Off like a Herd of Turtle Bars—
layers of nougat, pecans, chocolate, and caramel so sticky it feels like you’re stuck
In direct contrast to my frustration with Wilder and my hellish anxiety over Dad’s will, Haverberry Square is serene—frosted shrubberies surrounding a stone gazebo strewn with twinkle lights and red velvet ribbons twirling up its columns. On the south side of the lawn is a giant tree decked in matching reds and whites. Likewise, the whimsical menorah sculpture is topped with bulbs that imitate flickering candles. The only thing that mars the bay-windowed shops with Victorian arches is the ubiquitous Buenaventura family logo—a calligraphy-inspired B that I used to think was fancy but now reminds me of boobs with ungodly large nipples. And while every raw nerve in my body is telling me to jump into my car and race home to find out what that addendum says, Spence is lit up like the neon singing Santa on the roof of Christmas Barn, and I simply cannot drag him away. He shoves the last bite of his maritozzo into his mouth—a sweet brioche bun stuffed with whipped cream and drizzled with salted caramel, an addition I made to my dad’s recipe when I was ten, convinced I was onto something special.
“No way,” Spence says, pointing at the toy store with giant stuffed animals and an impossibly elaborate Lego sculpture. “Do you even see that castle? It must have like five thousand pieces.”
I hold his hand as he drags me across the square toward the toy store, guiding us both inside with enthusiasm. As we enter, I sneak a peek at the Lego castle price, and it reads a whopping $389 on sale. My heart constricts, struck once again by the knowledge that I don’t have the money to buy it. It’s not that he needs it. No one needs an expensive toy; it’s my lack of freedom surrounding money, the constant voice in the back of my mind that tells me something is wrong and that I’m the only one who can fix it.
I glance out the window and across the square at the bakery, jaw clenched, when I feel a tap on my elbow and spin so fast, I nearly take down the display.
“Maddi!” Kate says with a bright voice, and my stomach plummets. “You remember Lyndsay, right?” Kate gestures to a woman with a very pregnant belly and freckles on her pale cheeks.
My first thought is, I wish I didn’t. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with her, it’s that no matter how old or young Haverberry residents are—if they were here while I was growing up then yes I know them, their parents, and the goddamn color of the trim on their houses. Haverberry is an earworm of the highest regard.
“Of course,” I reply, trying my best not to look like I want to run. I gesture at Lyndsay’s belly. “And congrats.”
Lyndsay touches her stomach lovingly. “My first,” she says. “I’m so excited. And well, a little nervous about birth.”
Kate, whose makeup is both precise and tasteful and whose clothes are the hallmark of wealthy preps everywhere, turns in my direction. “How was it for you, Maddi?” she asks. “It must have been difficult being in California all by yourself.”
My eyes flit to Spence, who’s enthralled with a worktable filled with the sand version of slime.
I manage a smile. “Truthfully, I think it’s challenging no matter where you are or who you’re with. But also, I don’t think I’ve ever had an experience that proved my own strength in such a dramatic way. I kinda felt like a superhero . . . if superheroes have hemorrhoids and wear mesh underwear over diaper pads, that is.”
The toy store owner (and mother of four) chuckles behind the counter.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Lyndsay says with the non-frightened dreaminess of someone who has never pushed a large human through a small hole.
Kate, however, is far too focused on my face for my liking. I know I caused a scene the other night, and no one regrets that more than me, but honestly, it’s starting to feel like this is personal, like she sees me as a threat. I wish I could tell her just how absurd that notion is without it being ten kinds of awkward.
“I’m not sure I would be brave enough to do it all alone,” Kate says with a sigh.
“How far along are you?” I ask Lyndsay, redirecting the conversation before it turns into one about my past.
“About seven and a half months. We’re actually here shopping for my baby shower.” She indicates the sizable shopping bags on Kate’s arm. “Kate’s the one planning it. I was just going to do something simple, but you know Kate . . . always so elegant.”
Kate perks up in response to the praise. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she says and with a small laugh adds, “you’ve been a lifesaver helping me come up with ideas for my one-year anniversary.”
