The Magic Cake Shop (4 page)

Mrs. Burblee patted her daughter’s head. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll do the impressing for you. Now run along to your room and don’t come out until your father and I say so. We want to bring you out at the perfect moment.”

Emma wobbled out of the bathroom on her high heels. As soon as she was out of her parents’ sight, she yanked off her shoes and headed to her room.

Then she waited.

Six o’clock passed. Emma heard guests arriving, clicking
and clacking on the hard floors. High-pitched cackles and tittering laughter came in under the doorway.

She shuddered.

Seven o’clock passed. Emma was getting hungry.

No one came to get her.

Eight o’clock came around. Emma counted eighteen belly rumbles in half an hour.

By nine o’clock, she was more than ready to brave the party for a bite to eat. When nine-thirty rolled around and her parents hadn’t so much as peeked into her room, Emma decided it was time to make an entrance. Gritting her teeth, she wrenched her shoes back on her feet. With one big lurch, she flung open the door …

 … and bumped straight into her father as he held a gigantic cake full of flaming candles. Mr. Burblee shrieked and lost his balance. The cake tottered. It slid sideways, a six-layer, fat-free, sugar-free, chocolate-substitute monstrosity.

Emma darted forward and swooped under the cake platter as it slid out of Mr. Burblee’s hands. The cake tilted upright again.

But as she moved to settle the cake on the table, the spike of her right shoe caught in a groove in the floor. She pitched forward. The cake slid slowly over her arms with a squelch and plopped to the floor. The candles sank into the frosting and sputtered out.

There was a horrific silence.

Emma stared down hungrily at the waxy brown mess. She felt like scooping up a piece and taking a nibble, but it didn’t seem like the right moment.

“What a clumsy child,” drawled a voice.

Emma looked up. She saw a woman staring at her with disdain. She had dozens of gold bangles around her wrist and wore a gigantic necklace with a diamond pendant in the shape of a diaper. It was Mrs. Finch.

Emma bristled. “I am not clumsy. I would have been fine if I weren’t wearing high heels.”

“Any ten-year-old girl should know how to wear high heels properly,” Mrs. Finch sneered. “Why, I was in four-inch heels when I was
eight
.”

“How
splendid
, Mrs. Finch!” Mrs. Burblee exclaimed hastily. “Of course, our Emma is a little slow with learning how to walk properly, but isn’t she adorable? Don’t you think she’d make the perfect diaper model?”

“If she can’t even handle two-inch heels, how is she going to have the grace to show off my diapers?” Mrs. Finch sniffed.

Emma spoke slowly and politely. “Excuse me, Mrs. Finch, but your models don’t have grace—they’re babies who haven’t learned to crawl yet. And high heels—or diapers, for that matter—should
not
be worn by ten-year-olds. They both give you rashes, just in different places.”

“Child, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Rashes, indeed.” Mrs. Finch turned to Mrs. Burblee. “What a graceless, plain-looking, unspeakably ordinary child you have.”

Emma burst. “I MAY BE PLAIN AND ORDINARY,
BUT AT LEAST I’M NOT A SHALLOW DIAPER-PEDDLING NINCOMPOOP LIKE YOU!” She took off a heel and flung it. It landed in the punch bowl. Red punch splattered out, and several women in white dresses shrieked.

Emma took the other shoe off and pitched it as hard as she could. It bounced off the chandelier, ricocheted off the china cabinet, then grazed past a man with the whitest teeth Emma had ever seen.

The man clutched his hand and screamed. “MY PINKY! MY BEAUTIFUL, FLAWLESS PINKY!” He uncupped his hand, and Emma saw a tiny scratch above his knuckle. The high heel lay beside him.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“Emma Burblee, go to your room.” Mr. Burblee’s voice was dangerously high.

Emma went. She shut the door softly and stopped in front of her mirror, where she stared glumly at herself for a long, long time.

N
ummington was a cozy, flourishing town a seven-hour drive from the city. It lay in a valley surrounded by small green hills and patches of woods. A deep blue river wound itself along the town’s outskirts, full of smooth, round river rocks and jumping pink-bellied trout. Brightly painted wooden houses lined the streets. Stores with colorful awnings and bright glass window fronts covered the center of town.

At three o’clock on a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon, a black limo rolled down the main street. Inside, Charles steered while Emma gazed out at the town. Mr. and Mrs. Burblee drank Diet Coke from champagne glasses and made snide chitchat about Uncle Simon.

“Do you remember the jacket he wore for his Christmas card picture last year?” Mr. Burblee giggled.

“How could I forget that hideous green abomination with brown polka dots?” Mrs. Burblee tipped back her bubbling drink and let off a delicate burp. “He looked like a diseased lettuce leaf.”

“And probably smelled like one too.” Mr. Burblee cracked open another can of fizz and drank it straight. “Still, we should get him something for letting us dump Emma on him for the summer.”

