Chapter Ten #2
I could definitely use the money, and I usually got new orders when I baked for a group like this. Fixing the hot-water heater had already cost me four hundred dollars, and I suspected that was the tip of the iceberg where home repairs were concerned.
“When does she want the cakes?” Alicia asked.
I glanced back at the phone. “End of the week.”
She smiled. “Easy peasy.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ilona agreed.
I inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly.
I appreciated retaining access to our joint accounts, but writing checks or using our debit card meant providing a record for Robert.
I’d moved out, but he still knew my every move: where I shopped, how much I spent, and when.
And I hated it. Earning some cash would be wonderful.
“Well?” Ilona asked.
“I’m thinking,” I said. “I can always take the buckets of coins I’ve found to the bank.”
“Coins?” Ilona asked. “I love coins, and I have lots of rollers. I can help with that.”
Alicia beamed. “Me too. And I can take any other jewelry or collectibles you have to the appraiser. Did you find more?”
I nearly laughed. In this house, there was always more.
“Come with me,” I said.
I walked them to my parents’ old bedroom, where everything with any cash value remained. “This is the last room I need to sort, and I’m keeping everything in here that I don’t know what to do with. Coins are in the boxes on the dresser. Jewelry is in that case.”
My friends dug in while I noodled on whether to bake at my old house.
“I’m going to do it,” I said after another minute of thought. What did I have to lose? “Assuming Robert still works long hours, and he hasn’t purged the pantry, I can accept the request and make the cakes this afternoon.”
“Excellent,” Alicia said. “We’ll lock up if we leave before you get back.”
“I’ll feed Raisin,” Ilona promised, glancing up from her coffee can of coins. “This is filled with half dollars, and there must be at least five hundred of them here!”
A smile broke on my face. “Good to know!”
Alicia waved, and I turned on a burst of energy and raced home.
The massive fifty-two-hundred-square-foot home Robert and I commissioned so many years ago looked foreboding as I approached. I parked at the end of the block and entered through the utility door in the garage, thankful I hadn’t returned all my keys.
Robert’s car wasn’t in the garage, so I let myself into the kitchen.
Everything was as I’d left it. Surprisingly so. Either Robert hadn’t come home in a couple of weeks, or he’d started cleaning up after himself. The latter made me angry. If he could put dishes into the dishwasher and pick up his shoes and ties now, why hadn’t he done it before?
To remind me I was his maid, I presumed.
I made a disgusted, throaty noise, as I got to work on the mini layer cakes. Everything remained equally undisturbed in the pantry.
Being back in the home where I’d raised our daughter and planned my escape felt strange, even after only a short time away. Maybe because I was the heart of this place, and without me it was just an expensive tomb. The energy had fizzled in my absence. Even the air felt different on my skin.
I couldn’t help wondering if Robert came home more or less often without me here.
“There’s not nearly enough time to go down that rabbit hole,” I whispered as I tapped the screens to preheat the ovens.
If he came home more often, it was better I didn’t know.
Especially with our temporary hearing next week.
I wanted to do anything I could to avoid rocking the boat.
Baking in the home I’d abandoned felt like asking for a fight, and Robert never fought fairly.
An hour later, I’d baked four sheet cakes using my favorite recipe and blessed double ovens. I rushed the cooling process as much as possible in our mostly empty Sub-Zero freezer while I whipped up the buttercream frosting.
I checked the time repeatedly as I tested the cakes’ temperatures.
When it was safe to cut out circles, I used a biscuit cutter, then arranged the disks onto parchment paper covering several large cookie sheets.
I piped icing onto the cakes one at a time and topped them with a second round of cake.
I repeated the process until all the cakes were stacked three disks tall and iced with decorative peaks.
I dashed the tops with colored sugar crystals and added an edible purple flower before calling the project done.
“Not bad for a rush job,” I said. Then I piped a little icing onto one of the leftover corners of my cake and gave it a taste test. I savored the flavors and textures on my tongue, then moved the extra cake and icing to containers and piled them into a canvas shopping bag.
No sense in letting perfectly good cake and icing go to waste.
Plus, I didn’t want to leave any evidence of my work behind.
I stole one last piece of cake before washing up the pans and dishes and putting it all away.
“One more thing.”
I stepped back and snapped a photo. A little fodder for the Invisible Baker’s Instagram account.