Heartbreak Cake (25 page)

Lindsey Winters is exactly who you would want a
New York Times
journalist to look like if she was playing one in a movie. Pretty and smart with a cool, aristocratic vibe that reminds you of an overly precocious character in a J.D. Salinger novel. She looks harmless. Nearly owl-like with her big oversized sunshiny yellow eyeglasses that look great against her dark black bob hairstyle. She shoots me a sly smile from behind Mrs. Dmitri, a glimpse that there was nothing innocent about showing up unannounced, or a day early for that matter.

“Sorry Indira, but I found this young lady standing in front of the gate, and she told me she was a writer for
The New York Times
writing a story on you.” Mrs. Dmitri emphasizes the last word and then beams at me. Mrs. Dmitri doesn’t beam. She’s an immigrant from Hungary who fled the war. Beaming isn’t really part of the personality menu for this woman.

“Thanks Mrs. D. You’re a sweetheart,” I say, thinking about Noah still asleep and spooning my plump cat Norma, wondering how that would be written in a story about me. I keep the door cracked open behind me, hoping Lindsey will get the hint.

She doesn’t.

“I know this could be super annoying, since you weren’t expecting me until tomorrow, but surprise! I got an early flight.” Lindsey looks pleasant, but she doesn’t actually look sorry. Seems her surprise ninja move may be part of her journalistic tactic.

“I was driving to my hotel and thought I’d just take a look at your neighborhood, get a taste for your surroundings.”

“I’ve been testing recipes all morning here, so I won’t be at the bakery until this afternoon, which is where we’re supposed to meet. Can we talk at the shop? I’m in the middle of something.” I raise my eyebrows at her, letting her know that I don’t appreciate the unexpected house call.

Mrs. Dmitri walks away with a sheepish look on her face as she realizes she may have been too eager in leading this journalist straight to my home.

“The best part of my job is watching what it’s really like behind the scenes, not the interviews where everything is planned. You agreed when we originally chatted to let me follow you and Pedro around to see what it takes to create a Cake Pan wedding. If that means coming to watch you at your home testing recipes, then that’s what has to happen. If you don’t think you can do this, let me know.”

Lindsey holds a pen and a notebook in her hand, and I realize this woman will walk away and write a story about someone else, which I can’t do to Pedro. Or the shop. We’ve gone through so much already.

“Pedro is my partner. It’s important for him to be featured as well, so I don’t want to do interviews without him.

“Don’t worry. Pedro will be seeing me today as well,” Lindsey says matter-of-factly. “I am very thorough in my reporting.”

“Really? Even in wedding features?” I think of the Wedding Belles’ article and know without a doubt that Miss Lindsey Winters already has her story idea in mind.

“There’s always a story underneath the story, Miss Aguilar. Even in features, I like to find the real gem. We’re
The New York Times
. We do our due diligence.”

“Yes, of course. We’re testing a new recipe that we need for the Wright-Hemsley wedding. So if you’d like to come in for a quick cup of coffee,” I pause for effect on the word quick, “come in and take a look around.”

I open the door and Lindsey darts in before I can finish my sentence or change my mind.

“I knew it!” She stands out on my small balcony with her hand shielding her eyes from the morning sun. “You can see the ocean from here. How do you ever leave this little spot? I’d be here all day long.”

“As cliché as this might seem, my favorite room in the house is my kitchen. It’s my little piece of heaven.”

“Well, if it beats this view, I really do have to see it.”

When I show someone my kitchen for the first time, I always get this swell of pride, much like I did for that short time in my late twenties when I briefly dated a model. Which is just a fancy way of saying, hot bartender.

Lindsey takes her glasses off and cleans them with the end of her t-shirt, then slips them back on to get a better look. “This looks like it’s out of the Smithsonian. Look at that breakfast nook? It’s handcrafted, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Is that the original stove?”

“It’s a Merrit O’ Keefe, and yes, it’s an original. But this is all Mrs. Dmitri. She restored everything when she bought the building. She’s very thoughtful about whom she rents her units to, and I was the first tenant she’d rented this particular unit to.”

“She’s the apartment whisperer.” Lindsey gives me a goofy grin, and I go back to my original opinion that she’s a harmless, bookish owl.

I finish giving her a tour of the kitchen while she drinks her coffee and then I take her into the living room so I can move her closer to the front door to help her leave before Noah wakes up. Much like a curious toddler, she moves through the room, picking up trinkets and looking at book titles on shelves, asking a lot of questions about the photos, vases, and even cheesy ceramic figurines from my childhood that I haven’t the heart to pack away.

She spends a good amount of time looking at my cookbook shelf and then she stands in front of my favorite photo.

“Is this Simon Ford?” Lindsey’s turns her owl-like eyes at me questioningly and points at the photo.

“That is.”

“You worked with Simon Ford for four years. That must’ve been interesting. I’ve heard he’s just as rude as he is handsome.”

I laugh at her spot on description.

“Simon Ford is ridiculously handsome, beyond talented, and the best mentor that anyone could ask for. And…” I search for the best way to describe the beauty that is Simon Ford. “A good mentor will challenge you and make you better. That’s what he did for me. I’m a better pastry chef thanks to him.”

“Seems he trained you well.”

“That he did.”

Lindsey hunches down to stare at the photo more closely.

“And that must be
him
, then.”

“Him?”

Lindsey gives me a teen girl’s eye roll. “You’re married man.”

I knew it.

She stands up, her innocent owl face now serious and frank.

