Speak of the Devil’s Food Cake—
extra potent chocolate for rich color and a heaviness that’s sure to sit in your stomach like an anvil
The promise of coffee propels me down the stairs, dressed and already braced for the comment from my mother about how I slept late. I head for the kitchen, and before I reach the doorway, I hear the clink of a cup on a stone counter. As I step through, she’s pulling a tea bag from a tin.
“Good morning,” she says without looking up, “or should I say good afternoon.”
I smile at the predictability of it. “Oh, come now,” I say, amused. “It’s only 11:15. I’ve been known to sleep till two.” Humor is the only way I survived our relationship as a teen. Of course, my jokes were largely underappreciated, but you can’t have everything.
I pull a bag of coffee beans out of the cupboard and switch on the coffee maker.
She glances up at me, her steaming kettle poised to pour. “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she announces and I stifle a smile. “I just don’t know how you can get anything done when you miss half your day.” Her tone is perfunctory, not like it’s an insult but a matter of fact.
“I manage,” I say. It’s difficult to resist the urge to defend myself—to explain how I usually average only six hours a night between picking up freelance catering work, hunting for a job in a patisserie or upscale restaurant, and taking business classes at the community center to one day start my own café. Not to mention that I spent what tiny savings I had to get us here and now I have jetlag. But I know that if I say those things we’ll be back to my least favorite conversation, the one that involves all my squandered potential.
“I guess you do,” she replies, dunking her tea bag in her porcelain cup.
We’re silent for a long minute, her tidying the counter and me waiting for her fancy coffee machine to spit out my frothy single cup. Normally I would brew a double, but all her coffee cups are small 8 oz things. She doesn’t possess a shelf of mismatched mugs of varied sizes with cartoon cats, bad wine jokes, and keepsakes from Yellowstone like the rest of the world. Hers are a matching set, too small to support coffee fiends and too delicate to give to children for hot cocoa; they’re basically useless.
Mom seats herself at the small breakfast table in front of the large window overlooking her backyard. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, opening the refrigerator to survey my milk options. “Jake is coming to get Spence in a few minutes to take him to lunch, which means I’ll probably spend the afternoon job hunting.”
“Jake?” my mother says, her eyebrow lifted in objection. “That’s a surprise.”
I close the refrigerator door, opting to drink my coffee black over using the 2 percent. At home, I make my own creamer, a decadent mixture of coconut milk, cinnamon, vanilla extract, and dates, and while I didn’t expect her to have anything like that, I was hoping for the farm-fresh heavy cream Dad always kept.
“Yeah,” is all I say. “He seems to have grown up a bit.”
My mother harrumphs into her cup, and while I agree with her that Jake isn’t winning any prizes in the responsibility department (given the nonexistent child support that he always promises to pay, but doesn’t), I also don’t want to have that conversation with the possibility of Spence overhearing. He doesn’t need my mom’s take on how Jake screwed up my life and then didn’t have the decency to marry me. Not that I wanted to marry him.
As if we spoke him into existence, the doorbell rings and my mother frowns. I swipe my coffee off the counter, unwilling to let it get cold, and make my way toward the front door.
“I’ll get it!” Spence yells from the stairs as he barrels down them. He flies past me and yanks open the front door. “Dad!” he exclaims, diving in for a hug.
Jake’s dirty blond hair is relatively short and very neat in comparison to his younger surfer days, perfectly highlighting his gold-hued skin. His smile is big and warm—probably his best feature—and he eagerly embraces Spence. “Hey there, kid.”
“Come in,” I offer.
He steps into the foyer, which is really just a slightly wider section of the hallway that houses the staircase, closing the door behind him. Jake looks from Spence to me, his grin widening. “Hey, Maddi.” He has a way of saying my name, emphasizing it, that is so charming that I have a flashback of him as a teen, tanned and glistening in the waves at our town beach.
“Would you like some coffee?” I offer, raising my cup.
But it’s my son who answers. “No time, Mom. Too much to do.”
