Chapter 2
two
CALLA
The wedding venue is a whirlwind of tulle and chiffon, a pastel explosion of high society Southern matrons and their beleaguered, dark suited husbands. I clutch my cake setup pieces like a bomb squad technician, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and sheer, unadulterated terror.
This is the big leagues. I’m just a small-town baker playing dress-up.
“Excuse me. Oh, sorry. Coming through!” I weave through the throng with the precision of a matador, my mind laser-focused on the task ahead. No time to gawk at the ice sculpture of a swan (gaudy), or the twelve-piece string orchestra (overkill). I have a cake to set up, and it has to be perfect.
The Greater Attic, where the wedding is being held, is an old movie theater that has been converted to a music venue and event space that can hold a few hundred people. In what used to be the concession area, the venue’s catering staff have cleared a space for my cakes and cupcakes right beside a mountain of gifts that looks like it could trigger an avalanche. I set down my boxes of pastries and take a deep breath.
This is it. I’m in the eye of the storm. I can hear the guests arriving in droves. But I’m in a separate room from the main venue area. A few wedding guests do pop their heads in and make a beeline for the bar. But for the most part, I’m left alone to do my work.
My hands move with practiced ease as I unpack the tiers. Each one is a delicate confection of sugar and dreams and magic. I check my internal list: Fondant smooth? Check. Edges crisp? Check. Hand-painted roses intact? Miraculously, check. I stack the layers with the care of a mother bird building a nest, then step back to admire my work.
It’s a thing of beauty, even in this over-the-top setting. The cake is tall and elegant, a lovely fondant-covered monument to caloric excess. Tiny edible pearls cascade down the sides like a sugary waterfall. I can almost hear the angels singing.
But there’s no time for gawking at the scenery. I want to set up my cupcakes now, before the wedding ceremony begins. I spend the next ten minutes in intense concentration, setting up various cake plates and covering the rest of the table with a waterfall of white-frosted mystery cupcakes.
That done, I let out a sigh of relief and wander to the doorway, my eyes roving over the lavish wedding decorations. The reception hall is a cavernous space, all crystal chandeliers, gilt-trimmed walls, and soft red velvet movie seats. The stage looks like a wedding planner threw up all over it. White wisteria cascades down the wall, white rose petals are scattered across the floor, white string lights in Mason jars hang from the ceiling, a white wicker arch is set as the backdrop for the nuptials. No expense has been spared. No Pinterest wedding board has been unplumbed.
The thought makes me smirk, but only a little. This is exactly the kind of event that could put my bakery on the map.
One well-placed Instagram post, one glowing review from the right person, and You Butter Believe It could go from a struggling startup to the new must-have brand. I imagine the orders pouring in, the stress of making every batch on my own easing just enough for me to breathe. And maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be able to hire some help. I picture myself in a bigger kitchen. You know, one with enough counter space to roll out fondant without knocking over a tower of mixing bowls.
A girl can hope.
Walking back to my dessert display, I take out my phone and snap a few pictures, angling for the best light. The cake gleams like a diamond in a Tiffany’s display case. I hover over the Instagram app, debating whether to post now or wait until the reception is in full swing. The thought of something going wrong before the photos go live makes my stomach twist.
I stuff the phone back in my bag and chew on a fingernail. I glance at the cake, then the side door. It’s freezing outside, but the side door has been propped open to allow some of the heat from the growing pool of guests to escape. An icy breeze flutters the edge of the tablecloths. My mind races with the worst-case scenarios.
A gust of wind topples the cake. A drunk groomsman stumbles into the table. A rogue pigeon gets in and attacks the cake topper.
My brain works overtime to pump out scenarios. Why won’t it just focus ?
I shake off the thoughts and take a deep breath. The cake is fine. The whole display is perfect. And this event is the kind of opportunity I’ve dreamed about for years. I just have to trust that my work will speak for itself.
In the main room, the string quartet shifts from a languid prelude into something more purposeful. I tiptoe to the doorway to watch as a hush falls over the crowd. The problem is, I can’t see anything from way back here. I silently creep toward the back of the room, standing half-hidden behind a column, and watch as the guests take their seats.
