The One Night(5)

“Have someone else do it,” he suggests. “Don’t you have an assistant or two you can dump it on?”

I shake my head. “It’s my bakery, passed down from my family. It’s my responsibility to deal with the clients, or at least until I can properly train someone to handle customer relations. Until then, it’s all me.”

“Well, what was it this time?”

“Cake testing. The bride wanted every flavor, but she didn’t want to pay for the additional flavors. For cake tastings, we have a set sample amount, because I’m not here to make free cakes for people, and she was pissed that I couldn’t just ‘whip up some more’ in the back for her.” I sip my beer, still fuming. “And then she asked if I know how to properly stack cakes so they don’t fall over. Apparently, at one of her friends’ weddings, the baker didn’t put enough support in the cake. They were at an old venue with shaky floors, and while they were dancing, the cake plopped right over. She pointed her fork at me and demanded to know if I’d ever let that happen.”

“What did you say to her?”

I take another swig just as the door to the bar opens, sending in a gust of the winter wind. “Told her I have a list of over five hundred clients she can call to see how I never let that happen.” I take a deep breath. “She asked for the list.”

Earl lets out a howl before he walks over to the other side of the bar to help a customer.

I’m sitting at the far end of the bar, in a dark corner, just the way I like it. I thought about asking my friend Dealia to join me for a drink, but she’s been a little off ever since her divorce. I don’t think she misses her ex per se, because she doesn’t seem to harbor any regrets, but I think she is having trouble grasping the concept of being alone. I kind of want to say, “It’s been a year,” but I tread the line of making sure I’m being sensitive. Either way, she’s not here.

And I kind of like the peace, the ability to not have to chat— Buzz. Buzz.

I glance down at my phone on the bar top and see my mom’s face appear on the screen. I wince, not wanting to talk but knowing I’ve ignored her all day. If I don’t answer, she’s going to keep calling.

Nothing like talking to your mom on the phone . . . in a bar . . . called the Dirty Beaver.

I pick up my phone. “Hey, Mom.”

“Well, there you are. I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

“I know. It’s been a busy day at the bakery.” She should know this—she used to work there. There is never a slow day, especially after we were named one of the top bakeries in Seattle. A great honor that has helped grow the family business tremendously, but it’s reached the point that I can barely breathe. I really need to hire some more people.

“Well, I’m glad I caught you,” she says.

“Oh, something important to say?”

“I need your advice.”

“Uh, okay.” Not sure my mom has ever called me looking for advice—it’s always the other way around.

“I’m texting you a few pictures right now. I need your help deciding on a few outfits I picked out for the cruise your dad and I are going on.”

“That’s . . . that’s why you’ve been calling all day? Outfit advice?”

“Of course, Nora. Diane and her husband will be there, and you know how judgmental she is when it comes to clothes. I don’t need her ruining my vacation with her little jabs.”

“Then maybe don’t let her—it’s an outfit, after all—or better yet, don’t hang out with her.”

“Oh, you know we’re bound to run into each other. They love shuffleboard just as much as we do.”

How could I forget? My phone buzzes with incoming photos.

“Did you get the pictures?”

“Yes,” I answer. “One second while I look at them.”

Stifling an annoyed sigh, I flip to her text messages and peruse outfits she picked out. Honestly, I have no idea what you’re supposed to wear on a cruise. I’m not sure why she thinks I’m the one to ask.

White shorts, floaty tropical tops, and a straw hat with a black ribbon.

They look cute.

But what has me almost giggling are the poses my mom has tried to pull off.

Hand on her hip, side jutted out.

One of the pictures is blurry.

In one, she has her leg up on a chair in the corner.

Another is of her in a tropical patterned bathing suit with a sarong. Her hand is behind her head, and I feel like she’s trying to kiss the camera . . .

Ooof, you just can’t unsee that.

“What do you think?” I hear her distantly ask.

I bring the phone back up to my ear. “They seem fine, Mom.”

“Fine?” she shouts. “Fine? That’s not the type of description I was going for. Can I get a little more enthusiasm?”

I can’t hold back a sigh this time. “Sorry, Mom. It’s just been a really long day. They’re all great options. I like the bold prints, the vibrant colors paired with the white shorts, and the bathing suit is flattering.” That was painful to get out, given my mental state, but that should be good enough.

“Your father thought the same thing.” Then why the hell is she asking me?