The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy) Read online

  “Candy, you said you were all packed.”

  “I am,” I say defensively. “There’s hardly anything left.”

  Colin is opening all the cupboards in the kitchen, and I feel the panic rising to my chest. They’re a lot fuller than I realized.

  “Um, those things were next!” I shout, running to meet him in the kitchen. “It’s really not that much.”

  He pulls a few things out and chuckles. “What did you do? Raid the William’s Sonoma warehouse?”

  “Do you have something against high-quality kitchen appliances?”

  “No,” he says. “But most of these boxes haven’t even been opened.”

  I shrug. “You never know when you’re going to need a…” I look at one of the boxes. “An electric cold cut slicer.”

  “Really? Can you think of one time it might come in handy?” he asks, and I’m starting to really dislike his cocky attitude toward my choice of appliances.

  “Perhaps I want to host a party and at the last minute I decide I want to make an anti-pasta tray, but all I have are…” Hmm, what’s it called when the meat is still in its whole form? “Large flanks of ham,” I finish, proud of my quick thinking.

  Colin’s lips are twitching with amusement and I don’t appreciate it very much. But in the end, he doesn’t laugh. He only says, “All right then. I suppose you do need a cold cut slicer.”

  He’s being facetious, but I pretend he’s not and simply say, “Thank you,” before pulling the panini press, deep fryer and vacuum food sealer from the next cabinet over. Hmm. Perhaps Colin has a point. I’m a high-end appliance whore, aren’t I?

  “Okay, you two. Stop assessing the goods and get packing. I want to finish this today.”

  Turns out, Holly is not only a professional decorator, but she’s a pretty amazing packer and organizer, too. After four hours of her cracking the whip, the truck is loaded and my apartment is empty. The elation I felt when we closed the door on the U-Haul dwindles as I stand in my empty living room, staring out at the Hudson River. My heart twists, and I do my best not to cry. It’s just an apartment, after all. It’s not that big of a deal, and I should feel lucky I have a home to go to now that I’ve been fired. I wouldn’t be able to renew the lease here in three months anyway.

  But three more months would have been better than no more months. It’s that thought that turns me into a blubbering mess. I turn all nostalgic and start doing things I never thought I’d do, like kiss the hardwood floors and stroke the doorjamb as if we’re two lovers being torn apart by our feuding families, never to meet again.

  By the time Holly and Colin come up to look for me, I’m huddled in a ball inside the sleek, porcelain Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.

  “Oh, boy,” Holly says. “The last time I saw her like this was when Mom made her donate her favorite Gucci sweater to the Project Winter drive at our school. Never mind she hadn’t worn that sweater in two years.”

  “It was my first piece of designer clothing!” I wail in defense of my tenth-grade meltdown.

  “Any suggestions?” Colin asks Holly as if I had said nothing.

  My sister sighs. “You may have to carry her.”

  I’m mortified by this suggestion and through my sobs, I say, “I can walk.”

  They both take a spot on either side of me, grab my arms and help me out of the tub. I don’t want to leave. I want to cling to my beautiful life for as long as I can. So I take a cue from a three-year-old and walk as slowly as possible, digging my heels into the hardwood on occasion. Colin and Holly are patient but persistent, and within a few minutes, we’re at the front door. I take one last blurry look at my beloved apartment before allowing them to lead me out the door. This might be the crappiest day of my life to date.

  ~*~

  The rest of the day goes by in a haze. I’m so depressed I can hardly muster a “Hi” for my parents when we arrive home. Thankfully, everyone leaves me alone, and I escape to the basement where I watch reruns on TBS for the rest of the day. I’m not sure what’s going on with the truck or my belongings, but no one bothers me about it, so I assume they have it under control. And it’s a good thing, because I love this episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. It’s the one with the bacon fat where Frank goes off on Marie.

  My phone rings just before the end of the episode. It’s Lucy. I called her a few days ago to tell her what happened, but she wasn’t available. We’ve continued to play phone tag, but I’m sure she’s heard about my sacking around the office. I don’t feel like taking the call, but I don’t want to leave her hanging any longer.

