Life Is an Illusion Cake—
it looks like an old shoe, but is actually a triple vanilla bean masterpiece with layers of custard, thinly sliced strawberries, and a whole lotta yum
Driving through my snow-covered town, I’m feeling good about myself, like maybe I’m finally handling the gray areas, clarifying my relationships in a way I couldn’t when I was younger. But as I turn onto Winter Street, my confidence falters or rather gets swallowed up by all-consuming anxiety that I’m making the wrong choice. It’s better to know, I tell myself. I can’t wonder about this forever. I won’t. If I don’t do this, then one day he’ll send another cryptic text and I’ll be reeled in all over again. Just the thought fires me up.
No more push and pull, Wilder. This is where it ends.
My rant is abruptly halted, however, as I spot a wrought iron post on the edge of the road with a wooden sign displaying the number thirty-one. I slow my car, turning into the dirt driveway, a little surprised by it. Why does Wilder live out here on the edge of town anyway? I half expected him to live on Maple Street near his parents in some imposing house with snooty shrubs, the kind that are manicured within an inch of their lives and pointed out to guests for how difficult they are to grow. I snort, feeling justified in my assessment of him. But I’m distracted from my thoughts by the loss of light as the tall trees on either side of the driveway blot out the moon. Only a handful of seconds later, they open up, revealing a large yard and a cozy lit-up house.
As I register what I’m looking at, my stomach bottoms out. I lean forward over my steering wheel as though those couple of inches will explain what I’m seeing. The walls to Wilder’s house are made of old cobbled stone, the roof is thatched, rising high up in slanted peaks, displaying four puffing chimneys, and the windows are the kind with the small diamond panes that open outward from the middle.
“Stop,” I say in disbelief, so thrown that I almost forget to hit my brake. My car jerks to a stop just before a stone walkway leading to the front door.
I’m out of my car in a split second, barely remembering to close my door behind me as I stare up at the house, taking in the nuances of the stone walls near the soft amber glow of the windows and the wrought iron lanterns perched beside the door.
Wilder Buenaventura lives in an English cottage . . . in Haverberry. A goddamn perfect English cottage exactly like the one I described all those years ago when he asked me about my dreams. No, not like what I described; it’s actually far better than what I imagined.
STOP. Don’t even think it. That’s not what this is. It’s simply a coincidence. A big fat very specific coincidence.
Before I collect myself, Wilder opens the front door.
“Maddi?” he says, looking more shocked than I do, which is certainly a feat.
“Wilder,” I say back, faltering, hands on my hips, realizing I’m straining my neck to gape at his house—a house he did not invite me to. I drop my arms, trying to reclaim the frustrated determination I had a moment before, but come up short. “Liv, um . . . she gave me your address?”
Earth to Maddi—he should be on the defensive, not you. It’s technically his fault you’ve ambushed him and his stunning house on Christmas . . . right?
For a second his thrown look remains, but then he trades it for something softer, gesturing to his arched door. “Would you like to come in?”
“I, um.” For the love of God, stop saying um. “I came here to ask you a question.”
He watches me a moment, obviously registering my awkwardness—I mean, I’m basically broadcasting it with a cabaret line. “Come, I’ll fix you something hot to drink. It’s freezing out here.”
I want to say no, that I prefer to have this conversation in the bitter cold, a perfect reflection of my bitter heart, but even I recognize how dramatic that is. Against my better judgment, I walk through his charmingly arched front door with wrought iron accents, past a stone wall that I swear is two feet thick. There’s no grand foyer or empty hallway, just a rustic bench situated under handmade coat hooks that leads right into his living room. He offers to take my coat and scarf for me, but I hang them up myself.
Despite the fact I’m doing my darnedest to look steely, I feel my eyes widening in awe. I don’t meet Wilder’s gaze, too embarrassed that he’ll be able to tell I like this place an indecent amount. Only, I can’t stop myself from ogling his living room. It’s the perfect size, big enough to fit two oversized couches in front of a stone fireplace, but small enough to feel inviting. The lamps are antique, the coffee table has uneven edges where the wood is knotted, and rustic beams run overhead, framing a large arched doorway leading into the dining room and the kitchen beyond it.
