The Icing on the Cake

  I also sought out the advice and encouragement of others, telling them about my television gig. My parents were all over the idea. So was my aunt, who apparently saw dollar signs every time she thought about it. By the time Wednesday night rolled around, I’d almost convinced myself this plan was doable. I could go on national television and represent the Rossis. But just as quickly, fear overcame me, and I wondered if I could function with the lights and cameras in my face.

  Oh. Lord. Help.

  After my workout I headed to the church, arriving before anyone else, and went to the youth room, where I paced back and forth, asking the Lord’s opinion on all of this. Rosa’s words kept replaying in my mind: “You can do this, Scarlet. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.” And Armando’s vote of confidence helped, for some strange reason. Still, I felt sick every time I thought about it, so I continued to pray.

  At some point well into my pleading with the Almighty, Devon came bounding into the room, eyes wide. “Is it true?”

  “What?” I stopped praying and looked his way.

  “You’re going to be on television?” Three teenage girls spoke in tandem as they entered.

  I groaned. “Who told you that?”

  “Armando.” Devon flung himself into a chair. “I saw him at Parma John’s today, and he told me you were going to do some sort of cake challenge on television. Is it true?”

  “Well, I don’t know yet. I—”

  “Can we go too?” one of the girls asked.

  “Yeah, I want to be in the studio audience,” another chimed in.

  I put my hand up. “First of all, I haven’t decided to go yet.”

  “Of course you have.” Armando’s strong voice resonated from the doorway. I glanced over at him and saw the confidence in his expression.

  Dude, what are you doing at church on a Wednesday night?

  Oh, right. To talk to my dad about possibly renting a new lightboard for the fund-raiser. I remembered now. Still, it felt odd to see him standing there in the doorway of the youth room.

  “You’re going to go, and it’s going to be great. And with all of these guys cheering you on, how can we lose?”

  “Yeah, Scarlet,” the oldest of the three girls said. “You’re always telling us to be brave, right? Isn’t that what you said when I told you that I didn’t want to perform in the talent show?”

  “And isn’t that what you told me when I said I didn’t think I could leave my family and go to a third world country?” a younger one added.

  “Remember when I thought I couldn’t eat a whole cheesecake by myself?” Armando said with a sly smile. “You talked me into it.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You’ve got this in you, Scarlet,” he said. “I know you do.”

  “Well, maybe, but—” How did he know, anyway? The guy barely knew me.

  “No buts.” Armando gave me a stern look, and I sighed, trying not to think about my sticky buns and their national debut in front of millions.

  “This will go down in history as one of the greatest opportunities of your life,” he said. “And think of the business it’ll bring in. People all over the nation will hear about Let Them Eat Cake. It’s going to up your business like crazy.”

  “Yeah, we’re gonna have to build you a website.” Devon dove into a discussion about the importance of having a web presence, and before long everyone was chiming in, including my dad, who appeared in the doorway to see what all the ruckus was about.

  “I’m trying to get them to see reason, Dad,” I argued. “This is too much, don’t you think? I’m already running a new business, making a cake for my best friend’s wedding, and planning this trip to Nicaragua. It’s just too much. Don’t you think?” Surely he would agree. My father was a reasonable man.

  He shrugged. “I only know that God won’t give us more than we can handle, honey. That’s been my experience, anyway. So he must think you’re capable.”

  I groaned and fought the temptation to slap myself in the head. “He expects a lot from me.” You all do.

  “He trusts you, Scarlet,” my dad said. “And think of the opportunity to tell others about not just the bakery but the church and this trip. If you put the word out to the viewers, they will be praying for the kids as they go.”

  “Yeah. They can pray for us.” One of the girls looked at me with that puppy dog look I found so hard to resist.

  She wasn’t the only puppy dog in the room. Armando’s expression tugged at my heart too.

