The Cake Therapist by Judith Fertig Read Free Book Online Page A

somewhere behind all that Queen of the Dark was a fresh young girl. Last year, when I had gone to visit my old high school art teacher, Jett was the one I saw doing the most exquisite work—her clay modeling, charcoal drawing, and her sense of color all pointed to real talent. I was hoping she’d stay here after graduation and go on to art school in the area. But it wasn’t easy for anybody to get past her scary, hard-ass exterior. I couldn’t imagine her interviewing for another job and getting the notice she deserved.
    “You know we’re glad to have you with us, don’t you? And at least you’ll never go hungry working here,” I said.
    “Yeah. Everything else sucks, but I like it here.”
    “Good.” What else could I say? But Maggie was right. Jett wasn’t ready for prime time.
    I was going to have to get more help. But I didn’t want to hire anyone else full-time unless I knew the business could sustain an additional employee.
    My mom would come in if I were desperate. And maybe Norb’s wife. Poor Norb.
    My phone rang and I grabbed it from the pocket of my trousers.
    “Come over for dinner tonight,” Mom wheedled. “Before you tell me you don’t have time, think about this: We’re having cottage ham and green beans.”
    “Are you making dinner or is Aunt Helen?”
    “I am.”
    “Sure, Mom. And I’ll bring dessert. What time?”
    “Whenever you’re finished. I’ll just keep everything warm until you get here.”
    I tapped my phone off and felt as if I had just been enveloped in a warm, familiar sweater. My mom’s home cooking.
    If it were Aunt Helen’s turn for dinner, I would have found some excuse, not that I didn’t love her, of course. But she was too fond of taking cooking shortcuts that didn’t work out most of the time. Her exploding cottage ham that covered the kitchen in dark pink shreds was a disaster we still talked about.
    Cottage ham, that cured and hickory-smoked pork shoulder that Millcreek Valleyites loved, needed long, slow cooking with green beans and onions. To go with it, Mom would make real mashed potatoes, while Aunt Helen would have grabbed a box of instant flakes and turned them into a gluey mess.
    When I finally finished up about seven p.m., the parking lot was dark and cold. I didn’t feel like walking over to Mom’s small house on Church Street, so I drove the short distance.
    As I passed Mrs. Elmlinger’s dark brick bungalow where I used to take piano lessons, I saw her concrete goose dressed up like Lady Gaga, safe from snow and sleet on her front porch. Her students must still think she was really cool. Mrs. Elmlinger always chose a musical theme for her goose outfits—Mozart, John Philip Sousa, even Elton John—so she had to sew many of them herself.
    If you wanted your goose dressed up like a high school graduate, a nurse, a pirate, or a football player, you could find ready-made outfits at any gift shop. But the whole point to this yard art was to have a little fun and make your own statement. If you didn’t sew, you could always buy a wackier goose outfit at the craft and antique mall farther down on Millcreek Valley Road.
    Mom’s goose nested under the overhang of the front stoop of the small brick workman’s cottage that she shared with Aunt Helen, Dad’s sister. Mom always stuck to the tried and true; her goose was dressed like Cupid, complete with a bow and arrow slung over its wing. She must have just changed its snowman outfit in the past few days. If Aunt Helen had been in charge, the goose would have morphed regularly into Indiana Jones and Han Solo—like her other sixtysomething friends, she still had the hots for Harrison Ford.
    Inside, Mom puttered in the kitchen while Helen watched
Jeopardy!
I gave them both a peck on the cheek, then slung my coat over the back of the sofa.
    “Want a whiskey ssshhour?” Helen asked. “I’m ready for one.” She sounded like she really meant “another one.”
    One of Helen’s cocktails actually sounded