CHAPTER THREE
BY WEDNESDAY, LAUREL JUGGLED BAKING, TASTINGS, MEETINGS, and design sessions. Her cooler and freezer bulged with a variety of fillings, frostings, and layers, precisely labeled, that she’d use to create the cakes and desserts for the weekend events. And she still had more to go.
With her kitchen TV tuned to The Philadelphia Story for the buzz and pop of the dialogue, she added egg yolks, one at a time, to the fluff of butter and sugar in her mixing bowl. Her board held sketches or photos of this week’s designs, and a printed schedule of tasks to be done.
Once each yolk was fully incorporated, she added the mixture of flour and baking powder she’d already sifted together three times, alternating it with the milk she’d measured out.
She was whisking egg whites and salt in a separate bowl when Mac came in.
“Working.”
“Sorry. I need cookies. Please, can I have cookies?”
“Doesn’t Mrs. G have any?”
“They’re not to eat. I mean not for me to eat. Although, cookies. I need some for a shoot I have in a couple hours. I got this idea, and cookies would work. Emma let me have flowers.”
Laurel arched her eyebrows at Mac’s pleading smile as she added a quarter of the stiffened egg whites to the batter. “What kind of cookies?”
“I won’t know until I see what you’ve got. You always have cookies.”
Resigned, Laurel gestured with her head. “In the cooler. Write down what you take on the inventory board.”
“There’s another board? A cookie board?”
Laurel began folding in the remaining whites. “We now have two men in our world. They’re known for mooching cookies.”
Mac angled her head, pouted a little. “You give Carter cookies?” “I’d give Carter my love and devotion if you hadn’t gotten there first, sister. So I give him cookies instead. He’s over here nearly every day since school let out, working on his book.”
“And eating cookies without bringing home any to share, apparently. Ah, the chocolate chunk,” Mac announced with her head and shoulders in the cooler. “Big as my hand, traditional, and will photograph nicely. I’m taking half a dozen, well, seven, because I’m eating one now.”
She took one of the small bakery boxes for transport while Laurel poured batter into prepared pans.
“Do you want one?” At Laurel’s head shake, Mac shrugged. “I’ve never known how you resist. My shoot’s your tasting today.”
“Right. I’ve got them on the list.”
“I love this movie.” Mac crunched into a cookie, then glanced away from the TV toward the display. “What’s this design? It’s not in my book.”
Laurel tapped the pans on the counter to break up any air bubbles. “It’s off book.” She transferred pans to the oven, set the timer. “For Del’s paralegal. She’s coming back from maternity leave, and he’s having a little cake and coffee thing for her.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’m the one who made the cake.”
“Which is nice, too, Miss Crankypants.”
Laurel started to snarl, then stopped herself. “Shit. I am Miss Crankypants. Maybe it’s the sex moratorium. It has its upside, but there is the inevitable down.”
“Maybe you need a booty buddy.” Sagely, Mac pointed with the remainder of the cookie. “Somebody who can just pop the cork every couple weeks.”
“That’s an idea.” Laurel tried a bright, eager smile. “Can I please have Carter?”
“No. Not even for cookies.”
“Selfish, that’s what you are.” She got to work cleaning up the baking area. Next on the list, she noted, were the crystallized flowers for Friday’s cake.
“We should go shopping,” Mac decided. “We should all go buy shoes.”
Laurel considered. “Yes. Shoes are a viable substitute for sex. Let’s schedule that. Soon. Ah, here’s just the woman who can schedule anything,” she said as Parker strode in. “But she’s got that work look on her face.”
“Good, Mac’s here, too. I’m going to make some tea.”
Laurel and Mac exchanged looks. “Uh-oh,” Mac murmured.
“It’s not uh-oh. Very much,” Parker qualified.
“I don’t have time for not very much. I have to make a zillion crystallized baby roses and Johnny-jump-ups.”
“You can get it set up while I’m dealing with the tea.”
Useless to protest, Laurel thought and got out her wire racks and baking pans, her bowls, her ingredients.
