Laura Castoro - Icing On The Cake

Rare translates as expensive. “We can’t afford this now, Celia.”

“We can if our display snags us the attention we deserve.” Celia beams like a Girl Scout who’s earned a new merit badge.

“That funky cheese will catch attention. No doubt.” Shemar waves off the strong smell with a hand.

Desharee scrunches up her face and backs off. “Looks like maggots been at it.”

“Actually, cheese mites do make the rind craggy. But the cheese has a sweet, dense, caramelized taste that matches perfectly with a microbrewery dark lager or chocolate malt, and slices of our eight-grain country loaf.” Celia is in expert mode. “I also picked up wedges of Hoch Ybrig and Pont l’Eveque. No food scout will bypass us with these on the shelf.”

“That’s a long shot.” I can’t keep the sour grapes mood out of my tone.

“No, It isn’t.” Celia beams. “I heard talk at Murray’s that food scouts will definitely be checking out vendors at the local fairs this weekend!”

Desharee turns to me. “What’s a food scout?”

“Consultants that major food companies hire to evaluate new food products in the field.” Desharee give me a “speak English” look. “It’s like when professional sports teams send out scouts to check out a high school pitcher or college quarterback for possible recruitment.”

Desharee’s usually bad-mood expression brightens. “Straight up?”

Celia nods. “Haven’t you heard? Liz almost had a deal with General Mills four years ago. She was going to be famous.”

“Actually,” I say dryly, “they were going to hire a celeb to front the line.”

“Celebrity endorsements? I’m all over that!” Shemar flashes me a really sexy grin.

“Why not?” Celia says with an enthusiasm ungrounded by experience.

Another chance at the big time! My mind boggles with possibility. I know better. I really do. I’ve been burned. But there’s something about a dream lost. It’s the sexiest thought on the planet: what might have been.

While I’m daydreaming Celia gives Desharee a short history lesson in food franchising.

“This is how franchising starts. The modern potato chip originated in a restaurant in Saratoga Springs, New York. Cracker Jacks first showed up at the Columbian Exposition at Chicago. And the Hidden Valley Guest Ranch near Santa Barbara, California, originated Valley Ranch. Oh, and Dave started Wendy’s.”

“What about KFC?” Shemar folds his arms together. “That old dude in the lame white suit started that?”

“Yes. So you see it’s completely possible for our little bakery to hit the big time.” Celia is nothing if not a positive thinker.

“Aw-ite!” Shemar snatches up a ciabatta, slaps the flat side of the rounded loaf against one buttock and starts rotating a bump and grind like a hottie in a video. “We def-initely calling our new item the JLO Loaf.”

I burst out with laughter. Then we all start boogying around, as if it’s a done deal.

Okay, so maybe we’re thinking too big. While the Fine Arts and Crafts at Anderson Park is a great fair, Naomi’s rhubarb pie isn’t likely to become the next Stouffer’s frozen pie. Still, I’ve been approached by corporate before. So, why couldn’t I…?

“Liz, there is something else.”

Celia’s suddenly somber face pricks my elation. “You got another of those registered letters from Dunlap, McDougal and Feinstein.”

She reaches under the counter and pulls out a slick plastic envelope. “This time they sent it by private courier.”

“Thanks.” I take it gingerly, as if it might be contaminated.

This isn’t the first letter I’ve received from Ted’s attorneys since his demise. Sarah and Riley got them, too, and say it concerns the reading of Ted’s will. I can’t bring myself to open any of them. The firm handled Ted’s side of the divorce. Probably I’m being pressured to sign some papers returning my share of Ted’s IRAs when I’m fifty-nine and a half, or something equally depressing.

When Celia and Shemar and Desharee have moved discreetly away, possibly with thoughts that I might open it, I toss the package aside. Sarah and Riley are attending the reading of their dad’s will today. They can tell me what I need to know.

A while later the notes of “She Works Hard for the Money,” playing on my cell phone interrupt me mid-preparation of a special order for heart-shaped scones. The readout says Sarah. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Mom, where are you?”

“Where would you expect me to be at this time of day?”

“At the reading of Dad’s will.”

“I told you there’s no need for me to be there.”

“Dad’s attorney thinks there is. He’s refusing to read the will until you arrive.”

This I need like another hole in my head. “I’m really kind of busy. Tell him I said to go ahead without me.”

There’s a pause, then Riley’s voice comes on line. “Mom, get over here now!”

“Jeez! Okay. I’m coming.”

I give three seconds’ thought to changing out of my baker’s white back into the Dana Buchman I carefully hung out of harm’s way, but why bother? I am what I am. If this is so bloody important, what does it matter what I look like?

“I’m glad you could join us, Mrs. Talbot.”

The attorney of record, Lionel Dunlap, and I face each other across the conference table in the law offices of Dunlap, McDougal and Feinstein. He doesn’t glance at his watch but he doesn’t have to. Sarah has already told me that I’ve held up the proceedings by a billable top-attorney hour. Wonder who’s paying?

Maybe I should have rethought my optional Dana Buchman. Every other person present seems to have realized the sartorial significance of the moment.

On my right, Sarah, prim and serious as her tweed business suit and tortoiseshell glasses, clutches my hand. At my left elbow sits Riley in a man’s pin-striped seersucker suit sans shirt. The flexible dancer’s leg folded against her chest puts considerable strain on the one button holding closed the jacket. A colorful batik fabric snugly wraps her head. I hope my urban Amazon aka vegan counter-culture purist hasn’t shaved her head, again.

To one side and a little behind, she sits between two men-in-black-Halston attorneys. So far, we’ve avoided making eye contact. That’s because she’s wearing, yup, a mafiarina-style mourning veil. Yet her widow-black Carrie Bradshaw-goes-Goth micro sheath exposes enough leg to distract even me. If possible, she’s even tanner, with deep red undertones. Swinging from the toes of her crossed leg is a Moschino black-heeled sandal with a crystal-encrusted suede-flower ornament. The pair would pay my flour bill.

“Shall we begin?” Lionel is an old-school lawyerly type, In an impeccable custom-made suit, terribly expensive and understated. Doubtless he would never wear anything as vulgar as a designer label. “For the record the date is Monday, September12. The last will and testimony of Edward Duncan Talbot…”

I’m still at a loss as to why my attendance is such a big deal. Surely, Ted left everything to her and our girls. If he did leave me anything, it’s probably something completely useless like a case of eight-track cartridges. Hmm. Collectors’ items could be sold on eBay for cash. If that’s why she brought in the former law review, to stop me from owning the Bee Gees and K.C. and Sunshine Boys, she can have them.

My attention swings back to old Lionel just as he reads aloud, “…I devise and bequeath to Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot all goods and possessions…”

My first thought is, of course he left everything to his wife. Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot? “Me?”

“Oh, Mom!” whispers Sarah.

“Holy crap!” echoes Riley.