Jake and I both laugh, which feels odd. We don’t have a strained relationship the way many separated parents do, most likely because we didn’t have much of a relationship to begin with, but we don’t have a congenial one, either. While I never expected Jake to step up given the circumstances, I also didn’t realize how much his lack of involvement would affect my kid, or me for that matter. Because that’s the thing about being a parent—someone hurting your kid’s feelings is so much worse than that person hurting yours. And for reasons unknown to me, Spence idolizes Jake, making the situation feel all the more precarious.
“You heard him, Jake. No coffee for you,” I say with an ease I don’t feel.
Jake rubs Spence’s head, a gesture he probably picked up from dads in movies. “Why don’t you come with us, Maddi? After pancakes, we’re going to the holiday market.”
I shake my head. I know Spence was hoping for some alone time with his dad. Not to mention there’s no way I’m going to the packed holiday market on a Saturday afternoon, no matter how much I enjoyed it as a kid. I know my presence there will only inspire gossip.
But again, it’s my son who answers, “Mom has this benefit thing,” quickly dismissing my possible intrusion on father-son time.
I hear my mother’s steps falter behind me and I wince. I didn’t get around to telling her about the benefit, and I’d really rather she didn’t know about me hitting Liv’s car.
“Jake,” my mother says coolly.
“Mrs. DeLuca,” he replies. “You’re looking lovely as always.”
Leave it to Jake to try to sweet-talk my mother of all people.
“Enjoy your afternoon,” Mom replies, not responding to his compliment.
Jake’s eyes find mine. “Maybe you’ll join us next time?” he says and there seems to be some unspoken question there, besides the obvious one, that is.
But I don’t find out what because Spence is already bundled up. He gives me a fast hug, agreeing to call me in a few hours with an update, before flying outside with his dad.
The second the door closes, I feel my mother’s eyes on me. “Benefit?” she says, her interest piqued. “The Buenaventura Benefit?”
I give her a wary smile. “That’s the one.”
“I wasn’t aware you were in touch with—”
“I’m not,” I say, cutting her off before she can say Wilder’s name. While in my mother’s estimation Jake is a reprehensible scoundrel of the highest regard, Wilder Buenaventura is a god among men. Cue the mental eye roll. “I ran into Liv on my way into town.” For a brief second, I consider telling her the double meaning of my sentence, but it would involve admitting exactly how broke I am, so I decide against it.
“Well! Isn’t that something,” she exclaims. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
I head for the stairs, coffee in hand. The anxiety I had efficiently buried about going to the benefit rises to the surface. “Nope.”
“Maybe we should go shopping,” she says, and I sigh. This is what gets her excited—me going to a party she approves of. Not that I’m surprised; she’s prided herself on her friendship with the Buenaventuras since forever. They’re the ultra-wealthy socialites she has been trying to reclaim her status among since she found herself tossed in with the commoners thirty years ago—the first and only time my mother ever broke the “rules.” And while she always loved my father and I never got the sense she regretted her decision to marry him, she didn’t hide the fact that she resented her parents for stripping her of her inheritance. She hasn’t talked to them since and likely never will.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face her. “I’m sure I have something in my suitcase.”
“It’s black tie, Madeline,” she says more insistently, as though I just rode in on my horse and spit tobacco onto her clean floor.
“I know, Mom.” I refrain from telling her that I knew better than to show up here without formal clothes.
“And the Buenaventuras are my closest friends.” But what she really means is that their name is practically carved into the bedrock of this Massachusetts harbor town—and that she doesn’t want me to embarrass her.
Too effing late on that one.
“I’m going upstairs to do some work on my computer,” I say, cutting the conversation short.
She gives me a perfunctory nod and walks away. I stare after her for a long second, wishing one or both of us were better at this. I can’t help but wonder if things might have been easier if my mother had another child like she wanted. If my parents might have stopped trying to mold me into the perfect daughter, or if simply having someone else to talk to would have changed things when I inevitably let them down.
* * *
Liv trills her horn in my driveway and I grab my black peacoat from the closet, briefly assessing myself in the hall mirror and hoping my favorite red dress gives me the confidence I need to make it through this evening. “I’ll be back soon, Mom!” I holler.