“Mia Stowe, January bride?” Parker began.
“Big, fat Greek wedding,” Mac commented. “The MOB’s Greek, and her parents still live there. They’re after a big, wild, traditional Greek deal.”
“Right, exactly. Good. It seems the grandparents have decided—impulsively—to visit. Grandmother wants to check on some of the wedding plans, since apparently she’s never completely forgiven her son-in-law for taking her daughter to the U.S., and lacks confidence that we—or anyone—can pull off the kind of wedding she wants.”
“The grandmother wants,” Laurel said as she got the edible flowers Emma had provided out of the cooler.
“Again, exactly. MOB is in a panic. Bride is scrambling. Grandmother is demanding an engagement party—and yes, they’ve been engaged for six months, but this doesn’t deter Grandmother.”
“So let them have a party.” Laurel shrugged and began trimming stems.
“She wants it here, so she can check us out, approve the location, our services, and so on. And she wants it here next week.”
“Next week?” Mac and Laurel sputtered in unison.
“We’re booked. Full slate,” Laurel pointed out.
“Not on Tuesday night. I know.” Parker held up both hands for peace. “Believe me, I know. I’ve just spent most of an hour on the phone between a hysterical MOB and a bride who feels caught in the middle.We can do this. I’ve checked with the caterer, managed to book a band. I called Emma and she’ll handle the flowers. They want some formal family portraits, and some candids. But the formals are the key,” she said to Mac. “And some traditional Greek desserts, along with a weddingish cake.”
“Weddingish?”
Parker merely spread her hands at the wasp on Laurel’s tone. “The bride is firmly against a reproduction of the design she’s picked for the actual event. And it’s a much smaller deal. About seventy-five people, but I’d plan for a hundred. She said she’d leave the design, the flavor completely up to you.”
“That’s considerate of her.”
“She’s really stuck, Laurel. I feel for her. I’ll handle the rest, but I need the two of you on board.” She set a cup of tea on the counter while Laurel dipped a flower into beaten egg whites and water. “I said I’d call her back one way or the other after I’d checked with my partners.”
Laurel shook off the excess egg wash, blotted the rosebud with a paper towel before sprinkling it with superfine sugar. “You booked the band.”
“I can unbook the band. All for one.”
Laurel laid the first flower on the wire rack. “I guess I’m making baklava.” She glanced at Mac. “You in?”
“We’ll make it work. I know all about crazy mothers. How much different is a crazy grandmother? I’ll go add it to my schedule, and talk to Emma about the flowers. Let me know the cake design when you decide on it.”
“Thanks, Mac.”
“It’s what we do,” she said to Parker. “I’ve got a shoot,” she added, and ducked out again.
Parker picked up her own cup of tea. “I’ll get someone in to help you if you need it. And I know you hate that, but if you need it.”
Laurel drizzled the next flower. “I can put something together. I’ve got emergency layers and fillings in the freezer for just such occasions. I think I’ll work up something to kick Greek Grandma’s ass—and shut her up. Maybe Primrose Waltz.”
“Oh, I love that one. But it’s a lot of work, as I remember.”
“It’ll be worth it. I’ve got the fondant, and I can make the primulas ahead of time. Mia’s got a couple younger sisters, right?”
“Two sisters and a brother.” Parker’s smile bloomed. “And, yes, we’re both thinking we’re planting fertile seeds for future business. If you make up a list, I’ll take care of the marketing.”
“That’s a deal. Go call the MOB and earn her grateful tears.”
“I will. Hey, how about pajama and movie night?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day. See you there.”
Laurel continued to coat the flowers, thinking the only dating she was doing these days was with her best pal Parker.
WITH THE LAYERS BAKED, WRAPPED, AND IN THE FREEZER TO SET THE crumb, the crystallized flowers drying on the rack, Laurel prepped for her tasting. In the lounge off her kitchen, she set out the albums of designs along with the flowers Emma had arranged for her. She fanned cocktail napkins with the Vows logo, stacked spreading knives, spoons, teacups, wineglasses, and champagne glasses.
