There's Cake in My Future Page 2

  On the other hand, Scott—sexy, delicious Scott—is a walking disaster. He’s an artist: like a real painting, sculpting, honest to God that’s his job artist. As such, some months he can barely cover his rent. He goes to the dentist only when a tooth is exploding in his head. Getting him wrangled into a suit for a fund-raising event usually requires negotiations, flattery, and bribery. He sleeps until noon, then works until three in the morning. I get “booty calls” from him at 2:00 A.M.—because he actually wants to talk. (And, like an idiot, I always take the call. Then we stay up until four or five in the morning talking, and I spend the next day at work exhausted and inhaling Diet Monsters and plain M&Ms to get through the afternoon.)

  I met Scott about ten months ago at a show a curator from the museum had put together on modern life. I’ll admit, contemporary art frequently escapes me.

  Scott had done a piece everyone was raving about that night called The Conformity of Imagination. The piece was a white couch from a thrift store, a dark blue table, and some red, white, and blue tissue paper ribbons strewn from a red painting to the white couch.

  I didn’t get it.

  So, when the incredibly sexy guy with wet hair and freshly washed Levis walked up to me and asked what I thought of the piece, I diplomatically said, “It’s crap.”

  He laughed. “Don’t let the artist hear you say that.”

  I looked around the room nervously. “Where is he?” I ask Mr. Hotness. (One thing I’ve learned as a fund-raiser is never to discount an artist in public. You can say you “don’t get” a piece. But don’t cut them out completely—that may be the next Hockney or Picasso you’re dissing, and you will pay for it later when his pieces show up in Paris and three billionaires call you wanting to sponsor him in L.A.)

  “Oh, I have no idea,” he who could be Orlando Bloom’s hotter brother said to me at the time. Orlando took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed me one as he asked, “So why don’t you like it?”

  “Well, it’s so unoriginal,” I said to the insanely handsome man. “It’s like the artist was on deadline, knew he needed to turn in a piece, and had nothing. So he looked around his living room, and said, ‘Got it! Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke,’ gave the piece a good title, and turned it in.”

  The man smiled at me. “Wow. You’re even meaner than the art critic from the Times. She said she thought I went to IKEA to pick up some cheap wineglasses, and when I was looking at their display modules, decided to duplicate one and call it art.”

  My face fell. “Oh. Shit. You’re not…”

  “I am,” he admitted with a glint in his eye.

  I let my shoulders fall. “I’m so screwed.”

  “I would love to take you up on that, but unfortunately I’m here on a date,” the man told me flirtatiously. Then he flashed me a sexy smile as he put out his hand. “Scott James.”

  I reluctantly put out my hand as I tried to figure out a way to apologize. “Seema Singh.”

  Scott cocked his head. “Seema Singh? How do you have a Northern Indian first name and a Southern Indian last name?”

  I was impressed. Not only that he knew that I was Indian (you’d be amazed how many Americans think I’m black, Asian, or related to Tiger Woods), but that he knew that my name was wrong. I smiled at him, immediately smitten. “I had parents who fell in love despite themselves. How do you know so much about India?”

  “Took a trip there last year. I was dabbling in watercolors, trying to become less postmodern. More classic.” Scott looked over at his piece and said in an easy, self-deprecating tone, “Clearly I failed.”

  I tried to backpedal. “You know, it’s not bad at all. I was just trying to be clever.”

  Scott seemed amused. “Never apologize for your opinion. All notes are legitimate.” Then he winked at me and said breezily, “Just promise me that you can love the artist, even if you don’t understand his art.”

  That statement was the first of hundreds of flirtatious remarks Scott makes that to this day throw me off my game.

  That night, I wasn’t sure if Scott hated me or saw me as a worthy adversary to be conquered.

  But I did know that I could have been conquered.

  I stared at him off and on all night, and we ran into each other a few more times. Maybe he was hitting on me? I’m still not sure. His stunningly beautiful model date never allowed me to find out—she hung all over him for most of the evening, then dragged him home early.

