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IGNACIO
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The problem with owning your own catering business isn’t family and friends wanting a dirt cheap deal on their swanky wedding. No. Au contraire. (Although that does happen from time to time.) The problem lies solely in me and my inability to let a stranger prepare the meal on my brother’s special day—not when I can do it better, healthier, and with more discretion.
I tried to stay out of it. I really did. But when I stumbled upon (spied, cough cough) Enrique and January’s list of potential caterers, I almost had an aneurysm. One guy was charging four grand a head for (get a load of this) soup! And I heard through the grapevine he cheats with canned broth. Another so-called chef had so much grease on his menu, the paper it was printed on almost clogged my arteries—and not a single mention of vegetables. I couldn’t let that happen. My sister’s a vegetarian. What would she eat?
So here I am, overseeing the reception with my best crew on the job. I promised Enrique I wouldn’t do any of the work on the wedding day. And I’m not. Mostly. The thing is, there are a couple of unfamiliar faces on staff. We had to hire some extra servers to account for those of us in the family not on the clock, so we can celebrate with Enrique and January. I made sure we ordered background checks for every single new hire—we don’t need any psychopaths at my brother’s wedding. A high-profile bride is stressed out enough.
January does look radiant. More than usual, I think. It’s the whole wedding day thing, and the way she looks at my brother. Her face lights up like a Christmas tree when he smiles at her which reveals a hidden beauty not naturally present. Don’t get me wrong, she’s pretty, I guess. I’m not the one married to her, so it doesn’t make a difference to me. But my taste in women is a little less blonde and a little less skinny. I like a woman with curves. Something to hold on to. Which is why my gaze keeps skating over the new girl on my staff. Olive.
I’d left the reception earlier, heading into a private room to practice my best man's speech, and that’s when I’d found her there. Eyeballing the donuts. Her face was flush and vibrant, eyes sparkling. Commenting about the heat. Drawing my attention to her hourglass figure. It is a hot day, and the room was pleasantly cool. Still. She needed to get back to our hungry guests. Now she’s passing around a tray of appetizers, smiling brightly, although I know how uncomfortable she must be. I know, in part because of the way she blew air down her shirt earlier.
The servers wear black button-ups, but I don’t expect them to have the collar closed up to their chins. I’m not a monster. Two buttons undone is modest enough. But that girl... well. Let’s just hope the strain doesn’t pop a random button into the mascarpone figs. Not that I’m looking or anything.
“You can stop obsessing over every detail now.” Mateo, my obnoxious younger brother, shoves a cocktail in my hand. “Relax. The fondue fountain isn’t going to blow up if you have some fun.”
“I’m not obsessing.”
“Oh really? What did Tío Enrique just say before he left us to attack the open bar?”
“I try to avoid anything Tío Enrique says. And did you instruct the bartender not to give him any booze?”
“Of course. And I wasn’t listening to anything he said, either. Too many hot girls to watch.”
I grunt. Mateo doesn’t need any encouragement to pick up women at a wedding. He has a master’s degree in the subject.
“Cool your jets and get Mom a bottle of water. I don’t want her to dehydrate in this heat.”
Mateo turns his head in time to see Mom cooling off her armpits with the ice cubes from Dad’s vodka cranberry.
“Good call. Lord knows she’ll need it after crying all day.” He scoots away and I try to resist going over to check on the cook. It’s only cocktail hour, but I’m worried he might not get the entrée right for the sit-down meal. It’s a delicate timeline, maintaining temperature without overcooking the filet. The servers are passing around trays of hors d’oeuvres—seared ahi, Tuscan truffles, coconut shrimp. I take one and pop it in my mouth. Quality check. Could use more orange marmalade sauce. I search through the crowd of wedding guests to flag another server but the only ones I see are at the other end of the garden. And that’s when she catches my eye again. Olive. But this time it’s not her large brown eyes that hold my attention, or the quirky smile she wears when she’s offering canapés to a guest. The reason my gaze is fixed on her now, and why my jaw hits the floor, is because she’s diving through the air towards Tía Lucy. And Tía Lucy is flying towards the cake.
Strange how something can feel like it’s happening in slow motion and still, your body remains frozen. Like my brain is saying, “Don’t move,” to my feet. Most of the guests are drinking, having too good a time to notice, but those close enough to see the two ladies in flight give a collective gasp. One guy swoops out of the way rather than doing the gentlemanly thing, which would be to catch Tía Lucy before she makes contact with the cake. Not to mention Olive. Her arms are stretched out, hands flipping a full plate of food into Tía Lucy’s ample bosom. Varied appetizers are airborne, cascading in all directions like a confused water sprinkler.
It’s like an Avengers movie without the epic music.
Tía Lucy hits first. Her backside bumping into the cake table. Her shoulders barely tap against one of the layers. The cake might be saved. But less than a second later, Olive crashes into her, both women toppling back, completely annihilating the cake. Now everybody’s watching. Tía Lucy looks like she’s doing the backstroke in frosting, kicking her legs and flapping her arms. She’s stuck, though. Olive is face down on top of her. They look like food wrestlers with globs of cake and icing in their hair and clothes.
I turn my attention briefly to the bride and groom. Enrique’s jaw is on the ground, but January is laughing her head off. It’s a five thousand dollar cake. We don’t have a backup. Only donuts. Yet she’s laughing so hard, the guests feel encouraged to join in.
By the time I make my way to help Tía Lucy get to her feet, somebody has already removed her from the scene. Her piercing wails can be heard as she’s escorted to the ladies' room. Francesca runs after her to help.
I turn my attention to Olive, who’s standing in stone silence, her head bowed like a schoolgirl in the headmaster’s office. Bits of cake and frosting fall in clumps from her hair to the ground. Her blouse is smudged with tomato and mandarin sauce from the varied appetizers from Tía Lucy’s plate. As I step into her circle of shame, her eyes slowly trace from my shoes, up my body, and land solemnly on my face. Her lashes wet with the champagne she’d knocked from Tía Lucy’s hand, she regards me from beneath them, feeling every breath of my displeasure.
I cross my arms over my chest and incline my head to the side, and I wonder if she’d hit her head too hard on the doorframe earlier. Because what else can explain why she would feel compelled to leap through the air at a portly, elderly woman… into a wedding cake?
“Am I fired?” she squeaks, shrinking under my stare.
I nod slowly and deliberately. What other outcome could there possibly be?
“You’ll still need to fill out that accident report,” I say. I hate using the word fired.
She nods contritely and slumps her cake-stained shoulders. Turning away, she shuffles toward the staging area. “I’ll just go get my things,” she mumbles.
And now, not only do I feel rotten for my brother’s ruined cake, but something in my heart tugs for this girl. I only hope she’ll get home without another incident.
Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my—oh frickin’ A.
