“WHAT KIND of cake are you going to taste first?” Rusty says, taking the stairs to Charlie’s apartment two at a time. “I want to taste red velvet first, and then chocolate, and then strawberry and then vanilla but then chocolate again because that’s always the best. Sometimes weddings have carrot cake, but I don’t like those weddings…”
I’m barely listening as my daughter goes on about cake. She’s been pumped for this day all week, and now that we’re here, picking up Charlie before heading out for a day of sugar consumption, she can barely hold still.
I feel pretty much the same way, only it’s not cake-related. I haven’t seen Charlie in almost a week, and I’m not counting the day that I was feverish and talked to her for a minute through a door.
“…but the best cake is birthday cake. I like when it’s got the colors in it…”
I knock on Charlie’s door, feeling like a car with the clutch down and the engine revving. Vroom. Vroom.
The door opens and there she is, all freckles, curls, and hazel eyes, looking a little bit haphazard like she always does, like somehow despite confirming what time I’d pick her up seventeen times, she wasn’t expecting us.
“Hey, come in,” she says.
She’s wearing a purple bathrobe, the waist cinched shut but she’s got one hand over her chest anyway, like she’s just making sure it doesn’t fly open.
“Charlie you’re not even dressed!” Rusty exclaims, waving both arms over her head. “We have to eat cake in forty minutes.”
As she says this, she checks the bright green watch that her uncle Seth gave her last year, like she’s a CEO late for an important meeting or something.
“Well, the first bakery is twenty-five minutes away, so we’ve got time,” Charlie says as a ball of pure energy — that is, Rusty — sweeps into her living room.
“Are you wearing that?” I ask, my voice low enough that Rusty, already flipping through a carpentry book on Charlie’s coffee table, doesn’t hear me.
Charlie’s hand holds her robe closed a little tighter.
“Give me five minutes, I still gotta get dressed,” she says. “Sorry, I was a little late getting out of bed and then I hadn’t washed the coffee maker last night so I had to do that and make coffee before I could function, and—”
I lean in and kiss her. It’s nothing but a quick greeting of a kiss, a hello-how-are-you kiss, but I’ve been waiting a week for it and I swear I can feel it ripple through my whole body.
I want more. I want so much more, but Rusty’s not even ten feet away, so I give Charlie one polite kiss and back up.
“Be right back,” Charlie says, and disappears into her bedroom.
This time I hear the door click shut, thank God, so I sit on her couch and Rusty clambers up next to me, flipping through the pages of Premodern Jointing: An Enthusiast’s Guide. Apparently, she doesn’t find anything that interests her, because ten seconds later she hops off the couch and grabs another book.
A few minutes later, Charlie comes out of her bedroom.
She’s wearing another dress. This one’s a deep purple with bright flowers, sleeveless, the waist tight and the hips loose, the skirt ending at her knees.
“Ooooooh, pretty dress,” says Rusty as she looks up. “How come you wear dresses all of a sudden?”
Charlie just shrugs, grabbing her purse.
“I just felt like it,” she says, darting a quick glance at me.
“They look nice on you,” I offer.
There’s that word nice again. Nice. The least good, technically-complimentary thing I could possibly say right now, but what the hell am I supposed to say in front of my daughter? Ravishing? Fuckable?
“Thanks,” she says simply. “Elizabeth evaluated my closet and found it lacking, so we went shopping. Shall we?”
Rusty doesn’t even say yes, she just leaps to her feet and makes a beeline for the door. Seconds later I can hear her clomping down the wooden steps like she’s an elephant.
“You need to wait,” I call out, following her.
The clomping stops. Charlie and I leave. Rusty’s halfway down the stairs, looking impatient, and Charlie turns to lock her door behind her.
The dress doesn’t have a back. At least, it doesn’t have half a back, just two purple straps criss-crossing over Charlie’s shoulder blades, attaching to the fabric halfway down her spine.
Instantly, I wonder if she’s wearing a bra. I can’t help it. That’s not what I want to be wondering right now, with my kid stomping impatiently ten feet away, but I am.
Charlie turns back to me, stops short.
“What?” she says, alarmed. “Is this dress okay?”
“It’s fine,” I manage to say. “It’s nice. Great. Ladies first.”
I gesture toward the steps, and Charlie descends them.
Nice? Come on.
THE MOMENT we walk into Susie Q’s Cakes, Rusty gasps like she’s just been crowned Miss America, only more dramatic because she’s way more interested in cake than in beauty pageants.
Then she stops short, standing in the middle of the entryway, and stares around in childish, slack-jawed wonder.
“Move it, kiddo,” I tell her. “You’re in the walkway.”
