Sometime Soon

five



The bakery is in Providence, Rhode Island which is about a forty-five minute drive south. Apparently, the prices in Providence are more reasonable than those in Boston. My sister had wanted to carpool down, but there was no way I was getting stuck there with no way to leave on my own. By the time I find parking and then locate the bakery, Laura and Mom are already there waiting. They greet me with the usual cheek kisses.

Because it’s another warm, sticky afternoon, I have on khaki shorts and a tank top. Laura is dressed much the same. We both have our hair pulled back in low ponytails since we each suffer from similar curl to frizz transitions on days like these. Laura and I have similar builds as well, tall and slim but sturdy, although she is about an inch taller than me. My mother, on the other hand, is quite short and she wouldn’t be caught in anything as dressed down as shorts and a tank top. Her make-up and her hair are done as though she’s heading out for a night on the town. She has on silk lavender pants paired with a beige blouse.

“They’re bringing out the samples now,” Laura says, looking excited for a change. I have brought my appetite, so I find myself excited, as well.

The bakery has display cases along a back wall and several small parlor style tables grouped near the entrance. I have a terrible sweet tooth. If I don’t exert strict control over myself, most meals would start and end with cookies and cake and maybe have some ice cream thrown in for variety.

“Dad didn’t want to taste cakes?” I ask.

“He’s playing golf,” my mother replies.

A woman in an apron emerges from the back carrying a tray. A hairnet covers her short blonde hair and her tanned, wrinkled face has the look of a beach lover.

“This is Andrea, my other daughter,” Mom says, gesturing to me.

The bakery lady offers me a friendly grin as she places the tray on one of the small round tables. “Here are samples from our strawberry grand marnier cake, lemon raspberry cake, cappuccino truffle cake, and our most popular one: hazel almond cake with dark chocolate ganache.”

The tray holds several bite-sized squares of each cake flavor combination. Laura and I sit down, pick up plastic forks, and dive for the chocolate ones.

“Oh my god,” Laura says as she licks frosting from her lip, “This one is so good.”

I nod in agreement as I savor my bite.

“Try it,” Laura prompts Mom.

Mom sits down with us and regards the tray. Then she samples tiny bites of each cake, with the chocolate one last. Laura and I try the other flavors, as well, but we agree nothing compares with the chocolate ganache. We finish every last bite of that one. The strawberry cakes disappeared quickly, too.

“I’m afraid there are a lot of people who don’t eat chocolate,” Mom tells the bakery lady.

Laura’s eyes cut to me. Uh-oh.

“Yes, not everyone is a chocolate lover,” our hostess agrees.

“And a lot of people are allergic to strawberries,” Mom continues. That one had been our second favorite. “Do you make one that just has yellow cake and white frosting?”

“Of course. That’s a simple one.”

Laura looks outraged. “I don’t want just a plain yellow cake. Who doesn’t like chocolate? She said it was their most popular one.”

“Sam can’t eat chocolate and neither can your Aunt Claire.”

Sam is our cousin and Claire is his mother. They are a branch of the family that we never see.

“So, we’re choosing a cake for them and not for me? It’s my wedding cake,” Laura says in a voice that is dangerously close to a whine.

This is all too predictable. Laura will never learn. I want to reach out and conk her on the head.

“Could we sample just some yellow cake with white frosting?” Mom asks, not responding to Laura.

“We don’t have anything prepared right now, but I have a nice buttercream frosting you could try,” the bakery lady adds helpfully. I wonder if she is used to cake choosing conflicts.

I think long and hard before piping in here. I turn to my mother and say, “I can understand your chocolate and strawberry concerns, but there must be some kind of cake we can agree on that has a little pizzazz to it. Don’t you think? Maybe some lemon or peach or something?”

“Maybe the lemon raspberry one without the raspberry,” Mom says thoughtfully.

“You have something against raspberries, too!” Laura shoots back at her.

My mother’s eyes harden. I know that look. She doesn’t like the tone Laura is using with her. “You know,” she begins calmly as she straightens creases in her shirt that aren’t there. “I don’t have to run around trying to make a nice wedding for you. You’re certainly old enough to do this yourself. I’ve been to enough events to tell you that I know what I’m talking about, but if you don’t believe me, or if you’re just not interested in hearing my opinions, you can make all the decisions and you can do all the planning without me. I have plenty of other ways to spend my time.”

Laura’s eyes quickly mist over. She glances up at the bakery lady as her face reddens with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just thought I should have a cake that I would want to eat.”

“I understand that,” Mom answers, softening a bit. “But you want all your guests to be able to eat it, too.”

In the end, Laura calms down, and Mom decides on the lemon raspberry cake, hold the raspberries. As we’re leaving, Laura ducks into bathroom to compose herself.

“Is it me?” Mom asks, looking for some commiseration once we’re alone.

“I think it’s both of you. She wants the wedding of her dreams, and you want to be practical. You’re working at cross-purposes.”

My mother purses her lips. “Maybe,” she says wearily. “This really is getting out of hand. If she is so set on having things a certain way, she should just tell me to go jump in a lake.”