My heart slams into my ribs, the ferocity of my reaction taking me by surprise. I don’t know why, but I assumed her relationship with Wilder was short-term, six weeks tops. “One year? Wow.” I hear the hitch in my voice (and I’m certain she does, too), which annoys me. This is categorically not something I care about.
“It’s funny because it doesn’t feel that long,” Kate says with an easy shrug. “But then again, if our mothers had anything to do with it, Wilder and I would already be picking out our china patterns.”
And once again, my nervous system takes a blow, my heart doing calisthenics. The notion that Wilder’s mother wants him to marry Kate rings true. She’s exactly the sort of person Mrs. Buenaventura gushes over—wealthy family, outwardly perfect. But why, oh why is my body betraying me and acting like this is a big deal? They deserve each other; go forth and get married, spawn beautiful, horrible babies together for all I care.
“See, my mom’s old-fashioned,” Kate continues. “She swears that a woman’s biggest nightmare is ending up alone.”
Here we go again. Maybe she’s not trying to instigate an argument, but fuck if I’m going to let her insinuate that my life is a nightmare in hearing range of my kid. “Funny, my worst nightmare is sitting on the toilet and having a hidden spider attack my vagina, but to each their own.”
Lyndsay bursts into embarrassed laughter, which she quickly squashes.
Kate appears a little horrified, which I have to say is satisfying. “Anyway, we were just headed over to Nothing Batter,” Kate says, clearing her throat, “if you’d like to join?”
The mention of my father’s bakery brings my anxiety back front and center. “I’ve just come from there,” I manage.
“Oh, well, in that case, we really must run,” Kate trills. But as they exit, Kate says to Lyndsay, “I think it’s so sweet Wilder has an interest in that little bakery. It will be such a fun pet project for the both of us.”
And there it is, a dagger on the way out, leaving me with no doubt that she sees me as a threat—a problem I don’t need and certainly don’t want.
I’m about to tell Spence that we have to go, my desire to get home to find that addendum transforming into a visceral need. But as I turn around, he’s already there.
“Really?” he says with raised eyebrows.
“Really what?” I say, unsure what he heard or what he made of it, my mom-fixer-sense activating in case he picked up on Kate’s subtext.
“I mean, you know I’m proud of you for being an independent woman,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around him, “but if you could just not yell about your vagina in here, that’d be awesome. I’d really like to come back.”
As always, he manages to say the one thing that takes me out of my head.
I nod, and this time when I smile, it’s real. “You’re right. I’ll definitely work on that.”
He gives me an evaluating look like he’s not totally convinced, but he’s hopeful.
* * *
I make it back to Mom’s ready and raring to ask her for the will. But as it turns out, her car isn’t in the driveway—like the final fuck you of this never-ending afternoon. No matter, I think, I’ll simply find the thing myself.
“Christmas movie?” Spence offers as we step through the door.
“Sure thing,” I reply, pulling off my coat and haphazardly tossing it onto a hanger, trying to mentally suss out where my mother might have stashed the addendum. “You go pick one out and start it. I’ll be there in a few minutes with snacks.”
The instant he disappears into the living room, I make a dash for the antique mail table in the foyer. I pull open the drawer, but a couple of minutes of shuffling through envelopes indicates it’s not there. So, I head for the dining room, yanking open the top drawer of her sideboard where she keeps her passport and such. Only I don’t have to search this time, because Dad’s addendum is right on top, unfolded, making me feel even more foolish for not seeking it out last night. But the convenience of it strikes me as ominous, indicating whatever I’m missing is so important that my mother laid it out for me to find.
I snatch up the paper and scan through the part I remember her reading, wincing at the line: Ownership of There’s Nothing Batter Bakery shall heretofore be transferred to my daughter, Madeline DeLuca, and to Wilder Buenaventura in equal parts. But two paragraphs down is where I find what I’m looking for:
For the duration and entirety of the first year of ownership, both parties must not only be present but involved in the day-to-day activities of There’s Nothing Batter Bakery. If one party does not comply, said party forfeits their share to the other.