Rusty wanders in, still agog, and Charlie and I follow, her hand in mine. There’s cake everywhere: inside the massive glass-fronted bakery case, a cupcake display behind the counter. There are cakes under glass domes on the counter itself, not to mention a few beautifully decorated five-tier cakes in the front window.
I don’t think those are real.
Rusty’s eyes are the size of saucers, and she stands in the middle of the store, hands clasped together, looking for all the world like a sweet, charming second grader.
Which she is, but she’s also a lot of other things.
“So, cake,” Charlie says.
“Cake,” I agree, sneaking another glance at her.
I can’t stop staring, because I never see her this way. Charlie’s always in regular clothes, jeans and t-shirts, sometimes coveralls, occasionally shorts. I can’t remember the last time I saw her bare shoulder, the notch of her collarbones, the sharp curve of shoulder blades.
I feel like I’m watching a striptease made just for me.
It’s not the dress, which is perfectly modest. It’s the way her body moves under it that has me transfixed. It’s the suggestion that she might not be wearing a bra. It’s how I see a flash of thigh when she sits down and the material shifts.
“I’ve never exactly been wedding cake tasting before,” Charlie says, still looking around. “Do we just start pointing at things, or—”
“You must be Charlotte and Daniel!” a voice says, followed quickly by an apron-wearing woman who bustles out from the back. “Welcome to Susie Q’s Cakes! I heard all about you from Violet, she’s just so excited that the two of you are finally making it official. Here, go on, sit down.”
Suzie ushers us to the café portion of the bakery, where a table is already set up with three place settings, complete with delicate teacups on saucers, plates with flowers, and forks with curlicues. Rusty plops right down, but Charlie eyes the whole setup a little warily.
“And you must be Rusty,” Susie said. “I’ve heard all about you. This will be your first cake tasting, then?”
She’s still addressing Rusty. It’s quickly becoming clear who the star of the show is going to be today, and it’s not either of the people getting fake-married.
“Yes,” Rusty confirms, as seriously as she possibly can.
“Excellent,” Susie says. “I’ll be right out with your samples and tea.”
“There’s tea?” Charlie murmurs as Susie walks back into the kitchen, the ruffles on her apron fluttering.
“Is this Violet’s doing?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
Rusty leans over the table, examining the delicate teacup and saucer, then finally picking it up.
“There’s a flower on the bottom,” she tells us.
I settle back in my chair, even though it’s wildly uncomfortable, and stretch one arm over to Charlie, my hand on the back of her neck. She’s tense, so I rub the knots lightly, my fingers edging under the crossed straps on her back.
I don’t think a single dirty thought. It would be inappropriate.
Okay, maybe one.
Possibly two. But they’re quick.
“I thought we’d be eating cake bites out of tiny paper cups while standing at a counter,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. There’s a flash of thigh. I keep rubbing her neck, and she leans into my hand, ever so slightly, and I brush away a third dirty thought.
“Not dining off of fine china?” I ask. “Just hold your pinky out when you drink the tea, that way it’s proper.”
“Says you, noted etiquette expert,” she teases.
Rusty’s already pretending to drink tea, the cup held carefully in her fingers, both pinkies out.
“Like that,” I say, nodding at Rusty. “See, she knows how to do it.”
“Don’t worry, I can teach you,” she assures Charlie.
“Thanks,” Charlie says.
Just then, Susie bustles back out, a tray held in front of her.
“Here we are!” she says and puts it down on the table in front of us.
It’s filled with small squares of cake and one ornate, flowery, delicate teapot.
“Ooh,” says Rusty, leaning over, her mouth forming an O, and Susie laughs.
“First things first,” she says, and picks up the tea pot. “Our own special cake tasting blend, black tea with a hint of bergamot and ginger. Helps cleanse the palate.”
Susie pours us each tea. Charlie is sitting ramrod straight in her chair. I wonder if I should have dressed more nicely than shorts and a t-shirt, but it’s eighty-five degrees outside.
“And now, of course, the cake,” she says, beaming. “We’ve got five different flavors for you to taste today, and of course, we can combine any of them however you like. First is one of our most popular, the bridal white.”
The cake is in small, bite-sized pieces about an inch square, each with a frosting swirl on top. I spear it with the fork and pop it into my mouth, careful to avoid getting frosting in my beard.
It’s good. It tastes like cake.
Across the small table from me, Rusty nods very seriously.
“What do you think?” Susie asks her.
Rusty thinks for a moment.
“The almond is coming through very strongly,” she says carefully. “It’s overpowering the other flavors.”
Charlie raises her eyebrows, and for a moment, Susie is struck speechless. I force down a laugh.
