“I hate wedding cake and all it stands for.”
“So, you hate everything that has to do with the single event that signifies two people joining their lives in a ceremony of love and commitment?” she quipped.
“No, I hate the price markups on flour and sugar just because you slap the wordweddingon it.”
She looked amused, and her lips twitched like she wanted to laugh. “Don’t have that attitude when you meet Horace and Angie, which will be in”—she glanced at the watch around her wrist—“an hour.”
“Um, what? I’m meeting them?”
“Yup. I told them to come by and sit and talk with you. So you can get an idea of the type of cake they want.”
I gritted my teeth.
“This is the part where you thank me,” she said.
“Jesus, you’re arrogant.”
“Not all heroes wear capes.”
I rubbed my forehead, wishing I wasn’t in such a shit mood.
“They’re going to pay you a grand for the cake.A thousand dollars, Brooklyn. For a fucking wedding cake. For flour and sugar. And you know how you save your bakery? Word of mouth from catering events.”
I groaned. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
I’d never wanted to be in the catering business. I didn’t want the headache that came with it. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and refusing the job would be to my own detriment.
“These are your best friend’s parents?” I asked.
“Yeah, Brielle and I went to high school together. We go way back.”
“Way back,” I repeated, trying not to smile but failing. Jazz was twenty-four. There wasn’t that muchway backto go to. I went into the tiny room that I used as an office and opened the desk drawer to pull out a pad of paper.
About an hour later, an older couple that looked like aging rockers entered the bakery.
“Hi ya, Jazz,” the man with a thick silver handlebar mustache greeted.
“Hi, Horace,” Jazz said as she came out from around the counter. She gave the burly man a hug and then turned to his wife and embraced her with just as much warmth and familiarity as one would treat family.
A thick lump swelled in my throat.
Jazz tugged on the woman’s arm. “Come meet Brooklyn. She’s a diabolical genius.”
“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?” Horace teased. “We’ve already hired her.”
I chuckled and held out my hand from behind the counter. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Horace grasped my palm and shook it with verve and strength. “This is my wife, Angie.”
“Hello,” she greeted.
“Why don’t you guys sit at the corner table, and I’ll bring coffees and a plate of baked stuff,” Jazz said.
I grabbed my pad of paper and followed Horace and Angie to the corner table. They sat down, and immediately Horace pulled his wife’s chair closer to him.
“So, thirty-five years,” I remarked with a smile.
“Yep.” Angie beamed. “And we still feel like newlyweds.”