  At my behest, Scott and I exchanged cards and began meeting for lunch to talk about work. Lunch eventually led to drinks, which led to dinners, late-night games of pool or darts, and finally middle of the night phone calls.

  But no make-out sessions, and no sex.

  You see, our timing has always been off. By the time he was done dating the model, I had moved on to a very nice guy named Conrad. Who turned out to be a jerk, which I couldn’t wait to tell Scott one night, only to discover he had started dating a sitcom writer. By the time he broke up with her, I was with Alan, who I dated until last week. And now that I’m free from Alan, it sounds like Scott might be dating again.

  Sigh.

  Despite our poor timing, I think a few times we’ve come damn close to a Love Connection.

  Maybe.

  I’m not sure.

  Times like when we were in the kitchen at a party and just started staring at each other, and I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t. Or one of the many nights when we would order takeout, watch a Blu-ray, hug a bit, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Hugs good night that lasted forever. Kisses hello that might have lingered a half second too long.

  Or maybe this is all my imagination. Who the fuck knows?

  And it doesn’t help that he constantly says stuff that could be interpreted a million different ways. Things like:

  Date not bad. She’s pretty cool actually. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Have drinks ready, ; )

  Love ya!

  I stare at the text. “Have drinks ready.” What does that mean? Let’s get drunk so that I can take advantage of you?

  I’m being silly. Scott is crucial to my life. With Nic engaged and living with Jason, and Mel almost engaged and living with Fred, Scott’s the only single friend I still have left to play with. He’s the one who can go out on a Saturday night at a moment’s notice. He’s the one I can call after 10:00 P.M. without a lecture from the other side of the king-size bed.

  And lately, he’s the one I want to call when I have news. Any kind of news: good, bad, big, small. Anything from booking a hundred-thousand-dollar donation to my finally finding that vanilla-bean porter from that local brewery in bottles.

  He’s the one I called right after my grandmother died. (It was 2:45 in the morning. I didn’t want to bother the girls.) He’s the one who dragged his ass out of bed to pick me up in the middle of the night, drove me up to San Francisco, then stayed with me while I dealt with my crazy family during her Indian funeral. He’s the one who listened to me as I talked through tears about this gold bell that she had on her mantle, and why it meant the world to me. At one point, I was crying so hard, Scott pulled the car over, took me in his arms, and let me sob until I started heaving.

  I think back to that moment when I was just a big pit of needs, and he was there for me unconditionally, unquestioningly, and unwaveringly.

  I take a deep breath.

  Right.

  When I’m being lusty, I forget about what’s really important. You don’t find guys like him every day. Why would I want to jeopardize that unconditional love and support just for a one-night stand, no matter how fun and tempting it might be at the time?

  I delete Scott’s text. “I’m being silly,” I say aloud to the girls. “Scott is a good friend. I love him. If something was supposed to happen, it would have by now.”

  “You’re not being silly,” Nic assures me with a look of determination. “What you need is a chili pepper.”

  I furrow my brow at her. “Please tell
me that’s not something else I’m supposed to mix with champagne.”

  “No. It’s the charm you’re going to pull,” Nic tells me in a firm voice. “I’m telling you, this is going to change your life.”

  Two

  Nicole

  I can tell Seema is suppressing an urge to roll her eyes at me.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I tell her. “The first time I was ever at a cake pull, I pulled the silver heart, which meant I’d be the next woman to fall in love. I met Jason that night.”

  Mel looks up from her melon tray. “What’s a cake pull? What are we talking about?”

  “Glad you asked,” I say, beaming, as I walk to Seema’s refrigerator. As I open the door, I hear a loud pop of a champagne cork. I turn to see Seema opening a bottle of Taltarni Brut Taché, my favorite sparkling wine.

  “Ah,” Mel says happily. “I love that sound.”

  Seema pours some champagne into flutes for us. “Good. You’ll need booze to hear this.”

  “Stop that,” I say sternly, as I pull a large circular cake with white frosting out of the refrigerator and place it in the middle of Seema’s kitchen table. Radiating from the cake are twenty-four white satin ribboned loops, evenly spaced around the circumference.

