Laura Castoro - Icing On The Cake

“You might prefer the Abyssinia,” the waiter says. “It’s cognac, crème de cacao and grapefruit juice.”

“Have a lot of requests for that sort of thing?”

He shrugs. “It’s the bride’s selection.”

Celia looks at me. “I can’t wait to see what the appetizer plaza has to offer.”

I nod. If Celia’s ready to move on from sucked-in abs to self-indulgent grazing, my job, for the moment, is done.

I opt for the nearest bar station where I order a real martini. My limit is one before the wedding. Nothing gets me tight faster than a good martini. That tingling at the tip of my nose signals stop before all sense of decorum is lost.

There’s a side galley for those with the preceremony munchies. At one stop hapi-coated sushi chefs make bite-size delicacies. After a tasting, we depart for tables laden with mini crab cakes, tiny beef Wellingtons and bite-size ham biscuits with béchamel sauce. My personal favorite is the lobster ceviche served in a silver conch shell. Heaven!

Finally Celia glances at her watch. “When are we going be seated?”

That question is being murmured in variation all around us when the doors are thrown open on a room with rows of velvet chairs and a wedding canopy at the far end. The throng rushes through to vie for the best seats.

As I would follow, Celia catches me by the elbow. “I wonder what that’s about.”

I follow the jerk of her head and spot a bridesmaid in a platinum silk chamois fishtail gown. She’s waving to get our attention as she swims toward us.

She doesn’t even introduce herself, just whispers, “Which of you is Celia Hart?”

“I am, was Celia Hart,” Celia answers. “Now Celia Martin.”

“Thank God!” She grabs Celia by the arm. “Jenna’s locked herself in the dressing room and says she won’t talk to anyone but you. Hurry!”

Celia must be doing marathon girlfriend counseling. It’s been half an hour since the groom’s mother announced that the wedding is off. After that, the hotel bar seemed a better location to wait than standing around at a celebration gone fractious. As I slipped out I overheard a guest refer to the bride as a “schizoid drama queen.” No doubt from the groom’s side of the aisle.

I’m gratified that my strapless black sheath with illusion yoke has earned me a few glances of approval. Possibly it’s the Jimmie Choos. But I’m not interested in fending off upscale barflies. With a soda and lime in hand I chat up the bartender, Mitch, though he isn’t above asking snoopy questions about the wedding. I’ve tried to divert him by talking about my favorite topic, bread, but he keeps coming back to the wedding.

“What’d you wager they spent on that shindig?”

“What do you think of the idea of pomegranate seed bread?” I respond. “I can’t decide, does it sound like breakfast bread, dessert bread or a cheese-and-wine bread? I suppose it depends on how sweet it is, and whether or not there’s a glaze.”

“The kitchen staff has a pool going. My bet is three hundred thou.”

Talk about a one-track mind.

“Excuse me,” the man to my right says. “Are you here for a wedding?”

He sat down a few minutes ago, leaving a stool between us. I don’t glance at him but I suppose there’s no reason to be rude. He could be another stranded wedding guest. “Yes, the wedding that wasn’t.”

“Really? Tough break. So who called it off?”

I look over with every intention of telling him to mind his own business. But whatever I was about to say takes flight as I’m left just looking.

He’s dressed in sport coat and open collar, definitely not a wedding guest. The rest of his assets click off in my mind: high forehead, cropped dark hair, bold nose and jaw set off by deep copper skin that no bottle, spray, oil or butter produced. Yet it’s not his mature urbane looks that shut down my annoyance. It’s his city-block smile. It’s a smile of recognition, the kind you get from a long-ago friend who’s eager for you to place him.

But I don’t know him. Trust me, I would remember. The expectant look in his dark eyes only reminds me that I’m a single woman in a nice dress with time on her hands. So, um, what did he ask me?

“I’m here as moral support for a friend of a friend of the bride.”

That smile widens a notch. “What kind of support does a friend of a friend of the bride give?”

The female response is a finicky business. One gorgeous male can leave a woman cold while the next average guy can have her crossing her legs and running a hand suggestively through her hair. I’m doing both before I realize it.

Not that I’d call him average. Actually, he’s a really big guy. Like professional-athlete big. And he’s talking to me. So why not keep the conversation going? The subject was? Oh yes, friendship.

“Oh, the usual. ‘You’re so lucky to be married to a great guy, and have two sets of twins, and a job with flexible hours. Look how long it took your boyfriend-stealing girlfriend to find a man to marry, even if he is a zillionaire.’ As it turns out, she’s had a change of heart about the zillionaire.”

He nods, then says, “Excuse me,” and pulls out his cell phone. “Hey. Yeah, I’m waiting in the bar.”

I turn away, surprisingly disappointed. Of course he’s waiting for someone. She’s probably running late, to ratchet up his anticipation.

Mitch catches my eye, and I know he knows what I’m thinking. “I’m ready for that martini now.”

“Try a perfect martini.” He’s talking to me again.

“What’s your definition of perfect?” I say coolly.

He smiles and, yep, the eyes have it, deep-set and long-lashed. Girlfriend better hurry up. This is not a man who should be left waiting. “Four parts good gin, one part Chambery dry and one part Noilly Prat sweet, shaken with ice.”

“Sounds interesting. But aren’t you waiting for someone?”

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

“You recover quickly.”

“It wasn’t a date. It was business.”

“Sure it was.”

He shoots me a knowing grin. “About that martini?”

“I’m paying,” I say quickly. Hope it won’t cost more than the twenty I stuck in my evening bag.

“Wait until you taste it.” The deep grooves around his mouth become dimple trenches. “So, what do you do?”

“I’m a baker. I bake bread.”

I watch closely for signs of a shift in his interest. Much as I hate to admit it, that “blue collar” comment from Ted has proved true for some.

“Why bread?”

“You know how some people crave chocolate? And others live for the next good vintage? Bread does it for me. A good loaf can satisfy all the senses.” I stop, chagrined. “I know. I’m talking about a food most people use as bookends for meat and cheese.”

“Not at all.” He leans an arm on the bar and says, “Tell me more.”

“Okay, but remember, you asked.” Suddenly I want to sound fascinating, entertaining and sexy as hell.

“First off there’s the form of the classic loaf to seduce the eye. Some are round and firm, others long and lightly ridged.” I make the appropriate hand gestures. Shemar has rubbed off on me!

“The crust is paramount. Personally, a rich medium brown really does it for me.” He smiles and I smile, and feel my pulse kick up a notch.

“What else?”

“There’s how a loaf feels when you slip a knife through it, or tear it open. A good brioche or roll will open like a flower when you pull it part. A well-proofed loaf will fall open in firm slices before a blade.”

He props his jaw on his fist. “Go on.”

“The aroma of bread still warm from the oven.” I close my eyes briefly in remembered delight. “It’s one of my all-time favorite smells.”