“You’ll have to answer some questions I have on this, either now or later, because we can’t pretend this hasn’t come up. There’s no way around it.”

“I thought this article was about the bakery? Cake Pan making a name for itself as a bakery and becoming a trendsetter in the wedding industry? What does my personal life and mistakes have to do with any of it?”

“Everything, and you know it. When you are suddenly the talk of the industry because of your relationship status, it becomes part of the story. And when you’re all over YouTube because of your honest answer to a group of brides at The Pink Sprinkle, then yes, you’ll have to answer some questions. But we can go over this another time.”

“It’s on YouTube?”

“Type in Betty Crocker Mistress.”

“Are you serious?”

“Go check,” Lindsey says and keeps staring at the photo.

I rush over to my laptop and type in Betty Crocker Mistress and there are several different videos already posted with last night’s demonstration.

I remember all of the picture’s being taken, but forgot phones now take video, which means everything I did yesterday was recorded.

“The nightmare continues,” I say with defeat. “I’ll say this…you make a good case for it.”

“For what?”

“For having an affair with your married man. You really do come across as someone who was in love.”

“Maybe that’s because I am. Or was…” I trail off. “But none of it matters now. I’m just fighting to keep my business afloat and to be known as something other than…well, the Betty Crocker Mistress, which is just terrible.”

Lindsey snorts with laughter.

“You’ve got your own hashtag on Twitter. It’s kinda epic, if you let yourself bask in the glory of infamy.”

“Oh no,” I moan as Lindsey follows me into the kitchen to grab her duffel bag.

“I just can’t think about any of this until after Stephanie’s wedding Saturday. I have two days to perfect a recipe and I desperately need to keep my sanity intact. Can we agree that I will answer all of your questions if you promise me that you will let this go until after Saturday? I have a lot to prepare for, and I need to focus on one thing at a time.”

“You will answer every single one my questions?” Lindsey asks suspiciously.

“Every one. Just promise you’ll hold off until after the wedding.”

“You’ve got a deal.” Lindsey gives me her hand and we shake on it. “I’m going to leave you so you can get ready for work. Thank you for letting me intrude on your morning. But I will see you later.”

“You most certainly will.”

“What is this, by the way?” Lindsey points to the very last heart-shaped chocolate cake I made last night. I popped it out of the oven when the timer went off, but hadn’t had a chance to taste test it, since Noah and I were busy doing a lot of other fun things.

“This is just an idea I am working on…not sure if it’s anything, but could be. Want to take a slice home and give me your honest opinion?”

Lindsey shakes her head enthusiastically. “I’d adore that. Rumors and Betty Crocker labels aside, I’ve heard nothing but amazing things about your cakes. So I’m ecstatic to try it.”

I know better than to trust Lindsey Winters, but it never hurts to give the enemy chocolate.

“That’s high praise from
The New York Times
, so thank you.”

I slice a huge piece of cake, wrap it in parchment paper, and tie a string of red twine around it, just like I would at work, while Lindsey tells me a bit about her experience in cooking school, before she realized that she liked writing about food more than actually spending hours in the kitchen, burning everything she touched.

We laugh easily, and I tell her about my life before my trip to Paris, before meeting Bea, and before I discovered I had a gift for baking. It was a pleasant conversation and Lindsey is an easy person to talk to, which makes her amazing at her job. And dangerous for me.

“Does this cake have a name?” she asks.

“No, it’s a recipe in the making, but my inspiration was heartbreak. So let me know what you think and maybe you’ll come up with a name.”

Just as we both walk into my living room, and she’s seconds away from walking out, Noah scampers out of the bedroom wearing his boxer briefs and holding a fluffy, purring Norma against his chest. He gives us both a smile, completely clueless about his beefcake appearance, and disappears into the kitchen.

“Is that available to taste test?”

“Not for the public.”

“Musician?”

“Even worse. Chef.”

“Uh oh.”

“I know.”

***

Hours later, Pedro, Lindsey, my dad, and I all surround a 9x13 sheet cake of
Mamita’s
Tres Leches cake recipe.

We have spoons in our mouths, but no one says a word yet.

Lindsey Winters, who literally hasn’t stopped speaking since I met her at my front door just hours before, now stands in the corner of the kitchen scribbling furiously into her notebook. Her head bobs up and down as she makes notes and scans our faces for some kind of emotion.

Somebody say something.

The cake tastes exactly like what I remember from my 12th birthday, minus the sour taste of adultery and paternal betrayal. A medley of three different kinds of milk, sweet, creamy and a hint of coconut and rum all soaked into a sponge cake that, if done right, should be springy like cake not heavy with pudding.

“Anyone?” I finally say exasperated. “Thoughts, opinions, disgust, give me something? You guys are all the most opinionated bunch of people I know, and now what? Crickets!”

Pedro looks at my father. And my father looks at me. And I look at Lindsey.

“Come on, Lindsey, chime in here. You’re a food critic.”

“Journalistically, I am not supposed to say anything. I am merely a bystander to your moment. But as a cake lover, I will say this is the best fucking thing I’ve ever tasted, and I’m ready for another slice anytime.” She waves her spoon at me for emphasis.

“Thank you, Lindsey, for your always colorful description of food.”

“You’re welcome. Fuck is an appropriate adjective sometimes.”

“Pedro? Papi? Come on guys, weigh in here.”

“Indira, you outdid yourself. This tastes just like
Mamita’s
recipe.”

“Thanks.” I give him a smile of appreciation. “Pedro? Knock me down. Tell me your truth. I can take it.”