Matthew finally scooped up the chocolate. “Saving the best for last.”
“I like the vanilla—”
“Rosemary, this chocolate is the best thing you’ve ever baked.” Matthew grinned at Emma as though he hadn’t even heard her. “We have to go with the chocolate.”
The thin trickle of irritation that had been riding her since she’d sat down in the kitchen flared into anger. She didn’t want the chocolate. She didn’t like chocolate. She wanted the vanilla.
This isn’t really about cake and you know it.
As always, she swallowed what she really wanted to say. To distract herself, she reached for the envelope that Matthew had tossed onto the table. “Is this the marriage license?”
“Don’t open that!” Matthew spoke sharply as he tried to grab the envelope back. Emma exhaled, startled, reflexively jerking it out of reach.
“What are y’all talking about?” She watched with amazement as her fiancé and her mother exchanged a look that she couldn’t decipher. “I want to look at our marriage license. What is wrong with that?”
“You don’t want to get cake on it.” Smoothly, Rosemary reached for the envelope, her smile faltering when Emma kept her grip tight. “Come on, now. We’ll look at it later.”
“Why don’t you want me to look at this?” Part of Emma—most of her—wanted, as always, to please her mother, to hand over the envelope and smooth things over.
The other part? It was still worked up enough over the cake for her to stiffen her spine, just the slightest bit. Watching the other two warily, she slid a finger under the edge of the sealed flap.
“Emma…” Matthew reached again for the envelope, but an arched eyebrow had him pulling back with a flinch. Her mother watched her slit open the envelope with no expression on her perfectly made-up face, but a flicker in her eyes showed Emma her unease.
What is going on?
The envelope open, Emma pulled out the official piece of paper. She scanned it quickly, cocking her head in confusion when she saw the information listed under “bride.”
“Who on earth is Emma Nagorski?”