My heart does a little tap dance in my chest. This is it. The moment of truth. If the cake survives the next twenty minutes, I’m golden.
A woman in a fascinator the size of a peacock takes the last open seat, and I bite my lip, chewing on the anticipation. The anxiety. I’m not even invested in this wedding, but the tension is contagious.
I crane my neck to see the altar. The bride and groom are already in position, looking like a pair of human dolls set atop a ridiculously expensive cake. The bride is a vision in white taffeta, her dark slick of red lipstick subdued into a pout. The groom, Jay, looks like he just stepped out of a men’s fashion spread. Tall, dark, and annoyingly handsome in his tailored suit.
They are perfect together. Athletic, tanned, refined. Some small voice in the back of my head whispers, I’ll bet they don’t last a year .
It’s just jealousy, though.
The bride is clutching her bouquet like it’s a life preserver, her knuckles white against the gaudy spray of orchids. Jay stands with his hands in his pockets, the picture of nonchalance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was bored at his own wedding.
The officiant begins to speak in a low drone. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. Something about the sanctity of marriage and the joining of souls, I imagine. I tune him out and zero in on the bride and groom. There’s a crackling energy buzzing around them, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Blake steals a glance at Jay, then at the crowd, then back to Jay. She’s skittish, a deer caught in the headlights. She’s poised to bolt at any moment. And Jay? Jay just looks… calm. Too calm.
Jay says something to Blake, too quiet for the audience to hear, and a spark of anger flashes in her eyes. She turns her head away from him with her nose in the air, and I think she might storm off. But she doesn’t. She just stands there, frozen, a bride on strike.
The tension is unbearable. I feel like I’m watching a soap opera, the kind my YiaYia used to binge, where every episode ends on a cliffhanger. Will they? Won’t they? Tune in tomorrow to find out!
But this is real life, and tomorrow is right now. The officiant looks at the bride, then at Jay, then at the crowd. His uncertainty makes it all the more delicious. I hate myself a little for enjoying this, but I can’t look away.
“Do you take Jay to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the officiant asks her, his voice tentative.
All eyes are on the bride, but mine drift to Jay. He’s still infuriatingly relaxed, like he’s waiting in line for a latte. How can he be so cool about this? Maybe he really doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just going through the motions, playing his part in the farce.
The bride opens her mouth, closes it, then looks out at the sea of faces. I follow her gaze and spot a photographer at the ready, lens poised like a sniper’s rifle. He’s not even trying to be discreet. This whole thing is a spectacle, and everyone watching knows it. It’s the kind of drama that makes for juicy blog posts and social media fodder.
“I—” she starts, then falters. The room seems to lean in, hungry for her next word.
My hands are clammy, my pulse a jackhammer in my ears. I’m not sure who I’m rooting for. Them? Me? The cake?
And then, nothing. The silence stretches like taffy, taut and sticky, as the ceremony teeters on the edge of something. But the bride doesn’t say another word, and the officiant shuffles his notes like he’s not sure what to do next. Everyone waits. So do I.
The bride's face morphs, her red lips twisting into something sharp and brittle. Oh no . I know that look. It's the expression of someone teetering on the edge, about to take a swan dive into the deep end of bad decisions.
Blake takes a step back from the altar. The movement is small, but it ripples through the crowd like a stone tossed into a pond. She looks at the groom, then at the officiant, then at the doors. My breath catches.
She's going to run.
And then… she does .
Blake hikes up her dress and bolts off the stage, a white blur of taffeta and terror. She disappears for a moment. But when she reappears, she’s still dead set on escaping.
The venue is stunned into silence, as if someone has hit the mute button on a very expensive remote control. All eyes track her as she sprints for the exit, wobbling on her impractical heels.
My mouth hangs open. I can't believe it. This kind of thing only happens in movies where the jilted lover finds true happiness in the next scene. But here she is, the runaway bride, and here we are, the dumbstruck audience.
