~ Present ~
“Concentrate, Emerson!” My boss’s voice thunders across the kitchen, bouncing off the stainless-steel surfaces. “Those cakes aren’t going to bake themselves.”
Carrie Singleton, the owner of Carrie’s Cupcakes, is a perfectionist, a task master and an astute business woman. Her short fuse and booming voice make Gordon Ramsay seem like a shrinking violet, and a long line of apprentice cake makers have run for the hills because of it. I’ve been working here for three weeks now, and some days I think she might want us to be friends. Some days. Not today.
“Sorry, Carrie,” I reply.
She’s cradling her planner in her left arm and making notes. Glancing up, she looks at me over the top of her glasses. “You’re due at the Holland residence at midday.”
“I know.” I smile confidently at her. “I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not. Sarah is a very important client.”
“I know,” I repeat, mindful of keeping my tone professional.
When she’s gone, I struggle to refocus. I’ve lost count of all the jobs I’ve had since moving to Melbourne shortly after finishing high school, but this one is a definite step up from my previous one—selling insurance for a sleazy broker. I lasted two days before I was back online searching for something else. Despite my lack of tertiary education, I’m a fast learner and will try my hand at almost anything. Keen for a change of pace, I’d answered an ad for a job in a cake shop in one of the city’s most exclusive suburbs. Carrie’s Cupcakes is located amongst trendy cafes, a handful of expensive homeware shops, and a small art gallery I’ve yet to visit. The leafy streets create a beautiful village atmosphere, and it isn’t difficult to understand why houses around here command such high prices.
Carrie was desperate for help at the time and hired me on the spot. When she fired her cake decorator on my second day, I was thrown in the deep end, where I managed to swim with a surprising degree of flair. I’ve not set foot in the shopfront since and spend my days with fondant and food dye.
For the time being, I’m content, and that’s the best I can hope for these days. With that thought in mind, I pack the cupcakes into their box and head off.
The hot summer sun beats down on me, warming my bare arms. A light sheen of sweat beads across my forehead as I carry the box of fifty cupcakes with great care. Walking up the sandstone path towards the imposing front door, my arms ache from the weight of the box. The chocolate cakes inside with white fondant and black polka dots look elegant and chic, even if I do say so myself.
I manage to push the intercom button with my elbow, and when no one answers, I try again. Still nothing. Sighing, I balance the cupcake box precariously on one hand, then try knocking.
I think I hear a woman’s voice coming from inside, but I can’t be certain.
“Hello,” I say, moving closer to the door.
When I get no response, I test the large, brass handle and find the door eases open. “Hello?”
The foyer is opulent, but the expensive décor isn’t intimidating in the way I’ve come to expect in the clients’ homes I’ve been to so far. I breathe in the inviting citrus scent wafting from the candles burning on the wooden entry table. The artwork hanging on the wall above the table is hard to miss, and I immediately recognize it from an art history book I studied in high school. It’s Monet’s Woman with a Parasol. Our teacher told us this beautiful painting of Monet’s first wife and his eldest son was early evidence of his focus on light and colour over line and shape. It impacted me when I was a teenager, but seeing it in person, even if it’s a replica, is startling and I quickly divert my gaze.
“Can I help you?”
My eyes snap halfway up the staircase to where an elegant woman sits with her arms wrapped protectively around her legs. She’s dressed in a white linen shift dress, her expensive-looking heels pushed tightly together. She pushes an errant strand of golden hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and mascara has made smudged rivers down her cheeks. I am definitely intruding on a private moment and it’s uncomfortable.
“Hello, Mrs Holland,” I say. “I’m Emerson from Carrie’s Cupcakes. I have the cupcakes you ordered. If you tell me where they should go, I can be out of your hair in no time.”
Without saying a word, she places her hands on the carpeted stairs, pushes herself up, then descends with effortless grace.
“I was expecting one of my sons,” she says when she reaches the bottom. “I’m sorry you caught me like this.” Her bottom lip quivers as the words tremble out.
“Please don’t apologise,” I say sincerely.
She nods and gives me a sad smile. “The kitchen is this way.” Her heels click as she walks across the tiles.
