Chapter 10 - The Taste of Sweet Cake
The sun was warm and golden on the terrace of my estate, entirely unlike the cold, foggy evening of the engagement party three weeks earlier.
The heavy crystal chandelier above the portico had been removed, replaced by understated bronze lanterns that cast a warm, unpretentious glow against the limestone. There were no politicians here today. No venture capitalists, no society photographers, no string quartet playing Bach beneath the cypress trees.
There was only a wooden folding table set up on the lawn, draped in a simple white linen cloth, and four people.
Evelyn was sitting in a wicker armchair, laughing with her head thrown back, holding a glass of iced tea as she watched her daughter race across the manicured grass.
Amara was running in wide, dizzying circles around the stone fountain, wearing denim overalls and red sneakers. Barnaby the lamb was tucked securely into the front pocket of her overalls, his worn felt ears flapping in the ocean breeze.
In the center of the wooden table sat a massive, three-tiered vanilla sponge cake, smothered in thick, bright pink strawberry frosting and covered in rainbow sprinkles.
"Uncle James!" Amara shouted, sliding to a stop on the wet grass near my knees, her face flushed with excitement. "Is it time? Can we cut it now?"
I crouched down, the slate warm beneath my feet. I looked into those serious, brilliant hazel eyes that had seen through the most sophisticated con on the Pacific coast.
"It’s definitely time, Bug," I said, tapping the tip of her nose with my finger.
Evelyn walked over, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. "James, that cake could feed forty people. What are we supposed to do with all of it?"
"Amara had a contract," I said with absolute seriousness, winking at my niece. "She negotiated for all the cake she could eat. And a Sterling always honors his agreements."
Amara giggled—a pure, unrestrained sound that seemed to chase away every ghost that had ever haunted this terrace.
We gathered around the table. I cut a massive, lopsided slice of the cake, piling it onto a paper plate until the pink frosting threatened to spill over the edges, and handed it directly to Amara. She took a giant plastic fork, shoveled a massive bite into her mouth, and let out a contented sigh, her cheeks instantly smeared with strawberry frosting.
She looked up at me through sticky eyelashes, chewing happily.
"Uncle James?" she mumbled through a mouthful of cake.
"Yes, Bug?"
"Are you happy now?"
I looked around the terrace—at my sister smiling in the warm afternoon sun, at the ocean waves crashing white and clean against the cliffs below, at the quiet, solid house that was finally, truly my home.
For the first time in eight months, the smile that came to my face didn't require any effort. It wasn't calibrated for a crowd. It wasn't a defense mechanism against a hostile world.
It was real.
"Yes, Amara," I said, reaching down with a napkin to wipe a smudge of pink frosting from her nose. "I’m very happy."
"Can I have another piece?"
May you like
"You can have the whole thing," I laughed.
And as the sun dipped low over the Pacific, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold, we sat on the terrace together, eating sweet cake in the quiet safety of the truth.
