WHEN RON ARRIVED for their coffee date, bundled in an overcoat, gloves and warm boots, his nose red from the cold, Laurel was already waiting on a bench. She got up and hugged him. He seemed a little taken aback but hugged her in return. She thought they fit nicely together, being of a similar height. When you were both average, average could be perfect.
She was wearing a man’s winter coat that she’d picked up at a thrift store, a woolen hand-crocheted hat with a pink crocheted flower on the side that an aunt had sent her for Christmas, and purple mittens.
“This is a very nice spot,” he said, seeming to see the LOVE sculpture for the first time in his life though he must have viewed it hundreds of times.
She was so happy he approved. He sat down on the bench and she reached into her bag and pulled out the thermos of coffee she’d made earlier. She only drank fair trade coffee, of course, and the brew was excellent.
She poured the coffee into china mugs she’d brought from home. They were pottery, made by hand at a women’s collective in Guatemala and she loved their heft and the connection she felt with these women who were using their own artistic talents to make a better life.
She handed him his coffee, then realized she hadn’t brought milk or sugar. “Um, I hope you like it black.”
“I do.”
Finally, feeling both bold and foolish, she unearthed a reusable cake box and handed it to him.
“What’s this?”
“A little something to go with your coffee.”
He opened it slowly and the grin that split his face made him look anything but unremarkable. He put down the coffee on the bench and removed his gloves so he could ease the cupcake out of the box.
She’d spent more time on that one cupcake than she’d spent on some four-tier wedding cakes. And his response was everything she could have hoped for.
The cake was spherical, with a flat spot on the bottom so it would stand. On it, she’d iced a simple variation of the continents, using blue gel with touches of green as the sea. On top of the world was a man made of fondant, a man with glasses and average-colored hair, in a gray suit—including a tiny blue-and-red striped tie—holding a briefcase in one hand and a gun in the other. She’d considered writing Top Secret on the briefcase but decided that was too obvious.
At first he simply looked at it, turning it every way so he could see the cake from all angles, not saying a word, but she could tell from his expression that he was pleased.
“This,” he finally said, “is the nicest cake I’ve ever had. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She felt absurdly pleased. It was so rare for her to be present when her creations were consumed. Sometimes she never even met the final customers, she’d get commissions from Karen or Chelsea. To have the opportunity to watch someone she liked enjoy the fruit of her artistic vision and stove labor made her bubbly with excitement.
She anticipated his first bite. Would he be delighted at the cake she’d chosen for him? A plain white with lacings of hidden lemon flavor? She wanted to see him with icing smeared around his clean and proper mouth, to watch him gobble the tiny figure of himself she’d crafted so painstakingly.
After admiring the cake again, chuckling over the details and peering closer until his nose almost touched Africa, he said, “I can’t believe how accurately you’ve delineated the continents in such a small space. It’s quite remarkable.”
Then, as carefully as he’d eased it out of the box, he began to replace the cake.
She couldn’t stop herself from crying out in protest.
“What is it?” he asked, the thriller cupcake half in and half out of the box.
“You’re not diabetic, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why don’t you eat it?”
He appeared as shocked at the idea of eating the cupcake as she was at the notion of him not eating it. “I can’t do that, it’s a work of art. I want to enjoy it. Make it last.”
“You can’t,” she said, understanding the joy of her profession in that moment as she never had before. “Any more than you can make a perfect sunset last, or an amazing live concert, or a belly laugh. If you put that cake in the fridge until it rots, you’ll have missed the joy of eating it. Please.” She leaned over and touched his leg with her purple-mittened hand. “I made it for you.”
He blinked at her slowly, then with a nod that contained a hint of sadness, he withdrew that perfect cupcake. And, after staring at it again from all angles, as though to commit the image to memory, he bit into Australia.
He didn’t seem to mind that he got blue gel all around his mouth, didn’t stop for a second to wipe up. Instead, he gave himself over to the pleasure of that first bite. “Mmm, mmm, that is so good,” he finally said, licking his lips. “Usually commercial cakes are so disappointing, as though all the work went into the decorating for show, and then inside it’s a boring cake. But this.” He seemed unable to find words. Closed his eyes briefly. Then smiled at her. “I think I get it. You made an ordinary cake and filled it with a surprise flavor.”
She nodded, pleased with his perception, and so he went on.
“It’s like a thriller novel. Everything seems normal on the surface, but there are secrets to be uncovered. And the protagonist may seem like one thing on the outside but be full of surprises.”
“Exactly. It’s what I love about thrillers.”
“And new relationships?”
He was gazing at her with those warm gray eyes that were anything but ordinary. Her stomach jumped and then settled. “Exactly.”
He offered her the cake and she bit into the other side. Even she had to admit it was one of her tastiest, most inspired creations.
“This is a very different first date for me,” he said, sipping from coffee that steamed in the cold air.
“I’m glad. How do they usually go?”
“I have a list of questions I can ask to keep the conversation flowing.”
“Such as?”
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“That’s a good one to start with.”
“I think so. Well? How about it? Tell me about yourself.”
She sipped her coffee, thinking. What was there to tell, really, that a down-to-earth man like Ron would find interesting? When she reviewed her history, even with careful editing, she knew she’d sound like a flake. So she cut to the chase. “I’m a flake.”
A quiet rumble that could have been a chuckle shook him. “Really? Have a bit of Antarctica.”
He passed her the cake and she bit into it.
“I am, you know,” she said around the flavor. “I don’t like schedules or do normal things. I practice a lot of yoga—and I started a long time before it became popular, by the way. I’ve spent much of my life drifting.”
She tipped back her head and contemplated the gray sky above. “All of it, really.”
“Perhaps I could have some specifics?”
Suddenly, she laughed. “You see what I mean? I can’t even have a normal conversation with details. I’m even a flake in conversation.”
“I like that about you.”
“You do?” If he’d told her he liked that her hair was four colors because she could never decide on one she couldn’t have been more shocked.
“For the same reason I like your hair,” he said, knocking her mouth wide open.