Back in the kitchen she sliced a variety of cakes into slim rectangles and arranged them on a glass platter. In small glass dishes, she placed generous dollops of different frostings and fillings.
She slipped into the bathroom to freshen her makeup and hair, then buttoned on a cropped jacket, and changed out of her kitchen shoes into heels.
When her clients rang the buzzer, she was ready for them.
“Steph, Chuck, it’s good to see you again. How was the shoot?” she asked as she gestured them in.
“It was fun.” Stephanie, a cheerful brunette, hooked her arm with her fiance’s. “Wasn’t it fun?”
“It was. After I stopped being nervous.”
“He hates getting his picture taken.”
“I always feel goofy.” Chuck, sandy-haired and shy, ducked his head as he grinned. “I usually am.”
“Mac had me feed him a cookie because I’d told her we’d had cookies on our first date. When we were eight.”
“Only I didn’t know we were dating.”
“I did. Now, eighteen years later, I’ve got you.”
“Well, I hope you left room for cake. How about some champagne, or wine?”
“I’d love some champagne. God, I love this place,” Steph enthused. “I love everything about it. Oh, is this your kitchen? Where you bake?”
She made a point of bringing clients through her kitchen, so they could get a feel for it—and see it sparkle. “It is. It was originally used as a secondary or caterer’s kitchen. Now it’s all mine.”
“It really is beautiful. I like to cook, and I’m pretty good at it. But baking ...” Steph fluttered her hand side to side.
“It takes practice, and patience.”
“What are these? Oh, they’re so pretty!”
“Crystallized flowers. I just made them. They have to set several hours at room temperature.” Please don’t touch them, Laurel thought.
“You can eat them?”
“You sure can. It’s best not to use any flower or garnish on a cake, I think, unless it’s edible.”
“Maybe we should do something like that, Chuck. Real flowers.”
“I have a lot of designs that incorporate them. And I can customize for you. Why don’t you come in and sit? I’ll get you that champagne, and we’ll get started.”
It was easy when the clients were inclined to be pleased, as these were, Laurel decided. They seemed to love everything, including each other. Her hardest job, she realized after the first ten minutes, would be to steer them toward what made them the happiest.
“They’re all delicious.” Steph spread a bit of white chocolate mousse on vanilla bean. “How does anyone ever pick?”
“The best part is there’s no wrong choice. You like the mocha spice,” Laurel said to Chuck.
“What’s not to like?”
“It’s a good choice for a groom’s cake, and it’s fabulous with the chocolate ganache. Manly,” she said with a wink. “And in this design, it resembles a heart carved into a tree, with your names and the dates piped on.”
“Oh, I love it. Do you love it?” Steph asked him.
“It’s pretty cool.” Chuck angled the photo for a better look. “I didn’t know I got a cake.”
“It’s up to you. No wrong choices.”
“Let’s do it, Chuck. He can have the manly, and then I can go completely girly on the wedding cake.”
“That’s a deal. This is the ganache, right?” He sampled, grinned.
“Oh yeah. Sold.”
“Yay! This is fun, too. People keep telling us planning a wedding is a huge headache, and how we’ll fight and get edgy. But we’re having such a good time.”
“It’s our job to have the headaches and fight and get edgy.” Steph laughed, then lifted her hands. “Tell me what you think. You hit it dead-on with Chuck.”
“Okay. Valentine’s Day wedding. Why not go full-out romance? Now, you liked the idea of crystallized flowers, but this design uses sugar paste. Still, I think it’s romantic and fun and really, really girly.”
Laurel found the photograph in the album, turned it.
Steph slapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, oh, wow!”