  “Hey, Luce,” I say, unable to muster any sort of enthusiasm in my voice.

  “Oh my God! Candace, what the hell happened? Where are you?”

  I sigh. I hate to relive the whole thing. “Oh, God, Lucy. It’s been an awful week.”

  “Clearly. You’re the talk of the office. No one can believe they fired you so soon after your promotion. And what’s this about a sweater?”

  I roll my eyes, though I’m not at all surprised Monica blabbed about my lunch hour sweater purchase. “Yeah, well, the sweater is the least of my worries. Listen, do your best to steer clear of Clyde, all right? He’s a real piece of work.”

  “Clyde? What did Clyde do? I heard you were sacked because you forgot to show up to an important meeting.”

  “A meeting I was never informed of, and I have my theories about why. Clyde said I could keep my job, but I was going to have to…get my hands dirty to do it.”

  “Candace, you were the youngest executive ever at Bell North. I would have done anything to keep that position!”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes! Of course!”

  “Even give a blow job to Clyde?”

  Silence. I knew that would shut her up.

  “You’re kidding me?” she finally says. “That’s what he wanted you to do?”

  “Well, he didn’t come right out and say ‘Hey, give me a bj,’ but it was close enough. Trust me. And when I refused, he sent Celia in to deal with me.”

  “Celia must be furious with him. You were her protégé.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure Celia was happy to see me go, especially after Clyde hit on me.”

  I give Lucy a moment for it to sink in. After a few seconds, there’s a loud gasp, followed by a drawn out “Nooooooooo!”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, my God! This is so unfair. You should sue them! They can’t fire you for not sleeping with Clyde. Hang on, I’m getting you my lawyer’s number.”

  “Wait! Lucy, no, I don’t want to do that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  I sigh, amazed that I’m not pursuing legal action against Bell North. “Listen, remember Madame Antoinette?”

  There’s a pause. I’m sure Lucy would rather forget all about that now that she’s carrying Steve’s child. “Yes,” she says, her tone clipped. “I remember.”

  “Well, while you were on the phone that day, she said something to me. She said ‘A career change will find you baking.’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I just thought she was a kooky old woman, but…I’m in Connecticut. And I’m taking over the family bakery.”

  “What?” Lucy sounds breathless, like she can hardly believe what she’s hearing.

  I know how she feels—I can hardly believe what I’m saying. “I know I’m not usually one to believe in fate and destiny and all that, but I have to believe this was supposed to happen this way. As much as it pains me to say this, I think I’m supposed to be here.”

  Lucy takes a moment. Everything is changing for both of us, and it’s a lot for anyone to try to wrap their mind around. “Well,” she says, “if you truly believe that, then I’m behind you one hundred percent.” There’s a slight pause and then she adds, “But I’m really going to miss you.”

  My eyes prick with tears for about the millionth time today. “I know,” I say. “I’ll miss you too.”

  Eight

  Well, here go
es nothing.

  I’m standing in the kitchen of Candy’s Confections, waiting for Mom to finish up whatever she’s doing on the floor so she can start teaching me how to bake. I’ve been outfitted in the requisite cupcake apron, and I have to admit, I look pretty cute. It’s pale blue with pink scalloping along all the edges, and though the topsy-turvy pastel cupcake pattern is hokey, the shape of the apron accentuates my waist nicely. I’m dressed a little more sensibly today than I was fifteen years ago for my first (and last) day on the job, but I still look good. Hair is swept into a ponytail, I’m wearing a short-sleeved white t-shirt from Calvin Klein, a pair of black leggings from Bebe, and my black and white Prada tennis shoes.

  I look around the kitchen and realize that without Mom, I don’t know my way around this place at all. It’s neat and orderly; everything is organized by task. Mixers are all lined up next to a giant silver table where all the muffin pans are stacked. Directly opposite is the frosting station with more mixers situated next to food coloring and cooling racks. The biggest table—an island in the middle of the room—must be for decorating.

