The Icing on the Cake Page 5
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He licked his fingers clean, then shifted the baggie from one hand to the other. I took it from him and carried it to the trash can, chattering all the way. For whatever reason—probably nerves—I said something about Lucille Ball. That led to a story about my favorite I Love Lucy episode, which in turn led to a conversation about my infatuation with all things Lucy.
“So, this fascination with Lucy . . . is that why you dye your hair red?”
“What do you mean, dye my hair red?” I batted my eyelashes and played innocent. “And it’s auburn, thank you very much. But how did you know it wasn’t my natural color?”
Armando quirked a brow. “I have sisters, remember?” He pointed to my part. “Besides, your roots are showing.”
Okay, now I wanted to smack him with the back of my hand. How dare he point out my roots? I opted to keep the conversation going instead of punching the guy’s lights out.
“For your information, Lucy had tenacity. Did you know that she was in dozens of movies before anyone even knew who she was? She was always the funny girl. The one in the background. But she was never really seen as a great beauty.”
Armando looked duly shocked. “Then you clearly have nothing in common with her.”
“I . . . I . . . well, anyway, she worked hard to become known as a professional in her industry, and I work hard too.”
“I see that. In fact, you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Please. Have you met your own family? The Rossis are known across the state for their work ethic.”
He mumbled, “Not all of the Rossis,” then rolled his eyes again. Seemed like he’d been doing a lot of that today.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” He paused. “It’s just that my parents don’t really take my work seriously.”
“What do you do?”
“I run sound at a club in Houston.”
“Ah.”
“See? You don’t take me seriously either.”
“I never said that. I have great respect for people who know how to do technical stuff like sound. My dad is always struggling to get people to work in the sound booth on Sunday mornings. Not a lot of people know how to run the board, so I always admire someone who does.”
“What kind of board?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m clueless. But I’d be happy to show you, if you’re ready to see it.”
“Sure.”
He tagged along to the sanctuary. I pushed the door open and stepped inside my favorite place in the world. Though small, the sanctuary still made my heart sing. I particularly loved the colorful stained-glass windows from the 1970s. With the sunlight streaming through them, they captured my imagination every time. They seemed to captivate Armando too. He paused and stared in silence at the “Feed my lambs” window. For a good thirty seconds he said nothing, then finally managed a weak “Wow.”
“Wow, as in ‘Wow, that’s amazing!’ or ‘Wow, that’s really cheesy’?” I asked.
“Wow, that’s pretty cool.” He walked over to the window and touched it, a look of innocent wonder on his face. “I love the way the sunlight comes through. Pretty amazing, actually. Never saw colors like that before.”
“I love it in here in the afternoons. Sometimes I come and sit in one of the pews when no one’s around, just to get inspired.”
“Inspired? For your cakes?”
“Yep. Well, for the colors I plan to use in the fondant or frosting. And I like to pray in here. It’s quiet and . . .” I shrugged. “Holy.”
“Holy.” He repeated the word as if trying to make sense of it and then grew silent. So silent, in fact, that the same holiness I’d alluded to suddenly enveloped the room.
Must’ve been too much for him. Either that, or he didn’t feel it like I did.
“So, where’s this sound booth?” Armando glanced around.
I turned on my heels toward the back of the room. “Back here. Follow me.” I led the way to the small sound area in the back of the sanctuary, bracing myself for the inevitable.
He glanced at the little table and then looked to his right and left as if expecting something more. “This is it?”
“Yeah.” I sighed.
“Where’s the projector?” He pointed up to the ceiling.
“Don’t have one.”
“Really?” This seemed to leave him more perplexed than ever. “Well, where’s the lightboard, then?”
“Don’t have one of those either.”
He slapped himself in the head and muttered something under his breath. “So, you’re doing a show without any form of audiovisual except sound?”
When I nodded, he glanced down at the one thing we did have—the soundboard—and flinched. “This is your soundboard?”
“Uh-huh.” Not much, but it was all I could come up with.
“So, this board . . .” He pointed and wrinkled his nose, a sure sign that he didn’t approve. “How long have you had it?”
I shrugged. “It came with the church, and we’ve been here for six years.”
“Obviously it’s older than six years. Trust me, I’ve seen just about everything, and I’ve never seen anything like this. In my lifetime, anyway.” He reached to brush some dust off of one of the levers. “How old is the church building?”
“I think it was built in ’71.”
“Mm-hmm.” He shook his head and reached for a knob, which pulled off in his hand. “I’d say that’s about how long this has been here. And I’d be willing to guess they bought it used.”
“Seems to work okay. We hear my dad just fine on Sunday mornings.” I paused to think about that, then realized I’d better admit the whole truth, not just part of it. “Well, except for that weird shrieking noise every now and again. But we’ve gotten used to it, to be honest. The microphone is kind of lousy. It’s taped together.”
“Yep. Noticed that.” He rolled his eyes.
“Hey, don’t blame me. I told my dad to get one of those wireless things, but he doesn’t want to spend the money.”
Armando continued to examine the soundboard. “Sometimes you have to spend money to make money.”