I follow her past the staircase, through an archway, and down a hallway leading to an expansive kitchen.
“Where would you like them?” I ask quietly. She appears so fragile that I worry she might break if I say the wrong thing.
“Oh. Yes.” She points to the far corner of the kitchen where there’s an open door. “Just in there. Anywhere you can find a free spot is fine.”
I make my way across to the walk-in pantry and carefully set the cakes down on the bench. After giving them a quick once-over, I head back to the kitchen and see Mrs Holland just outside in the adjoining courtyard.
She’s sitting at a large outdoor table covered in a white cloth. Vases filled with lemons make a line down the centre of the table and are surrounded by fresh flowers.
“Excuse me, Mrs Holland,” I say, standing at the door. “I’ll be heading off now.” I’m not sure if she heard me. Her shoulders shake ever so slightly, her body wracked with silent sobs.
“Are you okay?” I realise it’s a stupid question, but it’s all I’ve got.
She looks up at me with tear-filled eyes. “Will you sit with me for a while?” she asks, her voice hoarse. “I’m sure my son will be here soon, but I’d really like the company.”
“Sure,” I reply, hesitantly sitting down on the plush cream cushion. “I’m sure Carrie won’t mind if I’m out a little bit longer.”
She nods, wiping her eyes with a pale pink handkerchief she pulled from a pocket in her dress. She then pours two cups of iced tea from the jug on the table and hands me a glass. “There is something strangely familiar about you,” she says eventually. “I don’t know why, though, because I’m sure we’ve never met.” She studies me, and I don’t really know what to say to that. “The moment I saw you, I felt like I knew you already.”
I take a sip of tea. “I’ve had quite a few jobs so maybe you’ve seen me somewhere before.”
She stares into the distance. “Possibly. I can be a bit vague these days.”
Neither of us say anything for a minute or so, and I can tell she’s completely lost in her thoughts. I glance at my watch, wondering if Carrie thinks I’ve gotten myself lost. Shifting in my seat, I decide to break the silence and perhaps find a way to make my exit. “Are you having a party?” I ask.
“I have a charity afternoon tea here today,” she replies.
Nodding, I wrack my brain for something else to say, conscious that this poor woman’s eyes are brimming with unshed tears.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask cautiously.
She shakes her head. “Not really.” A few tears spill from her striking green eyes.
As much as I want to leave, I decide I’ll just sit with her until her son arrives. “Do you live here alone?”
She nods. “My husband died from a heart attack.”
“Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. When?”
She takes another deep breath and meets my gaze. “Ten years ago. You probably thought I was going to say last week.”
I shake my head. “Grief has no time limit.”
She nods and gives me an appreciative smile. “We were looking forward to enjoying our golden years, but then . . .” She pulls out her hanky and dabs at her eyes. “I know this house is far too big now, but I can’t bear to sell it. This is our house, and I can’t imagine anyone else living here.” More tears slip down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Emerson. You are just here delivering cupcakes, and I’m unloading on you.”
“It’s totally fine,” I reassure her.
“Some days, I’m okay and the pain feels manageable.” She blows her nose with her hanky. “But other days, like today, it all just feels unbearable.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Holland.”
“Please call me Sarah,” she says, shrugging. “Ten years.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe a whole decade has passed, and I’m still grieving as if it was yesterday. I think maybe some losses are impossible to recover from. It doesn’t seem to matter what you do or how hard you try to move on, the pain is too great and your mind doesn’t allow your heart to heal.” She looks at me through bleary eyes, and I wish there was something I could say or do. “I lost the love of my life, and I don’t know how to carry on some days.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, deliberating whether I’m in any way equipped to offer anything of value, then say quietly, “I think you just have to keep treading water, hoping each day it becomes slightly easier to stay afloat.”
Her eyes soften. “My son, Josh, gave me something years ago that helped me stay afloat. He took his father’s death the hardest and has always been the most concerned about my welfare.” She cocks her head towards the open French doors. “Can I show you what he gave me?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“Mum,” a male voice calls out.
“Oh. That’s Josh now,” she says, wiping her eyes again.