Two seconds later my mother appears in the living room doorway (Eleanor does not yell from adjoining rooms like an uncouth bar patron, or so she’s told me many times). She gives my dress a once over. It’s floor length and has a slit up one thigh, but is otherwise pretty plain. What it lacks in frills, it makes up for in fit, hugging my body in all the right ways.
She raises an eyebrow, refraining from comment, which if I’ve learned anything from my seventeen years in this house, is approval sprinkled with a dash of disapproval just to stay on brand. “Have fun,” she says. “And tell the Buenaventuras I send my regards.” As she finishes her sentence, I realize that she’s not coming. I mean, I knew she wasn’t coming, but it hadn’t occurred to me until just now that it was unusual. I was so caught up in my own worries that I’d forgotten my mother’s status as the unofficial social chairwoman of Haverberry. And the only conclusion I can draw is that she isn’t going because my dad isn’t going, because they always did these things together.
“Mom . . .” I say, now feeling guilty about turning down her shopping offer.
“Be sure to thank Liv for the invitation,” she says, steamrolling the sentiment that is probably showing on my face. “The benefit has been sold out for weeks, you know.”
I sigh, aware that the divide between us is just too large. “I will.” I throw on my coat, giving her a quick smile before I slip out the door.
The air outside is frigid and I pull my wool collar tight around my neck.
Liv leans over the console and pushes open the car door for me. “Get in, beauty! We’re late,” she says as I slide into the heated passenger seat.
Her dark hair is pinned into an elegant French twist with an antique studded hair comb as an accent. And her dress, which is angled and high fashion, is midnight velvet blue. She’s breathtaking.
I glance at her car clock that reads 6:15 p.m., exactly what she told me in her text. “I thought you said—”
She cuts me off with a mischievous grin as she reverses out of my driveway so fast that I fear whiplash. “I did. We’re intentionally late. I figured we’d show up just before dinner, eat, and then hit the bar while everyone drones on? But apparently there’s been some mishap with the sound system and Mama Buenaventura is all revved up.” Liv says their last name with a touch of an accent, a nod to the Spanish and Italian her family speaks fluently.
“Oh,” I say, worry working its way onto my forehead. I haven’t seen her family in nearly ten years and unlike mine, they aren’t ones to hide their disapproval in puritanical silence. The thought of seeing them now with Mrs. Buenaventura in a bad mood, makes me wonder if I should jump out of this moving vehicle with a tuck and roll.
Liv grins at me as she races down the street at an ungodly speed. She drives like the bad boy of parental legend. And the nostalgia of her, the way she moves and speaks, hits me so hard that I momentarily feel fifteen again. I remember her first car—a sleek red BMW whose gas pedal she also abused. Liv wasn’t the handholding older sister who was determined to ease Wilder and me through our awkward phase by taking us under her wing, she was more of the you learn from your mistakes type. But more often than not, she offered us a ride to school. And those days—parking in the front of the lot with the older kids, walking into school with Liv and her popular friends—I felt invincible.
“So,” she says without pause. “Are you dating anyone?”
“Uh,” I say, gripping the car door as she takes a sharp turn. “Not recently. I don’t tend to date in front of Spence. Plus, I haven’t had much time these days.”
“What’s it like?” she asks. “Having a nine-year-old at twenty-six . . . seven?”
I’ve been asked this question many times, and it’s usually less about the question and more about the subtext. But her approach is direct and there’s no judgment lingering in her tone.
“Twenty-seven,” I say, and decide to answer her honestly. “I’m not going to say it’s easy. I mean I worry more about him than I ever thought possible, and I often wonder if I’m getting it right. But Spence’s also the single brightest thing in my life. He’s my best friend and I swear I learn more from him than the other way around. The other day I told him the word he used was made up and he just shrugged and said: ‘Yeah, but all words are made up.’”
She smiles. “Kids are funnier than adults.”
“They really are,” I agree. I’m about to ask her about her life, but she’s too quick.
“How’d you do it, Mads?” she says, not looking at the road as much as I think she should. “How’d you move to LA pregnant and make it work at seventeen?” While her tone is as direct as before, I swear I catch a little bit of something else, almost like awe.
I sigh. “I think I’m in for this question a lot tonight.”
