The Icing on the Cake

  “Tell me about it.” Armando chuckled, lifting my spirits.

  Suddenly my confidence level rose too. I took this recipe as a sign that everything would be fine. I would go on the show, bake up the perfect Italian cream cake, shape it in a romantic version of the Coliseum, and possibly even win the whole thing. With Kenny at my side, of course.

  Thank you, God, for giving me the confidence I need to see this thing through.

  I heard a crash from inside the kitchen, and then a loud cry. My heart sailed to my throat. I ran to see what had happened, and Armando followed on my heels. We found Kenny sprawled on the floor, a ladder lying next to him. Nausea gripped me when I saw the pained expression on his face.

  “Kenny?”

  He shook his head but didn’t say anything.

  “Kenny? Are you okay?”

  He looked the other way, and for the first time I noticed the weird position of his left arm, sort of twisted behind him. Oh. Ouch.

  “Your arm!” I went to him at once and began to fuss over him in a mother hen sort of way. “Kenny, I’m calling 911.”

  “Over. My. Dead. Body.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

  “But your arm is . . .” Broken seemed too simplistic a word. I’d never seen an arm in this position before. Hoped I never would again. Another wave of nausea washed over me, so I looked away. I tried not to be obvious about it, but what could I do?

  “I know.” He attempted to stand, but his knees buckled and he paled. “But I’m not going out of here in an ambulance. Understood?”

  “O-okay.”

  “You have to drive me.” He winced. “And there’s no point going to a doctor’s office. I think the ER is the only option, unless you happen to know an orthopedist who works out of his home.”

  “I’ll drive him.” From behind me, Armando’s voice rang out. I turned, relief flooding over me as I realized he could help. “I don’t think Scarlet’s in any shape to be driving right now.”

  As much as I hated the chauvinistic comment, I didn’t argue. Truthfully, I probably would’ve driven the car off the road with my nerves in such a frazzled state.

  Armando knelt next to Kenny and analyzed the situation, then blew out a breath. “Man.”

  “Yeah.” Just one word from Kenny, but it resonated like ten or twenty.

  “What were you doing?”

  Kenny gestured with his head to the shelf above us, the one I’d asked him to fill with oversized mixing bowls. I bit back the sigh that tried to weasel its way out. I’d caused this. If I hadn’t been so concerned about climbing the ladder myself, this never would have happened. Look at where my fear had landed me.

  Or, rather, where it had landed him. I leaned down but did my best not to focus on his arm for fear I might get sick. Instead, I looked at Armando.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Armando proceeded to give me instructions for how we would get Kenny to a standing position and then out the door. “Our family’s pizza delivery van is just outside,” he added. “We’ll slip you into the back of the truck like we’re heading out to make a delivery or something. I’ll lead the way.”

  He took charge, getting us out of the door, closing up shop, and even deterring an incoming customer—all without raising any red flags. My stomach felt nauseous, and all the more as we settled into the Parma John’s van and I got a closer look at Kenny’s arm.

  At this point I could only think of one thing—well, short of feeling sorry for Kenny, of course.

  My assistant was now out of the cake competition.

  Kaput. Over. Finished.

  And if he was out of the game . . . so was I.

  12

  Too Many Cooks

  Keep calm. There’s nothing a cupcake can’t solve.

  Anonymous

  A couple of days after Kenny’s accident, I found myself working alone in the kitchen. I’d spent the better part of the last two days praying for his recovery, especially after learning that he would require surgery once the swelling went down. Every time I thought about it, I felt like crying—not because of my situation with the cake challenge but because I’d caused all of this in the first place. Why oh why had I asked him to build the shelves in the kitchen? Carpentry wasn’t his forte. Baking was.

  I expected too much from Kenny. I always had.

  That only made me feel guiltier by the minute. I had taken advantage of Kenny a thousand times over, knowing he cared enough about me to do what I asked regardless. And now look at the consequences. I’d caused him pain not just emotionally but physically. Yes, he would recover, but the guilt I carried left me sad and tired. And alone. Very, very alone.

