Good Grief (25 page)

“It’s beautiful.” I admire its squat legs and padded feet. I’m afraid to look at Drew, to let him see how pleased I am.

“It would look great in the corner in the front room,” he says.

I hug my arms around my chest, shivering a little now that I’m outside of the warm bakery. “Thank you.”
But this doesn’t mean we’re back together!
I want to add. Still, I feel a little shift of forgiveness in my heart, like tectonic plates creaking under the Earth’s crust.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Drew says. “The movers will be back in an hour to put the oven wherever you want.” He kisses me lightly on the cheek. “This is going to be a great party,” he adds, heading toward his truck. And that is
just
like him, damn it. To say the
one
thing I’ve needed to hear all morning.

27

There’s obviously little to do in Ashland on a Monday afternoon in July. At least a hundred people show up at the grand opening. Guests jostle elbow to elbow in the front room, shouting over the cacophony of chatter, laughter, and big band songs Drew’s cued up on Crystal’s CD player. The crowd even spills out the door onto the sidewalk.

“These people aren’t nibblers, they’re gobblers,” I tell Ruth, loading trays with cookies, tartlets, brownies, and miniature cupcakes.

“Slow
down.
” Ruth squeezes my arm. “Everyone’s having a great time.”

I smooth my fingers over the scalloped white apron tied around the waist of my powder blue 1950s-style waitress uniform. I rented the outfits for Ruth, Marion, Crystal, and me to wear, and so far we’ve been showered with compliments.

Crystal takes a platter and winds her way into the crowd, her uniform hanging a bit on her boyish figure. This morning she prepared for the party as though primping for the prom—her chapped hands fumbling to apply blue eye shadow and pink lip gloss. She used a Magic Marker-like tube of dye from the drugstore to paint magenta stripes in her hair. I thought this made her look a little like a laundry disaster but didn’t say anything, striving to embrace this teen fad. Now, she offers the Chamber of Commerce president a macaroon.

“Don’t you look pretty,” the woman coos, taking a step backward to admire Crystal. Crystal ducks her head shyly, loving and hating compliments at the same time.

As soon as the mayor gets here, she’ll cut the red ribbon—which Ruth draped across the bakery cases in two big swags with bows in the middle. Then Drew will pour the champagne.

In a short time, Drew has managed to make himself indispensable in preparing for the opening—blowing up balloons, buying flower arrangements, setting up the bar, helping Crystal braid and hang streamers. Still, I’ve kept a safe distance from him, letting my work absorb my attention. Because Redemption Drew makes me nervous. I worry that Real Drew might come back. The Drew who bristles when I do the crossword puzzle in pen and lusts after certain red-haired actresses. The Drew who might downgrade me to coffee again.

“Work the room,” Ruth insists, shoving a tray into my hands and pushing me through the kitchen door.

As I scan the clusters of guests, I spot the visitors bureau ladies, the downtown business association president, my pastry class teacher, and a slew of new faces. A spark of party anxiety makes my pulse race. When Ethan and I entertained, he usually greeted the guests—taking coats and pouring drinks—while I finished up in the kitchen. I often felt a burst of shyness when the doorbell rang. It soothed my nerves to dress the salad and slice the bread while Ethan navigated the group through the first few awkward minutes that every party seems to have.

“Remind me why I threw a party for the entire
town,
” I ask Ruth, wishing I could slide back into the kitchen.

“Don’t worry. They
love
you. They’re so relieved this isn’t another potpourri-and-scented-soap tchotchke shack.”

Just then Chef Alan sidles up between me and Ruth. I introduce the two.

“Sophie has a special talent,” Chef says, leaning flirtatiously toward Ruth. His belly swells under an aloha shirt that hangs over his khaki shorts. Bits of sugar cookie crumbs dot his black beard. Oh sure.
Now
I have a special talent. Ruth has a way of bringing out the Eddie Haskell unctuousness in men.

“I’ve always known that,” Ruth says, taking a step away from him. She looks like a 1950s movie star in her uniform, her hair pulled up into a golden twist. Chef crowds her against the bakery case, grilling her on her vocation, his eyes drifting to her sternum. Ruth shoots a pleading look over Chef’s shoulder as I leave them. When I’d complained before to Ruth about Chef, she’d insisted that he couldn’t be
that
much of a nuisance.
Feel my pain,
I mouth now as I turn into the crowd.