“I should really be going anyway,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I hope you feel better soon, Sarah.”
She nods as we both stand. “Thank you so much, Emerson. It was really nice of you to stay and listen to me.”
Sarah walks me back to the kitchen. As we step through the door, a man drops a folded-up newspaper on the island bench with a thud, stopping me in my tracks. When he turns to face us, my mouth goes dry. Incapable of movement or coherent thought, I openly and rudely stare at the stranger in front of me.
He is tall—maybe six foot two or three, with broad shoulders and a strong body that is no stranger to exercise. With dark blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail and scruff that partly covers his handsome face, all I can think is that he’s far too good-looking to be real.
“Darling,” Sarah says warmly. “How are you?”
Her son waves a set of keys in front of him. “The door wasn’t locked, Mum.”
She turns to me. “This is my son, Josh. He’s a bit of a stickler for home security.”
Josh rolls his eyes, but an incredible smile lights up his face, followed by a quizzical expression, as if he’s confused by my appearance.
“I was just telling Emerson here what a good son you are and how you look after your favourite mum.”
He smiles, looking me in the eye and holding out his hand. “Well it’s good to meet you, Emerson.”
I take a tentative step forward and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you too, Josh.” I’m proud that my voice sounds even and normal.
When he releases my hand, I realise he’d been holding it for too long—or maybe it was me holding onto him. Either way, it was weird, and my cheeks heat. It occurs to me that perhaps I have some flour or food dye on my face because he is fascinated by me for some reason.
“Emerson delivered the cupcakes for my afternoon tea and was kind enough to stay and keep me company,” Sarah says. “I’m afraid she arrived when I was having a pity party.”
“Well I hope there are a few cupcakes to spare,” Josh says. “I’m starving.”
“You keep your greedy mitts off them.” Her tone is firm but light. “They’re for my guests.”
She turns her attention to me and asks, “Do you like art, Emerson?”
Of all the questions in the world, she managed to ask one of the things guaranteed to make me fiercely uncomfortable. “I . . . um . . . well, I used to, but it’s not something I kept up.”
“My Josh teaches a wonderful art therapy class on Wednesday and Thursday evenings at the gallery just down the street from your work. You must know the one.”
My whole body flinches, and I desperately hope it’s not too obvious. “Oh wow,” I say, awkwardly. “That sounds . . . wonderful.”
“He’s an amazing artist,” she continues. “He’s won awards and had work exhibited in some of the major galleries around the country.”
“Congratulations,” I say to Josh, who shrugs but gives me another of his megawatt smiles. He’s a gorgeous, working artist who looks after his grieving mother. I need to get far away from him before my already inappropriate thoughts do any real damage.
“Stop in at the gallery sometime. Wednesday and Thursday evenings from seven,” he says, piercing me with his eyes. “My classes are laidback and friendly, and I like to think my students enjoy them.”
“Okay. Sure. Good luck,” I say before turning to his mother. “Bye, Mrs Holland. I mean, Sarah.”
“Thanks again for the chat, Emerson,” she replies, smiling warmly and appearing so much more relaxed.
My heart flips as Josh’s eyes fix on me. “It was really nice to meet you,” he says. “I’ll walk you out.”
As we make our way to the front door, I’m painfully aware that he’s behind me. It feels as if one of my legs is longer than the other. Like a true gentlemen, Josh moves ahead of me and opens the door. “Hey, Emerson,” he says, and I’m fixed to the spot by his emerald gaze. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For being here for Mum when you didn’t have to be.”
“It was no trouble.” I smile, giving him a small wave as I walk away.
On the slightly overgrown path leading to the front gate, I notice a small and perfectly smooth pebble, which seems completely out of place. Tentatively, I bend down, pick it up and run my thumb over its surface. Almost immediately, I’m slammed with a barrage of childhood memories that I had, until this moment, successfully blocked. Half-walking and half-jogging, I stumble across the road and into a mercifully deserted park where I slump into a swing. No matter how hard I’ve tried to block out my past, the memories are coming in too fast and with too much clarity. Squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the chains on the swing, I concede defeat as the dam wall breaks and memories of my first eighteen years of life come flooding in.