  I’m fighting the panic that’s rising in my chest. How in the world am I supposed to learn about all this stuff before they leave? I would rather take Advanced Accounting again, and that was just about the biggest nightmare of my life.

  “All righty, dearest,” Mom says as she bounds through the swinging door to the kitchen. She’s wearing the apron, too, only hers is over an old pair of pleated khaki pants and a dark green t-shirt that has oil stains and flour all over it. Holly and I will definitely have to take her shopping before the cruise. We can’t have her in pleats, for heaven’s sake! “Are you ready to get started?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say. I can’t keep the apprehension from my voice, but Mom offers a reassuring smile

  “I just took a special order, so we’ll start with that.” She pulls a pink order form out of her apron pocket and sets it on the counter so we can both see. “This is for Stephanie Beach. She wants to give a half dozen Pucker Up cupcakes to her boyfriend.”

  I stare at the ticket, wondering how Mom knows which flavor Stephanie wants. “Mom, all it says is ‘dating three weeks and no kiss yet.’”

  “That’s right.” Mom crosses the room to the batter-making station and waves me over to join her. “So, we start by creaming the butter and the sugar together.” She measures both ingredients out and drops them into the mixer. While they’re “creaming,” she retrieves a carton of eggs from the other end of the counter. “We’re going to add each egg one by one.”

  With rapid-fire movements, she gently but firmly cracks each egg on the side of the metal bowl and it plops into the mixture. Should I be writing this down? Already it seems like a lot of steps and measurements, and we’ve just started. Crap.

  I look around for something to write on…and with.

  “Honey, are you listening?”

  I snap back to attention. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” It’s fine. I don’t need to write it down. We’ll be making plenty of batters over the next couple weeks, I’m sure I’ll get it down.

  “Good.” She pulls a giant bag of flour out from under the counter and dips a measuring cup into it. “One cup of flour. Then only half the milk…all the sour cream…another cup of flour…the rest of the milk…and finally, lemon extract, lemon zest and butter flavor.”

  Oh, God. My head is spinning. I should be writing this down.

  “Got that?” she asks, and I stare at her dumbly. “Candy, I know it’s a lot to learn, but I promise you’ll be fine. Just relax and you’ll see—soon it will be second nature.”

  I’m not convinced. Baking and second nature don’t really belong in the same sentence when it comes to me. But I have to trust her. She’s the only guidance I have. “All right,” I say, blowing out a long breath. “I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Next she pulls down a large muffin pan and a box of our special-made cupcake liners. I see the old logo that said Dottie’s Delights has already been changed. Wow. They were really counting on me to do this. I mean, the sign out front was one thing, but there must be thousands of cupcake liners stacked here.

  We fill the pan with the liners and then I reach for the bowl of batter.

  “Uh-uh,” Mom says, grabbing the bowl from me. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” I’m confused. I mean, I know I’m new to this whole baking thing, but I’m pretty sure the next step is to fill the liner thingies.

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She pulls her old wooden spoon from the pocket of her apron. She’s had that thing forever, and always kept it in her pocket, but I never realized she actually used it. I thought she was just afraid of losing it.

  “What, the mixer isn’t good enough for you?” I ask in that belligerent teenage girl way.

  She ignores my attempt at humor and instead hands me the spoon. I look at its swirly etchings and then back at my mom. “Uh, what am I supposed to do with this?”

  Mom takes a deep breath. “Close your eyes.”

  I stare some more, assessing my mom’s mental state. She seems too young for dementia, but perhaps she’s one of those rare cases. Does Dad know?

  “Candy, close your eyes!” Her tone is scarily close to “No more wire hangers!” so I do as I’m told. “Now, I want you to imagine the best kiss you’ve ever experienced in your life.”

  It’s true. Mom is officially losing it.

  “Candy!”

  I open my eyes. “What?”

  “You’re not doing it.”