  In fact, a thousand things tugged at my heart over the next several days as I prayed about whether or not to go. On Saturday morning I learned that Laz’s at-home recovery seemed to be going well, in spite of his insistence that he could still eat tiramisu—this according to Bella, who phoned daily with updates. Hearing about his progress relieved me, of course, but didn’t solve the problem. He still couldn’t appear on television, so I had no choice but to take his place.

  Kenny, for some reason, was the lone holdout. He didn’t care much for the idea. I tried not to stress over that and figured I could talk him into it. With enough time. And prayer.

  I broached the subject with him again, more frustrated and confused than ever. “Kenny, I really need an answer. Can you come on the show with me or not?”

  He paced the shop, appearing just as agitated as the first time I’d asked him. “What does your aunt say?”

  “She’s all for it, of course. But she’s a little worried about leaving the shop unmanned while I’m gone. I’ll be in Los Angeles three days total.”

  “That worries me a little too. And I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I’m not really the go-to-Hollywood type.” He shrugged. “Don’t have any aspirations of getting on the Food Network, to be honest.”

  “Me either. Not really.”

  “Then opt out. Just tell Rosa you’re not interested.”

  “I would be doing it for Laz,” I countered. “For his charity. You know? It’s really about that. And it’s great advertisement for Let Them Eat Cake.”

  “Yeah, I know. And I guess we could use the promotion.”

  “Tell me you’ll do it. I don’t think I could handle going without you.”

  He paced a bit and finally muttered, “I hate to let you down, so if you really feel like you need me, like you can’t do it without me. . .”

  “Great.” I couldn’t help but sigh as relief settled over me. “Rosa’s coming this afternoon to tell me all about it. She’s got the details on the kind of cake, the specifications, everything. We need to take good notes.”

  “I thought you wanted me to work on getting the kitchen organized this afternoon.”

  “Oh, right.” I’d given him such a hard time about not having room for everything. The sweetheart had built some shelves up high to hold the larger mixing bowls.

  “All for my girl,” he said with a wink.

  I sighed, wondering if—or when—I’d have the courage to tell him I couldn’t be his girl. Today probably wasn’t the best day for that, all things considered. But I would tell him. Soon.

  Rosa arrived at a quarter to five, struggling a bit as she ascended the steps leading into the bakery. A little huffing and puffing and she finally landed at a table, where she took a seat and gave me an admiring look. “Scarlet, there’s something different about you. Are you wearing your hair a different way?”

  “No.” I sucked in my belly, hoping she’d notice my six-pound weight loss. She didn’t.

  Instead, she scrunched her nose and examined my hair again. “Hmm. It’s something. Maybe you’re wearing a different color lipstick?”

  “No, it’s the same as always.”

  Look down! It’s my hips! They’re disappearing before your very eyes!

  “Odd.” She looked perplexed. “I could’ve sworn there was something different about you today.”

  I did my best not to sigh. Perhaps in time people would notice. In the meantime, I’d better cut back a little more on my calories an
d up my workout at the gym. Otherwise what was the point?

  Aunt Willy entered on Rosa’s heels. No doubt she wanted to be a part of this opportunity, being my chief investor and all. Again I tried not to sigh at the idea that she involved herself in every area of my life these days. Unlike Rosa, she didn’t seem to notice any change in my appearance whatsoever, though I’d dressed in black, hoping to make the weight loss more obvious.

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  And again I ask, why, Lord? Why?

  So I focused on Rosa, who seemed a little distracted by all the noise Kenny was making in the kitchen.

  “He’s putting up new shelves,” I explained.

  “Should’ve waited to do that after closing up shop,” Willy argued. “It’s distracting.”

  “Oh, I know, but he’s got a big night tonight. There’s a summer sports thing planned with the kids in the youth group. He’s such a big part of that, and we’re working on the fund-raiser—”

  “Better get this show on the road,” Willy interrupted, and I sighed.