“Can I offer you a hot chocolate?” Wilder asks, watching me as I walk around the room, taking in the faux fur throw blankets and perfectly worn navy and maroon Oriental rug. Weirdly, he looks just as uncomfortable as I do, maybe even more so.
“Herbal tea, if you have it?” I reply. Hot chocolate feels too familiar; no one can be properly annoyed while drinking it. It’s bad enough I’m staring at my dream house belonging to the one person I decidedly stopped dreaming with a long time ago; I don’t need any extra lures to confuse things.
He smiles, not his usual confident grin, but something more unsure like he hasn’t fully processed that I’m here. “I think you’ll recall that I’m half British and that I’d be shaming my people if I didn’t keep copious amounts of tea on hand at all times. So name your preference and I’m sure I’ll have it.”
“Anything. Anything works,” I say, stammering a little and he nods, heading for the kitchen.
I then set to mentally reiterating all the things he’s kept from me these past couple of weeks and reminding myself that this house isn’t what I think it is. When he comes back, I’m still standing in the middle of his living room, staring at the crackling fire and arguing with myself.
He places two steaming mugs of tea, which smell of cinnamon and apples, on the coffee table. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
He scratches the back of his neck and I fidget with my sweater sleeves, both of us making an unsmooth go of sitting on the couch. And as I sink into the far too comfortable cushions, I frown. It’s all too polite and hesitant for my present state of unrest, and it only agitates me further. When I imagined this interaction in my head, it most definitely didn’t include admiring his house and sipping tea on his couch.
I turn to face him, and his shy expression spirals me further. Is he doing this on purpose? Does he realize it’s impossible to be mad at someone who looks shy? You have not bested me, Wilder. I will not fall for this again. You can take your cottage and shove it right up your—
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and I attempt to swallow. He scratches the back of his neck . . . again. “I was worried you’d leave without me getting to explain.” He pauses. “Not that I wouldn’t have flown to California in that case.”
I stare at him, my confusion turning to shock. “You would have flown . . .” I trail off, increasingly flustered and trying not to be flattered. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. I’m supposed to be formidable, nail him with my tough questions, and suss out the truth before making a striking and fiery exit. I rub my forehead, trying to clear my head. “Don’t, Wilder,” I say, trying to remember all the things I wanted to ask him. “I don’t want to hear that.”
His eyes widen like I’ve caught him off guard, and the momentary disappointment that flashes across his face makes me feel bad.
“This is what I mean,” I say, gesturing at him and his endearing expression. “You don’t get to look like that after you encouraged my mother to sell the bakery. How am I supposed to believe anything you said?”
Wilder’s eyes meet mine like he knew this was coming and he’s ready for it. “I know how that sounded, believe me, but it wasn’t an accurate portrayal of what happened. It was shortly after your father passed and your mother was overwhelmed. I never encouraged her to sell; I merely said that I understood her desire to. Which is how I started working at the bakery while she got on her feet.”
While his answer sounds downright generous, that’s the thing about Wilder—he’s kind, just not when it comes to commitment. How many times did I return to him in our youth because he said something that I needed to hear? Yet it didn’t change a thing.
I shake my head. “You still lied to me.”
He sighs, deflating. “Believe it or not, I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Bingo. All the frustration and hurt I felt a half hour before comes back tenfold. “You thought you were doing the right thing by playing me and Kate off one another?”
“What?” he says with emphatic shock, his eyebrows jumping up his forehead. “No. I’d never do that.”
I give him a look like oh, come on. “And what about when you told me you cut all contact with her?”
“I did cut contact with Kate.”
“So you weren’t talking to her the same day that you kissed me? Telling her that you liked the idea of her working for your family?”
He hesitates. “Is that what she told you?”
Now I pause, embarrassed by how much I care. This isn’t the conversation I was after. I wanted to ask him about my father and the addendum. Ask him if he ever heard about the dream. I got jumbled somehow, got my signals crossed and knotted. “It doesn’t matter,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“It does matter,” he says in all seriousness. “Because I said no such thing, especially not to Kate. I did however speak to my mother and tell her that if Kate was redecorating the offices, I wouldn’t begrudge her the job but that I also wouldn’t be involved in the process. It was part of the reason I was so annoyed when she brought it up last night.”
