Emma: Lights! Camera! Cupcakes! (4 page)

“Emma, take the money. I can't have to fight to pay you ever time you come to work here, you silly goose,” said Patricia, pressing the envelope into my hand. “Look at Romaine and Samantha and how successful they've been. Don't you think those two ladies know what their work is worth? How do you think they got so far?”

“I guess,” I said awkwardly.

“Don't undervalue yourself, sweetie,” Patricia said, coming from behind the counter to put her arm around me and walk me to the door. “You're a professional, and you're worth every penny you make, if not more, okay?”

“Thanks,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “See you next week!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Wedding weekend!”

“Shh!” said Patricia with a wink.

Outside the store, I set out for the pickup area where my dad was waiting for me in the minivan. It was only short walk down the open main stairway and out the front doors of the mall below. I hadn't gotten ten feet from the front of the store, though, when a nice-looking young man said, “Excuse me! Miss!”

On instinct I turned around and slowed down a little, still heading for the stairs. My parents had always told me about not talking to strangers. I saw Dad in the car and gave a little wave, so he could see me. I could see him start to get out of the car. The man looked at him and waved.

“Hi, miss. John Cohane from
Celebrity
magazine. I just saw you exiting The Special Day. I wonder, could you please confirm for me that is where Romaine Ford's wedding dress came from?” He flashed a charming grin at me.

He'd said everything so fast, it took me a minute to process.
Celebrity
magazine? I stood stupidly frozen for a split second, then I realized what was happening, and I turned on my heel and started walking again, fast. I reached the top of the stairs and started jogging down them at a quick clip. He followed me.

“Miss! I'm not looking for a quote or a photo
or anything, just a confirmation? For
Celebrity
magazine.”

I was nearly sprinting now, but he was keeping up with me. I couldn't think of anything to say to get him away from me. I thought if I opened my mouth, I might give something away, but I felt like such a loser being mute.

I was scared and wished I could think of something clever to say to get this guy away from me.

My dad took a look at the guy keeping pace with me, and my fear and anger must've been written all over my face, because he came running around the front of the car and yelled, “Hey! You! Back off! You stay away from my daughter right now!” I had only heard him yell like that a few times, and it surprised me.

The reporter looked over in surprise. He put up his hands in the universal
I surrender
pose as I bolted into the back of the car.

“What the heck is going on here?” my dad asked, wheeling to face me.

“He's a reporter. From
Celebrity
magazine. He wanted to know about Romaine Ford's wedding dress.” I punched the door's close button, and the door began to slide shut.

“Stay away from us! And get a life!” yelled my
dad. I hadn't seen him so mad in ages.

Luckily, the reporter turned on his heel and quick marched back into the mall. My dad was muttering and returned to the front seat and shut his door.

“That guy had a lotta nerve!” he growled. “Chasing a child!”

I was shaking a little now. That had been scary, and it all happened so fast.

“I . . . I didn't know what to say . . . I was tongue-tied!” I said. I felt embarrassed.

“Good. I'm glad you didn't say a thing to that guy. You know you never, ever talk to strangers, and you always run and yell, like we taught you.” My dad looked at me in the rearview mirror. “I'm sorry that happened to you, sweetie. You did the right thing. Exactly the right thing. Never talk to strangers. And especially not to the press. And especially not about Romaine Ford. Mona and Romaine both trust you, and you always have to be true to your word.” He raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “I can't wait till this whole premiere thing blows over. It's ruining this town.”

“I know,” I agreed, and looked out the window.

And it's not just a premiere . . .,
I added silently.

I
couldn't wait for my mom to get home from Matt's game that morning. I was totally on edge, dying to talk to someone about the morning but completely unable to talk to my friends about it. Thank goodness I had no plans with them for the rest of the day or I would have burst.

Finally, I heard her car in the driveway, and I bolted down from my room, where I'd been practicing my flute, and careened out the back door to see her.

“Emma! My heavens! Is everything okay?” she said, spying me in my socks and cozy pants out in the driveway.

Matt clambered out of the front seat in his baseball uniform and looked me up and down from
head to toe, then just shook his head and walked inside.

“Mom!” I whispered loudly.

“What?” she whispered loudly back with a grin. She shut her car door and came around the back to me.

“Mom, be serious! I have to talk to you!” I said.

“Here?” she said, looking around. “Is the house bugged?”

I sighed. “When you are ready to be serious, then we can talk.” I tapped my socked foot on the blacktop.

My mom threw her arm around me and gave me a sideways squeeze. “I'm sorry, Emmy. You're just being so funny. What's up?”

“Mom, I've got to tell you something I'm not allowed to tell anyone!”

My mom looked mock-offended. “I'm not anyone? Gee, thanks!”

Finally, I blurted it all out in one sentence without stopping. “Mom, Romaine Ford is getting married next Saturday, and she's asked me to do the cupcakes instead of a wedding cake, but I can't tell anyone, and now I have to do it all by myself!”

“Whaaaaat?”

I stared at her without blinking. She'd heard me right. I wondered what she would say.

