6. Daisy
Chapter 6
Daisy
"This one is a dark chocolate cake with a Cabernet curd, fresh raspberries, and vanilla buttercream." Kathleen, the general manager of Sweet Nothings, places the bone china plates on the table in front of us, alongside fresh forks. The chocolate frosting glistens, the overhead light reflecting off the edible gold sprayed on the cake.
It's wedding cake tasting day, and Kathleen has made the drive out to St. James farm. I helped her carry box after box into the small kitchen at Spot Of Tea (affectionately shortened to Spot), the adorable little tea room on the property. My parents built the tea room before I was born, and my mother has operated it since. Spot was officially my first job in high school, but I helped out long before that, organizing the tea offerings and eliminating water spots from the china. When I became an employee and got my food handler’s license, I began assembling the finger sandwiches and quiches, arranging them artfully on tiered serving stands.
Spot has always been one of my favorite places in the world, a home within a home. A fancy trunk bedecked in gold metal and filled with fascinators sits in the corner beside an ornate gilt full-length mirror. There’s a French feel to the space, though the tea service is English proper. The walls are covered in a cream textured wallpaper, with a gallery wall displaying photos of female royals. Duchess Kate, Princess Diana on her wedding day and post-divorce, and of course, Queen Elizabeth. Notably missing from the wall is Camilla, who my mother refuses to include, or acknowledge her new title of Queen Consort. When asked to explain the snub, my mother will only say my memory is long.
The view from the cozy dining area is one of my favorites on the property. A long window opens up to the largest section of pasture, where rare white and multi-colored thoroughbreds spend their days. It's almost magical, and a big contributor to my young, and na?ve, love for fairy tales. Well, that and my mother's insistence that I had true love waiting for me in the future. It was as if she'd said, follow the yellow brick road, and there you'll find it.
I believed her at the time, but now I know true love is as real as a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. My mom meant well, but it was a parcel of lies wrapped in the silkiest of ribbons.
She's happy today, energized, the shadows under her eyes slightly less than usual. I'd give almost anything to go back in time, spend a Sunday with her preparing pot roast, mulch her flower bed, work alongside her in Spot. What used to feel like a chore would now be a gift. Just more collateral damage of the late cancer diagnosis.
It's important to find the good in every moment with her, even when it hurts. Today, she isn't wincing from pain. Her hair, held back from her face in matching mother of pearl barrettes, is curled at the ends. She wears more makeup than usual, trying to cover the pale of her skin. In her eyes is a twinkle makeup could never deliver. That is courtesy of our current activity.
My mother delicately deposits a forkful of our third sample of wedding cake in her mouth. "Mmm." The groan is borderline indecent.
Vivienne, my best friend and maid of honor, takes a bite, dark eyes squinting in ponder while she chews. "It's delicious," she concedes, "but I think the first cake is more your style."
The glass and wood door to the tea room opens, the bells hanging from the door handle tinkling. Duke steps in, smile charming and swagger on point. Warm affection surges over me. Duke has been my friend for so long, and he has always been good to me.
My mother claps her hands, eyes wide like this man has hung the moon. According to her, he has. "Duke!"
He strides over, all long legs and arms swinging in perfect cadence. Butterscotch hair flipped and styled just right. He stops beside my mother, bending to kiss her cheek.
She pats his cheek affectionately in return. "We're sampling wedding cakes."
"I see that." His deep timbre floats over us, his cologne fighting with the smell of sugar for top scent. "Where are all the customers? I've never seen this place so empty."
"Brenda closed the place for cake tasting," Kathleen explains, glancing at my mother, who confirms it with a nod.
"Aren't you going to say hello to your bride-to-be?" Vivienne eyes Duke, one of her perfect and expressive De la Vega eyebrows lifted.
"Of course," Duke says smoothly. "But greeting the woman responsible for giving life to the love of my life is of equal importance."
Vivienne, to her credit, manages to stop herself from making the finger in the mouth gagging motion. Vivienne's been down on love, and the institution of marriage, since her husband decided the attached life was no longer for him. She insists she's fine, that she got the best parts of him already. Everly is five, and Knox is three.
Three sets of expectant eyes on us now, Duke bends to brush a kiss to the space beside my ear. I let a small smile curve my lips, just like a woman in love would.
Duke turns his attention back to my mother. I don't blame him for choosing to engage her instead of Vivienne. They have never been one another's biggest fans. Vivienne is too brash for Duke, and he is too reserved for her. "Do you have a favorite flavor so far?"
"This one," she says, pointing with her fork at the slice before her.
Duke snags my fork from where it's perched on my plate, smoothly spearing a bite of my slice for himself. "Delicious," he says, replacing my fork. His hand moves to my shoulder, where he gives me the slightest squeeze.
"Ok," Kathleen trills, pivoting to lift a tray of water from the counter. She places crystal goblets in front of each of us. "Drink some water, ladies. Cleanse that palate for the next cake."
I opt for the flute of champagne, bubbles bursting crisply. My mother, the dutiful rule follower, drinks her water. Like me, Vivienne reaches for her flute.