  Still, the show must go on—at least that’s what Kenny said every time he called, and he called approximately seven or eight times a day to see how things were going at the shop without him. I didn’t have the courage to explain that my tears had frightened away a potential customer or that I’d burned an entire tray of brownies. I also didn’t tell him about the late delivery of the birthday cake, or the disappointed mother of the bride who’d stopped by hoping to see my design of her daughter’s cake, only to learn I hadn’t started it yet.

  No, I couldn’t seem to get anything right today, but that certainly didn’t stop me from trying. And it definitely didn’t keep me from pretending like everything was fine when Kenny called for the eighth time. When I finally shared a few concerns about the upcoming competition, he just chuckled and said, “I have confidence in you. You can do this, girl. I know you can.”

  But I couldn’t. I knew it in my gut. Not without him, anyway.

  Or could I?

  Only one way to know for sure. Just after closing up shop for the day, I decided to try my hand at Aunt Rosa’s Italian cream cake recipe. I’d thought through her plan of building the Coliseum and wondered how in the world I could accomplish it alone, without Kenny to do the lifting and lugging. Looked like I would have no choice but to ask Auntie to join me on the show, whether she wanted to or not. The idea didn’t set well, but what else could I do? If anyone knew how to bake a great cake, she did. Yes, we would make a fine team—me with my steady hand, and her with her lopsided liquid eyeliner. As long as the camera didn’t zoom in on her face. Or my hips.

  First, however, I had to conquer this recipe. Mixing it proved to be problematic, now that Kenny had put the mixing bowls up out of reach. In spite of his fall, they remained high above on the shelf. I pulled out the ladder and scaled it, praying all the way. I accidentally measured out double the flour and had to start over.

  “Why, Lord?” I shook my batter-covered spoon at the ceiling. Then again, God wasn’t up in heaven shaking a spoon at me, now was he? No doubt he wasn’t keen on me doing it to him. A quick repentance followed on my end. In fact, I needed to repent for quite a few things, including my bad attitude regarding my aunt.

  I somehow managed to get the batter going and greased and floured the sample-size pans. Fighting the temptation to lick the spoon, I dumped the batter into the pans and shoved them into the oven.

  Now, I’d been tempted before. I worked with sweets all day, after all. But I’d never known temptation like I did during the half hour those cakes were in the oven. I wanted to eat every last bite when they came out.

  But I couldn’t. I had to remember my sticky buns. They would make their appearance on camera in just a week or so. If I wanted to make a name for myself—for something other than the vast expanse of my backside—I needed to stay focused on my diet. Rumbling stomach or not. Weakness or not. It would be worth every bit of effort when I took the prize for Rosa. When I showed the world what I was made of.

  And now, ladies and gentlemen . . . we present to you the winner of Cakes Galore, Scarlet Lindsey! Scarlet hopes you will look beyond her chubby physique to see the fun-loving girl on the inside, the one who plans to wow you with her baking abilities and her willingness to try new things. Join Scarlet as she proves once and for all that big girls really do have more fun . . . in th
e kitchen.

  I found myself daydreaming about the upcoming competition. Referring to Rosa’s design of the Coliseum, I let my thoughts drift. Until I smelled the familiar scent of burning cake.

  I reached for a hot pad and yanked the cake pan from the oven, groaning as I saw the burnt edges. “Why?” I hollered to the ceiling. Why today, of all days? And why the test cake for the show? Probably some sort of punishment for my internal desire to eat, eat, eat. The Lord knew I wouldn’t possibly cheat with a burnt cake. Still, what could I do with it, if not eat it? Forge ahead and decorate? To start over now meant washing bowls and pans, mixing up a new batch, and allowing time for baking. I’d be here all night!

  Still, what other choice did I have? I needed to get this right at least once before attempting it on national television in front of millions of viewers. How else would I know if I could do this?

  Oh. Help.