“Oh, honey, that is so exciting! Congratulations!” My mom clapped her hands in celebration, but I didn't really feel like celebrating. I was too stressed.

“But, Mom, I can't even tell my friends!”

“Oh, I'm sure it wouldn't matter if you just told . . .”

“I'm not allowed!” I practically yelled. “That's the problem. If word gets out, it could ruin the whole thing!”

I explained to her about Romaine being stalked by the press (I'd decided to wait to tell her about my run-in with the press because she would really freak out) and about how Romaine had specifically staged the premiere here to cover up the wedding and how all she'd ever wanted was a private backyard wedding in her mom's garden.

“Oh, that is so sweet and romantic!” said my mom, her eyes all wistful.

“Yeah, and I can't be the one to wreck it,” I said.

“Hmm,” said my mom. “Well, I can help you with the order!”

“Thanks. It might come to that. I mean, no offense, but I wish it was my friends. I'm not even
sure how to price these cupcakes, never mind make them all by myself.”

“Are they elaborate?” she asked.

“Mmm . . . well, I think we're going to do a plain white cake but different-colored pastel frostings. Maybe each with a different flavor.”

“Pretty!” said my mom.

“Yeah. Not too hard in terms of assembly. Just a little time-consuming to do all those mini batches of frosting. And she needs more than a hundred of them all together. Ten dozen. I want them to look perfect, though. And Mia and Katie usually do the decorating.”

“Wow. A hundred and twenty cupcakes?”

I nodded and watched a beagle mix named Skipper, one of my dog-walking clients, taking a walk across the street with my neighbor. I sighed. Walking dogs was an easier way to make money than baking for celebrity weddings.

“So what's your next step?” asked my mom.

I sighed. “I need to do a pricing e-mail and contract for Romaine and send it out to her today. I'll just use an old sample of Alexis's and kind of cut and paste it.”

My mom nodded. “Smart. Okay. Well, let me know if I can help.”

“Thanks. I feel better already just having someone to talk to about it. I'd like you to read over the e-mail before I send it, okay?”

“Sure. Can we go inside now? I'm dying for a cup of coffee!”

I laughed. “Let's go.”

That afternoon I struggled over the e-mail and finally came up with a draft that looked okay. Even though I called Romaine by her first name in person, Mom said I should address her by her last name in the e-mail. It said:

Dear Ms. Ford,

Thank you for your interest in Cupcake Club cupcakes for your event. We propose baking ten dozen white cupcakes, frosted in an assortment of six pastel frostings, each lightly flavored with an extract of your choice (suggestions include: lemon, raspberry, lavender, lime, orange, blueberry, and so forth).

Frosted cupcakes will be delivered for assembly by the Cupcake Club onto platters at the Ford Residence at ________ a.m. on Saturday, May 4.

Pricing will be $300.00. (That's still only $2.50 a cupcake—a bargain!)

Payment due upon receipt of cupcakes, please.

Many thanks for your continued business.

All the best,

Emma Taylor

The Cupcake Club

(555) 555-2129

I printed out the e-mail and trotted downstairs for my mom to review it again. She thought it looked great, so I went back upstairs and sent it. And then I sat at my computer and stared at my in-box for twenty minutes, hoping for a response.

I was nervous. Three hundred dollars was a lot of money, but it was a big and stressful job to do alone, and part of the price was for my silence.

Most of all I hated not being able to tell my friends. I felt like a traitor doing business as the Cupcake Club alone. It was probably illegal, now that I thought about it. Well, I could tell them all after the fact and then hand over the money to Alexis. That made me feel better.

I was dying to hear back from Romaine, but I finally decided busy celebrities might not even
answer their own e-mail, and it was a weekend, after all. I sighed and put my computer to sleep and went downstairs to watch baseball with my brothers. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

At dinner my dad told my mom about the reporter who had chased me, and my mom was shocked it hadn't been the first thing I'd told her.

“I didn't want you to not let me make the cupcakes,” I admitted with a shrug.

“What cupcakes?” asked Jake in confusion.

“Oh, it's a long story,” I said, and I widened my eyes at my mom to signal that she couldn't say anything.

Luckily, she got the message and nodded. “Well, you did the right thing, Em. The press can be very aggressive and you can see just from that little taste how hard it is for Romaine to preserve any semblance of privacy in her life.”

I nodded and took a sip of my milk.

“Any news?” asked my mom.

I shook my head. “I'll check after dinner.”

“News about what?” asked Jake.

“Long story,” I said again, and Jake sighed in exasperation.

“Why doesn't anyone ever tell me anything?”

“ 'Cause you're the baby,” I said, and I patted him on the head.

“Am not!” he said indignantly.

“Okay, kids,” said my dad.

“May I be excused?” I asked.

“Yes, you may,” my mom said, and I dashed up to my computer.

There in my in-box was a reply from Romaine! It said:

Hi, Emma—

Thanks for the contract. Everything looks great. Still need your guarantee of confidentiality—please don't tell your friends. I know it will be hard for you, but I think I might have an idea to help. Will be in touch tomorrow to discuss. Sleep well!

Xx, Ro

PS No need to do a tasting. I totally trust your judgment.