"Duke, let me get a fourth place setting prepared for you," Kathleen says, already starting to rearrange the table to create more room. "Daisy said you weren't going to be able to make it today."
"My meeting wrapped up early," Duke explains, "and I had a little time before my next one starts, so I thought I'd drive out. Please, though, don't go to any trouble for me. I'll steal a bite from my bride-to-be, and trust her to choose the best wedding cake flavor."
Kathleen and my mother practically swoon at Duke's charm. Vivienne, with that best friend instinct, rakes her eyes over my face.
I turn away, standing up quickly from my chair. My knee hits the underside of the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery on the china. "Sit down, babe." I coax Duke onto my seat. "I'll sit on your lap."
Duke settles into my vacated chair, and I perch across his thighs, draping one arm over his shoulders.
My mother appears positively enthralled at this public display of affection. She is the heart-eye emoji, come to life.
"This," Kathleen says grandiosely, placing our plates in front of us. "This is my personal favorite. A delicate almond cake with strawberry rhubarb jam in a lemon curd buttercream."
Mouth full and eyelashes fluttering, Vivi groans indecently. “I could bathe in this.”
"Superb," I declare. "Sign me up."
"Daisy," my mother admonishes softly. "Don't you want to at least think about something fancier, like the chocolate? What about the second cake, with the Grand Marnier frosting?"
"Sure, Mom," I acquiesce easily. "Chocolate with Grand Marnier it is." What do I care? At the end of the day, this wedding is for her.
Vivienne's gaze drills into me. She's been suspicious of me and Duke since the beginning, when we made a show of announcing we were dating, and not long after, marrying. The town didn't mind the brisk pace of our relationship, but Vivi took notice. Apparently, living life as a single mom of two and being an acclaimed chef has not used up all her brain cells. She can still assault me with her razor sharp attention, and her eagle eyes.
Guilt gnaws at me. Every moment I spend with Vivi a war rages in my head. I want to tell her the truth about it all, but I can’t.
I change course in an attempt to throw off the lady version of Sherlock sitting across from me. "They were all beyond delicious, and I would be perfectly happy to have any one of them at my"—I glance quickly down at Duke, whose face is only inches from mine—" our wedding."
"I just can't believe it," Kathleen bursts in, gushing. "A St. James and a Hampton union, at long last. Something my grandmother said might never happen. Your families were at odds for the longest time." She grabs herself a flute, filling it with champagne and taking a long sip. "I would do some bad things if I could see the look on some of your ancestors' faces."
My gaze cuts down to Duke, where I find his eyes on mine already. We share a knowing smile. Both us were raised on the tales of our families intermingled and often opposing motivations over the years. "Great-Grandpa Byron is rolling over in his grave."
Duke shakes his head affectionately, a smile on his face. "I can't believe my great-grandfather Quentin challenged him to a duel."
I laugh and chuck him on the chin. "All because Byron convinced Quentin that his father had buried coffee cans of money on Hampton land."
"If Quentin was gullible enough to believe him," Vivienne chimes in, "I'd say he deserved the blisters and broken back from digging up his backyard." Vivienne's family, though not town founders, have been here almost as long. One could argue the De la Vegas are the real reason behind putting Olive Township on the map. Without their locally famous Summerhill Olive Mill, I don't know if there'd be enough tourists visiting our small town to warrant all the other shops and attractions that followed. The Sagewood Wellness Spa definitely wouldn't exist, or the small physical therapy practice I operate that's connected to the spa.
"He probably did deserve it," Duke admits. "He was a mean son of a bitch." He glances at my mother. "Pardon my language."
She smiles like Duke is Sir Galahad's more handsome, more gallant brother. And you know, he might be. The guy is great. Amazing, even. He has his flaws like anyone else, but somehow even his flaws aren't that flaw-y . Can he be domineering? Sure, but his motivations are pure of heart. Duke believes he's responsible for the general happiness of everyone around him, and that sometimes results in some unpleasant personality characteristics. But overall, Duke is a genuinely good man, the embodiment of every mother's dream for her daughter.
He pats my knee. "I should probably get going. My next call starts in half an hour."
It's a twenty-minute drive to his family's downtown office. Duke is there most days, and travels to other states a few times a month. His family owns an ever-growing chain of boutique hotels, and Duke is set to take over soon so his dad can step back from the day-to-day running of the family empire.
I hop off Duke's lap. He says goodbye, dropping yet another kiss on my mother's cheek. He angles me away from the table, dipping his head, lips hovering for a beat beside mine. From behind him, it would appear we're kissing.
He leaves with all the confidence and swagger he walked in with, and Kathleen pretends to fan herself. Her champagne flute is almost empty. I guess now that we've chosen a wedding cake, her job is finished for the day. "You are one lucky lady," she says to me.
I drop back into my chair. "Don't I know it." Once again I avoid my best friend's gaze, choosing instead to pick up my champagne and finish it.
"Did you know"—Kathleen leans in conspiratorially, her lips loosened by the bubbly—"that Margaret told me a man came into Sammich today?"