I stare at him. “Were you or were you not engaged to Kate a few weeks ago?”
Wilder falters.
“That’s what I thought,” I say, knowing I’ve caught him, only not feeling happy about it the way I imagined.
“It’s not as simple as you think. Yes, we’d talked about engagement, or rather our families had, but it wasn’t official. No rings were exchanged.”
“Just a bracelet?” I quasi-hate the way I feel saying it, as though it somehow betrays that I once secretly hoped for something just as symbolic.
“That would be my mother inserting herself again,” he says with a hint of frustration, signaling that what Liv said earlier was true. For a brief second, I waver. But there is no good situation with Wilder where his mother is actively rooting for someone else, evidenced by the fact that he broke up with me once just because she asked.
I shake my head, hating that I’m getting worked up over this, but unable to hit the brakes. “I wish you told me yourself, Wilder. I felt foolish last night. Hell, I feel foolish right now. You don’t just call off a potential engagement and then kiss someone else. And if you do, it’s not meaningful. It’s a rebound. I did this once with you when we were teens, and I really, really don’t want to do it again. Not when so much hangs in the balance.”
“And what if I told you that the last thing you are is a rebound.” His expression is so sincere that I scowl at him.
“I’d say I don’t believe you. And again, it doesn’t matter. This is what we do. This is what we’ll probably always do—back and forth, push and pull; there is no happy ending for us, Wilder. And that’s why I left last night, to put an end to it before we fell headfirst into our terrible pattern.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not wrong with the way you remember us. But you were never at fault. I was the problem.”
I hesitate, surprised he just owned it like that, but before I can get out a retort, he continues.
“I told you last night that there were pieces of our story you were missing. And there still are. Yes, my mother wanted me to break up with you—”
“Which you readily listened to,” I clap back.
“Yes, you’re right. But what you don’t know is that I thought I was doing what was best, making a hard decision so that you wouldn’t have to.”
“Oh, come on—”
“There was a mistake in the deed for your dad’s bakery,” he says quickly, probably sensing I’m about to stand up.
I close my mouth, the conversational one-eighty leaving me dizzy.
“A measurement error,” he continues before I get my bearings. “The property line of your father’s bakery is actually four inches smaller than anyone thought, which my mother only discovered when she set out to remodel the property next door and had an appraiser come in.”
My eyebrows push together, trying to understand. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” he says with meaning. “Because at the time my mother was already harping on me about college, about going to Oxford and taking over the family business. But of course, you and I had planned to go to—”
“Vassar and the Culinary Institute,” I say, suddenly catching on to what he’s implying and feeling a little breathless.
“Right,” he says, and turns fully toward me like he needs me to see that this is important. “And the less I budged on that decision the more insistent she got. My mother began to see you as the root of the problem. So, when she found the deed error, she didn’t just correct it the way she might have a year earlier. Instead, she brought it to me. Explained what a huge expense it’d be if your dad had to tear out that wall and rebuild—the wall that supported all the hookups for the sinks and housed the brand-new custom ovens.”
My mouth opens, my throat suddenly tight. “He spent his savings putting in those ovens.”
“I know,” he says, and my chest feels so heavy that I fear my ribs will crack from the pressure.
“Your mom . . .” My voice is so low it’s only a notch above the crackling fire. “Told you to break up with me and go to Oxford or she’d ruin my dad’s business?”
“Yes,” he says, and all the air whooshes out of me. “If I did what she wanted, she’d redraw the deed. That was the deal. The push and pull . . . It was my fault. I couldn’t seem to stay away from you, and occasionally my self-control would slip, and I’d tell you how I really felt. Those girls I dated in high school? Asking someone else to the prom? I was literally doing everything in my power to distract myself from you and still I failed.”
