Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“This is our future, Hazel. We’ll do it together, you and me.”
She was right. Mom has run the Bakery Box for years, mostly doing it on her own. I help out as much as possible, going from Aunt Etta’s place to the bakery as many days a week as I can. But this is Mom’s baby, her pride and joy.
Inside, the pine floors gleam, though their history is apparent, with nicks in the wood and visible nails at the corners of the boards. The glass display cases are new, purchased used only a few years ago, and fitted with daylight LED lights that make the pastries inside glow with warmth.
The menu board on the wall was hand-drawn in chalk pens by the local art teacher, listing things like Creamy Box Pie, Mom’s take on a lemonade icebox pie. Between Mom and Aunt Etta, they’ve got the inappropriate-food-name market cornered.
Working between the two places, I talk about pussies and boxes more than any reasonable person should, and definitely more than someone whose pussy box is getting zero action should.
Cara and Avery sit down at one of the little café tables, and I step into the back. “Mom! We’re here!”
Mom steps out of the walk-in freezer, wiping freshly washed hands on her white apron, which is streaked with red.
“Uh, Mom? Anything we need to discuss? You know I’ll alibi you for anything, but you can’t keep the bodies in the freezer. Health Department.”
Her face wrinkles in confusion for a moment, then clears as she shakes her head and swats at me. “Oh, you. This is icing, not blood, and you know it. I just finished the Thompsons’ red velvet anniversary cake with fifteen red roses, one for every year.” Her smile is bright, though I know she’s thinking of my dad. He died when I was a kid, one of those tragic accidents that always seem to hit the wrong people, and Mom still misses him. I do too. “You here with Avery for her final tasting?”
I nod, then warn her, “Yeah, Cara’s here too.”
Mom shrugs. “She’s a big personality, but I know the type. She’s got to be able to handle bridezillas, groomzillas, momzillas, and all the other ’zillas. I don’t envy her, that’s for sure. I’ll stay back here in my kitchen, where the only arguments I get are from Helga.”
Helga is Mom’s huge, industrial, heavy-duty mixer with a mind of its own. Every handyman in town has taken that bitch apart to poke and prod her, and she still won’t stay fixed. Mom puts up with it and treats the machine like a good-luck charm at this point. “Alright, let me get a fresh apron on, and I’ll grab Avery’s samples.”
“Want help?” I offer, heading to the case, where I see the mini cupcakes for Avery. Just minis today, though the reception’s going to have full-size creations straight out of Avery’s dreams and Mom’s imagination.
“I’ve got it, honey. You go sit with your friend and be a bridesmaid today, not a worker bee.” Mom shoos me off from the case, pulling her red-streaked apron off and tossing it into a bag of laundry, before grabbing a pristine white one.
She pulls it over her dark ponytail and settles it around her neck, tying it around her thin waist quickly. I’m struck suddenly by how pretty she is. I mean, she’s my mom, so I know she’s amazing, but I forget that she’s growing older the same way I am.
There are faint lines around her eyes and small parentheses around her mouth that I don’t remember being there, even though I see her damn near every day. She’s still as beautiful as she’s always been, but I can see the toll life has taken on her in a way I never have before. Maybe I’m more aware, or maybe she’s more exhausted from the long hours she keeps, but I feel like I need to freeze this moment and take a mental snapshot.
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, a little choked up. “I’ll grab some waters for everyone. It’s the least I can do.” I want the busywork as a chance to hide my out-of-the-blue reaction.
As I step back into the café, I hear Cara asking Avery, “And you’re sure about this place? I mean, we could have someone come into town and make your wedding cake. Anyone you want. The Cake Boss guy? Or a fancy French baker? Or even Martha Stewart! I’ve been told that nothing is out of reach, so reach for the stars, Avery. It’s your special day.”
I freeze, not wanting to put pressure on my friend. I do want her to have a special day, and will move hell and high water to make it happen if needed, but these are Mom’s cakes we’re talking about. I’ve never had anything Martha Stewart made, but I’ve had my mom’s baking and I can’t imagine anything better.