"Breaking news," Vivienne interjects, mimicking the grave tone of a news reporter.
Kathleen pointedly ignores her. "She said he had a scar running from his temple to the bottom of his ear, and he looked like something sculpted by da Vinci."
I sit up in my seat. How many men are running around Olive Township with scarred faces and impeccable physiques?
Those corded forearms.
That tiny vertical indentation in the center of his lower lip.
Don't even get me started on those muscled thighs.
Is it hot in here? It is. It must be. It most certainly isn't me getting hot and bothered.
I tuck my hands under my legs to keep from fanning my face. Daring a peek across the table at Vivienne, she catches my gaze and rolls her eyes. She's still on the comment made by the two older women at our table. She has no idea that my enthusiastic libido has taken over my thoughts. That thirsty bitch is shouting from her place below my navel, reminding me how long it's been since I've had relations .
This is what I get for hanging out with my mother and her friend, not that there was a chance I'd use anybody but Sweet Nothings to bake my wedding cake. If there's one thing I've learned by spending time with the early sixties crowd, it's that they are horny. Vivienne's aunt, who lives with her mother, has a collection of dark romance novels. The smuttier, the better. Her words.
I share a knowing look with Vivienne, who has been on the receiving end of her aunt's bawdy humor one too many times.
Playing at being offhand, I ask, "Did Margaret get a read on the guy?"
Not because I care to know if it was the stranger from my engagement party. Simply because I'm curious. I could pull out my phone and call Hugo, getting an answer in less than a minute, but that feels like the wrong approach. I'm not trying to stir up gossip. Not that Hugo would gossip about me, but he might mention it to Vivienne, and there's almost nothing worth tipping off the human equivalent of a bloodhound.
"I'm sure she did," my mom says, tapping her bare nail on the table. "Margaret's so good at acting like she's making conversation, when what she's really doing is filing away everything you say and don't say in that mental Rolodex of hers."
Vivienne and I mouth Rolodex and laugh.
"I happen to know she did." Kathleen's head bobs enthusiastically. "He told her he was hired to come to town and clean out that old abandoned house on Lickety-Split."
What? My heart beats hard in my chest as I swallow my surprise. Abandoned for years, that house used to be home to someone very important to me. Someone I've never been able to shake. A towheaded boy, shaggy and scrawny and mine.
A boy I promised myself I'd forget.
Last night, Peter conveniently forgot to tell me about his mission here. Not that I asked. Did I? I don't remember clearly. I'd grown weary of smiling, of responding to congratulations with a warm thank-you. It'll get easier over time, Duke had whispered in my ear. Go get some air. I went outside, far from anybody who might glance outside the beautifully decorated room and see me. And then... Peter. I still can't shake the familiarity, the way even the tips of my fingers thought they recognized him when they brushed against his hand.
I replayed it over and over through the end of the night. While I clasped hands and exchanged cheek kisses with my happy guests, I thought of Peter. Scurrying away as soon as he heard the word engagement .
"Lickety-Split, huh?" my mother says, her thoughts going to the same place as mine. Penn Bellamy .
Worry sinks into the wrinkles around her eyes. She knows. She remembers the love I had for the boy who lived there.
"Well, the old Bellamy place had to be dealt with some time." Mom sits back in her chair, and I'm grateful she's taking the conversation away from my personal history. "Might as well be a looker. Do you think he'll wear tight jeans?"
"Mom!" Playfully, I tap her upper arm.
"What?" she challenges. "I'm not dead yet."
The wind leaves my sails. Judging by the stricken expressions on Vivienne and Kathleen, everyone else's sails are hanging limply as well.
Mom shrugs. "Just a little bit of maudlin humor."
I force a laugh. Because if I don't laugh, I'll cry.
My mother has stage four uterine cancer. With her options exhausted, she has resigned herself to her fate. The pain medicine she's on keeps her comfortable, and our job is to make her happy. My dad does his best for her, but she hates him fussing over her, and he still has the farm to run anyway. The tasks and responsibilities keep him busy, not to mention the extra hours he's putting in at Spot.
She has an in-home caregiver now, the very best money can buy , according to Duke.
He would know, because he's the one footing the bill. It's hard to say what possessed him to offer me such an arrangement. Was it the fact our families have been intertwined for decades, trading status as friend and foe? Or was it me, and the fact Duke and I have never been at odds with one another? Maybe it was how we grew up laughing at the ancient antics in our families' past, never feeling like we had to carry a revenge torch. Duke and I always had an easy friendship, born from understanding what it's like to grow up in a locally famous family, shouldering the inherent pressure that comes with an infamous last name.
On the outside, Duke and I together make perfect sense.
But the truth I will never utter to a soul is that we are not marrying for love.
Duke will pay for my mother's end of life care for however long we are blessed with her presence, but the real gift is giving her the opportunity to watch her only child walk down the aisle in the wedding dress she once wore. In return, I will provide Duke with a wife of status (gag me) to mollify Duke's despotic father.
There you have it.
The real reason I am marrying Duke Hampton.
And the flavor of the cake I eat during the charade?
I really don't care.