How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [92]
When he kisses me gently, it is even better than a slice of velvet cake.
forty
R egena Lorraine, dressed in a bulky peach-colored dress, removes her leopard-spotted glasses from her eyes. Her frame fills the doorway to the kitchen as she watches me pipe rosettes along the top of an almond cake. I’ve received three cake orders already this first week of November.
People have told me they picked up brochures at the Chinese restaurant and bookstore. This has to mean that the employees I handed them to are displaying them, as they said they would. Even though I’m an outsider from Georgia, I feel I’ve been given a chance in this little town. I know that Jonas has been instrumental in telling everyone he does business for that my cakes are the best, which means that people are ordering because of his genuine marketing skills. And who can resist Jonas when his eyes flash like headlights as he speaks of dessert?
Marble Gray did pay for her cakes, although she claimed she didn’t have the exact amount on her and gave me a dollar less than the price on the brochure. I let it go. I had a feeling if I argued with her, she’d make a scene so voluminous that it would bring the Swain County police to my front door. I don’t need that kind of publicity. Regena Lorraine said she was surprised Marble Gray paid anything. “That woman will steal the shirt off your back.” And your underwear, I once heard.
As I notice the frosting running low, I open the refrigerator for more butter. I’ll need to make more frosting. I’m grateful that not only do I have the mixer I brought from Atlanta, but that Ernest has one in this cabin, as well. On the refrigerator door is a drawing of an owl. The feathers are brown, with shades of gray at the tips. The eyes are as round as demitasse cups. If the picture could sing, I’m sure it would do so loudly and beautifully. This is a tawny owl, and although they hide, they like to be heard. Darren’s name is signed in the lefthand corner. I told him he better put his name on the sheet or otherwise, since the drawing is so good, I might think Bob Timberlake drew it.
“Bob who?” he asked.
“We’ll have to go to Blowing Rock one day,” I said. “He has an art gallery there.”
My aunt inserts a finger into the bowl of buttercream frosting, smacks her lipstick-covered mouth, and says, “Cabin is yours now, Shug.”
I’m not sure I heard correctly, so I just look at her.
“You don’t have to teach cooking at The Center anymore.” With a jeweled hand, she reaches inside her tote bag and displays official-looking papers.
My eyes glance at the papers and then at her face. Is she serious? Or, knowing my aunt, is there a long story she needs to tell me first?
“All legal. I was at the lawyer’s this morning. This is your place now. Oh, we do have to get you to sign some forms next week.”
“So I fulfilled my obligation?” Over six months of grueling lessons to noisy, wild, rude, lovable children.
“Sure did.” She smiles, but then shows clear shock at my next question.
“But can I still teach?” I’ve learned how to love those kids. I would hate to give it all up now. I know that soon they’ll have outgrown middle school and graduate on to high school, but there will be others to replace them. I want to be ready for the new kids with my shiny pans and recipes for something other than white sauce.
She regains her composure, places her glasses back onto her face, uses her fingers to delicately adjust them against her nose. “Of course.”
Nervously, I ask, “There’s nothing that says I have to give up my classes?”
“Oh no, Shug. Besides, I don’t think Miriam would want you to quit.” She attempts a wink. “The kids would be sad if you left them.”
Giovanni, resting at his usual spot, stretches and yawns.
I put the frosting bag on the counter and look at my aunt to ask the very thing that has been on my mind. “Do you think Grandpa knew I needed to teach so that I could change?