“I’m sorry,” the woman behind the bakery counter said. “I can’t give you the cake.”
I laughed. I honestly thought she was joking.
“I’m the bride’s mother,” I said.
“I understand, ma’am.” She looked back at her computer screen. Her smile was gone. “But I’ve been specifically told not to release it to Laura.”
“What?”
“There’s a note on the order.” She turned the monitor a little so I could see it. “Do not release cake to Laura. Added yesterday afternoon.”
I stood there holding my car keys and a cardboard tray with two coffees on it, and I felt the floor tilt under me.
My name is Laura Bennett. I’m fifty-six years old. I’ve been married to David for thirty-one years. And the day before my only daughter’s wedding, a stranger at a bakery told me I wasn’t allowed to pick up her cake.
“Just give them your name,” Emma had told me that morning. “Everything’s already paid for. You just walk in and walk out.”
I’d been running errands since six a.m. The florist. The dry cleaner for David’s suit. The party store for the little bags of birdseed the guests would throw. I’d slept maybe four hours the night before, the way you do when your baby is getting married in thirty-six hours and you’re sure you’ve forgotten something.
The bakery was supposed to be the easy stop.
“There has to be a mistake,” I said. “I’m Laura. The bride is my daughter. Emma Bennett. The order’s under her name. Three tiers. White fondant. Sugar flowers.”
The baker’s name tag said JANICE. She was about my age, with flour on her forearms and reading glasses pushed up into her gray hair. She looked genuinely sorry.
“I can see all that, ma’am. I can see it’s paid in full. But the note says the bride herself called and asked us not to release it to anyone named Laura.”
My chest went tight.
Emma? Emma had called and said not to give the cake to me?
I set the coffees down on the counter so I wouldn’t drop them, and I pulled out my phone and called my daughter.
She picked up on the second ring. I could hear a hair dryer in the background. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Did you tell the bakery not to give me your cake?”
The hair dryer shut off.
“What? Of course not. Why would I ever do that?”
I looked at Janice. Janice frowned.
“That’s strange,” Janice said slowly. “Because somebody called yesterday saying she was the bride. That’s when the note went on.”
On the other end of the phone, Emma went completely silent.
“Emma?”
Nothing.
“Emma, are you there?”
When she finally spoke, her voice was different. Careful.
“Mom. Put her on the phone.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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