A small laugh escapes her matte red lips. “Damn. You’re right. The gossip hounds will be out in full force. Consider my question officially stricken from the record.”
“Nah,” I say. “It’s fine. You’re Liv—you get a pass.”
“I really am her. And yes, I deserve all the passes. Please and thank you.”
I take a moment to consider it. “Honestly? I don’t know how I did it. I was deeply stubborn and pretty pissed off that everyone was either telling me what to do or telling me what I’d done wrong. I had my college fund, the one my parents saved for me since I was born—”
“Vassar?” she says, and hearing it out loud makes my chest tighten.
Choosing to use that money to set up a new life instead of going to school was the single hardest decision I’ve ever made. Not moving to LA pregnant, not going to culinary school on the nights and weekends while simultaneously working behind the counter in a bagel shop. Letting go of Vassar hurt. I even deferred for a year, convinced that once I got on my feet that I’d find a way to make it work. But by the end of that year, I couldn’t manage the expense, my work, and an infant all at once. My parents did show up briefly when Spence was eight months old. But their trip took the form of an ultimatum—either I moved home or my life would inevitably descend into ruins. To which I told them I had proudly taken up the DeLuca torch of resentment and preferred to suffer in silence the way only a true New Englander could. They didn’t think it was funny.
I sigh again, big and heavy.
“Okay, that’s it. We’re changing the subject,” she says. “I know this sounds unbelievably stupid, but I hadn’t thought my question through properly or the serious territory it might lead to. I half expected you to say, ‘I’m a goddamn mommy superhero, so suck it.’ And while I’m all for serious conversations, they should be had over expensive whiskey and not when we’re beholden to the extra depressing obligation of sitting through a long dinner with my family.”
I smile at her, happy for the out. “Okay, then, what about you?” I say, following her lead. “Are you dating anyone?”
“There you go. That’s the kind of fluff I’m here for,” she says with a sparkling smile. “As it so happens, I’m dating a model from New York. But I mostly just see her on weekends and it’s not that serious.”
I smile. Of course she’s dating a model. “It’s Saturday. You didn’t want to bring her with you?”
She chuckles. “Not if I want to keep seeing her. You know as well as I do that my parents’ idea of small talk consists of alma maters and real estate fluctuations.” She rolls her eyes. “Be honest, would you have come if you didn’t feel obligated?”
Her straightforwardness catches me by surprise and I half-laugh half-choke. And once again I have the urge to tell her the truth: that I’m nervous about seeing her family after all these years, and slightly ill over the possibility of seeing Wilder. I desperately want to ask her if he’ll be there, but before I work up the nerve, her car jerks to a stop in front of The Black-Eyed Susan, a sprawling historic inn on the edge of town.
She’s immediately out of the car and headed around the side of the inn instead of up the front porch. I follow as she speeds along the stone path, her long dress in hand, and through a side door. She walks the way she drives, fast and with enviable confidence. We step into a large kitchen and the scent of cherry pie in browned buttered crust wafts my way. Maybe she didn’t want to get slowed down by having to say a million hellos at the front door?
Liv stops and turns to me, shrugging her coat off. “Would you mind terribly hanging this up for me? I need to find Mom before she hyperventilates.”
For a second, I hesitate. She’s leaving me already? No regret or bolstering words about how I’ll do great out there on my own (I won’t). But there’s no way to refuse, and if I’m honest, she’s always been like this—full steam ahead. As a teen, she once told me she could never do what Wilder and I did. How we were never apart, how even when we were together, we went out of our way to check in with one another. She vastly preferred when people did their own thing and let her run free.
“Yeah, of course. No problem,” I say.
With a quick thanks and a promise of a forthcoming drink, she speeds off through the kitchen and out the far door that leads to the party. For a split second, I consider spending the rest of the night right here, offering up my baking skills in exchange for refuge. It’s with great reluctance that I weave my way around racks of hors d’oeuvres and push through the same door Liv did, trading the delicious scents of the kitchen for a warm elegant dining room full of small-town sharks.