  I turned to Rosa and smiled gently. “Before we do, how is Laz? I’ve been praying for him.”

  “He’s better.” A smile turned up the edges of her lips. “Stubborn old mule, if you want my opinion, but a recovering one, so that makes me happy.”

  Aunt Willy rolled her eyes. “If he’s a stubborn old mule, then he’s a typical man.”

  Rosa looked stunned. “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” she responded. “He’s a very special man who’s been through a lot over the past couple of weeks. I didn’t mean to imply that he’s anything but wonderful. He’s just—”

  “A man.” Willy crossed her arms. “And we all know what they’re like, don’t we, ladies?” Before we could respond, she forged ahead, all business. “Okay now, tell us about this competition. What do we need to do to get ready?”

  We?

  Did she for one minute think that I would take her on the show with me? My mind flashed back to that day in the hospital when Rosa had asked about having Auntie join me. It hadn’t seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I wondered if she felt left out somehow. Perhaps she wanted to be involved.

  So I asked her.

  “I would sooner die a thousand deaths than appear on national television in a competition.” Auntie looked disgusted by the very idea, as if I’d asked her to drink poison or something. “If you think I might enjoy something like that, then you don’t know me at all.”

  Okay, then. I hear ya. And I’m right there with ya.

  Still, with Rosa gazing at me so intently, I could hardly back out now, could I? And so I listened as she explained the plan of action. She pulled out a piece of paper. I joined her at the table and glanced at it.

  “It’s heritage day on Cakes Galore,” Rosa explained. “Four teams—one Hispanic, one Italian, one Scotch-Irish, and one African.”

  Ah. Suddenly I wished I could play on the Scotch-Irish team. A thousand ideas ran through my head about what sort of cake I would come up with for that.

  “Most are new to the network,” Rosa explained. “All but the Alvarez family. They have a great show called Latina Lifestyle, featuring all sorts of tasty Mexican foods.”

  “Yum.”

  “They’re the competition.” Rosa narrowed her gaze. “Now, you’ll be making the Italian cake, of course, and even though it’s a wedding cake, we thought the Coliseum would make a nice design.”

  “The Coliseum?” Auntie’s brow wrinkled. “Not very romantic.”

  “Ooo, but it is.” Rosa unfolded a paper with the most exquisite and beautiful rendition of the Roman Coliseum I’d ever seen.

  I gasped. “Oh, I love it.” The arches might prove to be problematic, though. How many were there, anyway? Dozens and dozens. They would have to be molded out of white chocolate, but I could probably handle that. And Kenny’s carving skills were great, so shaping the Coliseum would fall to him.

  “I love it too.” Rosa grinned. “And it’s the perfect representation of our family. We’ve been to Rome more times than I can count, and the Coliseum is one of our favorite places. It might help you to know that Laz and I started out like two gladiators in the middle of the ring, but we finally gave up our quarreling to come together.” Her cheeks turned pink.

  “I heard a little something about that,” I said, then grinned.

  “Well, it means the world to us that you’re willing to help us share our love story with others, Scarlet.”

  “Of course.”

  “But watch out for the Alvarez family,” she whispered in my ear. “They’ve got a great recipe for tres leches cake, from what I understand. And I think they’re going to try to whip up something to compete with ours, so be prepared for that. But don’t worry, sweet girl. I plan to give you a recipe for the best Italian cream cake you ever tasted, complete with cream cheese frosting.”

  Ack. Decorating with cream cheese was tough, for sure. But I loved the idea of merging Italian cream cake with the Coliseum design. Perfecto!

  “Everyone says my recipe is the best in the state.” Rosa beamed. “And I hate to brag, but I must agree. It’s so yummy I could almost eat a whole cake by myself.”

  “I doubt it’s that good,” Aunt Willy muttered under her breath. “Seriously?”

  Rosa gave her a curious look but didn’t say anything. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head.

