35. Marnie

It’s too damn hot.

RayAnne failed to mention that the reception hall was in a barn.

Without air conditioning.

My chocolate mouse cups are wilting and the cheesecakes are sweating.

I air out my arms, realizing I’m sweating, too.

I’m a mess. My hair is in, what can charitably be called, a messy bun. I’m wearing one of my college tees and a frosting-smudged pair of jeans. My fingers are dyed from the watercolor icing and I’m exhausted.

And I haven’t been this proud of my work for a long time.

I’ve done more weddings than I can count, and it’s felt like a long parade of whatever was trending on Pinterest that season.

No personality.

No story.

But RayAnne, the sweet, late bloomer, inspired me. So did these wide-open prairies. The big sky. The cheerful wildflowers.

I really put my heart into this one and it’s been a long time since I slowed down and took the time to do that.

Mimi’s was a smash success in Lincoln. It grew at a sprint. I went from making humble homespun cakes to catering fancy fundraisers. Huge, showy weddings. Right before the fire, I was in the process of hiring more pastry chefs, because the six I had working for me couldn’t keep up with the demand.

I was proud of my success, but that very same success had taken me away from doing what I loved.

Baking.

Putting my heart into it.

I shove my hair out of my face and glance at the cake table. Dusty’s not far away from it. It’s like my body has Dusty radar. He looks annoyingly good in a pair of black slacks and a light blue dress shirt.

Like… damn.

I’m trying to tell myself that I’m not at all impressed by how good he cleans up. That clean-shaven jaw. The artfully styled tousled hair.

Or by the way that dress shirt is straining to contain his broad shoulders.

Who am I kidding? The man is a God-damned treat.

My rational side is nursing a bruised ego, but my lower half is his number one fan.

I’ve been painfully aware of where he is and who he’s talking to all night. My gaze finds him like a heat-seeking missile, and I instantly look away.

He’s talking to that skinny bitch again. The one Andy says I have nothing to worry about. My simmering anger ignites yet again. Does she have to look that stunning? She’s got on a little black dress that looks like it was painted on, exposing miles of perfect, shapely legs.

Yeah.

Nothing to worry about.

I find myself desperately wishing I had taken the time to dress up. Even just a little.

And not just for Dusty’s sake.

But… mostly for Dusty’s sake.

I just didn’t expect to be as involved as I have been. Usually, my assistants would transport the cakes. Arrange them. Talk to the wedding directors.

I forgot how much customer facing work is involved with wedding duty.

RayAnne sweeps up, looking darling in an antique lace wedding gown.

She’s got tears in her eyes.

Uh-oh.

Missed the mark. The bride isn’t happy.

Her mother trails behind her with a solemn expression on her face.

I reach out to touch her arm. “RayAnne. Is everything okay?”

“Okay?”

She pauses in front of me, then drags me into her scratchy bodice. “It’s perfect.”

RayAnne pulls back, dabbing at the tears threatening to ruin her makeup. “Would you take a photo with the cake?”

“A picture of the cake?”

I look around, wondering where her photographer is. As it happens, he’s lingering by the cake table, waiting for us.

“No, I want a picture of you and the cake.”

Well, this is a strange request.

And now I’m really and truly wishing I’d bothered with makeup. “I’m a mess.”

She pauses, scanning my face. She gives me a dry laugh. “Honey, you could go roll around in the straw over there and still look better than everyone in here.”

“Not counting you, my dear.”

Barb inserts.

“Sure, mom.”

RayAnne looks at me, offering me her elbow. “Coming?”

“On one condition.”

I snag my phone. “You let me take a picture of you for my Instagram account.”

She glances back at her mom, grinning. “Oh my God. I’ve seen her Instagram account. It’s beautiful.”

I hook my arm around hers. “Shall we?”

We take a few photos with her photographer, and then a few selfies for social media.

They’re my first customers after what seemed like the end of the world.

And thanks to a single wedding cake, I’m starting to feel like my old self again.

I post the photo of the three of us and the cake to my feed with the caption The Phoenix Rises.