A stage is set up to my right and a crackling fireplace lights the far wall, whose mantel is draped with pine garlands interspersed with festive candles. The guests mill about with their glasses of wine, many of whom I recognize from school, from my mom’s clubs, or as business owners in town. Whatever courage I gleaned from Liv’s vivaciousness, fizzles out. It’s not that I’m a wuss; I’m categorically not. In LA I’m outspoken and outgoing, equally happy to jump on a field trip bus and wrangle elementary school kids as I am designing a catering menu for a posh event. But right now, I feel like I’m back on that baking show, fingers crossed and heart pounding, hoping everything will work out for once.
“It’s been an exhilarating couple of months,” the Ultimate Bake Off host says in his perky camera-ready voice. “Twelve contestants, jumping through impossible baking hoops, with lots of sugar and more than a few tears.”
I glance into the wings of the stage as a crew member repositions a light. Spence gives me a thumbs-up, but despite his enthusiasm, he looks just as nervous as I feel. I pull a face in response, grabbing my mouth and pretending to gag to erase the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. Spence rolls his eyes like I’m super embarrassing but laughs all the same. The director calls for action and I straighten my posture and readjust my eyes forward.
“Here we are with our three amazing finalists . . .” the host continues, “who have made everything from patisserie to four-tiered cakes. And, now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” He pauses dramatically, my stomach growling as I swallow down stomach acid. “The winner . . .” The table of judges stares at the three of us with frozen smiles, the cameras panning across their faces and ours. “Of Ultimate Bake Off is . . .”
My chest squeezes. I cross my fingers behind my back. Please, please, please.
“Cindy!” the host exclaims, and my heart constricts as the woman to my right lights up. My stomach flips aggressively, and the room blurs, people moving around me and possibly talking to me, not that I hear them.
I don’t know if Cindy yells in victory or cries from overwhelm. Or even if the director calls cut. All I know is that in short order I’m seated on a pink plush armchair in the “commenting room” for a one-on-one.
“Tell us, Maddi,” the host says, “how do you feel now that it’s all over?”
I swallow. “I don’t know,” I reply, my voice unfamiliar and quiet.
“Are you disappointed with how things ended?” he asks and despite his understanding tone, I bristle.
My discomfort must be obvious because he tries again, “You told us on week three that if you had won you wanted to use the money to start your own dessert truck in LA?”
My eyes find his, not really in the best control of myself, worry seeping through my frayed edges over the mistakes I made on my final piece, upset by the hope I allowed this show to represent, and just plain frustrated that I’m finding it impossible to plaster a smile on my face and say something like, “Yes, but I’ll get there one way or another. This show has been a ride and I learned a lot. Onward and upward.”
Instead, I stare at the host, my chest tight, searching for words.
The host sighs, dropping some of his stage voice. “You were a great contestant, Maddi. Take it from someone who’s been part of seven seasons. And you’re driven. That’s obvious to anyone who saw you bake.”
But instead of comforting me, the praise stings. I find myself shaking my head. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
I know I shouldn’t answer, that he doesn’t need anything more than a sound bite, but some part of me feels reckless—emotions jumbled and stretched after a long day of filming. And my mouth opens, the truth sneaking out past my defenses, “I was recently let go from my job,” I admit. “And, this money? It meant rent. So there’s that.” I take a breath. “It was also a way for me and my son to get a leg up; it meant independence, not shifting from restaurant to restaurant as the LA market and tourist season forever changes. And it proved that . . .” I trail off, my throat taut with the words I never say aloud. “My father was an award-winning baker . . . back home, on the East Coast, I mean. He had a bakery my entire life.” My voice has gone quiet again. “And well, he recently died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the host says, but I don’t register his words. I’m too ensnared in my emotions.
And then I feel my chin wobble. I try desperately to stop it, to rein in the messy sadness I’ve spent a lot of time burying, but as if to spite me, a tingle works its way up my throat and into the bridge of my nose, dampening my eyes and making it hard to breathe. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or that this is just one in a long line of disappointments, but my chest tightens, my ribs pressing in on me like an unforgiving weight.
