Read Online The Cake Therapist by Judith Fertig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Fertig
Ads: Link
the good news was that if I needed a penis enlargement, help was on the way. Spam, spam. Delete, delete.
Several late-night e-mails from Luke, which I also deleted. In simply thinking his name, an iceberg of frozen emotions loomed on my horizon. Everything I knew about icebergs I learned from the
Titanic
. You saw the tip of the iceberg floating in the water, but what you didn’t see was all that lurked beneath the surface. I didn’t want—and I couldn’t afford—another shipwreck in my life. Avoiding my husband was a good thing, I told myself.
When the hour was up, I retrieved the dome cakes from the refrigerator, turned each one out, peeled off the plastic wrap, and smoothed on the palest pink, raspberry-flavored glaze so the spiraled design could still be seen.
Their topping would be clusters of raspberries, miniature blood oranges cut in half, and a few tiny pale green leaves, all made out of sugar paste and marzipan.
Just thinking about today’s to-do list propelled me back to my good buddy, the La Marzocco. Another latte. I didn’t even bother with a pattern on the foam. And it still needed a little sugar.
When I looked up again, it was seven thirty, dark was turning to dawn, and Maggie was coming in the back entrance. I always checked her face because it showed everything. Whether she’d had an easy morning before her mother took Emily to preschool. Whether she’d had yet another fight with her ex-husband, usually about the late or nonexistent child support. Or having Emily rate so low on his priority list. This morning, Maggie looked a little frazzled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, it’s the shoemaker’s children all over again,” she said. “Not having shoes themselves even though their parent works in a shoe shop . . .”
“You mean Emily was supposed to bring a treat to school today and everybody forgot and you’re feeling guilty because you work in a bakery.” I speak “Maggie” quite well.
“Got it in one.”
“I could use a break before we open, so why don’t I run some cupcakes up to the preschool and then we can cross that off our list?”
“Would you?”
“I’ll be there when preschool starts.”
I quickly lined up three dozen miniature cupcakes on a tray, got out my piping bag, and filled it with pink raspberry buttercream. I piped a rosette on each cupcake, then dusted each with those colored sprinkles that all kids—even big ones—love.
As I put the package in the passenger’s seat of my car, Mrs. Amici growled something at me, raising her hands and Barney’s leash in the air. Barney didn’t like that one bit. But as she walked by the car, I realized she was just talking to herself. Uh-oh. Something that sounded like “abandon.” Was she planning to dance with wild abandon on the rickety tables at the American Legion this weekend? I’d love to see her do that, the cranky old bat.
I drove up the hill and turned left where the old Civil War–era convent used to be. A newer, more modern building now housed the nursing care facility, a residence for older nuns, and Ladybug Preschool. Mount Saint Mary High School, built in the early 1960s, sat closer to Benson Street at the southern end of the convent grounds.
I tried to sneak into the back of the class of four-year-olds, taught by another high school friend, Mary Ann Brown. But blond and blue-eyed Emily came running over and hugged me at my knees. “Your mommy sent these,” I whispered, showing her the cupcakes through the clear top of the bakery box.
“Neely, Neely, Neely!” she shouted, overjoyed. It was not entirely about me—it was the power of cupcakes.
But she had started a rampage of four-year-olds not yet corralled for the start of their morning. They hopped and skipped and twirled around me. Mary Ann just laughed.
“You brought us treats!” A calm, quiet voice somehow could be heard over the din.
An elderly woman in a pale blue warm-up suit smiled at me. She glided her walker into the
Several late-night e-mails from Luke, which I also deleted. In simply thinking his name, an iceberg of frozen emotions loomed on my horizon. Everything I knew about icebergs I learned from the
Titanic
. You saw the tip of the iceberg floating in the water, but what you didn’t see was all that lurked beneath the surface. I didn’t want—and I couldn’t afford—another shipwreck in my life. Avoiding my husband was a good thing, I told myself.
When the hour was up, I retrieved the dome cakes from the refrigerator, turned each one out, peeled off the plastic wrap, and smoothed on the palest pink, raspberry-flavored glaze so the spiraled design could still be seen.
Their topping would be clusters of raspberries, miniature blood oranges cut in half, and a few tiny pale green leaves, all made out of sugar paste and marzipan.
Just thinking about today’s to-do list propelled me back to my good buddy, the La Marzocco. Another latte. I didn’t even bother with a pattern on the foam. And it still needed a little sugar.
When I looked up again, it was seven thirty, dark was turning to dawn, and Maggie was coming in the back entrance. I always checked her face because it showed everything. Whether she’d had an easy morning before her mother took Emily to preschool. Whether she’d had yet another fight with her ex-husband, usually about the late or nonexistent child support. Or having Emily rate so low on his priority list. This morning, Maggie looked a little frazzled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, it’s the shoemaker’s children all over again,” she said. “Not having shoes themselves even though their parent works in a shoe shop . . .”
“You mean Emily was supposed to bring a treat to school today and everybody forgot and you’re feeling guilty because you work in a bakery.” I speak “Maggie” quite well.
“Got it in one.”
“I could use a break before we open, so why don’t I run some cupcakes up to the preschool and then we can cross that off our list?”
“Would you?”
“I’ll be there when preschool starts.”
I quickly lined up three dozen miniature cupcakes on a tray, got out my piping bag, and filled it with pink raspberry buttercream. I piped a rosette on each cupcake, then dusted each with those colored sprinkles that all kids—even big ones—love.
As I put the package in the passenger’s seat of my car, Mrs. Amici growled something at me, raising her hands and Barney’s leash in the air. Barney didn’t like that one bit. But as she walked by the car, I realized she was just talking to herself. Uh-oh. Something that sounded like “abandon.” Was she planning to dance with wild abandon on the rickety tables at the American Legion this weekend? I’d love to see her do that, the cranky old bat.
I drove up the hill and turned left where the old Civil War–era convent used to be. A newer, more modern building now housed the nursing care facility, a residence for older nuns, and Ladybug Preschool. Mount Saint Mary High School, built in the early 1960s, sat closer to Benson Street at the southern end of the convent grounds.
I tried to sneak into the back of the class of four-year-olds, taught by another high school friend, Mary Ann Brown. But blond and blue-eyed Emily came running over and hugged me at my knees. “Your mommy sent these,” I whispered, showing her the cupcakes through the clear top of the bakery box.
“Neely, Neely, Neely!” she shouted, overjoyed. It was not entirely about me—it was the power of cupcakes.
But she had started a rampage of four-year-olds not yet corralled for the start of their morning. They hopped and skipped and twirled around me. Mary Ann just laughed.
“You brought us treats!” A calm, quiet voice somehow could be heard over the din.
An elderly woman in a pale blue warm-up suit smiled at me. She glided her walker into the
Similar Books