It was, Laurel thought, definitely a wow. “Five graduated tiers, separated by dowels to give it that open, airy look. And the dowels are covered with sugar paste petals, more petals and blossoms overlaying the top of the tiers and spilling over for abundance. These are hydrangea blossoms,” Laurel went on, “but I can do any kind. Rose petals, cherry blossoms, name it. Any colors or tones. I use royal icing on this, generally, piping it out on each tier to form the crown. But again, I can customize. Using fondant for a sleeker look, doing ribbons or pearls, in the white, or in the color of the flowers.”
“It’s my colors, the blue and that lavendery pink.You knew that. You knew that and showed me the perfect cake.” Steph let out a reverent sigh. “It’s so beautiful.”
“It is,” Chuck agreed. “But you know what else? It’s really charming. Like Steph.”
“Oh. Chuck.”
“I have to agree. If you like this direction, you could go with more than one flavor and filling.”
“I don’t like this direction. I love this cake. This is my cake. Can we still do a topper? The bride and groom topper.”
“Absolutely.”
“Perfect. Because I want us to be on top. Can I have another glass of champagne?”
“You bet.” Laurel rose to pour.
“Can’t you have one, too? Are you not allowed?”
Glancing back, Laurel smiled. “I’m the boss, and I’d love to have one.”
The champagne and the clients left her in an excellent mood. And since she was done for the day, she decided to pour herself a second glass and make herself a little fruit and cheese platter to go with it. Relaxed, she sat at her counter sipping, nibbling, and making a list of supplies for Parker to pick up.
Greek meant butter, butter, butter, and lots of nuts. She’d have to make phyllo sheets—a pain in the ass, but the job was the job. Honey, almonds, pistachios, walnuts, bread flour.
While she was at it, it wouldn’t hurt to list her staple bulk items, then the supplies she’d need to order soon from her wholesaler.
“Now this is the kind of work I want.”
She glanced up to see Del in the doorway. Full lawyer mode, she thought, with the tailored suit—charcoal with subtle pinstripes—the elegant tie in a precise Windsor knot, the serious leather briefcase.
“You can have it after you’ve been on your feet for ten hours.”
“Might be worth it. Is that coffee fresh?”
“Enough.”
He helped himself. “Parker said you should think sexy, weepy, or silly. Whatever that means.”
Movie night, Laurel concluded. “Okay. You want your cake?”
“No rush.” He stepped over, used her knife to spread some Camembert on a rosemary cracker. “Good. What’s for dinner?”
“You’re eating it.”
The faintest of disapproving frowns clouded his eyes. “You have to do better than this, especially after a ten-hour day.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Impervious to the sarcasm, he tried a slice of apple. “I could’ve brought you something since part of the ten’s on me.”
“It’s not a big deal, and if I wanted something, I could make it, or tug on Mrs. G.”
Just one of his girls, she thought as frustration simmered. “Somehow we grown women get through the day without you fussing over our nutritional choices.”
“Champagne ought to put you in a better mood.” He cocked his head to scan her lists. “Why don’t you do that on the computer?”
“Because I’m doing it by hand, because I don’t have a printer down here, and because I didn’t feel like it. What’s it to you?”
Obviously amused, he leaned on the counter, bracing on his forearms. “You need a nap.”
“You need a dog.”
“I need a dog?”
“Yes, so you’d have someone to worry about, fuss over, and order around.”
“I like dogs, but I have you.” He stopped, laughed. “And that really came out wrong. Besides, ‘fuss over’ is what grandmothers do, so it’s an inaccurate term. Worrying about you is my job, not only as your lawyer and a silent partner in your business, but because you’re my girls. As for ordering you around, that only works about half the time, but five hundred’s a damn good batting average.”
“You’re a smug bastard, Delaney.”
“Can be,” he agreed and tried the Gouda. “You’re a moody woman, Laurel, but I don’t hold it against you.”
“You know your problem?”
“No.”
“Exactly.” She jabbed a finger at him as she hopped off the stool. “I’ll get your cake.”
“Why are you mad at me?” he demanded and trailed behind her to the walk-in refrigerator.
“I’m not mad, I’m irritated.” She picked up the cake she’d already boxed for travel. She might have turned and shoved it into his hands, but even irritated she took care with her work.