  I scaled the ladder to grab a clean mixing bowl. As much as I hated to do it, I needed to start over. Thank goodness I managed to grab a bowl with little problem.

  My back ached and my heart felt even more twisted, but I forged ahead, thinking of Lucille Ball and that crazy episode where she tried to make money bottling and selling her aunt Martha’s salad dressing. The workload involved nearly destroyed her psyche, but she pushed on. I would take my cues from Lucy-girl and go for the gusto, no matter how difficult things got.

  The next couple minutes were spent slamming pans around as I regrouped and searched for enough ingredients to begin the mixing process again. Doing so relieved some of the tension that wound my neck and shoulders into knots.

  A voice sounded behind me, and I turned, gasping as I saw Armando standing there. I could read the concern in his eyes as he watched me slam-banging the pots and pans into submission.

  “Scarlet. You okay?”

  “Yes.” I nodded, then sighed. “Okay, no. I’m not okay.” I fought the tears that threatened to tumble down my cheeks. “I ruined the cake.”

  “Which cake?” He had a good point. The place was filled with cakes.

  “The test cake for the competition,” I explained. “I ruined it. ‘Destroyed it’ might be a better description. This whole thing is a . . . challenge.” The last word slithered out, taking my energy with it.

  “Ah.” He reached for an apron and slipped it over his head. “Good thing I’m up for a challenge, then.” His eyes twinkled as if he knew some great cosmic secret, and then he pointed toward the work at hand. “Where do we start, boss?”

  “W-what?” Was he kidding? If so, I found no humor in his joke.

  “I’m a whiz in the kitchen.” He gave a dramatic bow. “You’ve tasted my pizza, no doubt. Extra crispy on the edge, nice and soft in the middle. So I’m asking where we start. I’m your guy.”

  Those words sounded mighty good, but I was pretty sure he didn’t mean them that way. He was my pizza guy—and I’d been avoiding pizza for days. Good grief, a thin pepperoni with extra cheese sounds really good right about now.

  “But pizza and cake are two different things,” I argued after fighting off the temptation to head next door for a gooey slice.

  “Not so different. Both have yeast.” He grabbed the empty bowl.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Both have to bake to the perfect golden color.”

  “True.”

  “Both require great timing and skill, which I happen to have.” He sniffed the air. “No offense, but one of us missed the mark on the timing of that last cake. Unless you happen to like your Italian cream cake well done. Personally, I like mine light and fluffy with cream cheese frosting on top.”

  “I know, I know. Me too.” I bit back the groan that threatened to erupt. “But I still say cakes and pizzas are totally different.”

  “Look, Scarlet . . .” He drew so close that his yummy aftershave captured my imagination and made me a little weak in the knees. “I’m all you’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

  As much as I wanted to bite back with, “I’ll leave it, thank you,” the boy had a point. I really did need someone to help. And he was, after all, quite muscular. Not in a “driving the golf cart shirtless” sort of way, but more in a “he could probably help me stack the cakes on national television” sort of way.

  How could I argue with that?

  He continued to sing his own praises, looking and sounding a little more like that shirtless golf cart man every minute. If Auntie had been here to witness this, she would have encouraged me to send him packing. Still, I couldn’t afford to do that. Not when I needed his help.

  Well, not his help, necessarily, but someone’s help. Anyone’s help.

  “Scarlet, I grew up in the kitchen, remember? I know what I’m doing because I learned from the masters. Aunt Rosa and Uncle Laz are both chefs and bakers. And I worked at Parma John’s for years. What else do you need to hear before you’re convinced I’m the right person to help you?”

  “I’m just saying that pizzas and cakes are worlds apart. For one thing, this cake requires decoration. You guys don’t decorate your pizzas.”

  “I beg to differ.” He looked offended. “I use pepperoni, Canadian bacon, and lots and lots of cheese. It’s an art form, and you have to admit, our pizzas are truly as beautiful as they are tasty.” A half smile cracked his serious façade, and I could see that he was still teasing me. “Might not be fondant and froufrou flowers and such, but we get the job done.”

