How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [42]
Maybe I’ll need surgery in order to get it out.
twenty-one
The brochure for my cake business is finally ready to be printed. It is a tri-fold with a glossy color photo of my famous chocolate swirl cake made with two round tiers of chocolate butter cake and scoops of chocolate ice cream between them on the front.
How Sweet It Is: Cakes by Deena is printed in 22-point Bookman Old Style font. I came up with the name for my business while sitting on the deck last night. The next four lines are in Arial, 16-point, and read:
Buttery custom-made cakes for all of your festive occasions!
Anniversaries, weddings, birthdays, and just any day.
Every day deserves a cake!
Order your cake today.
The following page lists the kinds of cakes available: butter, white velvet, chocolate butter, ice cream swirl, and almond. The sizes are given, and the prices. At the bottom is a short blurb about me and where I studied. The back side has my name and contact information in 10-point font. I’ve included my cell number because, although this cabin has a phone, I have yet to hear it ring. The brochure also says I need at least twenty-four hours’ notice on all cake orders.
Jeannie calls and asks how I’m doing. She is going to meet a blind date for coffee after a long shift at the hospital where she’s a pediatric nurse. “Only coffee at seven tonight. You know, in case he’s a dweeb.”
“And if he is what you’ve been looking for?” I ask.
“Then, we quickly finish our lattes and head over to Palacio del Rey for scallops. Or would you recommend the parsleyseasoned trout?”
I want to ask how she was set up with this man and what his name is and if she is going to color her hair to get rid of the gray for the evening, but she rushes to her reason for calling me. “Have you found a place to print your brochures?”
I tell her I have proofed the final text and copied the file onto a CD, but I haven’t found a printer yet.
“Deena, honey.” Jeannie’s voice is serene and has my full attention.
“Yes?”
“You have to know you have what it takes. Do you know that? Go for it!” With that, she says she has to hang up and find shoes to go with her dress. She sounds extremely excited about this date.
I fill my mind with thoughts of the Bible passages about love and trust, the story of the feeding of the five thousand with small loaves of bread and a few fish, and the accounts of bodies being healed by the touch of a hand. If Jesus healed people with broken hearts and limbs, consumed with demons and disease, surely He is able to help me.
Holding my completed brochure, I feel the sensation that yes, I am capable. I have not felt this way in months. Not since the accident. Not since Lucas plowed his 1987 Mustang into the Woodruff Arts Center and dumped me for Ella.
————
It was the ninth of January, a cold night by Atlanta standards. We were on our way to a concert by the Atlanta Symphony at the Woodruff Arts Center. Lucas had been late picking me up from my apartment, decided to take a shortcut, and suddenly had no idea where he was. I was fuming because he wouldn’t stop and ask for directions. The concert was to start in ten minutes. Lucas raised his voice at me, calling me a nag. I was shocked to hear that word fly off his lips. Never would I put up with that. I told him so, right there, as he cut corners and sailed through yellow traffic lights.
Then it started to rain, the drops mixing with ice and beating against the windshield. Lucas drove faster. He took a turn around Tenth Street and then went through a red light at Peachtree, going so fast I had to close my eyes. When he skidded on the wet pavement, my eyes flew open to see that we were hydroplaning off the street, right toward the Woodruff. I screamed; there was no hope of avoiding the side of the building.
Glass shattered. My seatbelt snapped at the buckle and my head hit the dashboard. My body broke, but something deep inside me broke, too.
twenty-two
The kids want to go camping. Last