I laugh at her. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

She chuckles with me before putting her hand on my arm to make sure she has my full attention. “I have to finalize the numbers this week. Do you think you might bring someone to the wedding?”

She has already asked me this question several times. “No,” I reply, my smile evaporating.

“Are you sure?” Her subtext is Don’t you think you might be dating someone by then? Please, please.

“I’m sure.” The wedding is still nine months away, but I don’t plan to bring anyone. Bryn and Katie think I should scramble and do everything I can to get a date. They think it will be embarrassing for me to show up alone. I disagree, and also--I just don’t care. I’d rather get through the inevitable comments about my single status from well-meaning relatives with a clench-jawed smile, than have to fake an interest in someone so I can have a date for the wedding. I’m more mature than that. At least, I want to be.

My mother knows better than to question me outright about my dating situation. I erected walls there long ago to maintain my sanity.

“Well,” she says, patting my arm, “If you do decide to bring someone at the last minute, I’m sure we could squeeze one more in.”

As I point my car toward home, my cell phone rings. I study the caller ID with anticipation as I’ve done since leaving a message for Mr. Frameless Glasses. But it isn’t him.

“I can’t believe I cried in front of the bakery lady,” Laura says, preempting my hello.

My shoulders are tight with stress, and my stomach is queasy from sugar. “You either have to learn how to work with her or you have to plan your wedding without her,” I say calmly, refusing to be sucked into the wedding vortex.

“What was so wrong with wanting to have a wedding cake with chocolate? I have to please everyone else before I please myself?”

“You know what you have to do if you want keep the peace. It’s just one day.” I’m now readying myself for a response like, But it’s the most important day of my life! If she says that, I intend to hang up. But, thankfully, she doesn’t.

“The florist appointment is next week. I don’t even want to go now,” she says on a sigh.

“You didn’t want to go before.”

She doesn’t reply. I hear the frustration in her silence.

“Jonathan hasn’t chosen anything for the wedding, and he doesn’t seem to mind,” I say.

“He doesn’t care about cake and flowers,” she answers, sounding defeated.

“Because it’s not a big deal,” I say. “It’s getting married to each other and making a life together that matters. You’re losing all perspective. Your cake will be terrific, and the flowers will be beautiful. Mom has great taste. You can’t deny that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me wanting things a certain way at my own wedding.”

“Of course not, but that’s not how she operates. You need to focus on what’s important and let the rest go. She may be a control freak, but she’s not a bad person. You know she loves you.”

“Hummmph…” is all the response I hear. “What time is the honeymoon?” she asks.

I smile, knowing she’s feeling a little better and hoping that I helped.



It’s Saturday night, and I’m happy to have the entire evening to myself. Well, just me and Tiger. I think about heading to the gym to work off the cake. That might help me feel better or at least make me too tired to think. There is no sign of Jason Randall, yet. Perhaps he won’t return my call. I’m of two minds about that. Slightly annoyed--thinking that he went to the trouble of passing his business card to me, and I actually called him, and now he’s going to blow me off. Relieved--thinking that I won’t have to go through the trouble of dating him and discovering that he’s a jerk. My attitude is atrocious. I know that. To hear me, you’d think I must have had my heart broken in some terrible way to cause me to be so cynical. But that’s not the case. I’ve just had so many little disappointments built up over time, as my expectations of kindness and consideration have been dashed over and over again.

But as I’m heading out the door the next day, Jason does call.

“I figured passing my business card to you was worth a shot,” he says after the initial greetings are out of the way.

“Where did you disappear to?” I ask. “One minute you were there, the next you’d vaporized.”

“Sorry about that. I got a call I had to take. It was business, and I had to step into the hall by the restrooms to hear. By the time I returned, you were sitting down with your friend. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“According to your card, you’re a financial analyst. That sounds really impressive to me, but in reality, I have no idea what a financial analyst is.”

He laughs, deep and throaty. I like the sound. “Basically, I spend my days in meetings or with a phone attached to my ear. I write a lot of reports on the advisability of investing in companies, and the people I work for actually think I know what I’m talking about. It’s all very tedious really.”

I laugh. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing. They must do some vetting before they hire people.”

“It’s actually a pretty grueling interview process there. I’m glad I’m way past all that. And what do you do?”

“I work in product marketing for BTS Systems.” BTS Systems is a large company, traded on the Nasdaq. I generally assume people have heard of it.

“Product marketing,” he says. “What does that entail?”

“Basically, I help sell products by exaggerating what they can do.”

“Well, that must take skill.”

“You have no idea.” My stomach starts that familiar fluttering again. I am enjoying talking to him.

“So, would you be up to meeting for some dinner after work this week?”

“As long it’s not at Café Blue,” I answer.

“Not a fan?”

I entertain him with my multiple Café Blue dinner experiences, and he laughs on cue. Then he suggests another place, in the Back Bay area of the city. I’m assuming that he lives in the city like most other single folks. Although driving into and parking in the city are not all that convenient for me, I agree to a place. Dragging him out to the suburbs after work would only complicate the plans at this point. There are far more interesting places in town.

“Just one more thing,” he says. “Who’s Tiger?”