Fortunately, he’d found a decent counselor and gotten a diagnosis that had led him on a path of self-care that had allowed him to thrive in a truly healthy and strong way. His only stumble after those painful high school years had been his brush with Ella in the Hamptons, but even then, despite Jules’s and Mark’s dark impressions of that time, Angela thought Gray had recovered well enough. Still, it was a pity he’d had to go through the pain of that breakup to begin with. I blame Ella for that.
Gray finished his sandwich and glanced at her empty plate. “You put that away like a pro.”
“Pro-sandwich, that’s me.”
Gray collected their boxes and then emptied the trash and set it beside the back door. He winked at her as he slipped a new bag into the bin. “Now we’ll hide the evidence.”
“As one must.”
“As one must,” he agreed. “You didn’t eat your bread pudding.”
“I will,” she lied.
He quirked an eyebrow.
She made a face. “I just had my mouth set for coconut cake. You know how that goes.”
“When they have coconut cake, I’ll bring you some.”
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“You’re welcome.” His phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket. “The plumber is waiting for me. I’d better go.” He picked up the trash bag, then shot her a curious glance. “What are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could read some more. Maybe dance on the kitchen table. If I get bored, I’ll knock back some wine.”
“Ah. The usual.” He grinned as he spoke, his face softened by his smile.
He’s handsome now, but he’ll be simply devastating when he’s older. He has good bone structure, just like John. The only real difference between the two was John’s boldly positive outlook, which was in stark contrast to the flashes of worry that still shone in Gray’s fine eyes, although only on occasion. I wish Jules would give Gray credit for handling his anxiety as well as he does.
When the boys were young, Angela had been aware that Jules was as committed to over-mothering her boys as she was to avoiding any sort of emotional connection with her own mother, which was ironic. Before this visit, Angela had assumed that, over the years, that unfortunate tendency had passed. But seeing Jules with Mark and Gray over the past few weeks had proven that assumption wrong. She was just as bad now, if not worse. Be careful, Jules, or you’ll chase them away.
Angela smiled at Gray. “I promise to call you if I fall off the kitchen table and bonk my head.”
“Call 911 instead. I’ll be out in the pastures and my cell coverage is weak out there. Besides, I know you’ve been wanting to get out of the house, so…” He shrugged, his eyes sparkling.
“Don’t tempt me.” She waved him away. “Off with you. And the next time they’re out of coconut cake at the Moonlight, see what they have at Ava’s new tearoom. I hear she keeps her cases filled with some serious desserts.”
“Plan B for coconut cake is Ava’s. Got it. See you later.” With a wink, he left.
Angela went to the living room, held back the curtain, and watched until his truck disappeared down the road. As the sound faded, the house instantly became annoyingly quiet. But Mark was due home in a few hours. That’s not a long time, she told herself, trying to find a silver lining.
Angela turned away from the window, letting the curtain swing back into place. Maybe, once she and Jules were on firmer ground, Jules might welcome a helpful tip from her mother about trusting her sons to find their own way in the world. Angela and her daughter were far, far from that scenario right now, of course, but it might be possible in a few months if things continued to improve between them. I would be very circumspect, of course, so she wouldn’t feel judged and—
Her phone chimed, letting her know a text message had arrived. It was probably Jules checking in.
Angela pulled her phone from her robe pocket and read the text. I made you a cake.
She didn’t recognize the number, but who other than Ella Dove would offer to make her a cake?
“The fool.” As if Angela could be so easily won. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard. Take your lousy cake and go away. There. Short, sweet, and to the point.
Her thumb hovered over “send.”
The cake wouldn’t be lousy. Not one of Ella’s cakes.
No, Ella’s cakes were perfect. They were moist, rich, and filled with such delicious flavor that they sparked precious, delightful memories.
Angela’s thumb moved a little farther away from “send.” The last time she’d had one of Ella’s cakes had been the day before the Book of Cakes went missing. Ella had arrived for their Hamptons weekend with a treat, as she sometimes did. This time it was a strawberry shortcake with homemade whipped cream. If Angela closed her eyes, she could still remember the fluffy perfection of the shortcake, the ripe flavor of the strawberries, the sweet thickness of the cream. But more than that, she remembered a summer day from her childhood that the cake made her recall. She’d been only seven years old, and on the hottest day of the summer, she and Daddy had gone down to Sweet Creek, which ran right through town, meandering behind houses and through the park, until it emptied into Dove Pond itself.
Daddy had loved creeks, and there was nothing he liked better than to roll up his pants and walk barefoot over rocks worn smooth by cool, shimmering water. She’d learned to love that same experience herself. That summer day, the heat of the late afternoon had dissipated as the coolness of the water washed over their feet. They’d held hands as they walked, and had laughed and talked as they splashed and scared off more fish than she could count.
Oh, how she relished that memory. And Ella’s cake had made it so immediate, so real, that when Angela had finished swallowing the final bite, she’d had to wipe away happy tears. That had been one of the best days of her life.
But then that was the beauty of an Ella Dove cake. It wasn’t just the flawlessness of the bake, or the richness of the flavors, although they were something to behold themselves. It was the unexpected memories those perfect combinations of flavor and texture stirred. The glimpses of special, exquisite moments from one’s past were astoundingly real and, oh, so precious.
She looked at her phone. She wanted that cake. Wanted it badly. But she had no desire to see Ella. Angela refused to listen to a single lame word, hollow platitude, or pathetic excuse.
But Ella didn’t need to know that, did she?
Smiling to herself, Angela deleted her text. In its place, she wrote two words. Bring it.
CHAPTER 7 ELLA
It’s good to take chances. That’s how all great discoveries are made. But do so armed with thought, caution, and an accurate measuring cup. Better to overprepare than to underwhelm.
The Book of Cakes, p. 63
Written: 1792–2019
Ella stood on the front porch of the Stewart house and stared at the doorbell.
This was it.
She was so close to ending her uncomfortable frosting-filled dreams. Finally, finally, her life could get back to normal. She would sleep through each night, dreamless, with no annoying frosting rosettes or curlicues on her thighs or elbows when she awoke. Better yet, she would be free to leave this town, her car windows down, singing a happy song as she drove to—well, she didn’t know where she’d go, but wherever it was, it would be a far better and more fun place.