Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder

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СКАЧАТЬ save my life, I went down to Big Sugar Bakeshop on Ventura and had them bake a two-layer chocolate fudge cake with buttercream frosting. Then I stuck the silver charms in between the layers of the cake, careful to leave the ribbons hanging out in full view but the charms hidden.”

      “How long did it take you to do that?” Seema asks me with a hint of disapproval.

      “And make it look pretty? About three hours,” I am forced to admit.

      The girls widen their eyes at me. I shrug. “What can I say? Since losing my job, I’ve discovered the joys of making a mess in the kitchen, needlepoint, and doing vodka shots at noon.”

      As Seema snags a finger full of frosting, I watch Mel inspect the ribbons closely. Mel’s interest is clearly piqued. “So if someone picks the engagement ring, does that mean they’re the next to get engaged?”

      “Right,” I tell Mel as I point to her. “That’s the one you’re going to get. And I’m making sure the baby carriage goes to Heather . . .”

      “Is she the one at your old job doing the IVF?” Seema asks.

      “Yeah. Poor thing has gone through three cycles already. Oh, and speaking of people from my old job, my friend Carolyn was fired during the latest round of layoffs, so she gets the typewriter.”

      “Wait. How do you know which charm everyone’s going to get?” Seema asks.

      I look at her like that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. “I rigged the cake.”

      Mel eyes me suspiciously. “How do you rig a cake?”

      I proudly point to a red toothpick at the bottom of the cake, ever so slightly hidden by gobs of vanilla buttercream. “See that toothpick there? When we put out the cake, I’ll make sure the toothpick faces me at the table. Since everyone has a place card, I know exactly where each woman will be sitting. With that chart in mind, I slipped the perfect charm for each girl’s future into the part of the cake closest to her.”

      I grab my purse from the dining room table and pull out a folded paper map. I unfold the map to show Seema and Mel a giant circle with twenty-four spokes radiating out of it. On the outside of each spoke is a guest’s name and inside the spoke is the charm they will get. I point to where Mel will sit. “For example, Mel, here you are . . . ,” then I point to a ribbon on the cake, “and here is your corresponding charm: the ring. Seema, you’re here. And here’s your charm: the red hot chili pepper. Which means you’ll be the next one to have a red hot romance.”

      Mel promptly pulls her assigned ribbon from the cake.

      “What are you doing?” I exclaim.

      She looks at the silver solitaire ring attached to the ribbon. “Just making sure your map works.”

      I grab the charm from her. “It works!” I insist as I carefully slide the ring back between the cake layers. “I spent a long time on this. Don’t mess it up.”

      Seema laughs to herself. “So that’s what you think I need most in my life? Hot sex?”

      “Don’t all people need hot sex in their lives?” I counter.

      “Fair enough. But why can’t I pick which charm I want?” Seema asks. She takes the list from me and reads, “Like the wishing well, why can’t I have that?”

      “What would you wish for? Scott?” I ask knowingly.

      I can tell from the way Seema shrugs her shoulders that I’m right about that one.

      “Okay,” Seema concedes. “But what about the hot air balloon? I’ve always wanted to go to Napa and take a ride in a hot air balloon.”

      “No,” I say, shaking my head determinedly. “The hot air balloon is for my friend Julia. It symbolizes adventure and travel. She’s never been out of California. It’s time.”

      “Why wouldn’t you want the hot air balloon?” Mel asks me as she looks over Seema’s shoulder to read the chart.

      “I’m already spending two weeks in Italy for my honeymoon. I don’t need more travel,” I tell her. Then I let them in on my dream. “No. What I want is the shovel.”

      Mel furrows her brow. “What’s the shovel stand for?”

      I smile proudly. “A lifetime of hard work.”

      Seema and Mel exchange a concerned look. Seema shakes her head. “Sometimes I worry about her.”

      “Seriously, I have to get back to work. I’m going nuts at home.”

      Seema nods, then says sarcastically, “Yeah, it must be terrible having to sleep past five in the morning.”

      I cross my arms. “Actually, for me it is—”

      I’m about to begin a diatribe when Seema’s doorbell rings.

      My guests have arrived.

      I point to the toothpick, then to Mel. “When you bring out the cake, make sure the toothpick faces me. You’ll get your ring, I’ll get my shovel, Seema will get her pepper. Be diligent. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

      • • •

      Two hours, three new toasters, four place settings, and one obvious regift later, my gaggle of female guests are tipsy, well fed, and (most importantly) sitting in their assigned seats.

      Mel brings out the cake for dessert. I am treated to a bunch of “ooohs” and “aaahs” from the group.

      Mel places the cake about three feet from me, in the center of the table. As we planned, she is careful to place the covered red toothpick dead center in front of me.

      I give everyone a brief history of the cake pull: an old Southern tradition, charm reveals your future: blah, blah, blah. Then I hold up a sheet of pastel-pink paper. “Each of you has a chart like this one under your place cards. The list will tell you what your charm means. Okay, now, everyone, I want you to loop your finger through the ribbon closest to you . . .”

      They all do exactly as I instruct, each girl putting her index finger into the correct satin loop. I do a quick mental scan of the table to make sure everyone has their finger in the right loop. Then I put my finger through my assigned white loop, and say, “On your mark. Get set. PULL!”

      I hear a cacophony of laughter and delight as we all pull out our charms.

      And I pull . . . the baby carriage.

      Shit.

      As the women begin licking the cake crumbs and frosting off of their charms and reading their pink charts, I hear our friend Ginger squeal, “Oh my God! I got the diamond ring! That means I’m the next to get engaged, right?”

      That can’t be right. Ginger’s been dating her boyfriend Jeff for all of three months. She was supposed to get the fleur-de-lis, which means “Love will blossom.”

      I look over at Mel, whose face has fallen as she watches our friend Ginger show СКАЧАТЬ