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“Ophie, I’m fine.” I shake her off, annoyed. “My foot slipped on the tile, that’s all.”
“Then why is the front of your sweater wet?”
With a sigh, I pull my sweater off and inspect the front. Goosebumps break out on my arms, the thin satin camisole I had layered beneath the sweater doing nothing to keep me warm. “I got a little toothpaste on it, and I was cleaning it off.”
“Why didn’t you just take it off to clean it?”
Closing my eyes, I count backwards from five before I answer. She means well. I know she does. Everyone in my family does, but that doesn’t stop me from bristling every time they offer a suggestion for a different way to do things. Or offer to help. Or chide me when something inevitably goes wrong because I “didn’t stop to think things through,” as my dad says.
“Nevermind.” Ophie must realize I’m about to lose my temper. “How can I help?”
It would be easier if I just asked her to help, but after thirty years of my family swooping in to rescue me, I need her to drop it. “I got it. I just need to dry it off.”
After checking I got all the toothpaste off before I toppled, I squeeze the front of the sweater with a towel. It’s still damp, but it’ll have to be good enough since I’m behind schedule. Ophelia doesn’t leave, but at least she doesn’t offer any suggestions as I scramble to get out the door.
My ankle protests as I dart around the living room, gathering up my laptop, notebook, and the box of shower favors I’d been working on until way too late last night. At the last second, I swap my shoes for a pair of sneakers, tossing my heels into my bag for later.
“Let me help you.” Ophelia reaches for the bag on my shoulder, but I jerk away. “You know your cheek has a mark on it, right?”
“Yes, I know. I threw my concealer in my bag in case it bruises.” After seeing the hurt look on her face, I add, “Sorry. Mrs. Springer makes me bitchy. Can you get the door for me, please and thank you?”
She squeezes past me—even on a good day, it’s a tight squeeze in our two-bedroom condo—and pulls the door open. Ignoring the spiderwebs and the garish yellow paint, I angle my good cheek toward my little sister.
“Bye, sweetie, have a good day.” Ophie singsongs our usual goodbye, sounding just like our mom. She drops a kiss on my cheek.
“I have no idea when I’ll be home. Something tells me Mrs. Springer is going to be a long one,” I call over my shoulder as I gingerly make my way down the stairs. The pain in my ankle has settled to a dull throb. As long as it doesn’t get any worse, this is fine. Years of dance as a kid mean I can handle this level of pain for a day.
The ache in my cheek gets progressively worse, but my ankle is fine except for when I brake. Unfortunately, my first stop is at the bakery for the cake, which means driving into the heart of downtown and all those stops and starts.
I let the strapping young man at the bakery wrestle the cake into the trunk while I grab an extra large latte from next door. Bracing the cake in place with my gym bag, the party favors, and boxes of decor I made for this party, I cross my fingers that the cake makes it safely to the event.
I need this event to go well if I want to keep my business going.
I hadn’t thought much about the steep gravel drive leading up to the main building until I was staring up at it, worrying about the cake in my trunk. “Patron Saint of Cakes, whoever you are, do me a solid. Please?” I kiss my fingers and touch the roof of my car, sending the prayer up to whoever might be listening. Gripping the steering wheel tight, I fly up the gravel road, hoping that speed will reduce the vibrations in the trunk.
I don’t stop until I turn into the parking lot and park. Hopping out, I clock Jackie coming out to meet me, but I don’t stop to greet her. Instead, I unlatch the trunk, holding my breath as I lift the lid of the bakery box nestled amongst the various bags, boxes, and items that live back there.
“No, no, no, no, no.” The buttercream flowers that had been perched on the edge of the cake when I left downtown forty-five minutes ago are now a lump of colored frosting squished along one side of the cake. Saint Whatever-Her-Name was no use to me at all. It would probably help if I was Catholic. Or believed in saints.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Jackie steps beside me and peers into the trunk. “Oh dear. I take it the cake isn’t supposed to look like that?”
“Not exactly. Do you have a knife or something I can scrape it off with?” I rummage around in my trunk for anything that might take the place of the pink and yellow decorations.
Jackie stops me with a hand to my upper arm. “How about you let me take it? I think we can have this all fixed up for you in time for the party.” She waits until I release the box, then slides it out of the trunk. “You just leave this to me and go take care of everything else. Kel set up the tables the way we discussed, but move them if you need to.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Jackie’s already gone, headed down a side path from the parking lot I never noticed before. This is going to be a disaster or a miracle, but anything is probably better than the current mess of frosting. I push it from my mind and focus on getting the other table decorations out of my car and into the main building.
The tables and chairs are set up exactly how I asked, and the effect is perfect. There’s ample space for those who want to stand and mingle and a comfy chair by the fireplace for the mom-to-be to relax in, without leaving her out of the action. At least something is going right today. Setting down the box in my arms, I get to work adding centerpieces and the other decor I brought with me.
I’m just adding the finishing touches when there’s an excited squeak behind me. Turning around, expecting to see Jackie and my cake, I’m surprised to see a little girl hanging in the doorway. She looks about seven or eight, with bouncy brunette curls and dark eyes that are busy taking in my hard work. “It’s so pretty. I’ve never seen pink pumpkins before! Do those ones have glitter on them? They’re so sparkly!” She squeals the last word and takes two quick steps inside before pulling up short and glancing back over her shoulder.
I cross the room toward her, looking over her head to see if there’s an adult on her heels. “Hi there. I’m Maggie. And yes, there is glitter on those,” I point to a table on the right, “and rhinestones on those.” I point to the grouping I’m most proud of—a handful of pumpkins in various sizes that I whitewashed last weekend before adding swirling lines of rhinestones to a few. The largest has paper mache pages from a vintage story book covering it. I draped thifted lace doilies over a few small pumpkins and tucked flowers of various shades of pink in and between the rest.
The little girl doesn’t move, but it’s clear she’s dying to go examine my decorations by the way she’s rocking on her feet. “Do you want to come see them up close?” I squat so I’m eye-level with her. She nods, then shakes her head. “What’s your name?”
“Olive.” Her hands are tucked behind her back like she can barely keep herself from touching things. “Daddy said I’m not allowed in the tasting room today.”
Dad? Mrs. Springer was emphatic that this was going to be a woman-only shower. “Is your dad here for the party?”