  “I don’t wish to stir up trouble, but if Scarlet appears on the show, I would prefer she use my recipe.” Aunt Willy placed her hands on her tiny hips. “I insist.”

  “But she represents me,” Rosa said, her expression hardening. “So I must insist otherwise. She will use the Rossi family recipe.”

  Oy vey.

  On and on they went, debating their various points. Auntie insisted that my appearance on the show was really more about the bakery. Rosa argued that I was there to fill in for her—to represent her. She was right, of course, but my aunt refused to budge an inch. Either I use her recipe or I could not appear on the show.

  The bell on the front door jingled, and Armando walked in just in time to see this exciting showdown of wills. He looked back and forth between the two women as the argument continued.

  After a couple of minutes of head bobbing, Armando put up his hand. “Ladies, ladies. Here’s my suggestion: compare recipes.”

  “No.” Willy shook her head, looking aghast. “Mine is a secret.”

  “Mine as well.” Rosa crossed her arms at her chest.

  Armando managed to distract Rosa, but Willy seemed intent on keeping my attention. “I’ll email you the recipe.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “But don’t you dare let that woman see it.”

  “But Aunt Wil—”

  Willy glanced back at Rosa and grunted. “I don’t care if she’s a national television star. Do not let her see my recipe for Italian cream cake. Promise?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she can be trusted, Aunt Wilhelmina. Besides, her poor husband is still recovering, so—”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I bit back a laugh as I tried to imagine Rosa stealing Willy’s family recipe. Still, Aunt Willy seemed to be taking this seriously. Very seriously.

  My aunt marched out of the bakery, head held high. Rosa walked over to me, looking a little intimidated. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well, I’m glad she’s gone, to be honest. I can give you what I came to give you—the family recipe.” She reached into her oversized purse and came out with a slip of paper, covered in dried cake batter and barely readable. My eyes scanned it, and I smiled, realizing what a great cake this would make.

  Another customer entered the store, and Rosa pulled me to the side to whisper something in my ear. “Scarlet, promise me something.” Her words were strained.

  “Sure.” I glanced at the customer, relieved to see that Armando had slipped behind the glass cases to wait on her.

  “This
is an old family recipe,” Rosa said. “It’s been in the Rossi family for generations. It’s an honest and true Italian cream cake, one that goes back hundreds of years. I can’t risk the recipe getting out, so promise me you’ll guard this with your life.”

  I couldn’t help but think of Willy’s admonition.

  “I won’t let anyone see it except Kenny,” I said. “He has to.”

  “Of course. I meant—well, you know who I’m referring to.”

  “My aunt will never see this,” I promised.

  Willy would never know the difference, after all. The only people who would taste this cake would be the judges at the competition, and they didn’t care whose recipe I used, as long as it tasted great.

  “Thank you, sweet girl.” Rosa reached up to give me a little kiss on the cheek. “You’re saving my life. Literally. And I know you’re going to win with this recipe if you follow the directions exactly. I’ve never had anything but rave reviews with it.”

  I offered what I hoped was a confident smile and nodded. Rosa turned on her heels, gave Armando a wink, and walked out of the bakery. He finished waiting on my customer—even managing to talk her into buying an extra dozen sticky buns—and then looked my way.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I guess so.” My phone beeped, and I pulled it from my pocket, noticing I had an email from Aunt Willy. How she’d managed to send the recipe that quickly, I couldn’t say, but there it was.

  I stared at the recipes, looking first at the one on the phone and then the one on the slip of paper Rosa had given me—back and forth, back and forth. Laughter bubbled up inside of me as the realization set in.

  “What’s so funny?” Armando asked as he drew near.

  “You’re not going to believe it, but they’re identical.”

  “No way. Rosa’s recipe has been top secret for as long as I can remember.”

  “Willy’s too. But I’m telling you they’re exactly the same. Well, with the exception of how many walnuts to add, but I can play that part by ear. I tend to run a little on the nutty side.”