Prologue
Vivian
3:12 a.m.
That moment when you find the first gray hair in your pubes…
I feel the earth shift under my feet as water beats down on the tiles all around me and the suddenly-suffocating steam casts a surreal mist over the narrow shower stall. I'm bent over with the razor in my hand, my attention transfixed to my crotch. The lone, pioneering white strand pokes out of my dark, neatly-groomed rug. Strong and defiant.
A tiny squeak manages to erupt from my constricted throat. I totter, a little unsteady on my feet. My head feels light. I've been blindsided.
Ambushed by my bush.
Nothing quite prepares you for this moment. When magazines and midmorning talk shows tell women about aging, they talk about fine lines and wrinkles, arthritis and osteoporosis, hot flashes and weight gain. I’ve been proactive against those possibilities. I stay hydrated on lemon water and anti-oxidant rich teas. I have a strict daily beauty routine that involves an army of expensive anti-aging toners and moisturizers. I haven’t had a slice of pizza since George W. was president. I’ve mastered yoga to the point where I can comfortably give a pretzel a run for its money.
But they don't tell you about this...Nobody tells you about this. I did everything right. And this is how my body repays me?
My eyes begin to prickle. I feel like I’m watching the final shards of my youthful optimism circle the drain and disappear forever.
Y’see, it’s not about the pube. It’s about everything that it represents. It’s about the painful reminder that my current reality is so very far removed from the vision I had for what my life would look like at 29. (Yes, I'm 29...Wait—how old did you think I am? Oh my god...)
When Ernie came home to Copper Heights for Christmas break during sophomore year, I started hinting at marriage. He and I came up with a plan. We had it all detailed in my neat, cursive handwriting on the elegant crème pages of my Kate Spade floral agenda. We had the wedding venue picked out. The flowers. The music. The honeymoon in Bermuda. Of course, we’d chosen names for the children. Names that complimented each other beautifully…But you know what happens with the best-laid plans.
In any case, even after that relationship ended in an epically disastrous way four years ago, I held out hope that I’d find someone. Someone tall with good teeth, broad shoulders and kind eyes. Someone with decent taste in wine, an appreciation for post-impressionist art and a diverse portfolio of reliable, long-term investments. Someone who showers daily without having to be lured, coerced or threatened. A good, responsible guy. That’s all I ever wanted.
But apparently, that's too much to ask in a place like Copper Heights. The population of single males in this town is so meagre that a woman has a better chance of getting abducted by an unidentified flying object than finding a guy who's right for her. And god forbid she have the nerve to have standards, too.
So alas, here I am. Single, lonely and gray-pubed with 30 right around the bend. And to exacerbate my plight, over the past few months, I watched both of my younger siblings hook up with their soul-mates and settle down in rapid succession. It’s starting to feel like there’s nothing but crocheted doilies, plastic-covered sofas and a houseful of cats on the horizon for me. I shudder violently.
The razor slips from my soapy fingers and hits the floor of the porcelain claw-foot tub with a high-pitched crack, snapping me back to the present.
A little voice at the back of my head says I’m being just a touch melodramatic. My life isn’t terrible. I own a beautiful cottage-style bungalow. I have an incredibly supportive family. My business is about to reopen its doors in just a matter of hours. So why do all these wonderful things seem dwarfed by the fact that I don’t have a man in my life?
In any case, the clock is ticking and I can’t stand in the shower trying to drown my frustrations all day. Okay, time for a harsh pep talk. Get it together, Vivian. It’s way too early in the morning for an existential crisis. Today is the reopening of the cupcake shop. It’s no time for weakness.
Since the Broken Cupcake burned down four months ago, my sister Reese and I have been working our butts off to get to this day. It’s going to be perfect and I’m not about to let anything ruin it.
My resolve is firm as I stomp out of the shower. I wipe the steam off of the mirror, dry my skin and spread my towel neatly on the brass rack. Standing back, I clench my fingers on my hips and tilt my body, searching for my most flattering angle.
All is not lost. I still have a perky butt, at the very least.
Regardless, I'm done taking chances. I smooth an extra dab of rejuvenating serum on my butt cheeks today. Sort of like an insurance policy.
Half an hour later, my dark hair is in a basic chignon and I'm dressed in a simple white blouse, a vintage circle skirt and low peep-toe heels. I slip on my warm tweed jacket and lock up the house behind me. The early morning air is nippy. As I hustle down the cobblestone driveway and climb into my practical and reliable Chevrolet, there’s no sign of daybreak on the horizon.
It doesn’t matter, though. Today, I’m going to focus on the things I can control. The success of the bakery's reopening is one of those things.