“Well, we’re not in the moneymaking business,” I argued. “So I guess that doesn’t really apply in our case, right?”
“But you’re trying to raise money to get these kids to Nicaragua, right?” He stared into my eyes. “That’s the point? To raise funds to take them halfway across the world?”
“Well, Nicaragua isn’t exactly halfway across the world,” I said. “But yeah.”
“And you’re counting on this talent show—this show with no lights, no visuals, and lousy sound—to provide the money for a trip that will take food, clothing, and other essentials to poor children in another country. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Glad you’ve got the whole picture. And yes. The answer is yes.” I placed my fists on my ever-expanding hips and sighed. “I get it. We’re in bad shape.” For once I wasn’t referring to my sticky buns, though all of this angst was certainly making me ache for something sweet to eat. A few cake bites would be good right about now. Wash away this problem. Right?
He gave me one of those “you’re too stupid to get this, but I’m going to say it anyway” looks. “Okay, well, I’m telling you that this sound system won’t cut it. You can’t expect people to put on a show if they’re not able to be heard. And it wouldn’t make any difference if you had great wireless mics or not, with a board like this.” He went to work flipping switches and yanking levers.
“Hey, be careful with that. You’re going to break—” I didn’t get to finish the sentence because one of the levers snapped off in his hand. Probably should’ve warned him it’d been loose for a while.
He rolled it around in his hand and shook his head. “I have a board I can bring in for the night, but you need to look at getting a new one for the church. This thing’s on its last leg.”
I did my best not to sigh.
“Dude. Like your tat.” Armando pointed to the serpent tattoo on the teen’s upper arm.
“Thanks.” Devon shrugged. “Got it after my sister was killed.”
“Your sister was killed?” The concern in Armando’s voice was palpable. “What happened?”
“Her boyfriend was driving.”
“And?”
Devon shrugged. “Don’t get me started, okay? Not sure you want to hear my version. Or anyone’s version, for that matter. But the guy is out walking the streets, if that makes any difference to you.”
“Wow.” Armando looked perplexed but didn’t say anything else.
“You here to update this system?” Devon pointed to the board.
Armando grimaced. “Not sure there’s any hope of that, to be honest.”
Devon rolled his eyes. “Ya think? I’ve been telling them that for months. They won’t listen to me.”
I watched as Armando and Devon locked eyes. Talk about two peas in a pod. Punky, know-it-all Devon was a younger version of the older, more puffed-up Armando. Yep. They were too much alike.
Suddenly I could hardly breathe. Too much testosterone in the room.
Devon dove into a lengthy conversation about the poor conditions at our church, and I felt like a shrinking violet. After five minutes of their conversation, Devon headed off to the office to help some of the other teens put together a brochure for the fund-raiser.
Armando’s phone beeped. He glanced down at it for a moment and then looked my way.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s just Bella.” He typed something into his phone “The family is meeting for lunch. She wants to know if we’ll meet them at Casey’s.”
“We?”
“Yeah, we. As in you and me.”
Now, I loved Casey’s as much as the next girl, but I couldn’t figure out why Bella Neeley would include me in a family dinner, unless perhaps she saw this as some way to match me up with her brother. Little did she know I couldn’t stand the guy.
Forget it, girl. He’s definitely not my type.
My stomach growled, and Armando stared at me as if waiting for an answer. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out. And besides, my aunt Willy is stopping by to pick up a key to the bakery.” So she can come and go as she pleases and pretty much control my life even more than she does now. But you probably don’t need to know all of that. I smiled.
“You look fine.”
I paused to think it through. “Maybe Willy could swing by Casey’s and get the key from me. She probably won’t mind.”
“Invite her too.”
“Oh no.” I shook my head—maybe a little too hard. “No way. You don’t want her there, trust me.”
He didn’t look convinced. “The whole family is going. What’s one more? My parents won’t mind a bit, I promise. They love it when lots of people show up.”
“You don’t understand. Aunt Willy is a piece of work.”
“How so?”
I pondered my response. “Well, for one thing, she’s pretty bossy.”
“Sounds like my aunt Rosa.”
“She’s got some . . . issues.”
“Like?”
“She wants to rule the world?” I offered a weak smile. “Honestly, she’s not that bad. I guess you would say she’s a little eccentric.”
“Have you met my family?” His right eyebrow elevated.
“Yeah. But no one in your family has the same sorts of issues.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just call her on the way.” He headed toward the door, clearly in a hurry to leave.
Tagging along behind him, I muttered, “I . . . I guess.”
Wait. Had I just agreed to join them? Really?
“Want to ride with me?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at me.
“Sure.”
Well, I thought I was sure until I got a closer look at his vehicle—a microscopic sports car barely big enough for one, let alone two.
Houston, we have a problem.
When the girl was bigger than the car, a few mathematical calculations had to take place so that said girl could enter said car. I mean, if x is larger than y, then y becomes, “Why me, Lord?”
Or not. Somehow I managed to squeeze into the metal contraption, though I felt like a whole dill pickle in a teensy-tiny jar meant to hold only those little hamburger slices. Thank goodness Armando put the top down. Otherwise I might’ve drowned in pickle juice.
