How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [75]
I am about to ask how Jonas knew that it was my birthday. We never discussed birthdays, just age. But before I can form the question, Rainy hands me a glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon on the rim of the glass.
When I finish my piece of pie, Joy says, “Did you like it? I hate peach pie.”
“Well,” I quickly say, as Miriam arches her back, ready to reprimand the girl, “when it’s your birthday, we will be sure not to have peach pie.”
Miriam relaxes, pleased with my reply.
“That,” says Zack, as he places his empty paper plate in the trash, “was excellent.”
This time I smile. He likes my kind of pie; surely this is all the indication we need to know we’re meant to be.
“How old are you?” Lisa looks into my face, no trace of embarrassment about asking a woman her age.
“Is today really your birthday?” Flakes of pie crust cover Dougy’s lips.
“Yes, today is my birthday. I’m twenty-eight.”
“Zack is thirty-two,” says Dougy. His smile leaves his face as he notes Miriam’s strict glare. Correcting himself, he says, “I mean Mr. Anderson is thirty-two.”
This is the first time I’ve heard any child call Zack by his last name.
From the edge of the room, Charlotte moves toward me, her hands behind her back. When she reaches me, she displays a colorfully wrapped gift. Her smile is dazzling, and she says with clear intonation, “This is from all of us.”
The children are eager for me to open the present. I tear off the paper and hold a box made of cherrywood, with a little latch. Inside the box are small pads of paper, a pen, and a receipt book. I take each item and look it over, smiling the whole time.
“You have to have business things,” says Rainy as she pushes her sunglasses higher on her head. “If you’re going to have a cake business and make your cakes, you need supplies.”
“Ya gotta be professional,” Bubba adds.
“And polite!” Bobby digs into his second slice of pie.
“Thank you.” My throat fills. I would say more, but I can’t risk it.
Funny, I must be the crying type, after all.
————
Aunt Regena Lorraine takes me to dinner at the Fryemont Inn. Her main reason for calling earlier today was to say she wanted to treat me to a birthday dinner. After I said I’d love that, she proceeded to read the list of seventy-seven things that make a woman beautiful. One of them was growing older with flair and grace, so I guess the list was sort of appropriate for this day.
I wear a black skirt and gray sweater—my two pieces of clothing that actually have designer names—and I even put on my gold bracelet and earrings. My aunt wears an orange dress with deep front pockets and shoes that match. I don’t think I’ve ever seen orange shoes before. This must be part of her way to grow old with grace and flair.
We drive to the restaurant in her truck, and for this event Giovanni is not with us. “I’ll bring him a doggie bag,” Regena Lorriane tells me when I ask where her canine is this evening. “He’ll like that,” she says as she steers the bouncy truck down the road.
People talk about the Fryemont even in Atlanta. Some have spent the night in the inn, and others have only eaten in the dining room. When we arrive and my aunt parks, I realize that my excitement at the opportunity to be here is rising like yeasty dough.
Cindy, Charlotte’s sister, is working, and we ask the hostess if we can be seated at one of her tables.
“My sister likes you so much. She talks about you all the time,” Cindy tells me. And I recall the bake sale when Charlotte urged her sister to bid on my tiered cake. Cindy looks a little like her younger sister with her long hair but doesn’t have that American Girl doll quality. Maybe one doll per family is all the quota allows.
We are seated at a small table to the right of the large stone fireplace. A fire has been lit, and its light shines across the glossy hardwood floors. Sally would love this place.
“Order whatever you want,” Regena Lorraine says as we open menus.
I order rainbow trout,