I handed my phone across the counter.
Janice took it. She asked Emma for the order number, the date the deposit was paid, the last four digits of the card, the color of the sugar flowers. Emma knew every answer, of course.
Janice handed the phone back and pulled her glasses down onto her nose.
“I’m so sorry about this, ma’am. The bride’s confirmed. I’ll bring it right out.”
She disappeared into the back.
“Emma,” I said into the phone. “What is going on?”
“I don’t know, Mom.” Her voice was strange. Too quick. “Somebody probably got the orders mixed up. Just get the cake, okay? I have to go. They’re doing my hair.”
She hung up.
I stood there staring at my phone.
My daughter has never once in her life said “I don’t know” that fast. When Emma doesn’t know something, she thinks out loud. She asks questions. She wants to figure it out.
When Emma says “I don’t know” fast, it means she does.
Janice came back out pushing a cart. The cake was in a tall white box, three boxes really, nested together, and through the plastic window on top I could see the sugar flowers. Peonies and roses, pale pink and cream. Emma had shown me a hundred pictures. It was even more beautiful than the pictures.
I should have just taken it and left.
I didn’t.
“The woman who called,” I said. “Did she leave a phone number?”
Janice hesitated. Then she looked at her screen.
“She did. It’s on the note.”
She read it aloud. It wasn’t my number. It wasn’t Emma’s. It wasn’t anyone I knew.
I wrote it on the back of my receipt from the party store.
Janice was quiet for a second. Then she took off her glasses and looked at me.
“Actually,” she said. “I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Here?”
“A few weeks ago. She came in asking about the wedding orders we had coming up. Wanted to see the cake designs. I remember her because she asked about this one specifically. Asked who’d ordered it and when it was being picked up.”
“Was she alone?”
“No. She came in with a man.”
My mouth went dry. “What did he look like?”
Janice thought about it.
“Tall. Gray at the temples. Navy blue jacket. Wedding ring.” She touched her own face. “And a little scar. Right about here. Near his left eyebrow.”
I didn’t say anything.
I couldn’t.
Tall. Gray at the temples. A navy jacket I bought him two Christmases ago.
And a small white scar over his left eyebrow, from the time he fell off a ladder cleaning gutters when Emma was six. I drove him to the emergency room myself. He needed four stitches. Emma held his hand and told him he was very brave.
My husband.
David.
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.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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