Page 31 of For Butter or for Worse
I sigh and grab a pastry bag so I can start piping the macarons, though I fill the bag half-heartedly. I’m worried this batch is going to fail like the last one; Willow Cove is more humid than Manhattan was, and the little cookies are finicky to begin with. I need to play with them more and adjust my ratios, but they feel like a metaphor for how much I’ve been failing at life lately.
“I think she suspects there’s something fishy about my marriage to King,” I mutter.
Cecily hops onto an empty spot of counter and sticks her finger in a bowl of cookie dough, taking a swipe and sticking it in her mouth. I resist the urge to groan now that that batch is unusable. “In case you’ve forgotten, thereissomething fishy about your marriage. When do I get to meet this questionable husband of yours, anyway?”
I keep my eyes on the baking sheet I’m piping onto. “Hopefully never?”
She gasps. “Rude! And to think I came all this way to help make sure the two of you are a solid couple.” She sounds too put out for her disappointment to be real, but I glare at her anyway, in part because she’s wrong and because she’s really struggling with keeping her voice down.
Glancing around the kitchen, I turn on the mixer that I used to whip my egg whites, hoping the whirring will cover our conversation so no one up front hears. “We’re not solid,” I argue. “And that’s a good thing.”
“Not if you want your marriage to last.”
“Which I don’t,” I remind her. I went on a whole rant about it last night, telling her about my plan to use the profits to start something new somewhere else.
Cecily eats more cookie dough, humming with pleasure as she licks her fingers. “You know, most couples go into a marriage wanting it to last forever.”
I glance at the door, as if I might be able to see Mrs. Vanderman peering through the window. “This isn’t a ‘most couples’ situation, Cece.”
“So you’ve said.”
“King and I have history that makes this complicated.”
I glance up when she doesn’t say anything else and cringe when I realize she’s giving me her therapist stare. I’ve never regretted befriending a marriage counselor more than I do right now. “What?”
She cocks her head, examining me. “Nothing.”
“What?” I demand again.
“You didn’t say much about how you and King became a couple.”
I roll my eyes and finish off the last macaron, and then I tap the cookie sheet a few times to get rid of any bubbles before stashing the tray on a cart to rest. “What more is there to say? He can’t give me the bakery unless I’m—”
“I mean before. Before you came to New York. It still baffles me that you kept him a secret all these years.”
I can’t help but wince. When I discovered the room Cecily was subleasing in her apartment when I first moved to New York, her friendship was a godsend. I was completely out of my element and already homesick, and her warm welcome gave me the courage to stick around and really try to make a life for myself in the city. We became fast friends while she went through school and I found work in a bakery, and I opened up to her in a way I haven’t with anyone else.
I told her everything. Except when it came to King. The only person I’ve ever talked to about our past relationship is Bill, and he always seemed to understand why I left, which helped me feel like I could move on.
Sighing, I lean against the counter and keep my eyes on the floor. “I was heartbroken when I left Willow Cove. Not exactly something I wanted to revisit.”
“You’re the one who ended things,” she reminds me.
“I know. But we were kids when he asked me to marry him. What was I supposed to do?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Georgie?” Emily is back again. “Are the sticky buns ready?”
I let out a curse and dash toward the oven. The buns are a little overdone, but not unsalvageable. I dish one up and hand it to Emily. “On the house,” I tell her and practically shove her back into the lobby.
Cecily snickers. “I haven’t heard you use language like that since before you started dating Lane. I haven’t seen you this relaxed either.”
I let out a laugh that feels like it’s on the verge of being maniacal. “I am not remotely relaxed,” I argue, lowering my voice. “This meeting with the attorney is freaking me out.”
“Why?”
I know she’s doing her therapist thing and trying to dig, but I’m too nervous to resist. “Because if he doesn’t think we’re really married, then the bakery—”