  How does she know that? “Fine, I’m sorry.” I close my eyes again and try to conjure the best kiss I’ve ever had when the sad realization dawns on me: I’ve never had a truly great kiss in my life.

  Well, that sucks. And I don’t want to share this with my mother. However, I don’t really see a way around it.

  I open my eyes and look at her.

  “What?” she asks.

  I screw my face into a grimace. “Um, I’ve never had a…good kiss,” I admit.

  Mom stares at me as if she’s a bit shell shocked. I can’t blame her. Her almost-twenty-nine-year-old daughter hasn’t ever been kissed properly. She must be wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

  “Well, then you have to make something up,” she says, clearly avoiding the deeper issue and moving on to business.

  “Make something up?”

  “Is English not your first language? Yes. Make something up. Pretend. Close your eyes and imagine the perfect kiss with the perfect guy.”

  Okay. That’s easy enough. I close my eyes and an image of Colin comes to mind. I know he’s dating my sister and I shouldn’t lust after him, but he’s my destiny, isn’t he?

  “Focus, Candy,” Mom says, her voice low and trance-like.

  As much as I want to fight the image of my sister’s boyfriend, I’m aware that I’m running out of time, with my mom standing there staring at me. But it’s fine, right? Holly doesn’t have to know. No one has to know that I have a tiny, itsy-bitsy crush on Colin. So I decide to go with it.

  It’s a beautiful spring evening and we’ve just arrived at the Lover’s Bridge in Paris, a lock in hand so we can ensure our love forever. As we turn the key in our lock, it begins to drizzle, but we don’t care. We both love the rain, how it feels cool on our skin. How it turns the sky dark, and the lights on the bridge emit their romantic glow. Together, we toss the key into the Seine and then we turn to one another.

  “I love you,” he whispers, and then he lowers his head to mine, capturing my lips in the most tender, most romantic kiss I’ve ever known.

  “Now stir.”

  I hear Mom’s voice, but it sounds different. Almost like my own, only it’s not, because it’s coming from far away. Mom must have moved across the room. I stir, holding the memory of the kiss as I do.

  “All right, that’s enough!” Mom’s voice breaks into my reverie, and I let the spoon clank dully against the mixing bowl.

  “Now we put the line
rs into the pan and fill them halfway. Halfway, Candy. No more.”

  Geez. I understand what halfway means, but I try to curb my inclination toward copping an attitude. “Yup, got it.” I very carefully fill the liners to the halfway point using an ice cream scooper. It takes me forever, but I’m proud of myself when I’m done.

  “Beautiful, sweetheart!” Mom says as she assesses my work. “Now we just pop them into a 350 degree oven for sixteen minutes.”

  “Wow! That was easy.” I plop down on the stool and stare at my nails. I could definitely use a manicure. Maybe that little place up the street does okay work—

  “Time for frosting!”

  “Frosting?” I look up and Mom is already on the other side of the kitchen, pulling things out of the fridge and cabinets.

  “You have eaten cupcakes before, Candy. I would expect you to know there’s frosting on top of them.”

  “Oh, right…I just…” I realize what I’m about to say might be the dumbest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth, but it’s true. “I thought we used the canned stuff.”

  Several utensils clatter to the metal table. Mom turns around, fury burning in her blue eyes. “Canned? All these years you thought I was serving canned frosting to our customers?”

  “Well, not completely canned. I thought you did it like that Semi-Homemade gal on the Food Network. You know, the one who will add a drop of lemon to canned vanilla frosting? Or a little cinnamon to the chocolate.” I shrug. “Sorry. I thought it would be really complicated and time consuming to make your own frosting.”

  Mom closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. “Candy,” she says, very slowly, pressing her palms to the metal table, “we make everything—everything—from scratch. Got that?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Now get over here.”

  With my proverbial tail between my legs, I cross the room to my mother. She’s clearly not happy with me. There’s a giant chip on her shoulder now, and she’s acting business-like all of a sudden. I make a mental note to think before I speak in the future.