Hang on. WHAT???
I speed ahead, hoping I read it wrong, skimming where it frameworks day-to-day activities, desperately searching for a loophole. But it goes on to say that each party must spend a minimum of forty hours per week in the bakery and that the only exceptions are a medical or family emergency.
“Holy fuck!” I breathe, grabbing the sideboard for support, my thoughts in ruin.
A year?! A year in Haverberry? No. That’s not . . . I cannot do that. I won’t. But the idea of allowing the bakery to pass solely to Wilder is unthinkable. Somewhere in the house, I hear a door shut, but I’m too overwhelmed to give it significance. My mind is pinging between the utter horror of being trapped here and the image of Wilder casually usurping the bakery this afternoon.
“So if you refuse to buy it, I guess you’ll just have to send my share of the profits to California.”
“Sorry, but I can’t do that,” Wilder says, his eyebrows momentarily pinching like something I said was off.
Blind fury rises in my throat and I’m certain I’m going to be sick.
I shove the document back in the drawer, slamming it shut with a dull and unsatisfying thud. The vase on top of the sideboard rattles in response.
“Do you plan on fighting with any other furniture this afternoon, because if you do, I would like a warning so that I may safeguard the breakables,” my mother says, appearing in the doorway, her purse in her hand and an edge of warning in her tone.
I spin to face her, my upset vibrating through me like an impending earthquake. The door, I think. That was her coming home. I want to take a minute, to think through my reaction, but one thought is screaming inside my head and it seeps past my lips before I can collect myself. “You knew,” I say, feeling betrayed. “You knew when you invited me here for the holidays that I was supposed to be here for a year, and you said nothing. Then you sent me to that bakery today, fully aware that Wilder would be there and that he knew what I didn’t.”
Her expression turns steely. “First, do not suppose you know my mind. And second, if you hadn’t run from this room while I was reading the addendum, you’d have already known yourself.”
Embarrassment spears me. But this is also quintessential Eleanor, twisting my objection into a personal shortcoming. “I just don’t understand, Mom. How could Dad do this? How could you let him do this?” I no longer imagine that she was completely ignorant of this plan—it has the workings of my mother written all over it.
She purses her lips, telling me she’s just as frustrated as I am. “Are you asking me how your father could be so generous as to leave you half of the bakery, a bakery you could not even be bothered to step foot in more than once in ten years? In this moment, I’m actually not sure.”
I wince, the truth of her words flaring my indignation. “This has nothing to do with gratitude and you know that. I never asked for the bakery. In fact, I’ve never once in all the years asked you for anything—”
She holds up her hand. “Enough, Madeline,” she says in an authoritative tone. “I do not care if you like or dislike your father’s will. It was his bakery and his choice to make. Be happy he left you anything at all.”
My eyes flick to the ceiling and I inhale. She’s using my love for the bakery and my remorse over Dad’s passing to force me back into a position where I’m beholden to her. “Mom,” I start in the most civilized tone I can muster, “you know this—”
Only this time she cuts me off, indicating she’s much angrier than I originally presumed. “If you are bent on discussing what people know and do not, why don’t we discuss the benefit that you were graciously invited to two days ago?”
Shit.
“The one where you yelled profanity at the hosts for the whole dining room to hear?”
Double shit.
“Because I was taken completely unawares at my lunch today with Mrs. Templeton, who is not only the prestigious head of my ladies’ club but is the godmother of Kate Van Doran, whom I hear had a front-row seat to your blow up?” she says, arching one furious eyebrow.
“Mom—” I start but stop, realizing that I’ve backed myself into a corner. There are very few things my mother takes as personally as public embarrassment. And Mrs. Templeton, like Mrs. Buenaventura, is a premiere Haverberry socialite, whose good opinion is essential in my mother’s view.
“Do you know what else Mrs. Templeton told me?” she asks, her tone far too reasonable.
I shake my head, but I have a few guesses. The game of telephone is beloved in this town.
She straightens the cuffs on her blazer. “Mrs. Buenaventura’s thoroughly put out I have yet to contact her about the whole thing.”