I move through the room passing out the miniature cheesecakes, guests swarming around me. My ears ring with their compliments:
scrumptious, to die for, congratulations!
I hand an empty tray to Crystal and turn from side to side to accept the whirl of warm handshakes and soft perfumed cheeks of women giving kisses. I meet the Arnolds, who own the Hummingbird Bed and Breakfast, and the Wisemans, who own the Traveling Bard. Both couples insist they’ll order at least one chocolate torte a week for their dessert and sherry hour.

I spot Crystal’s mother, who’s talking to an actress from the festival while keeping a captious eye on Chef and Ruth. Roxanne’s dressed like the girls at Crystal’s school—low-rider jeans and a shimmering red halter top. I encouraged Crystal to invite her mother, but now the boozy way Roxanne sways on her feet makes me nervous. I duck to avoid her gaze, snaking through the group. I find my grief partner, Gloria, talking with my realtor, Kit, and his wife. They laugh as Kit’s twin daughters lick the chocolate icing from their cupcakes, their lips turning into big brown clown mouths.

“We’re going to have to bring these two here every day, I’m afraid,” Kit’s wife tells me.

I’m about to compliment her on the girls’ flowered dresses when I spot Marjorie Bison, the newspaper’s restaurant critic, hovering in the corner by the old Westinghouse oven. A photographer hangs at her side as dutifully as a shadow. A white-haired woman with thin white eyebrows creased into a permanent frown, Marjorie is stingy with the stars. She actually
looks
like a bison, with broad, boxy shoulders and a tiny rear end. I hide behind Gloria’s flowing caftan and watch as Marjorie takes tentative bites out of cookies and tarts without finishing any of them. She balances her plateful of half-eaten treats in one hand as she scribbles in her notebook and whispers to the photographer.

Marion breezes up to them with a platter of something. Marjorie leans toward the tray, as if to sniff it. Then she scoops up a clump of what appears to be raw sugar-cookie dough. As she brings the glob to her mouth, I dive out from behind Gloria and cross the room to snatch it from her, but I’m too late. The gluey dough forms a ball in Marjorie’s cheek. Her tongue protrudes from between her lips as though she’d like to spit, but she’s not sure where. I introduce myself. She gags a little and looks at me, a tear forming in the corner of one eye.

“What
was
that?” she asks thickly.

Ruth appears at our sides. She hands Marjorie Bison a few napkins and a Brie-and-porcini cheesecake, then grabs the platter of dough from Marion. “Let’s get these in the oven!” she says, leading Marion into the kitchen.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell Marjorie. “My mother-in-law’s not well. She has Alzheimer’s.”

Marjorie works the dough down her throat, like a gull trying to swallow a too-big piece of garbage.

“Please, try the savory cheesecake,” I say. “It’s meant to be served as an hors d’oeuvre.”

“Was there by chance raw egg in what I just ate?” Marjorie runs her tongue over her teeth as though she’d kill for a toothbrush.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. It was an accident.” I look around the room desperately, wondering if I should get her a drink of water. “My mother-in-law is only helping with the party. She won’t be working at the bakery.”

“I understand.” Marjorie pinches the cheesecake between her fingers and jots something in her notebook.

What’s she writing?
Salmonella dough?

“How many employees do you have?” she asks.

“One.” I look at Crystal, who is coughing without covering her mouth, the magenta stripes in her hair looking as if they could be food related. “So far.”

On the other side of the room, I notice that Roxanne’s clutching a glass of wine in each hand now. She’s pitched forward, as though leaning into the wind. I must be cracking under the stress; suddenly I want to shove the cheesecake between Marjorie’s thin lips.

“I plan to sell cheesecakes by mail order, too,” I tell her. “Ship them frozen so they’re ready to eat upon arrival.”

She nods at the ice buckets of champagne on the counter by the cash register where Drew is stationed as bartender, pouring wine for the adults and milk for the kids. “Do you have a liquor license?”

“No.” I shake my head, feeling as though I’m in the principal’s office.

“Sophie, over here!” Drew calls out, waving me toward the bar. The photographer points her camera at him, slicing through film as he uncorks another illicit bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“Excuse me,” I tell Marjorie, figuring there’s nothing more I can do to earn her praise.

Drew’s actor friends swarm around the bar, laughing and tossing back little plastic cups of wine. Drew’s the only guy I’ve ever known who owns his own tuxedo, and he’s wearing it for the party, the little black bow tie and white collar framing his square chin. Like Ethan, he has a flair for making guests feel funny, interesting, and welcome. I wonder if I could have pulled off the opening without him.

“Wow,” Ruth whispers, stopping me a few feet from the bar, “Prince Charming’s in full form.”

Crystal glides up beside Ruth with a tray of glazed apricot tarts. “Drew looks totally fruity in that suit,” she says.