Rusty has been hanging out with my brother Eli a lot. I didn’t realize that he was training her palate or that Rusty could tell when a cake had too much almond extract in it.
But I’m one hundred percent sure I know where she got those phrases from.
“Well, I’ll make sure to add a little less almond in the next batch,” Susie says, her face somewhere between amused and taken aback. “What did you two think?”
“I liked it,” says Charlie.
She keeps giving us single bites of cake. They follow more or less the same order as a beer or wine tasting, from the least to most powerful flavors: white, rose, lemondrop, spice cake, and finally, chocolate.
“Your ring is absolutely beautiful, by the way,” Susie says when Charlie has a mouthful of lemondrop cake. “I so rarely see colored gemstones on engagement rings.”
Charlie looks down like she’s only just realized it’s there, then swallows her cake.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she says.
Susie just sighs.
“I love jewelry with a history,” she says. “So romantic. How did you propose?”
That last question is to me, a forkful of cake halfway to my mouth.
Shit. We never came up with that part of the backstory. It never even occurred to me.
I glance over at Charlie. She’s laughing at me, eyes sparkling.
“I think you should tell the story,” she says, delicately putting one hand on my knee. “It was so unique and romantic, and I never suspected in a million years.”
Her touch sets off a wave of warmth, impossible to ignore even as I’m trying to frantically think of a romantic-yet-unique way that I could have proposed to Charlie.
I put my hand on top of hers, bring it to the table, and hold it. She watches me, eyes still laughing.
“Well, if there’s one thing to know about Charlotte, it’s that she’s absolutely crazy for ceramic figurines of angels,” I start.
Her eyebrows dip ever so slightly.
“Her apartment is lousy with them,” I go on. “It’s her biggest hobby. She’s always on eBay, looking for more, and I knew that there was this particular figurine, only produced for a few years in Belarus, that she was absolutely mad about.”
Charlie is now half-skeptical, half trying not to laugh.
“Go on,” she says, squeezing my hand in hers. “This is my favorite part, about the ceramic angel from Belarus.”
“Well, I managed to find one and outbid her for it,” I say. “And it’s got its arms sort of outstretched, so one day while Charlotte was at work, I broke into her apartment, set the angel on the kitchen table, and left a note that said come into the bedroom.”
“I especially loved how that wasn’t creepy at all,” Charlie murmurs.
“And of course, I was in there, hiding with the ring, waiting on one knee,” I say. “And she said yes!”
“Of course I did, pumpkin,” she says, smiling a little bit too wide. “You’ll always be my sweet banana muffin.”
I have to bite the inside of my lips to keep from laughing. I take a deep breath, staring into Charlie’s hazel eyes, and try to ignore the fact that we’re both moments from losing it.
“You’ll always be my gooey honey bun,” I tell her.
Charlie’s eyes start watering. She takes a deep, controlled breath.
“My darling pookie bear,” she says, somehow keeping a straight face.
“My favorite cuddle gremlin,” I say back.
I’m squeezing her hand way too tight, because I’m half a second from completely losing my composure, but Susie rescues me.
“That’s just the sweetest thing,” she says. “Is the wedding going to be angel-themed?”
“Absolutely,” says Charlie, looking up at her, dead serious. “Angels everywhere. Nothing but angels.”
WE BID SUSIE FAREWELL, promise to be in touch about cake, and then none of us says a word until we’re back in the car, doors shut.
The second we look at each other, we both burst out laughing. I laugh so hard I snort. There are tears running down Charlie’s face, and she shoves them away with the back of her hand.
“What?” says Rusty frantically, from the back seat. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I manage to gasp out.
“Why are you laughing?” she demands.
I can see her serious little face in the rearview mirror, and it only cracks me up harder.
“Stop laughing,” Charlie gasps. “Oh, my God, Daniel.”
“Charlie told a funny joke,” I manage to gasp out.
“What was the joke?”
“That she likes ceramic angels,” I say. It’s the best I can do.
“Cuddle gremlin,” Charlie mutters from the passenger seat.
We both crack up again.
“Why is that funny?” Rusty demands. “Charlie doesn’t like angels.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, because if I look at Charlie right now, I’m going to lose my shit again and make Rusty even madder.
“That’s the joke,” I explain. “She doesn’t really like angels, but we said she does.”
“That’s just a lie,” Rusty points out.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” I say. Charlie clears her throat.
“Sorry, Rusty,” Charlie says. “It’s not really that funny.”
I open my eyes again, Charlie’s staring straight ahead, like she’s trying not to laugh.
In the back seat, Rusty sighs dramatically, still frowning. I put the car into drive.
“Where’s the algorithm taking us next, pookie bear?” I ask Charlie.
She snorts and unfolds the itinerary.
