Chapter Five
Maci
On Thursday afternoon, the scent of butter, sugar, and fresh lemon zest filled my kitchen. The smell clung to the countertops, my clothes, and even my hair.
I stood by the island and watched two golden pound cakes cool on wire racks while sunlight streamed in through the windows behind me.
One cake was for the meeting. The other was just in case. I didn’t expect the first to fail, but if you’re baking for the Lemon Pound Cake Club, it’s smart to have a backup.
I leaned in to look at the smooth crack running down the center of the cake. The crust had risen evenly, turned golden at the edges, and settled into the shape I remembered.
It was almost perfect. I dipped a toothpick into the glaze and tasted it. Sweet, tart, and light.
“Please tell me one of those is for this house.”
I turned to the doorway.
Zaire stood there with his suit jacket over one arm and his tie loose around his neck. He looked tired, but as soon as he saw the cakes, his whole expression changed.
“No.”
He frowned.
“You baked two Maci.”
“And neither one belongs to you.”
“That doesn’t even sound like marriage.”
He hurried across the kitchen before I could stop him and reached for the smaller cake, but I slapped his hand away.
What?”
“The glaze hasn’t set.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
I moved between him and the counter.
“You are not cutting into that cake.”
He looked over my shoulder.
“Which one are you taking?”
“The bigger one.”
“Then I should be allowed to eat the little one.”
“You should be allowed to wait.”
He placed one hand against his chest.
“I worked all day to provide this lifestyle.”
I glanced around the kitchen.
“You sold one house.”
“It was a very expensive house.”
“And now you feel entitled to cake?”
“I feel entitled to peace in my own home.”
I laughed, and that was all he needed. He grabbed a fork from the drawer and slipped past me before I could stop him.
“Zaire!”
He cut into the edge of the smaller cake while it was still warm, scooped out a piece, and blew on it.
“You are so irking.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“You’re ruining it.”
“It’s already ruined now.”
He took a bite, then stopped chewing. I folded my arms.
“Well?”
He stared at the fork.
“This is fire.”
He pointed the fork at me.
“This is revenge cake.”
Something shifted under my ribs, quick and sharp, gone before I could name it. I turned back to the glaze.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means this cake is good enough to make somebody mad.”
A laugh slipped out of me.
“If cake can start a fight, I don’t want any parts.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re the one showing up armed.”
I shook my head and reached for the lemon slices I’d set out on a paper towel. That lemon tree in the backyard really came in handy.
Most of the afternoon, I tried to act like I wasn’t nervous. It was only a neighborhood gathering with a few women and some food. Still, my stomach tightened every time I checked the clock.
I changed clothes more than once. I even thought about buying a cake instead of baking one. Then I opened the old recipe tin from the office box and found the card tucked in the back.
The edges were worn from years of use. One corner was darkened by a faint grease stain. The handwriting curled across the page in faded blue ink.
Three sticks of butter.
Six eggs.
Fresh lemon juice.
Never bottled.
I didn’t need the card. I knew the recipe by heart. Some things stick with you, even after you stop making them.
Zaire leaned against the island and watched me arrange the lemon slices over the glaze.
“You sure you’re not trying to impress them?”
“I’m trying not to embarrass myself.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes.”
He nodded toward the cake.
“Not with that.”
I adjusted one of the slices.
“It’s their thing. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“You weren’t invited to compete.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at him, and he smiled. This time, it wasn’t a teasing smile.
“I know you’ve been walking around here all day like you’re preparing for an exam.”
“I just want them to like me.”
I said it before I could stop myself. His face softened.
“They already do, Maci.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know most of these people.”
“No you don’t.”
“I sell houses to these people.”
I rolled my eyes. He moved closer and put his hands on my waist.
“You moved here less than a week ago, and you already have plans, group chats, morning walks, and women bringing you iced coffee. I think you’re doing fine.”
I looked down at his shirt.
“What if I don’t fit in?”
He lifted my chin.
“Then they can be the ones to adjust.”
I smiled.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“Most things are.”
“No, they aren’t.”
“Fine. Most things are easier when you stop giving everybody else the power to decide who you are.”
My smile faded a little. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he noticed and just didn’t say anything.
Instead, he kissed my forehead.
“Go let them eat your revenge cake.”
I nudged him away.
“Stop calling it that.”
“You’ll thank me when somebody flips a table.”
“Nobody is flipping a table over pound cake.”
