Part 2, Chapter 1: Forks and Spoons
I want to yell "Fuck!" as loud as I can and although no one else is around and it's half past five in the morning, I still hold it in. The thing is, I can feel my sweet, tiny grandmother, bless her heart, staring down at me from wherever she is, looking sad and disappointed that her granddaughter wants so badly to curse like a dirty, drunken pirate. I can't deal with that sort of guilt.
So instead, I blink rapidly several times (which honestly, does nothing but make me sort of dizzy) and then I grab a raw egg from the bowl on the counter and I throw it as hard as I can into the sink. Not on the floor, because hello! I'd be the one cleaning it up. I throw the egg hard, and it makes a pleasant but also sickly smashing noise as it hits the stainless steel. Not as satisfying as yelling obscenities but less guilt.
The thing is, it's not every day that your pastry chef and your delivery boy run away to Australia to live in sin and most likely a lot of recreational drug use. It's early Wednesday morning, and I'd hardly gotten through all the dark chocolate croissants and honey almond cinnamon bread before my phone started ringing. And ringing, and ringing, and ringing.
Who decided that a ring was a good idea for a phone? Why couldn't it be some lovely man with a delicious Scottish accent crooning "Aye, the phone's for you, lassie." But no. The phone in the bakery sounds like a tortured cat, slowly dying under the weight of a thousand angry seals. It's my bakery, but I've yet to get a new phone. Or hire a Scot to take messages for me.
I'm about to start icing on a four tier French buttercream wedding cake when the bakery phone finally stopped ringing, and my cell phone started vibrating in my pocket. Now I know it must be something important. I wiped my hands on my apron, and grabbed my already slightly crusty phone from my pocket. When I answered, the first thing I heard was a lot of sobbing and wailing.
"Mandy, repeat what you just said to me. Repeat it slowly and without all the crying." I started to feel the panic rise in my chest, and I pushed my frosting knife to the side, just out of precaution. The last thing I needed was to accidentally stab someone out of sheer panic.
"Krissy and Greg....Krissy and G-g-greg!" Amanda, Mandy to her friends, started to blubber again and it took everything in me not to scream. Mandy is amazing, totally capable, and a miracle worker over at Tiny Baker, but she also has a tendency to cry. A lot. And I can't deal with it at the moment. I took what I can only hope are cleansing breaths, holding the phone away from my ear and then I continued.
"Mandy...breathe. It will be okay." I leaned up against the metal work table and tried to release my death grip on my phone. I'm covered in flour, and my arms are sticky with powdery sugar residue. Just a regular Wednesday.
"Krissy left me a note saying that she and Greg are eloping. And she left four dozen cream puffs just laying out...on the damn counter! They were for the Point and McAllister party. And shit, Charlie, I can't make a fucking cream puff!! I can sell the hell out of them but—" Mandy started a downward spiral, cursing rapidly as I feel the spirit of grandma writhing in ghosty agony. Mandy began to ramble about how great her sales are, but how she has no idea what the best butter to flour ratio would be for cream puffs. I fought back a laugh. It was serious. It was very serious. Cream puffs are the most serious thing ever. But I still can't help but laugh.
"Mandy, it will be okay. This isn't the end of the world. I cannot believe that Kris and Greg just up and left." I shook my head, and saw a small plume of flour rise around me. My mind raced, thinking of all the possible outcomes to this somewhat major crisis. "I'll call Susan and she will finish the cream puffs. And then..." I stared at the wedding cake in front of me. I am supposed to finish 5 dozen cupcakes that afternoon for the same event.
"Charlie!! GET HERE." Mandy sobbed, breaking me from my reverie. I paused briefly, her wails coming through loud and clear.
She wanted me to come home, to Maryland. She needed me to come home. Tiny Baker is mine. And this isn't something I can fix from thousands of miles away. Staying in California wasn't really an option. And this is where the obscenities came in. I put the phone down on the counter. I breathed deep. I substituted the word "fuck" with breaking eggs, and then I whispered "forks and spoons" as the next best thing, under my breath, before putting the phone back up to my ear. Eggs smashed, heartrate soaring, panic mode engaged.
"I will be on the next plane out to you." I say through gritted teeth. I hear Mandy start to cry again, and I can only hope it's out of relief. I try my best to calm her down, but it's mostly just me talking and trying to explain to her that it's just pastries, and not the apocalypse.
I have to admit how lucky I am. At least she cares. She cares so much. And that's just what I need when I am running my business from thousands of miles away. Someone who truly cares and won't just leave 50 cream puffs sitting out to rot. What were you thinking, Krissy?! I talk to Mandy for a few more hectic moments, and then when she has stopped hyperventilating, I hang up after promising to text her when I am on a plane.
It only takes me a few forced, somewhat scatterbrained moments to finish the cake I am working on. I need to finish it, and then I can focus on the issue at hand. I've been running Tiny Baker for over six years now, and though it's been successful, it's also ruled my life. I suppose that's what happens when you take your passion and try to make it into a successful business. Life = Ruled.