Okay, slight exaggeration. The convertible did make for a fun drive along the seawall. After a few moments I found myself relaxing. See, Scarlet? You might shop in the plus-size department, but you can have normal-size fun.
Sort of. With my chubby thighs pulled up to accommodate the lack of legroom, my circulation got a little iffy. Oh well. There would be plenty of time to circulate later. I still had a call to make. A very important call.
Seconds later I had my auntie on the line.
“What’s all that noise?” her high-pitched voice shrieked in my ear. “I can barely hear you.”
“I’m in a convertible,” I hollered back.
Armando shifted gears, and the car jolted forward at a faster speed. The wind caught my hair and whipped it into my face.
“Blasted convertibles,” my aunt said. “Waste of money, if you ask me.”
I didn’t, but that’s not the point.
“When you pay that much for a car, it should at least have a roof on it.”
I quickly filled her in on my lunch plans, but she balked . . . until I mentioned the name of the restaurant. I had her at the word Casey’s. Turned out it was her favorite place for stuffed crab. She agreed to stay for lunch, saying something that sounded like, “Well, a girl’s gotta eat, I suppose. Might as well stop by. But don’t expect me to be social.”
I never do.
We ended the call, and I cringed as I thought about Willy joining the Rossi gang for a family lunch. No doubt she would have everyone’s nerves on edge by the end of the meal.
“She’s coming?” Armando asked as I shoved the phone back in my purse.
I nodded and wondered when—or if—the feeling would return to my legs.
We arrived at Casey’s minutes later, and I faced the awkward challenge of getting out of the pickle jar without humiliating myself. Thank God Armando turned to face the seawall for a minute to watch a surfer. I somehow managed to ease my way out, though the lack of circulation proved to be problematic when I attempted to stand.
Oh. Help.
After a moment, the feeling in my legs returned, and I offered a brave smile just as Armando turned to face me.
Slick move, Scarlet. Sneaking out before he could offer to help you.
Not that I was sure he would’ve helped me, but whatever. We headed to the door, and I smiled as I saw the whole Rossi clan seated just inside. They waved—a welcoming, loving wave—and I entered the restaurant, half excited and half terrified to see what the Lord had in store for me.
6
Suh-weet!
I tried to commit suicide by sticking my head in the oven, but there was a cake in it.
Lesley Boone
Only two words come to mind when I think of Casey’s seafood on the seawall: yum and double-yum. It’s one thing for a chubby girl to control her tendency to overeat while at a restaurant she barely tolerates; it’s another thing altogether to control herself at a restaurant she absolutely adores. And with stuffed crab on the menu, who stood a chance? Not me. Oh well. I could diet another day. So what if Armando saw me enjoying my food? It wasn’t like he noticed me.
We approached
the Rossi family table together, which garnered a “well, what do we have here?” look from Armando’s mother. She glanced at my apron—Shoot! Did I really forget to take off my apron?—and offered a confused smile. I pulled off the apron, and my gaze traveled around the table. Bella. D.J. Bella’s parents. Aunt Rosa. Uncle Laz. Bella’s older brother—what was his name again? His wife, Marcella, who ran the florist shop. Bella’s younger sister with her newborn. The sister’s husband.
Yep. I pretty much knew everyone in attendance.
Well, all but one. An older fellow seated next to D.J. threw me a little. He certainly didn’t look like he fit into the group, but I couldn’t avoid his genuine smile. It lit up the restaurant.
As I took a seat next to Bella, she made quick introductions. “Scarlet, this is D.J.’s uncle Donny from Splendora.”
“Splendora?” Now that certainly got my attention. I faced him, unable to hide my enthusiasm. “We’re practically neighbors. I used to live in Lufkin, just north of there by an hour or so.”
“Been to Lufkin many a time!” The older fellow extended his hand. I hesitated to shake it, what with the oil under his fingernails, but did so anyway. He offered a boyish grin and lit into a conversation about life in Splendora, his thick Texas twang captivating me at once. Having lived in east Texas for years prior to my move to Galveston, I recognized a kindred spirit.
What Uncle Donny lacked in suave demeanor, he made up for in rustic good looks. The man had sort of a backwoods charm about him, and a muscular physique. Not bad for an older fellow. And he was certainly the laugh-a-minute sort.
Then I noticed an overwhelming scent. What was that? After a moment, I recognized the smell—gasoline. Weird. Was the restaurant about to go up in flames? It took me a minute or two to realize the smell was coming from Uncle Donny. But I was too polite to ask about it.
About halfway into the lunch, the scent died down, and I found myself relaxing. Likely bored with the conversation about the upcoming wedding, Uncle Donny turned my way.
“What do you do for a living, Scarlet?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m a cake decorator.”
“The best on the island,” Bella chimed in. “She’s making her best friend’s wedding cake too.” She began to share about the four-tiered wonder I planned to make for Hannah’s big day. To be honest, I’d hardly had a minute to think about it, what with the new shop opening and all. But now that she mentioned it, the whole plan came flooding back over me again.