He glanced toward the cooling rack.
“We’ll see.”
By six thirty, the cake was completely cool.
I set it on a white ceramic stand, covered it with a glass dome, and tied a yellow ribbon around the base. In the kitchen lights, it looked almost too perfect.
It looked more like something to show off than something to eat.
I put on a pale green wrap dress, added gold hoop earrings, and fixed my lip gloss twice.
Zaire stood in the bedroom doorway, watching me.
“Get out of your head.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve reapplied the same lip gloss three times.”
“Twice.”
“Either way.”
I picked up my clutch. He came downstairs with me and held the front door open as I carried the cake out.
The evening was warm, but a breeze moved through the trees and brought a hint of citrus from the grove along the street.
Porch lights came on across the neighborhood, one after another. Camille’s house glowed from across the street.
Cars were already parked along the curb. Women in dresses and heels walked toward the front door, carrying covered dishes, bottles of wine, and trays of desserts.
I stopped at the edge of the driveway. For a moment, I felt like I was on the outside of something I’d wanted for years.
It wasn’t about the house or the women, but something deeper.
I wanted a seat at the table, to hear my name spoken with warmth, to be in a room where everyone knew my story and still welcomed me.
“You good?” Zaire asked behind me.
I looked back at him.
He stood by the door, hands in his pockets.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
I gripped the cake stand a bit more firmly.
“It’s just dessert.”
He smiled.
“That’s what people say right before everything goes wrong.”
I laughed and walked toward Camille’s house.
As I got closer, I understood why everyone called her the unofficial hostess of Lemon Grove Estates.
Her front porch looked like something from a magazine.
Big white lanterns glowed by the double doors.
Lemon wreaths hung on every window. Yellow hydrangeas filled huge planters, their flowers spilling over the sides like sunshine.
Even the music outside felt fancy. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers and blended with the laughter coming from inside.
I was about to knock when the front door opened.
“There she is!”
Camille stepped out in a white linen jumpsuit with a gold belt at her waist. Her curls framed her face, and her lemon-shaped earrings caught the porch light each time she moved. She hugged me before I could say hello.
“You made it.”
“I almost talked myself out of coming.”
She stepped back a little to look at me.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
She glanced down at the cake carrier in my hands.
“You baked.”
"I promised I would, and I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed."
“Oh, honey.” She smiled warmly. “Nobody ever comes empty-handed around here.”
She moved aside.
“Come on in.”
The first thing I noticed was the smell of vanilla, butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon. If happiness had a scent, it would be just like this.
The dining room table stretched nearly the whole length of the room, covered in white linen and filled with desserts: bundt cakes, mini pound cakes, lemon bars, cookies, cobblers, and cheesecakes. Each dessert sat on a vintage platter with a handwritten name card in front.
“Oh, this is serious,” I whispered.
Camille laughed.
“We’re very committed to carbohydrates.”
“I can see that.”
She led me toward the dessert table.
“I’ll put your cake here.”
“No, let me.”
I carefully lifted the glass dome and placed my cake near the center of the table. Conversations around the room paused just enough for people to glance over.
“Now who brought that?” Simone asked from across the room.
“Maci,” Camille answered.
Nia wandered over first.
“Girl.”
She bent down with a flourish and took a deep breath in.
“I don’t even need a slice yet.”
Tasha joined her.
“That glaze looks homemade.”
“It is,” I answered.
“You zested fresh lemons?”
I nodded. “I always do.”
Jade smiled.
“Somebody knows what she’s doing.”
I felt my cheeks get warm.
“It was just something my grandmother always made.”
Miss Evelyn walked slowly to the table, her cane tapping gently on the hardwood floor. She looked at my cake for a moment, then turned to me in silence. A small smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
“My goodness,” she murmured.
“That’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She looked back toward the cake.
“Some recipes deserve to stay in the family.”
The way she said it stuck with me. It felt like she meant more than just cake. Before I could think about it too much, Camille clapped her hands.
“Nobody touches dessert yet.”
Everyone in the room let out playful groans.
“You all know the rules.”
“What rules?” I asked.
Simone laughed.
“The food comes first.”
“Then dessert.”
“Then everybody votes.”
I blinked, surprised.
“Votes?”
Nia grinned.
“Oh, honey.”
“You didn’t know?”
Camille laughed.
“I forgot to tell her.”
“Every meeting we vote for our favorite dessert.”
My eyes grew wide.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”