She makes a beeline for the back door of the venue. The doors open with a creak of protest. Then a moment later, they slam shut behind her, like a jail cell slamming shut.
For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks. It's as if the whole room is holding its breath. We’re all waiting for the director to yell "Cut!"
A rising tide of murmurs breaks the spell. Guests turn to each other, murmurs and whispers spreading like a brushfire. I catch snippets of conversation: "Can you believe?" and "I thought they were solid!" and "What about the cake?"
What about the cake? I want to shout. Eat it, for God's sake.
I sink back against the column, my legs suddenly jelly. The tension that's been winding me up all day unspools in a rush. Now I’m left slightly lightheaded and feeling hollow.
This was supposed to be a sure thing, a slam dunk. Now it's a question mark. Worse, it’s big, fat, frosting-covered X.
I scan the room and find the groom still at the altar. He hasn't moved an inch. His hands are out of his pockets now, hanging uselessly at his sides. He looks down the empty aisle, then up at the ceiling, then closes his eyes and exhales.
It's not quite a sigh. It's the slow, measured breath of someone trying to keep it together.
A pang of something, maybe sympathy, tweaks my chest.
The knot of people nearest the altar starts to loosen, and someone calls out to the groom. He opens his eyes and nods, but his expression is distant, like he's watching all this from another room. He steps down from the stage with the grace of a man walking on glass, each step looking like it pains him to take .
The guests are on their feet now, forming clusters of speculation and allegiance. I overhear more speculation. Debates about what just happened, and the occasional attempt to laugh off the awkwardness.
Jay stands in the center of a growing maelstrom, a lone palm tree in a hurricane. He straightens his tie, then loosens it, then straightens it again. The gestures are small, almost imperceptible, but they speak volumes. He’s trying to maintain his cool, his composure, but the cracks are starting to show.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says, his voice cutting through the din. It has the effect of a teacher clapping their hands in a noisy classroom. Conversations taper off, heads turn. “Please enjoy the refreshments.”
I linger by the door, watching as the guests shrug and disperse. Someone makes a beeline for the champagne; another checks their watch and sighs. No meal will be served. Certainly no cake will be eaten.
My eyes find the cake, still perfect and untouched. I imagine a hundred different scenarios where it gets saved, where someone takes a slice and posts a picture with a hashtag. All that exposure, all that potential, now slipping through my fingers like super-fine sugar.
I start packing the cupcakes back into their boxes. If nothing else, I can sell them at a steep discount in my little shop across the town square. Cursed Wedding Cupcakes, $1! I can see myself writing out the signage already.
It takes a while to re-pack the cupcakes, carefully refolding the cardboard cupcake holders and layering the sweet desserts in between. By the time I’m done, Jay stands alone, looking out over the room. There are only a few event workers left cleaning up. If any friends or family comforted Jay immediately after the disastrous event, I missed it while I was in the Cupcake Zone.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets now, his head tilted slightly downward. He’s the picture of quiet defeat.
I should go. There’s nothing for me here now and staying just makes it worse. But I can’t tear myself away. Some morbid curiosity, or maybe a sense of kinship, keeps me rooted in place.
He did everything right. That’s what gets me. He played his part, said his lines. He was supposed to be wed by now. But instead, he is at loose ends.
I take a step toward the exit, then stop. I can’t just leave him like this. Not after everything. My professional instincts kick in, reminding me that this isn’t just about him. My career is tied to this disaster, too.
But it’s more than that. It’s empathy, or something close to it. I turn back. Jay is making his way toward the side door that leads out into the alley between the buildings. When he pushes open the rickety metal door, the burst of sunlight he unleashes momentarily blinds me. I squint and start to follow, my Converse whispering against the marble floor.
What am I doing? He’s not my friend. He’s a client. Was, he was a client. And it’s not like I can save the wedding. Still, I follow him anyway.
As I trail after Jay, I think about the fact that I am almost definitely going to need to ask him for some Instagram exposure. Damn.
This day has really not turned out like I thought it would.