She reaches out, as if she intends to take my hand, but draws hers back into her lap. She clasps her hands together and straightens her posture, then takes a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I think about your wedding, and I can’t help but remember your sister’s. I want . . .”
But she doesn’t finish the sentence, and so I do not know what she wants. As for me, I don’t know when, but I’ve risen to my feet, and have turned away so that she can’t see the heavy tears now streaming down my cheeks.
I squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think of Ashley, and even more determined not to think of the hand that my mother had in her suicide. But these thoughts are hard ones to banish, because they have lived inside me for so long. And now—well, now I can’t help but wonder if this is my mother’s way of showing remorse.
Or am I simply being a fool and wishing, perhaps futilely, that there is a détente to be had between my mother and me.
Chapter Five
“Cupcakes.” My mother’s voice is flat, but her smile is perky and falsely polite. She’s speaking to Sally Love, the owner of Love Bites. It’s one of the most popular bakeries in Beverly Hills. Sally has catered dozens of celebrity functions, has been featured in every food and dessert magazine known to man, and is a longtime friend of Damien’s. She’s also an artist with icing and a pleasure to work with.
I am terrified my mother is going to offend her.
Mother’s smile stretches wider. “What a perfectly charming idea. And was that your suggestion?” she asks Sally.
“I believe in working with my clients to figure out exactly what they want, to make their event not only special but uniquely theirs.”
“In other words, you don’t feel bound by tradition or societal expectations?” Her words are venomous, but her tone and manner are so polite that it’s hard to tell if she’s being deliberately offensive or making genuine conversation. I know the answer because I know my mother, and I step in and flash my own perky smile.
“I’m completely in love with the cupcake idea. I saw it in a magazine and it seemed like the perfect way to combine tradition and whimsy.” I turn to Sally, purposefully excluding my mother. “So we’re good to go on the top tier, right?”
Sally grins, displaying rosy cheeks that make me think of Mrs. Claus and Christmas cookies. She’s probably only ten years older than me, but there’s something maternal and soothing about her. I can understand why she does so many wedding cakes. She can calm a nervous bride with nothing more than a look.
“We’re all set,” she assures me. “But we do need to narrow down the choices for the cupcakes.” The plan is to have five different flavors of cupcakes—one for each of the tiers—so the guests can pick their favorite. Additional cupcakes—in case anyone wants seconds—will be scattered artfully on the table, mixed with the fresh wildflowers I have on order from the florist. Daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes that remind me of the incredible arrangement Damien sent me after the night we first met.
Sally nods to the table set up at the back of the storefront, elegantly draped in white linen. It’s topped with a row of ten tiny cakes. “I thought you might want to refresh your memory.”
I laugh. “Even if I’d already decided, you know I’d have to sit down and taste those.” I glance at my mother as I head toward the table. “Do you want to try, too? They’re all amazing.”
Mother’s brows lift sky high, and I wonder when my mother last had a carb that didn’t come from a lettuce leaf or a glass of wine. “I don’t think so.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say, and see my mother’s lips purse as I settle behind the table. “More for me.”
The first cake is a tiny cheesecake. It’s Damien’s favorite, and I restrain myself from taking a bite because I’m going to ask Sally if I can take it home for him. I can think of all sorts of interesting negotiations we could have if he’s bargaining for cheesecake.
I smile as I taste the next cake, not because I’m a fan of red velvet, but because I’m imagining all those possibilities. The next is a deep, delicious chocolate that I savor with a moan that is almost sexual. Sally laughs. “That cake gets that a lot.”
“It totally stays,” I say, then grin wickedly at her. “In fact, let’s have a dozen packed up to take with us on the honeymoon.”
We’re laughing, and Sally’s asking me about the honeymoon, and I’m telling her that it’s a secret even from me—a Damien Stark surprise—when my mother clicks her way over on her nail-point heels. She stops in front of me, effectively ending my moment of bridal bonding with Sally.
“Chocolate, yellow, white,” she says. “A pound cake. A cheesecake. If you insist on doing cupcakes at least stick with traditional flavors.”
“I don’t know,” I say, taking a second bite of the cupcake I’m working on. “This one—butternut?—is to die for.”
“It’s very popular,” Sally says. “But try the strawberry.”
My mother reaches over and snatches the fork out of my hand. For a moment, I’m fool enough to think that she’s going to get in the spirit and try the cake. But all she does is point the tines at me. “Honestly, Nichole,” she says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that I have committed some heinous sin. “Are you trying to ruin your wedding? Have you thought about your waist? Your hips? Not to mention your skin!”
She turns to Sally, who is clearly struggling to wipe the expression of appalled shock off her face. “Bless her little heart,” my mother says, in a tone that practically drips sugar, “but my Nichole isn’t a girl who can eat cake and then get into something as form-fitting as a wedding gown.”
“Nikki is a lovely young woman,” Sally says firmly. “And I’m sure she’s going to look stunning at her wedding.”
“Of course she will,” my mother says, her voice sounding farther and farther from me. It’s as if I’m sliding back, moving down some tunnel, away from her, away from Sally, away from everything.
“That’s why I’m here,” Mother adds, her tone entirely reasonable. “My daughter knows she has no self-control about things that are bad for her— cakes, candy, men, ” she adds in a stage whisper. “I’ve always been there to help her keep her eye on the prize.”