And it's been a hectic few years...the last five years, my flagship bakery has been mostly run by Mandy. I took Tiny Baker to Los Angeles when I realized that I could make amazing money here. There may have also been a small part of me that wanted to get the heck out of dodge. So, my business plan was to make a ton of money baking frilly pastries in LA, thus helping to support my tiny shop back in Maryland. Maryland isn't exactly known for it's amazing pastries. But the storefront in the tiny, sleepy bayfront town of Havre de Grace, where I grew up, has been staying afloat. All with the help of Mandy. And so, while I hustle and bustle and sell my soul in California, Mandy gets to be the face of Tiny Baker back at home.
If I'm going to start admitting things, I'll admit I miss the much slower, comfortable pace of Maryland, but I haven't missed it that much. I haven't been back in quite some time, and to say that I'm not thrilled to be going back now is an understatement. Actually, it makes me want to curse. It makes me want to say "Sorry Granny!" and then spend all afternoon just dropping "F" bombs. But I have a job to do. And a flight to find. And a business to run. So I have to do whatever it takes.
I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket. Wiping my hands on the front of my apron, I slide it out of my pocket. Looking at the number calling, I'm relieved to see it isn't Mandy again, crying into the cream puffs or telling me she just burned down the bakery and cut our losses. Instead, it is my best friend, Tom-- constant traveler, British intellectual, and major sweet tooth.
"I made three dozen chocolate croissants this morning, and if you want one, you're going to have to come here. I don't have time to make a delivery." I answer the phone as I walk toward the small, cramped office in the back of the kitchen.
"Chocolate croissants? I'll take the lot." Tom says. He's been my best friend for quite some time now. Since about two weeks after I moved to Los Angeles. So we were nearing the five year mark. I smile and shake my head. One thing I can always count on is his never ending love of sugar. I'm almost certain the only reason we're friends is because I can give him a steady supply of sweets.
"I'm having a bit of a crisis, what do you want?" I ask swiftly, not bothering with pleasantries. It's never been our way. Almost immediately after I met him, he quickly became my closest friend. It was effortless.
"Darling, I love when you whisper sweet nothings." He coos, his rather musical, joking voice coming through my cell as I put him on speaker phone. I roll my eyes and pull off my apron, then sit down in front of my ancient laptop and start pulling up flights.
"Seriously, Tom. Can you get me a private jet? Don't you have a famous friend who has one or something? A jet? A plane? A hot air balloon?" I ask, scrolling through the list of flights from LAX to BWI.
Let's be clear. He wasn't famous when I first met him. When we first met he was normal, and somewhat dorky and enthusiastic. He's still all of those things, except now people pay him to do it on screen. And sometimes he gets to wear costumes and make up. His life has changed a great deal since we first met, but our friendship has remained constant.
"What's going on, Charlie?" He asks now, genuinely interested and concerned. "And no, I don't." I groan and smooth back the stray pieces of hair that have fallen from my ponytail. Glamour isn't exactly part of my routine on a daily basis.
"Krissy and Greg have eloped to Australia, and there's about four dozen cream puffs languishing in Maryland." I sigh deeply and press my hands to my forehead. All the flights are ridiculously expensive, and just the thought of traveling makes me want to join my traitorous employees down under.
"Krissy is your pastry chef? And...Greg...the toilet boy?" Tom says slowly, his usually delightful British accent making me frown. Sometimes his accent is adorable and charming. Sometimes I just want to try and knock it right out of his mouth. Today felt like one of those days.
It is funny how things work. He's a Londoner at heart, a real city boy. And I grew up in a small town that borders the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay and the Susquehanna River on the East Coast. We still seem to have endless things to talk about. Most of the time we just poke fun at each other. He often talks about London and travel and fancy international things, and I counter with details about my strangely Southern, humid, myopic upbringing. Funny, right?
"Delivery boy. Not toilet boy." I mumble. "What's a toilet boy?"
"You know, the loo. Bathrooms." Tom says flippantly. "That's incredible, Charlie. How does that even happen?"
"Well, Tommy, when a man and a woman love each other—" I start and Tom cuts me off with a loud, carefree laugh. I smile too. I can't help it. His laugh is infectious. It may be my favorite thing about him.
"What are you going to do, sweet?" Tom asks. I hesitate. I hate when he calls me 'sweet'. Not that it isn't nice and rather endearing, but to be honest, it makes all my horrible, needy girl bits scream in long forgotten anguish. I may be 29, single, and pretty much alone in a huge city, but I haven't totally ignored the fact that Tom is ridiculously good looking, my best friend and one hundred percent taken. I can't say that I've ever seriously thought about him in a romantic way, but I'd have to be dead or asexual not to recognize how handsome he can be. When he wasn't being a total prat.
"I'm going to Maryland." I say with a tiny, dramatic sob. Tom laughs again and I fight the urge to hang up on him. The man is eternally cheerful. "Don't laugh." I warn.
