The Icing on the Cake (13 page)

But an arm came out of nowhere and, with cat-like quickness, stopped Elise in mid-swing. I moved my hands away from my face to see who had just saved me.

It was Mom.

And next to Mom stood Bev Stapleton, looking in shock at her daughter who still had a chunk of my hair in her French-manicured hand.

“What is going on?” Bev directed at her daughter.

“This is Dominic’s ex-girlfriend, Mom.” Elise shot me a nasty look.

“No, Elise, this is Marjorie Pleasanton’s daughter, Annabelle.”

I nodded at Elise. She let go of my hair. “But . . . she said her Mom made one of the cakes,” Elise protested. “And Scarlett told me that Dominic’s ex-girlfriend’s mother works at Confection Perfection, which is where we got the chocolate raspberry cake.”

“Yes,” Mom said, obviously trying hard to resist the urge to let Elise have it. “But I work for Marjorie Pleasanton bakery, and I made the white cake with buttercream icing.”

Elise turned her mouth into a pout. “Sorry,” she said without conviction. Then she put the crown back on her head and without another word walked away with her nose slightly in the air. The musicians, who had stopped playing so as not to miss the unfolding fight, began to play again. The guests whispered amongst themselves about what had just happened.

“I am so sorry,” Bev apologized to both Mom and me.

“It’s not your fault,” Mom said graciously.

“Can we get out of here?” I asked Mom as I rubbed the back of my head, checking for a bald spot.

Mom put a protective arm around me. “Sure, let’s go.”

I looked at the floor as Mom and I made our way out of the house. We climbed into the car, and I thought about how Mom had saved me in there. “Hey, Mom,” I began. “Where did you learn to stop a punch like that?”

Mom sighed. “Three girls with one bathroom to share. You pick these things up.”

T
he red blinking light of my answering machine greeted me inside my condo.

I pressed Play on the machine and popped open the rubber food container that Mom had sent home with me. It was filled with cake scraps and a generous amount of buttercream icing. I smothered a chunk of the cake with icing and ate it with my fingers while I checked my messages.

The first message was from Carrie.

“It’s me. Could you call me? Please.”

The tone of Carrie’s voice worried me, so I quickly dialed her number. The phone went directly to voicemail, which meant she was on the line. So while I waited for the line to free up, I checked my other message. And that message was from Isaac.

“Hi, Annabelle, it’s Isaac. I’m just trying to figure something out so will you . . . call me when you get this message.”

Trying to figure something out? I silently hoped it wasn’t one of those crossword puzzles in the newspaper. I am really not good at those. I dialed Isaac’s number.

“Hi there,” Isaac said, obviously recognizing my number on the caller ID.

“Hi,” I said, pleased by Isaac’s greeting. “What are you up to?”

“Just watching a little ESPN.”

“Cool. I got your message about trying to figure something—”

My call waiting beeped. It was probably Carrie.

“Oh, that’s the other line,” I said to Isaac. “Is it all right if I put you on hold and get it really fast, honey?”

Oh. My. Goodness.
My mouth flew open in what-in-the-world-did-I-just-say panic.
Did I seriously just call Isaac honey?

“I mean . . . uh . . . homey . . .”

Flustered, and not knowing what else to do, I switched over to the other line.

“Hello?” I answered.

The person on the other end of the line didn’t answer.

“Hello?” I said again.

Still no answer.

I clicked back over to Isaac. “Sorry about that,” I said. The sound of me calling him honey and then homey was still echoing in my ears.

“That’s all right . . . homey.”

Thank goodness Isaac couldn’t see how pink my cheeks turned, because they were pretty darn pink.

“So I heard you went to an interesting bridal shower tonight,” Isaac said.

“How do you know that?”

“My sister Ally told me about it. Elise Stapleton is her cheer coach, and she invited the whole cheer team to her bridal shower. Ally told me that Elise got in a fight with a girl named Annabelle Pleasanton. I don’t know a whole lot of Annabelle Pleasantons, so I thought it might be you.”

“Oh,” I said, drawing the word out. “First let me just clarify that we didn’t get in a fight. She nearly punched me. There’s a difference.”

“Ally said it was over a guy?”

“Isn’t it always,” I said with a sigh.

“So it’s true?” Isaac sounded concerned.

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t seem like you,” Isaac said, sounding like he had just discovered that I was a hardened criminal.

“Wait? What?”

“To show up at a bridal shower uninvited because you still have a thing for an ex-boyfriend.”

“Huh? That’s not what happened.”

“But you just said it was.”

“I did not,” I argued. “I said that the fight was over a guy. Elise thought that I was her fiancé’s ex-girlfriend. But obviously I’m not. I was there because I helped my mom deliver a cake. And plus, I haven’t dated anyone since this guy named Hadwin who I broke up with six months ago because he started talking about how he and I should try to be the first human inhabitants of Jupiter’s moon Io.”
Okay. That may have been a little too much information
.

“So you don’t still have a thing for an ex-boyfriend?” Isaac asked again.

“I just told you I didn’t,” I said, feeling slightly offended. How many times did I have to repeat myself?

“I know, but you’re not just saying that because you don’t want me to stop calling you and stuff, are you?”

“Okay, that sounded both conceited and rude,” I said. Now I was really offended.

“I’m sorry, that came out wrong, I—”

My call waiting beeped, cutting Isaac off.

“That might be Carrie,” I said briskly. “I really need to get it. Hold on a second.” My voice definitely wasn’t the nicest I’ve ever heard it. But I couldn’t help it. I was a little hurt by the things Isaac was saying.

“All right,” Isaac said slowly.

I clicked over to the other line. “Hello?”

“Oh, Annabelle, thank goodness.” Carrie sounded exasperated.

“Carrie, are you okay?”