It’s as though he just inserted a missing piece into the clock of our past, the gears finally clicking into place. Every time I asked him to explain himself, he’d shut down. Every time it seemed like we were getting closer, he’d pull away. He’d tell me he cared, and then shut me out again. “How could you never tell me this?”
He sighs. “At first, I thought I had to keep it from you. That if you knew the truth, we’d never stay away from each other, no matter the consequences. I thought my mother would eventually figure it out and your dad and the bakery would take a huge hit, one my mother so clearly explained they wouldn’t recover from. That bakery was your life, Maddi. It was your dad’s. I couldn’t let that happen.”
I swallow, the implications of what he’s saying over-whelming me.
“And as time went on, I didn’t tell you because I thought you hated me, justifiably so. I even convinced myself that you were better off without me, that knowing would only hurt you more.” He rakes his hand through his hair.
“What changed?” I manage, my world spinning.
He shakes his head. “Honestly . . . I don’t know. But about a year and a half ago something shifted. My parents asked me to come back to Haverberry to start learning the family business. And it didn’t sound like the worst idea. I was in a bad spot. I’d broken things off with my fiancée in France six months earlier and given up my bakery in London. I was lost.” He scratches his eyebrow. “After I came back, I stopped by the bakery to see your dad. He said I was welcome there anytime. And I thought, yeah, actually, that sounds nice. It’d be a perfect break from everything else.”
I look briefly at my hands in my lap, remembering a time when I felt the same.
“It started as a once-in-a-while thing. I’d drop in on your dad in the early morning and help him get things ready for the day. Or sometimes he and I would work on a new recipe in the evenings.” He glances toward the fire like he’s remembering. “We didn’t talk much, about things that weren’t baking, that is. And I appreciated that. It was the one place I could just be. Most days we worked in companionable silence.”
I nod sadly, because just hearing it makes me remember the comfort I once found in moving quietly around my dad, trading ingredients and commenting on cake decorations.
Wilder pulls his gaze from the fireplace and looks at me. “Then one day, he brought you up, asked me why I never talked about you. It took me by surprise, like someone reached into my chest and shook my heart awake. I don’t know why, I really don’t, but I told him the truth.”
It takes me a second to catch his meaning. “About the deed?” I say, my voice betraying my shock. “Does my mother know—”
He shakes his head. “Your father thought it best to keep it between us. Thought your mom and mine might lose their friendship over it.”
I press my lips together, biting back my response that maybe they should. But the moment I think it, I feel bad. My dad was trying to protect her; can I really begrudge him that? Then it hits me: “So that’s why my dad left you half the bakery? He was settling the debt of the deed?”
But instead of nodding, Wilder looks shy again. “Actually . . . no, that wasn’t it.”
Wilder leans over the arm of the couch and opens a tiny drawer in the end table. Only what he pulls out of it stops my breath. A letter, just like the one my mother gave me, only with Wilder’s name on the envelope instead of mine.
“When did she . . .” I start, my voice trailing off as he hands it to me.
“The day we read the will,” he says, answering my question even though I can’t seem to get it out.
I hesitate before opening the envelope, not sure what I’m going to find in there or that I’ll be able to keep it together in front of Wilder.
He leans his elbows on his knees, looking down at his hands. “If you prefer,” he says gently, “I can give you a minute alone—”
“No,” I reply, not even sure why I’m so adamant about it. This would certainly be more comfortable without him, but in a way, it also feels like the easy way out. If he’s brave enough to tell me all of this, to show me his letter, then I’m brave enough to read the thing in front of him.
I exhale, steeling myself and sliding the letter out, written on the same stationery that mine was.
Dear Wilder,
I know this must all come as a shock, and I know what you’re probably thinking, that I’m attempting to repay you for saving the bakery. But no. It’s something much simpler than that and much more important. You’ve been a true friend to me, and I like to think I’ve been one to you. It’s my parting wish to give you the one thing I think you need—a chance to tell the truth. I don’t know what you’ll do with it, but I do hope you’ll make it count. Trust me on this; life is short and it’s precious and you don’t want to look back one day like I am now and realize it could have been different.