“We
are
paying him a fortune to babysit her, but I suppose you’re right.” Mrs. Burblee thought for a moment. “What about a big, fat, sugary cake? He does love food.”

“And how it shows,” Mr. Burblee snickered.

Mrs. Burblee pressed a delicate hand to her mouth to stop an unpleasant snigger. She leaned over and tapped the chauffeur sharply on his shoulder. “Driver! Find us a sweet shop at once!”

“Yes, ma’am. I know just the place.” Charles continued down the main street. At a stoplight, he turned and gave Emma a wink. “You’re going to love it!” he whispered.

Emma gave Charles a tiny grin, then rolled down the window and peered outside. She saw a flower shop bustling with people buying daisies and tulips, a stand with carefully arranged fruit and vegetables, and a bakery with neatly braided loaves of bread laid out on large cookie trays. People walked unhurriedly from place to place and laughed and chatted with one another. Outside a storefront with chocolate and vanilla swirls on the window, small children with sticky faces happily licked ice cream cones of every flavor.

Charles slowed down and parked on the side of the street in front of a large store whose sign read:
PETE’S FINE SAUSAGES AND HAMS
.

“
Y
ou dolt.” Mrs. Burblee glared at Charles. “I said sweet shop, not meat shop.”

“I know, ma’am.” Charles looked over his shoulder. “The sweet shop is three blocks down.”

“Then why are we stopping here?”

“Because this is where the line starts.”

The Burblees looked down the street. Dozens and dozens of people stretched from block to block.

“Exactly what shop do you have in mind?” Mr. Burblee rumbled.

“Mr. Crackle’s Cake Shop, of course. It has the best pastries in the world!” Charles beamed.

Mr. Burblee frowned. “Looks popular, but I don’t want to wait in line.”

“I’m sure we won’t have to—after all, we
are
rich,” Mrs. Burblee said airily. “Driver, keep on going until we reach the shop.”

“But—”

“
Don’t
argue.”

Charles paused, then quietly started the limo. He drove past the long line, parked in front of the cake shop, and then got out and opened the door for the Burblees.

As Emma emerged from the limo’s backseat, the gentle aroma of rich pastries filled her nostrils. She had never smelled anything so delicious in her life. She took a deep breath, stepped onto the sidewalk, and took her first look at the place with such exquisite smells.

The cake shop had a pink-and-green awning that shaded four large windows framed by green shutters. A wooden sign hung in one window, with
MR. CRACKLE’S CAKE SHOP
delicately etched in old-fashioned handwriting. A door with a big brass knob, well polished by countless eager hands, stood wide open.

Mrs. Burblee had gotten out of the limo. She rummaged through her purse and drew out her vial of vinegar. With a sharp sniff, she inhaled, then pressed the vial to Emma’s nose.

For the first time in her life, Emma batted the vial away.

Mrs. Burblee’s eyes narrowed. “Emma, take the vinegar. You don’t want to be smelling all these disgust—”

“Yes, I do.” Emma stared at her mom.

Mrs. Burblee flinched. Her voice turned hard and low. “Very well, young woman. You’re lucky that I don’t
want to make a scene.” She turned and began to shove past the neatly lined-up crowd at the entrance of the shop. Mr. Burblee grasped Emma’s hand and followed closely.

Emma glanced at the waiting customers. “It’s not very nice to cut.”

“Nice, schmice. We are too important to wait behind ordinary people,” Mrs. Burblee sniffed.

“Quite right, my dear,” said Mr. Burblee.

They went inside.

Emma’s heart fluttered. Everywhere she looked, glass display cases brimmed with the most marvelous desserts. Deep-dish apple pies with perfectly browned crusts sat snugly next to bright yellow lemon meringues and gooey chocolate cakes. White-chocolate cheesecake with raspberry swirls and strawberry jelly rolls dusted with sweetened cocoa nestled up to pear tarts glazed with maple syrup. One display case held nothing but small globes of glistening chocolate truffles.

Emma felt like she had been dropped in the middle of a miracle. She thought about the pictures in the cookbooks she had seen. They were nothing compared to the masterpieces in front of her. She turned to take one more look around. Suddenly her mother’s face cut off her view.

“Emma, stop staring. You look like a fish. Now, here’s how to get what you want without waiting.”

Mrs. Burblee pushed forward to the head of the line. She flashed a blinding smile at the man she had stepped in front of. “Mind if I cut?” she crooned.

The man blinked. “Actually, I do,” he said, and pressed a little bell with a note card taped next to it that read
CUTTER ALERT
.

Instantly a boy with bright red hair and freckles appeared next to Mrs. Burblee. He looked up and said politely, “Excuse me, ma’am, but Mr. Crackle doesn’t allow cutters. Please move to the back of the line.”