“No,” Carrie answered. “Miles and I had a terrible fight.”

“Oh, Carrie,” I said, sensing the distress in her voice. “Hang on just one second.”

I clicked back over to Isaac.

“Listen Isaac, I have to go.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Isaac said.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said softly. “But you still kind of did.”

“I’m really sorry,” Isaac began. “Let me explain. I—”

“Let’s talk about this later,” I said, cutting Isaac off. “I really need to get back to Carrie.”

“All right. So we’ll talk later then.” Isaac’s words were more of a question than a statement.

“Yes, we’ll talk later,” I agreed. Then I clicked back over to Carrie.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Carrie. “I was on the other line with Isaac. Now, tell me what happened.”

“Oh, Annabelle. We had such a horrible fight. I tried everything to stop myself from getting upset. I tried some yoga breaths. I took some St. John’s Wort. But nothing helped. I don’t think he wants to marry me anymore. And we’ve only been engaged for two days.” Carrie was crying.

I was taken aback. It took a lot to upset Carrie. Normally she was the Queen of Calm. “What happened?” I asked.

“It was so dumb, Annabelle,” Carrie sniffled. “Miles is very practical, and I love that about him. But with some of the wedding details I want to be sentimental, not practical. So today I wanted to go and look at wedding dresses. We set the date for two months from now, so we don’t have a whole lot of time.

“Well, I found this gorgeous dress—it was even modest—but Miles took one look at the price and said, ‘Should you really spend this much on something you’ll only wear once?’” Carrie paused and sniffled.

“Oh, Carrie, I’m so sorry. Men are so dumb sometimes,” I said, suddenly wanting to smack both Isaac and Miles upside the head.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” Carrie said.

“What else?” I asked.

“I got upset by what Miles said and then . . . and then he told me he thinks we should postpone the wedding so we can have more time. He said two months isn’t enough time, and that if it’s going to put too much stress on us we should postpone the wedding. Oh, Annabelle. Why would he want to postpone the wedding? Do you think it’s because he doesn’t want to marry me anymore?” Carrie’s cries increased in intensity.

“Carrie, Miles loves you,” I assured her. “Of course he wants to marry you. I’m sure he just doesn’t want you to be stressed about the planning, so that’s why he made the postponing suggestion. Dumb as it was.”

“Do you think?” Carrie asked with a small sniffle.

“Oh, yeah,” I answered. I looked at the shiny chrome clock in my living room and had an idea. “Carrie, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Not much, just work,” Carrie responded, her voice sad.

“Is there someone that can run the store in the morning?”

“Yes, Moonbeam will be there.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “I’m coming over. I’ll be at your house in fifteen minutes. And pack a bag. I know it’s Monday, but we’re going to The Golden Artichoke.”

“We haven’t been there since you broke up with Hadwin,” Carrie said, her voice brightening.

“Then I think we’re due for a visit. See you soon. Love you.”

I hung up the phone and raced to my room. I packed a small suitcase for the night and grabbed my keys, handbag, and cell. Then I called Mom and left a message on my parents’ machine, letting Mom know where I was going to be.

Yes, I still call my mother when I disappear for the night. Otherwise, the next day I come home to tons of frantic messages from Mom, the last few telling me that she is going to call Search and Rescue if she doesn’t hear from me within an hour.

Rolling my suitcase behind me, I excitedly jogged to my car. Then, with the radio blaring, I drove to Carrie’s house, gearing up for a girl’s night at The Golden Artichoke.

Carrie and I emerged from my car in the parking lot of The Golden Artichoke and immediately smelled the familiar scent of French-fried artichoke hearts. Breathing in the intoxicating smell, we walked through the door, which is in the shape of a gigantic artichoke, and entered the lobby of our favorite inn and restaurant.

“Do you have any rooms available?” I asked the woman at the front desk. I was pretty sure they would on a Monday night.

“How many adults?” the woman asked.

“Two,” Carrie answered, her puffy eyes focused on the desk clerk.

“Okay.” The woman pressed some keys on her computer. “Do you want a Jacuzzi-balcony room?”

“Yes,” Carrie and I answered in unison. We always got a Jacuzzi-balcony room.

“Smoking or non?”

“Non,” I said.

“Ocean or artichoke-field view?”

“Ocean view,” Carrie responded.

The woman typed a few things into her computer, handed us a key on a golden keychain with a dangling artichoke charm, and sent us up to our third-floor room.

You may be thinking that an artichoke inn and restaurant is the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of, but here on the Central California coast artichokes are a huge deal. And The Golden Artichoke makes an art out of showcasing all things artichoke.

Carrie and I walked up to the third floor of the inn—which looks like a huge beach house with a fresh coat of clean white paint. We entered our room and immediately dove for the two golden vouchers on the table in the sitting area. The vouchers read: Good for one large order of French-fried artichoke hearts.

“French-fried artichoke hearts 24 hours a day; there’s nothing better,” I said, giving my voucher a little kiss.

“They’re so good, I forget about my heart and health and eat hydrogenated oils, refined flour, and dairy,” Carrie declared with a smile.

“They’re so good,” I said, “I can forget that Isaac was a total punk on the phone tonight.”

“He was?” Carrie asked, looking at me empathetically.

“Yeah, it must be National Punk Day.” I plopped down on one of the two queen beds in the room. I ran my right hand across the deep green satin comforter and used my index finger to trace the golden artichokes that were embroidered perfectly into the fabric.

Carrie lounged on the other bed. “What happened?”

I quickly recounted the bridal shower story for Carrie. She completely believed every word of my side of the story, as a good human should. Then I told her that Isaac, for some reason, had trouble believing that I wasn’t a psycho ex-boyfriend’s-fiancé stalker and that he had said some pretty hurtful things to me.