Be well, my son,
Charles
I look up at Wilder, stunned into silence, and return his letter, my hand unsteady. My dad wanted to give Wilder a chance to tell me the truth? That’s why he stuck us in that bakery together, figuring eventually we’d have to talk about it?
I take a deep breath, running my hands over my face. This, of all things, was not what I was expecting. Did Dad know how badly I needed this? But the answer is obvious. Of course he knew—he orchestrated an elaborate plot just to give me the opportunity to heal. And the thought makes my chest rise and fall a little faster. Whatever doubts I had about my relationship with my father are suddenly gone; he wanted me to be happy.
“I know I’ve botched this,” Wilder starts. “And that I made you feel like I was keeping things from you. But I don’t want you to think those things were motivated by my feelings for Kate or that I was in any way trying to keep her on the line. Kate and I were bad for each other. We were the same kind of broken, trading in our own happiness for our families’ wants, and we bonded over it. But we never had that connection, the thing that makes things more. She’s likely more bothered that I embarrassed her than she is that our relationship ended.” He takes a breath. “And my mother? She wants me to fit into her image of what a Buenaventura should be, willing to sacrifice my happiness to do it. It just took me a long time to see that, or maybe to accept it. After that party last night, I realized there was no appeasing her unless I let her direct the entirety of my life—my job, my marriage, even my interests—which I’m not going to do.”
I remember what Liv said about Wilder always trying to get his mother’s attention, fighting for her love. And for a second, I want to reach out to him, place my hand on his arm in a comforting way. It never occurred to me how much of a struggle this whole addendum business has been for him.
“I’m not . . .” I say, flustered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything. I know it’s a lot. And I know you must be reeling. I’m just relieved you gave me a chance to explain. After last night, I wasn’t sure you’d ever speak to me again.”
I open my mouth and close it. My world has tilted too many times in this conversation for me to even know how to proceed. “Which is why you were going to fly to LA?” I’m not even sure why I say it, maybe because I want it to be true, or maybe because for once I really want to know what it is that exists between us, for better or for worse.
“Yes,” he says, looking at me like he’s never been more serious. “I should have gone years ago. Hell, I should have gone after you the moment I realized you’d left.”
“Wilder—” I start and stop, breaking eye contact with him.
“I knew if I showed up in LA all those years ago that I probably wouldn’t leave, that I’d stay there with you and the baby.” He laughs a sad laugh. “If you can believe it, I was jealous at the time because Spence wasn’t mine. Still am.”
My heart misses a beat. Wilder wishes he was Spence’s father?
“But if I had gone to LA, my mother would have destroyed your dad’s bakery, probably burned down the town in some misguided effort to get me back. I thought you’d hate me if you knew the truth. I hated myself. But now? No hesitation. If you and Spence would have me, I’d follow you to the end of the earth.”
My heart pounds inside my chest, sloppy and far too loud. The fact that he included my son, that he recognizes I put him first, means more to me than I could ever say. I search for words, for any response that makes sense, but nothing comes.
And he’s not done. “Your father and the bakery helped me find myself when I was lost, helped show me what I truly want.”
He smiles at me, and I feel it move through me like electricity. His waves fall lightly on his forehead, and his eyes stare intently into my own. But I don’t get up the way I thought I would. I just stare right back at him, letting him know I’m listening, that this is important to me, too.
He glances briefly at the living room. “That’s when I started building this house.”
Bright specks of light form in front of my eyes. “Hang on . . . you built this?”
He nods, the same uncertainty from when I first arrived reappearing on his face. “Had the stone shipped over from the UK.”
I immediately try to convince myself that this isn’t really happening. He didn’t build it because of me. He just stole my very good idea. Or maybe he became attached to the architecture in England and decided to flaunt his wealth by literally shipping it across an ocean? He probably doesn’t even remember that conversation we had on the bench all those years ago.
“Why would you do that?”
The smile that appears on his face is gentle, a fragile thing that embodies far too much hope. “I thought that’d be obvious.” His eyes meet mine. “When I designed it, everyone assumed that I missed England,” he says, pausing. “But really, I missed you.”
