Read Online How Sweet It Is by Alice Wisler - Free Book Online Page B

utilities are paid for and there’s no mortgage or rent. What are you going to do for food and clothes and Band-Aids and gas money?” Again, the very practical vet.
    “Maybe you could get a job as a pastry chef in the mountains,” suggested Jeannie. “Or,” she added as a smile crossed her lips, “build your own catering business.”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    Jeannie persevered. “How about a cake decorating business?”
    That’s when we all smiled.
    I have the brochure’s design on a file on my computer. Jeannie took a picture of my chocolate swirl ice cream cake and I placed that on the cover. The cake is no tiramisu, but it does look regal in the photo.
    I wanted to put a picture of the seven-tiered wedding cake I created for Chef B’s sister’s wedding last fall on the cover.
    While Jeannie said the cake was “definitely classy,” she wondered if it was too fancy. “People in the mountains,” Jeannie explained, “want a delicious cake that is simple.”
    Sally said to make sure I put something in my brochure about working at Palacio del Rey as a pastry chef. She felt that would give me clout. “And the fact that you studied in Atlanta,” she added. “People think of Atlanta as the New York City of the South.”
    I thought, They do? but didn’t question Sally. When Sally has that I-know-what-I’m-saying look in her eyes and tone in her voice, I know not to question my friend. Her clients’ owners don’t ask, “What do you mean my cat has a hairball?” or “Why are you suggesting that my dog needs eye drops for his red eyes?”
    Of course, Jeannie and Sally didn’t really think I’d leave Atlanta to move to the home of a grandfather I rarely saw. They were just trying to go along with my cake business plan to keep my mind off Lucas. When I told them I was moving in April, they acted as though I’d told them I was marrying Elvis.
    Sally and I rented a U-Haul, and with the help of three friends from church, we were able to load up my apartment’s furnishings and drive them to my parents’ for storage. Sally and I spent a night on the farm, ate blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and a side of thick bacon strips for breakfast, and then she drove me back to my apartment in Atlanta. As we entered my kitchen crammed with partially packed cardboard boxes, she said in a soft tone, “You don’t have to carry through with this, you know.”
    I had taken all my furniture to my parents and was planning to spend my last two nights in Atlanta in my sleeping bag. On the hard floor. I wasn’t going to quit my plan to relocate.
    ————
    Standing in the checkout line at Ingle’s, I suddenly have a hard time believing that the people in this town would care that I’ve studied and worked in Atlanta. I envision most of the locals shrugging their shoulders and saying, “Who cares?” Thank goodness I’ve decided to start out just with cakes and not a full-fledged catering service.
    As small as this store is, they still have a rack by the checkout line crammed with glossy women’s magazines, just like any grocery store in the big city. I used to subscribe to People, but now I avoid its cover. I look away from the issues of Glamour , Elle, Good Housekeeping, and Allure . I don’t need to see perfect smiles and skin today, or any day.
    I keep my eyes on my shopping cart or, as the real Southerners call it, buggy. I stare at what I’ve placed there—the tiny carton of half-and-half, whipping cream, gallon of milk, clear jug of orange juice, blue plastic bag of confectioner’s sugar, head of lettuce, can of jumbo olives, balsamic salad dressing, and two gray cartons of large eggs. A rack of donuts placed by the checkout catches my eye, and my stomach agrees that donuts always make a home cozier. I pick out a bag of Krispy Kreme mini crullers.
    When the woman in front of me—dressed in an emerald wool cap that reveals pink puffy curlers secured in her gray hair—starts to complain about not