KDBookOnline
Share Us
“Dr. Evers should have given her a Xanax,” Rowan said, adding the cup to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. “I can’t stand seeing her so upset.”
Mom had maintained a fear of all things medical since Dad died. I couldn’t blame her. I’m terrified of needles after watching all those IVs shoved in Dad’s arms, but Mom’s fear was next level. She broke into a cold sweat any time she entered a doctor’s office, which was why Dr. Evers started making house calls for her. When Rowan was in the hospital last year after getting hitby a Segway—true story—she waited to tell us until after she’d been released. That’s how much my sister hated seeing our mom upset.
Chris gave Rowan’s shoulders a squeeze. “Just stay back here, Ann. I got Mom.”
Rowan’s eyes looked a little misty as she watched him push through the door.
“That rum must be hitting you fast,” I said.
She shook her head. “He isn’t a little boy anymore.”
“Hasn’t been for a while.”
“I’m so glad I’m here for his last years of high school.”
“Me too,” I said, feeling my own throat tighten. Damn it. There was no reason for me to get choked up. A year ago, Rowan lived with her shitty soon-to-be-ex-husband in DC and worked at a boring finance company while I suffered through shifts as a barista at my friend Lauren’s café and bookshop, Karma. Now my sister was back in Peace Falls, and we’d launched our dream business together. Sure, she’d practically moved in with Cal, and Chris was now a high school football star who had little time for his sisters, but I liked having time alone. Really.
I cleared my throat and my mind and fell into a rhythm with the piping.
“When does your class start?” Rowan asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. She knew I liked Theo, and being the perfect sister, she’d done everything in her power to encourage him to make a move. I felt a little sorry for Aiden. In the past few months, Rowan had planned countless romantic outings for Cal, herself, Theo, and me, leaving him out.
“Thursday.”
“Are you looking forward to it?” she asked cautiously. “The class.”
“Of course. It’s art,” I said and glared at her.
Rowan took the hint and started washing dishes.
When I finished the cookies, I got to work on a three-layer cake for Cal. I needed the crumb coat to set overnight before I covered it in fondant. Rowan had whipped up a chai buttercream that smelled so good my mouth watered.
“What time do you need the fondant tomorrow?” Rowan asked as she dumped sugar into her massive mixer to start the rest of the frosting I needed for the cupcakes. Most men would be in the doghouse for gifting their fiancée a kitchen appliance for their first Christmas, but Rowan had squealed when she unwrapped the box. I completely understood. Having the right tools meant everything. Though all the new art supplies my family gifted me had done nothing to kick me out of my slump.
“Noon should do. I want to finish early so I can spend some time in the studio.” Probably staring at the same lump of clay.
“Sounds good. What are you thinking for the top?”
“A model of Skye, obviously, with a banner in her mouth saying something cheesy like ‘Congrats Dad.’” Cal’s ten-year-old Weimaraner had more personality than three dogs, making her the best topper for my future-brother-in-law’s celebratory cake. All my other ideas involved resistance bands, since he’s a physical therapist, or bank loans, since he’d needed them to buy the practice from his retiring boss. Neither seemed festive.
Rowan scrunched her nose. “I’ve never heard him refer to himself as her dad.”
“Oh come on, Rowan, that man treats his dog better than most parents treat their kids.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” she said, looking extra dopy. “He’s going to make a wonderful father someday, but I’m not sure you should call him Dad on the cake.”
“How about something like ‘Now you can bring me to work cause you own the joint.’”
Rowan laughed. “That’s perfect. I know you’ll make it look amazing. You always do.”
I ignored the compliment and got to work with the buttercream. I saw the cake clearly in my mind. Skye was a high-energy dog who tended to get in a bit of trouble. I’d make an exam table out of Rice Krispies Treats and modeling chocolate and write the message on edible paper that looked like the thin tissue stuff medical offices use to keep things sort of clean between patients. Cal would love it. I’d add some details in florescent pink as a nod to Cal’s receptionist, Cammie, who loved obnoxiously bright colors. Not to mention, giving my future brother-in-law a cake covered in pink flowers and butterflies would make my week. Maybe I’d throw in a unicorn or two.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rowan said. “We should cross train. I can teach you a few simple recipes, and you can teach me some basic piping. Nothing as complicated as those cookies or the custom cakes, but enough I could limp along for a few days if necessary.”
I frowned. I hated baking. Toss in a little too much of something and everything went to shit. Leave something in the oven a couple minutes too long and, at best, you throw away all the work you just did. At worst, you need the fire extinguisher. Don’t ask.
It’s not that I was afraid of mistakes. I made them all the time when sculpting or decorating cakes and cookies. Worst case, I had to reform the clay or modeling chocolate or toss a cookie, and sometimes “errors” led to something wonderful. Something fresh and unexpected. I adored those moments of forced creativity. They felt like a gift every time. I’m sure things like that happened in baking, but I’d yet to experience it.
“I suppose you’re right. You’re going on your honeymoon soon, and I could accidentally mow over a squirrel in the yard and contract the bubonic plague.”