My breath screeches to a stop, my body temperature shooting up a thousand degrees. This isn’t a situation I was prepared for. This isn’t a situation anyone is prepared for. Who would ever predict that their first love and mortal enemy would build their dream house? Just the mere thought makes me faint. I touch my forehead, begging my body to settle down so that I can make sense of it all.
“I built this place for you, Maddi, because I wanted you to have a piece of your dream,” he continues, and my heart takes one final beat before it nosedives into his atmosphere, positive I’ll knock myself out when I hit land and not really caring.
I feel my eyes welling before I can stop them, feel my whole heart lifting in a standing ovation. “Wilder . . .” I start, truly moved. “It’s beautiful. It’s more than beautiful.”
The smile that spreads across his face is so bright that I lean closer.
“But how can I . . .” I trail off, not knowing how to accept something like this, to embrace a gesture this big.
“Slowly,” he says. “If you decide to give me the chance, we’ll go at your pace. Whatever you need. Even if what you need is to be somewhere other than Haverberry.”
My eyes widen at the thought. “And leave this perfect cottage?” I say, aghast.
He shrugs, but his eyes twinkle. “This is just a house. A cozy one for sure, but you’re far more important.”
Suddenly all the roadblocks that seemed so impossible—his mother, Kate, my family, all our past hurts—lose their power. They don’t disappear, but they’re diminished, dulled to the point that I don’t fear them the way I used to. And in their place, something else springs up, something softer and hopelessly optimistic.
“I want to stay,” I reply, the words slipping out so easily that I’m not sure I was the one who said them. “Here in Haverberry. With you.”
And just like that, the air between us is charged, sparking like the wild end of a severed cable.
“You do?” he asks, his eyes searching mine, his body leaning ever closer. I can almost hear his heartbeat, see the pounding in his chest.
I nod, my hand reaching for his, tentative and curious. He wraps his fingers around mine, lifting my palm to his mouth and slowly kissing it, the heat from his lips spreading along my skin. In that instant, the remnants of hesitation drain out of me, pooling on the floor by my feet as though someone pulled a plug. And this time, as he leans toward me like a question, I lean in to meet him.
I feel Wilder’s smile as his lips find mine, matching it with my own. He moves his hand through my hair above my ear, sliding it behind my neck, his other arm wrapping around the small of my back. He pulls me into him, pressing our bodies together, his hot breath dancing on my tongue. And unlike the last time we kissed, when I was afraid of what I might feel, of what it might mean, I don’t hold back. Because that barrier, the one we built as teenagers and could never seem to breach, is finally gone. And all that’s left is heat and anticipation, a connection so intense that it steals my breath and fills my body with electrified warmth.
Wilder carved out a place in my heart all those years ago, one I couldn’t seem to fill no matter how hard I tried. And feeling him this close, drinking in his smoky scent, is like returning home, willingly tangling myself up in him, in this town, in the bakery.
I pull back, breathless and beaming. “Wilder,” I say, tracing a finger along his perfect jaw.
“Maddi,” he replies, his expression filled with awe.
We stay like that for a long time, looking at each other, holding hands, just being. And it’s so wonderful that I resent the movement of time, the clock on his far wall that tells me it’s getting late.
“I want to stay . . .” I start, wishing minutes were hours.
“But it’s Christmas?” he offers.
“Exactly,” I reply with an exhale. But then it occurs to me that Wilder isn’t with his family and that if I leave, he’ll once again be spending the holiday alone. So in a moment of inspired optimism, I add, “I’m wondering . . . would you like to come with me?”
Wilder’s eyebrows rise. “Are you offering to take me home for the holidays, Miss DeLuca?”
I grin. “Yeah, I think I am. I mean, yes. I want to.”
He smiles, a full reckless smile that breaks my heart into operatic singing. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”
Just a couple of days ago, Wilder’s enthusiasm would have made me nervous, and the idea of letting him spend time with Spence would have had me out of sorts. But this feels intrinsically right, like salt in the ocean or warmth from the sun. For once I know what I want, and even though it’s not going to be simple, in a way it is, because the things that truly matter, the ones you wouldn’t trade anything in the world for, are the ones that require the most faith.