A tear falls. I bat at it with my fingers, disbelieving. But another follows. “I’m not a crier. I never cry.” My words are not only wholly unconvincing but interrupted by a tight inhale that rattles them. “I swear,” I continue, tears now falling more readily down my cheeks, my control all but gone. Then I hear myself say the words I swore I wouldn’t: “I just really wanted to make my dad proud. And once again, I’ve failed.”
That’s the moment I lose it. Big heavy sobs and makeup streak down my face. And a snot bubble. A goddamn snot bubble that, as it so happens, the network did not edit out later.
A few heads turn my way followed by looks of surprise and gasped comments. I’m not sure if it’s my mortifying breakdown on Bake Off that’s got them going or if it’s my messy teen years a decade earlier. And while I know I shouldn’t feel shame, that if it were my friend going through this, I would be adamant that there was nothing to shrink from, I suddenly feel like I lost a few inches just the same. I avert my eyes and make my way along the wall of the dining area to the front room, where a tasteful Christmas tree decked in blue ribbons and white lights stands next to a wrought iron menorah on an elegant stand. Guests peruse silent auction tables and I circle the crowd, heading straight for the coat check.
I slip off my peacoat and hand it along with Liv’s to the man behind the table. “Two tickets, please,” I say and he obliges.
Wine, I think. I need lots of wine. But as I tuck the tickets into my clutch, a familiar voice trills behind me.
“Maddi DeLuca? You’re here?”
I glance at the front door, an easy five steps away. But my coat has already disappeared into the coatroom, and I have no desire to end up like a frozen Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
I turn around, my body resisting the motion. “Kate,” I say with a tight smile. Kate Van Doran was a year ahead of me in school and a force to be reckoned with—a dancer’s body, perfect hair, and an ability to make you feel uncool just by looking at you.
“I’m just so shocked,” she says, one hand touching her chest.
“That I’m in the town I grew up in, or that I was invited to this benefit?” I ask and immediately regret my defensiveness, guilt springing up before I finish my sentence.
She sizes me up, her lips pulling up at the corners. “I just had no idea you still knew the Buenaventuras,” she says. “You and Wilder were friends as kids; am I right?” I know full well she remembers. Everyone who knew Wilder and me (and many who didn’t) knew that we were inseparable. And when we started dating at fifteen, no one was surprised; the town gossip mill was practically planning our wedding.
But with happy thoughts of Wilder, also comes the bitter—a flash of the last fight we ever had—Wilder and I standing in Tony’s Pizza, both of us fired up and irascibly stubborn, the bond we once shared ground down until it was no longer recognizable.
I weigh my options, wanting to respond, but aware it’ll only extend this unpleasantness. “I was just about to go grab a drink, do you need—” I glance at her full glass of red.
“All good here,” she says, tapping a French manicured nail on the glass, and I move around her with a strained smile. I can feel her eyes on my back as I leave.
It’s fine, I tell myself as I beeline it to the drinks table, I’ll just avoid Kate and pretend the silent auction is super interesting until Liv comes back.
“A glass of white, please,” I say to the bartender, who obligingly pours.
A bell rings and I glance over my shoulder. “If you’ll all kindly make your way to your tables, we’ll begin dinner service,” a butler says in baritone.
I sigh in relief. Liv wasn’t kidding about our well-timed arrival. I accept the wine from the bartender with thanks and take a couple of sips while the guests head for the dining room.
When the front room is three-quarters empty, I follow suit, lingering in the doorway and scanning the crowd for Liv and her velvet blue dress. While I don’t see her, I do see Mr. and Mrs. Buenaventura claiming seats at a rectangular table that tees off with the center stage. All the other tables are round, marking this one as special, like the bride and groom’s table at a wedding.
The idea of being on display like that with the Buenaventuras makes me itchy. But then another thought strikes me, specifically what might happen if Liv doesn’t show up for another ten minutes or so? Am I supposed to walk to that table by myself and slide in with a nonchalant “Hey guys, remember me? I’m the one who screamed in public that the only people more shitty than Wilder were his parents? So lovely to see you all again.” No fucking way.
My only consolation is that Wilder is nowhere to be seen. Still, I find myself backstepping just as a hand touches my shoulder.
“There you are,” Liv says, and I’m so jumpy that I slosh a bit of wine on the floor.