While I’m grateful that they’re both protective of me—unwilling to let Drew off the hook just yet—I can tell Crystal likes having him around. He laughs at all her jokes and shares her algebra loathing and even bought her Doors and Janis Joplin CDs last week, pointing out which songs to listen to first. “Yeah, thanks, whatever,” Crystal said, sliding the CDs into the back of her case with disinterest. As soon as Drew left the house she ripped open the wrappers, jammed her headphones over her ears, and bounced around my living room, kicking her stocking feet.

The three of us make our way up to the bar now. Drew pours Ruth and me glasses of wine and makes Crystal an Italian soda with fizzy water and cherry syrup.

“Cheers!” he says. Suddenly I’m surrounded by a protective circle of glasses, obstructing my view of Marjorie Bison and her little notebook.

Everyone seems to be having a good enough time without me, so I sneak back into the kitchen to put the lemon soufflés in the oven.

As I whip egg whites into foamy peaks, I’m grateful for a reprieve from the party. The approaching anniversary of Ethan’s death has cast a pall on my ability to make small talk.
These are called Mexican wedding cakes. . . . Oh, and my husband died a year ago, and now I’m baking our life savings.

“Create a grief sanctuary,” Sandy had advised at our last meeting. “Spend time alone with photos and letters, light a candle.” Instead, I’ve created a sturdy wall of busywork around the anniversary. Yesterday I prepared for the party, today I’ll throw the party, tomorrow I’ll clean up after the party. It’s funny how you can be dumb in an organized fashion. Plan a party for the day before the anniversary of your husband’s death. Let the guy who dumped you pitch in!

After folding the egg whites into the already prepared batter, I drizzle the mixture into ramekins. As I open the oven, I’m blasted by a wall of heat. Did I even remember to butter the cups? Perspiration trickles down my chest, and my head feels light. I realize that I haven’t eaten all day. My stomach feels as though it’s actually returned to its former flatter self.

I haven’t told Drew about the anniversary. Ruth knows, and I told Crystal this morning. I yelled at her when she accidentally tipped over my cup of tea on the bathroom counter, then quickly apologized, explaining about tomorrow.

“Oh,” she said, standing in her stocking feet, her sheer white tights stretching all the way up to her pink bra. “Do you want to, like, do something?”

I shrugged, unsure. Albums, letters, candles. It all seems hopelessly corny and insufficient.

I close the oven door on the soufflés.

When I return to the party, I find Marion passing a tray of empty cupcake liners. Gloria graciously takes a pink liner from the tray and holds it in the air with admiration, as though it’s a fancy pastry. She smiles and winks at me. I steer Marion by the shoulders into the kitchen. She frowns, peering back over her shoulder at Gloria’s flowing leopard-print caftan.

“Oh,
my,
” Marion whispers loudly. “What an outfit! Is she going on safari?”

I’m afraid Gloria might have heard her. For the first time since Marion’s arrival I’m mad at her, sick of her supercilious wardrobe criteria, which has probably hurt my new friend’s feelings.

“That’s enough passing for now.” I push on her shoulders firmly until she takes a seat at the table. She looks dejected, like a child who’s being punished.

“I’m so sorry!” I hear a voice call out. The mayor appears in the kitchen doorway, out of breath. “We got a flat tire.”

I pour her a glass of water and assure her that it’s no problem. But I’m relieved that she’s finally here and we can move toward wrapping up the party. She blots her forehead with a napkin, reapplies her lipstick. Then I hand her the scissors and we head out to the crowd. Marion follows. I nod at Drew to get the champagne ready. He quickly arranges glasses on the table and passes bottles around for his friends to open.

“Everyone!” the mayor calls out. The crowd keeps chattering.

Crystal jams two fingers between her teeth and lets out a piercing whistle, blushing when people turn and look at her.

“Hello and welcome!” The mayor positions herself beside the red ribbon. “We’re happy to welcome this wonderful new business to Ashland,” she says. “It’s been two months since the Fudge Shoppe closed, and this community’s gone far too long without chocolate.”

“Here, here!” cries an actress who’s wearing a tank top decorated with safety pins.

“We wish Sophie the best of luck,” the mayor adds. “And we beg her to bake her chocolate rum cake every day!”

With a snip of the scissors, the ribbon cascades to the floor. The crowd applauds, champagne corks pop, and a balloon bursts overhead with a startling bang. Marion yelps and covers her ears. The actors cheer and glasses foam over. I lean back against the corner of the bakery case, relieved. Everything feels official now, and people do seem to love the place. I raise a plastic glass to my mouth, champagne bubbles tickling my lips.