Page 5 of The Accidental Honeymoon

CALLA

The wedding venueis a whirlwind of tulle and chiffon, a pastel explosion of high society Southern matrons and their beleaguered, dark suited husbands. I clutch my cake setup pieces like a bomb squad technician, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and sheer, unadulterated terror.

This is the big leagues. I’m just a small-town baker playing dress-up.

“Excuse me. Oh, sorry. Coming through!” I weave through the throng with the precision of a matador, my mind laser-focused on the task ahead. No time to gawk at the ice sculpture of a swan (gaudy), or the twelve-piece string orchestra (overkill). I have a cake to set up, and it has to be perfect.

The Greater Attic, where the wedding is being held, is an old movie theater that has been converted to a music venue and event space that can hold a few hundred people. In what used to be the concession area, the venue’s catering staff have cleared a space for my cakes and cupcakes right beside a mountain of gifts that looks like it could trigger anavalanche. I set down my boxes of pastries and take a deep breath.

This is it. I’m in the eye of the storm. I can hear the guests arriving in droves. But I’m in a separate room from the main venue area. A few wedding guests do pop their heads in and make a beeline for the bar. But for the most part, I’m left alone to do my work.

My hands move with practiced ease as I unpack the tiers. Each one is a delicate confection of sugar and dreams and magic. I check my internal list: Fondant smooth? Check. Edges crisp? Check. Hand-painted roses intact? Miraculously, check. I stack the layers with the care of a mother bird building a nest, then step back to admire my work.

It’s a thing of beauty, even in this over-the-top setting. The cake is tall and elegant, a lovely fondant-covered monument to caloric excess. Tiny edible pearls cascade down the sides like a sugary waterfall. I can almost hear the angels singing.

But there’s no time for gawking at the scenery. I want to set up my cupcakes now, before the wedding ceremony begins. I spend the next ten minutes in intense concentration, setting up various cake plates and covering the rest of the table with a waterfall of white-frosted mystery cupcakes.

That done, I let out a sigh of relief and wander to the doorway, my eyes roving over the lavish wedding decorations. The reception hall is a cavernous space, all crystal chandeliers, gilt-trimmed walls, and soft red velvet movie seats. The stage looks like a wedding planner threw up all over it. White wisteria cascades down the wall, white rose petals are scattered across the floor, white string lights in Mason jars hang from the ceiling, a white wicker arch is setas the backdrop for the nuptials. No expense has been spared. No Pinterest wedding board has been unplumbed.

The thought makes me smirk, but only a little. This is exactly the kind of event that could put my bakery on the map.

One well-placed Instagram post, one glowing review from the right person, and You Butter Believe It could go from a struggling startup to the new must-have brand. I imagine the orders pouring in, the stress of making every batch on my own easing just enough for me to breathe. And maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be able to hire some help. I picture myself in a bigger kitchen. You know, one with enough counter space to roll out fondant without knocking over a tower of mixing bowls.

A girl can hope.

Walking back to my dessert display, I take out my phone and snap a few pictures, angling for the best light. The cake gleams like a diamond in a Tiffany’s display case. I hover over the Instagram app, debating whether to post now or wait until the reception is in full swing. The thought of something going wrong before the photos go live makes my stomach twist.

I stuff the phone back in my bag and chew on a fingernail. I glance at the cake, then the side door. It’s freezing outside, but the side door has been propped open to allow some of the heat from the growing pool of guests to escape. An icy breeze flutters the edge of the tablecloths. My mind races with the worst-case scenarios.

A gust of wind topples the cake. A drunk groomsman stumbles into the table. A rogue pigeon gets in and attacks the cake topper.

My brain works overtime to pump out scenarios. Why won’t it just focus?

I shake off the thoughts and take a deep breath. The cake is fine. The whole display is perfect. And this event is the kind of opportunity I’ve dreamed about for years. I just have to trust that my work will speak for itself.

In the main room, the string quartet shifts from a languid prelude into something more purposeful. I tiptoe to the doorway to watch as a hush falls over the crowd. The problem is, I can’t see anything from way back here. I silently creep toward the back of the room, standing half-hidden behind a column, and watch as the guests take their seats.

My heart does a little tap dance in my chest. This is it. The moment of truth. If the cake survives the next twenty minutes, I’m golden.

A woman in a fascinator the size of a peacock takes the last open seat, and I bite my lip, chewing on the anticipation. The anxiety. I’m not even invested in this wedding, but the tension is contagious.

I crane my neck to see the altar. The bride and groom are already in position, looking like a pair of human dolls set atop a ridiculously expensive cake. The bride is a vision in white taffeta, her dark slick of red lipstick subdued into a pout. The groom, Jay, looks like he just stepped out of a men’s fashion spread. Tall, dark, and annoyingly handsome in his tailored suit.

They are perfect together. Athletic, tanned, refined. Some small voice in the back of my head whispers,I’ll bet they don’t last a year.

It’s just jealousy, though.

The bride is clutching her bouquet like it’s a life preserver, her knuckles white against the gaudy spray of orchids. Jay stands with his hands in his pockets, the pictureof nonchalance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was bored at his own wedding.

The officiant begins to speak in a low drone. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. Something about the sanctity of marriage and the joining of souls, I imagine. I tune him out and zero in on the bride and groom. There’s a crackling energy buzzing around them, like the air before a thunderstorm.

Blake steals a glance at Jay, then at the crowd, then back to Jay. She’s skittish, a deer caught in the headlights. She’s poised to bolt at any moment. And Jay? Jay just looks… calm. Too calm.

Jay says something to Blake, too quiet for the audience to hear, and a spark of anger flashes in her eyes. She turns her head away from him with her nose in the air, and I think she might storm off. But she doesn’t. She just stands there, frozen, a bride on strike.

The tension is unbearable. I feel like I’m watching a soap opera, the kind my YiaYia used to binge, where every episode ends on a cliffhanger.Will they? Won’t they? Tune in tomorrow to find out!

But this is real life, and tomorrow is right now. The officiant looks at the bride, then at Jay, then at the crowd. His uncertainty makes it all the more delicious. I hate myself a little for enjoying this, but I can’t look away.

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