"I'm so sorry. The whole thing is just rubbish. And it's crazy." I can tell he is smiling while he speaks, and I picture that brilliant, perfect smile with his lovely, straight white teeth. It makes me angrier.
"You're a huge help. Thanks, Tommy." I can't quite hide my frustration.
"You're not mad at me, Charlie. I didn't run off with Greg the pool boy." Tom sighed. I roll my eyes. "What can I do to help, love?" He asks. I sigh, and relax slightly.
"Nothing, really. I'm going to Maryland as soon as I can get a flight out. I'll sort it out. I don't have any huge jobs for a bit, so it will be okay. I just don't know how long I'll be there." I click a flight that leaves in six hours, and cringe at the price. My bank account is already shrinking away in horror. If I have to leave in a few hours, it will give me enough time to finish the cupcake order, and pack whatever I can. When did I last do my laundry? I can see the piles all over my bedroom floor. My mind quickly goes to me boarding a plane at LAX in pajama pants and a Christmas sweater. Yikes.
"When's the last time you went home?" Tom asks. I blink, staring dumbly at the computer screen.
"A few...months?" My voice gets high and squeaky. Tom laughs, knowing I'm lying. "Five years?" I sigh.
"You're kidding." His voice is flat and he sounds shocked. "It can't be that bad." I shrug, even though he can't see me.
"I have no reason to go there."
"Except Tiny Baker. And your family. And your home."
"My home is here now." I say quickly. He's quiet for a moment, and I know him well enough to know that he's making a face at me. One eyebrow raised, his ocean blue eyes opened wide.
"How long will you be there?" He asks finally. I sigh.
"I don't know. As long as it takes to sort things out. Hire some new people." I look down absently at my nails, and notice the amazing amount of flour still covering my hands. "Why did you call me? I haven't heard from you in weeks, Mr. Hollywood." I say this jokingly, and with the agenda of annoying him. He hates when I poke fun of him for how increasingly famous he's gotten in the past few years. Usually I poke and poke until he either yells at me or gets weepy. Either way, I find it amusing.
"I can't just call you? See how things are in the cake biz?" He asks. "And I last rang you four days ago, not weeks." He corrects me.
"Is it about your cake? Because don't worry about it. You've still got a month to go, and I will have everything sorted by then. I'll be back in LA and ready to make Keegan her raspberry buttercream low fat, sugar free, no butter, no dairy, gluten free...lactose free? cake." I say, rattling off every single dietary restriction I can think of. "No nuts." I add quickly. Tom makes a huffing noise and I smile, knowing I've gotten to him.
"It's not about the cake, Charlie. I'm not worried about the cake." He sounds upset. Did I miss something? Tom is hardly ever upset. I sit back in my chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. I take him off speaker phone and put my phone to my ear.
"What's up, dude?" I ask, biting my lip. Terrible habit, I know. Tom is quiet.
"I was just wondering if you were free in a bit. I could pop over when I get into town in a few. Or we could do dinner tonight. But you've got a crisis." His voice is soft and clear, and I am suddenly a bit worried about him. Our conversation has quickly changed tones.
"I'm sorry, Tom. I have to get on a flight this evening. Unless you want to come eat Cinnabon with me at the airport—"
"Sounds lovely, sweet, but I understand. I'll ring you once you're in Maryland. Or when you're back." His voice is back to it's normal, sing songy way. I can tell it's a bit fake and put on, and I feel my mouth pull down into a frown. Fake Tom. Never a good thing.
"Tom—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"Really, Charles." He says, using another ridiculous nickname he has for me. That one usually really makes him laugh. And he uses it the way your mom might use your full name when she's really mad at you. "I'll speak with you soon. Just, take care of things, and when you're back we'll get a cuppa." His voice is warm, and I really wish I could give him a hug. But at the moment, I believe he is somewhere in Hawaii filming a horror movie of sorts. The last text I had received from him had been a rather surprising selfie of him in a make up chair, covered in what looked like gashes and blood. I had screamed when I first saw it, and dropped my phone into some lemon curd.
"Okay, I'll text you. How's work?" I try to engage him, but I can already tell he's ready to go.
"It's work, love. I'm knackered, to be honest." He sounds it. "I'll speak with you soon, yeah? I have to run." He says, suddenly in a hurry. I hear commotion on the other end of the line, and realize he must have called during a lull in shooting, or perhaps he's already traveling back to LA. I say goodbye, and hang up.
I sit quietly in my office, staring at the computer screen. My mind wanders to thoughts of Maryland. Thoughts of my family and the people there. Thoughts of the town where I grew up. I should have closed Tiny Baker there. I should have moved it all to California. Then I never would have had to go back. There were so many reasons why I was not looking forward to returning back to that graveyard of ghosts and memories.
I click through the websites a few times, and buy my plane ticket. One way. I'm not sure how long I will have to be there, but I can only hope it will be a short trip.