My stomach twists into a knot of despair. I hadn’t considered the fallout from that angle, but now that I do, it seems stupidly obvious. Only before I can think of how to apologize for it, she’s speaking again.
“So, now I have the unpleasant job of explaining, and hopefully making amends before our dinner with them this weekend.”
“Them?” I blurt out, taken aback.
“Yes, dinner with the Buenaventuras. At their house.”
I stare at the ice cream freezer in the supermarket, looking for a pick-me-up. Wilder and I have been in a nonstop verbal boxing match this past month since he started dating Alice and I started dating Jake. I can feel the tension building between us into something unruly that I fear, unchecked, will mangle even the most steadfast parts of our friendship. But I also don’t know how to stop it. It seems to have taken on a life of its own. Him buying Alice stupid thoughtful presents and always rushing from school to meet her. Me talking about Jake’s gorgeous body with my lab partner loud enough for Wilder to hear.
What sucks the most, though, is that it feels like there’s still something unspoken between us, some deeply woven connection that shows up in the still moments, when we accidentally make eye contact from across the room, or when we bump into each other in the hall and we both hesitate before moving on. Maybe I’m overanalyzing it, but my gut tells me that some part of him continues to care about me, not just as his childhood best friend, but as something more. And as much as I try to squash it, the pull toward him—the warmth in my center that makes my pulse race and my stomach jittery—just will not die. I hate us both for it.
As though my brain manifested it, I hear someone say Wilder’s name. Not just someone, but his mother in her unmistakable British accent, and my heart leaps squarely into my throat. I whip toward her voice just in time to catch her long silk cardigan flowing behind her at the other side of the store. And before I can decide it’s a terrible idea, I follow, peeking around the end of the aisle.
“I’m just glad it’s over,” Mrs. Buenaventura says to her husband, a handful of feet away with their backs to me as they pick out yogurt. I’m not certain I’m relieved or disappointed that Wilder isn’t with them.
I’m about to retreat when Mrs. Buenaventura continues: “In the first place, it was far too serious a relationship for seventeen-year-olds.”
I freeze, realizing she’s talking about me and Wilder.
Mr. Buenaventura only shrugs. “They’re teenagers. Of course they’re passionate.”
Mrs. Buenaventura drops Greek yogurts into their basket. “As long as she doesn’t drag Wilder to some culinary school in the middle of nowhere because of that passion, then fine.”
My heart slams so hard against my ribs that I take a step back. Drag Wilder to some culinary school? You mean the Culinary Institute of America that, yes, happens to be only half an hour from Vassar but is also a world-class facility? The accusation is infuriating, and just plain wrong—that choice was his, not mine. Is this how they see me? Like I’m a bad influence on their son?
Mr. Buenaventura sighs like he doesn’t believe it’s a crisis, but also isn’t going to argue with his wife.
“Let me tell you, Francesco,” she continues. “I could not be more grateful that he listened to reason and ended things.”
“You don’t really think I’m—” I start, but as my mother’s eyes meet mine, I clamp my mouth shut, realizing I’m trapped. If I refuse to go to the Buenaventura’s, I’m practically ensuring maximum tension. But if I agree, then I have to spend an entire dreaded evening not only with Wilder but also with his parents.
I glance over Mom’s shoulder in the direction of the living room where I can hear the TV playing Elf, and begrudgingly, for the sake of my son, decide that to continue would be unwise. My shoulders slump a little in resignation.
Check effing mate.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make,” she says.
And before I can formulate a response, she’s gone, her shoes clicking rhythmically on the hardwood floor. I clench my hands and close my eyes, silently screaming at no one. She finally did it. She got me back here in some wild ruse that once again gives her control over my life. Well, I’m not going to roll over, I decide. I’m leaving after Christmas just like I planned. That gives me a week and a half to figure out how to sidestep the rules in my father’s will. And starting tomorrow morning, I’ll log those required hours, because no matter what, the last thing I’ll ever do is let Wilder take over my dad’s bakery.