“Okay, why are you irritated?”
“Because you’re in my way.”
He held up his hands for peace, stepped aside so she could walk by him and set the cake on the counter. She flipped up the lid, flicked her hand toward it.
Cautious, because he was getting fairly irritated himself, he eased over and looked inside. And couldn’t help but smile.
The two round layers—tiers, he corrected—were glossy white, and decorated with colorful symbols of Dara’s current life. Briefcases, baby strollers, law books, rattles, rocking chairs, and laptops. In the center, a clever cartoon depiction of the new mother held a briefcase in one hand and a baby bottle in the other.
“It’s great. It’s perfect. She’s going to love it.”
“Bottom layer is yellow, buttercream filling. Top’s devil’s food with Swiss meringue. Make sure you keep it level.”
“Okay. I really appreciate it.”
When he reached for his wallet, she actually hissed. “You are not paying me. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I just wanted to ...What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you what the hell’s wrong with me.” She planted a hand on his chest to push him back a step. “You’re irritating and overbearing and self-righteous and patronizing.”
“Whoa. All this because I wanted to pay you for a cake I asked you to make? It’s your business, for Christ’s sake. You make cakes, people pay you.”
“One minute you’re fussing—and yes, the word is fussing—because I’m not eating the kind of dinner you approve of, and the next you’re pulling out your wallet like I’m the hired help.”
“That’s not what—Goddamn it, Laurel.”
“How can anybody keep up?” She threw her arms in the air. “Big brother, legal advisor, business associate, motherfucking hen. Why don’t you just pick one?”
“Because more than one applies.” He didn’t shout as she did, but his tone boiled just as hot. “And I’m nobody’s motherfucking hen.”
“Then stop trying to manage everyone’s lives.”
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining, and helping you manage is part of my job.”
“On the legal end, the business end, not on the personal end. Let me tell you something, and try to get this through that thick skull once and for all. I’m not your pet, I’m not your responsibility, I’m not your sister, I’m not your girl. I’m an adult, and I’m free to do what I want, when I want, without asking your permission or courting your approval.”
“And I’m not your whipping boy,” he shot back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can either tell me or take it out on somebody else.”
“You want to know what’s gotten into me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll show you.”
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was just the mad. Or maybe it was the look of baffled annoyance on his face. But she went with the impulse that had been bubbling inside her for years.
She grabbed him by the perfect knot of his elegant tie, jerked him down even as she gripped a handful of his hair, and yanked him forward. And she fixed her mouth to his in a hot, sizzling, frustrated kiss, one that gave her heart a jolt even as her mind purred: I knew it!
She threw him off balance—she meant to—so his hands came to her hips, and his fingers dug in for one gloriously heady moment.
She threw herself into that moment, to exploit, to savor, to absorb. Tastes and textures, heat and hunger, all there for the taking. She took exactly what she wanted, then shoved him away.
“There.” She tossed her hair back while he stared at her. “The sky did not fall, the world did not end, neither of us was struck by lightning or beamed straight to hell. I’m not your damn sister, Delaney. That ought to make it clear.”
She strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Aroused, astonished, and still considerably annoyed, he stood exactly where he was. “What was that? What the hell was that?”
He started to go after her, then stopped himself. That wouldn’t end well, or it would end ... He’d better not think of that until he could think, period.
He frowned at the half glass of champagne. How much had she had before he’d come in? he wondered. Then, because his throat was uncommonly dry, he picked up the flute and downed the rest of the contents.
He should go, just go home, and set the whole thing aside. Chalk the whole incident up to ... something. He’d figure out what to chalk it up to when his brain regained full function.
He’d just come for the cake, that’s all, he reminded himself as he carefully closed and secured the lid on the bakery box. She’d picked a fight, then she’d kissed him to prove some sort of point. That’s all there was to it.
He’d just go home and let her stew over whatever she was stewing over.
He picked up the box. He’d just go home, he admitted, and take a really long, cold shower.