  “Okay now, you see these ribbons?” I ask Mel.

  “Yes,” Mel says, taking a sip of champagne as she fingers one of the ribbons.

  “Each ribbon is attached to a sterling silver charm, which gets pulled out before we eat the cake.” I continue. “I stuck twenty-four charms in here, one for each woman at the party. Some of the most common charms include the engagement ring, the heart, the baby carriage, the money bag, the hot air balloon, and the wishing well. The charms are like fortune cookies. Whatever charm you pull, that’s the next stage in your life coming up.”

  “How on earth did you get these in here?” Mel asks me.

  “It’s easy, but messy. First, I bought the charms at therescakeinmyfuture-dot-com. Next, since I can’t bake to save my life, I went down to Big Sugar Bakeshop on Ventura and had them bake a two-layer chocolate fudge cake with buttercream frosting. Then I stuck the silver charms in between the layers of the cake, careful to leave the ribbons hanging out in full view but the charms hidden.”

  “How long did it take you to do that?” Seema asks me with a hint of disapproval.

  “And make it look pretty? About three hours,” I am forced to admit.

  The girls widen their eyes at me. I shrug. “What can I say? Since losing my job, I’ve discovered the joys of making a mess in the kitchen, needlepoint, and doing vodka shots at noon.”

  As Seema snags a finger full of frosting, I watch Mel inspect the ribbons closely. Mel’s interest is clearly piqued. “So if someone picks the engagement ring, does that mean they’re the next to get engaged?”

  “Right,” I tell Mel as I point to her. “That’s the one you’re going to get. And I’m making sure the baby carriage goes to Heather…”

  “Is she the one at your old job doing the IVF?” Seema asks.

  “Yeah. Poor thing has gone through three cycles already. Oh, and speaking of people from my old job, my friend Carolyn was fired during the latest round of layoffs, so she gets the typewriter.”

  “Wait. How do you know which charm everyone’s going to get?” Seema asks.

  I look at her like that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. “I rigged the cake.”

  Mel eyes me suspiciously. “How do you rig a cake?”

  I proudly point to a red toothpick at the bottom of the cake, ever so slightly hidden by gobs of vanilla buttercream. “See that toothpick there? When we put out the cake, I’ll make sure the toothpick faces me at the table. Since everyone has a place card, I know exactly where each woman will be sitting. With that chart in mind, I slipped the perfect charm for each girl’s future into the part of the cake closest to her.”

  I grab my purse from the dining room table and pull out a folded paper map. I unfold the map to show Seema and Mel a giant circle with twenty-four spokes radiating out of it. On the outside of each spoke is a guest’s name and inside the spoke is the charm they will get. I point to where Mel will sit. “For example, Mel, here you are…,” then I point to a ribbon on the cake, “and here is your corresponding charm: the ring. Seema, you’re here. And here’s your charm: the red hot chili pepper. Which means you’ll be the next one to have a red hot romance.”

  Mel promptly pulls her assigned ribbon from the cake.

  “What are you doing?” I exclaim.

  She looks at the silver solitaire ring attached to the ribbon. “Just making sure your map works.”

  I grab the charm from her. “It works!” I insist as I carefully slide the ring back between the cake layers. “I spent a long time on this. Don’t mess it up.”

  Seema laughs to herself. “So that’s what you think I need most in my life? Hot sex?”

  “Don’t all people need hot sex in their lives?” I counter.

  “Fair enough. But why can’t I pick which charm I want?” Seema asks. She takes the list from me and reads, “Like the wishing well, why can’t I have that?”

  “What would you wish for? Scott?” I ask knowingly.

  I can tell from the way Seema shrugs her shoulders that I’m right about that one.

  “Okay,” Seema concedes. “But what about the hot air balloon? I’ve always wanted to go to Napa and take a ride in a hot air balloon.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head determinedly. “The hot air balloon is for my friend Julia. It symbolizes adventure and travel. She’s never been out of California. It’s time.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want the hot air balloon?” Mel asks me as she looks over Seema’s shoulder to read the chart.