  I started to argue the whole “decorate the pizza” idea but decided he was probably right. Parma John’s did put out some beautiful pizzas. Everyone on the island agreed.

  Mmm. Just thinking about them made me hungrier than ever. A Mambo Italiano special would taste great right now. How long had it been since I’d eaten a real meal? From my growling stomach, I’d have to say too long.

  He clapped his hands together, observed my messy kitchen, and then looked at me. “Now, where do we start?”

  “At the very beginning, I guess.” I offered a weak smile. “It’s a very good place to start.” I pointed to Rosa’s recipe card, and he smiled.

  “I recognize this.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He picked it up and gave it a closer look. “She’s notorious for writing things down and then covering them with batter. Half of her recipes aren’t readable because they’re covered in the batters of cakes or cookies from years gone by.”

  “That makes them even better to me.”

  “Me too.” He went to work measuring out the ingredients on her list, and before long we were busy mixing them up. As we worked, we found ourselves enmeshed in a deep conversation about what his life was like as a kid. He had no problem telling me about the many times he got sent to the principal’s office for acting up in school. I couldn’t relate, since I was always a teacher’s pet. Still, I remember the sort of “bad boy” he referred to. I’d known many as a child.

  Did they all grow up to be “good old boys,” as Aunt Willy called them?

  Lord, is Armando a good old boy?

  Listening to him pour out his heart about his childhood just made me feel sorry for him, especially his stories about how he had struggled in school. Man.

  “Sounds like you got bored easily,” I observed as I poured the batter into the greased pans.

  “Still do, I guess,” he said. “I start one job, then get bored and jump to the next. So I start something else and end up bored there too. I guess you could say I’ve tried a lot of things.”

  “Like?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I’ve worked as a deejay. And a sound tech. Got tired of the club scene for a while, so I worked with a locksmith. Oh, and I did this multilevel marketing thing once. And sales. Worked for a mortgage company doing sales. But you know what happened with mortgages.”

  Actually, I didn’t, but I wouldn’t bother him with my ignorance. I knew nothing about mortgages. I barely remembered to pay my parents the little rent check we’d agreed on every month. Not that they cared.

/>   Armando kept going, oblivious to my thoughts. “And I worked at Parma John’s most of my teen years and well into my early twenties before I moved to Houston. That’s where I acquired my excellent cooking skills. But I hate to brag. That would just be wrong.”

  “I see.”

  “I know, I know . . . I’ve jumped around. Aunt Rosa says I don’t have stick-to-itiveness. Her word, I think.”

  “No, trust me, I’ve heard Aunt Willy use it too. But it sounds like you’re multifaceted.” I checked the temperature on the oven and popped in the largest pan.

  “Guess so.” He shrugged. “I’ve always been this way, even as a kid. I’d get bored and act up. Kept everybody worked up most of the time.”

  “Did anyone ever test you for ADD?” I asked. “Sounds like you’re a classic case to me.”

  “Nah.” He grinned. “They just whopped me upside the head and told me to shut up and sit down. Or to stop burning the kitchen down. That sort of thing.”

  “Ooo.” Visions of flames lapping up my bakery flashed through my mind. “I still think you must have ADD tendencies. Either that, or you’re a genius.”

  “A genius?” He didn’t look convinced. At first. Then a little smile crept up. “You really think that’s possible?”

  “Sure. I heard a story once about a guy—maybe Einstein?—who was labeled a slow learner as a kid because he was so bored in class. Turned out it was because he was so far above the others.” I put the next pan in the oven, determined to stay on top of things so we could get this job done.

  Armando flashed a jubilant smile, drawing my attention away from the cakes. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For thinking for one minute that I might be anything other than a total failure. I’m not sure anyone ever saw potential in me before. If we win this competition, maybe they’ll see I have value.”

  “Surely they already do.”

  “Trust me when I say they just don’t get me. Mama says when God made me, he broke the mold.”