  “I’m already spending two weeks in Italy for my honeymoon. I don’t need more travel,” I tell her. Then I let them in on my dream. “No. What I want is the shovel.”

  Mel furrows her brow. “What’s the shovel stand for?”

  I smile proudly. “A lifetime of hard work.”

  Seema and Mel exchange a concerned look. Seema shakes her head. “Sometimes I worry about her.”

  “Seriously, I have to get back to work. I’m going nuts at home.”

  Seema nods, then says sarcastically, “Yeah, it must be terrible having to sleep past five in the morning.”

  I cross my arms. “Actually, for me it is—”

  I’m about to begin a diatribe when Seema’s doorbell rings.

  My guests have arrived.

  I point to the toothpick, then to Mel. “When you bring out the cake, make sure the toothpick faces me. You’ll get your ring, I’ll get my shovel, Seema will get her pepper. Be diligent. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  * * *

  Two hours, three new toasters, four place settings, and one obvious regift later, my gaggle of female guests are tipsy, well fed, and (most importantly) sitting in their assigned seats.

  Mel brings out the cake for dessert. I am treated to a bunch of “ooohs” and “aaahs” from the group.

  Mel places the cake about three feet from me, in the center of the table. As we planned, she is careful to place the covered red toothpick dead center in front of me.

  I give everyone a brief history of the cake pull: an old Southern tradition, charm reveals your future: blah, blah, blah. Then I hold up a sheet of pastel-pink paper. “Each of you has a chart like this one under your place cards. The list will tell you what your charm means. Okay, now, everyone, I want you to loop your finger through the ribbon closest to you…”

  They all do exactly as I instruct, each girl putting her index finger into the correct satin loop. I do a quick mental scan of the table to make sure everyone has their finger in the right loop. Then I put my finger through my assigned white loop, and say, “On your mark. Get set. PULL!”

  I hear a cacophony of laughter and delight as we all pull out our charms.

  And I pull … the baby carriage.

&
nbsp; Shit.

  As the women begin licking the cake crumbs and frosting off of their charms and reading their pink charts, I hear our friend Ginger squeal, “Oh my God! I got the diamond ring! That means I’m the next to get engaged, right?”

  That can’t be right. Ginger’s been dating her boyfriend Jeff for all of three months. She was supposed to get the fleur-de-lis, which means “Love will blossom.”

  I look over at Mel, whose face has fallen as she watches our friend Ginger show off the exact same ring charm Mel pulled out two hours ago. I lean over to her and whisper, “What did you get?”

  Mel glares at me. “The red hot chili pepper.”

  “But then what did See…” I start to ask, turning to see Seema holding up the shovel, then draining the rest of her peach Bellini.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  My friend Carolyn gleefully says, “Hey, I got the money bag. Maybe I should go buy a lottery ticket tonight.”

  “No, no…” I blurt out. “Didn’t you get the typewriter?”

  “No. But why would I want the typewriter?” Carolyn asks, genuinely confused.

  “Because you’re a journalist. I figured with all the layoffs, you’d want good luck getting a new job.”

  Carolyn’s having fun with the pull, not taking it seriously at all. She shrugs. “Well, if I win the lottery, I’ll just start my own paper.”

  “I got the typewriter!” Jacqueline, Jason’s ex-wife, cheerfully says. “Which is awesome, because I’m up for a speechwriting job for the governor.”

  “You’re up for a job with the governor?” I ask her nervously. “As in the guy who lives in Sacramento?”

  She’s thinking of moving Jason’s daughters to Sacramento? When was she planning on springing that news on us?

  “It’s a long shot,” Jacqueline assures me. “The mayor put in a good word for me. Still…” She holds up the silver typewriter. “Nice to have a good luck charm.”

  I open my hand, clenched tightly in a fist, and stare at the baby carriage.

  A good luck charm. Yeah … that would have been nice.

  I close my hand around the charm again, force a smile to my guests, and excuse myself to the kitchen. Once I’m in the sanctuary of Seema’s kitchen, I open my clutched fist once again to reveal the baby carriage.