Anushka

‘A black forest cake stands out,’ Jamie said, out loud, to no one but himself. Especially so, in the age of lavender, matcha and kunafa.

          It was one of the many excuses he’d given himself for why this single cake needed so much attention. He never accepted cake orders without a three-day notice. But when a friend of a friend called late last night, he hardly put up an argument. A three-tier six-inch. No allergies or dietary restrictions. He slept fitfully. He was… giddy, someone would’ve pointed out to him. Except no one was around. 

          At three, he finally left the bed. He then spent hours foraging his inventory. He only stopped when his phone buzzed. Jay had called in sick.

          ‘Great,’ he muttered. The breads were going to be his ordeal today. Between kneading doughs, letting them rest and rise, he quickly texted his vendor. He needed fresh cherries delivered before 7 AM.

          A half hour before the customer pick-up, he took his time—time he didn’t have—decorating the cake. Buttercream frosting and chocolate shavings covered up every visible inch and sitting atop twelve rosettes were the prettiest cherries he’d picked out from today’s deliveries. Brandy and sugar could be smelled from afar, the heavens frowning at the concoction of sin brewed right under them. He’d have used a lighter frosting with whipped ganache, but his mum always said, ‘A cake that indulgent better taste wicked good.’ So he’d never cut back on the buttercream.

          It was a birthday treat, anyway. The last time he’d made it had been for her birthday, exactly three years ago. The first time she’d pushed him to take up baking again.

          You need to get back to what you love.

          She’d been right. Years climbing the corporate ladder had made baking seem like a different lifetime. 

          At nine, she’d given him a hand whisk and an apron for a birthday present, an Easy-Bake Oven at twelve. When he’d been fifteen, she’d fixed him up at a bakery that needed helpers. The pay wasn’t much, but he’d excitedly signed up anyway. Weeks later, he’d cried into her arms saying that he’d never gotten beyond doing the dishes and lugging around fifty-pound bags of flour. He didn’t have the heart to go to pastry school anymore.

          The phone rang, breaking his reverie.

         ‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t get away right now,’ the customer said. ‘Could you deliver it? Please? I’ll add a generous tip. I promise.’

          Jamie scoffed, biting back his words—I’m not a food delivery guy.

          Then he looked out to see soft sunlight draped over the street, most unbecoming of Edinburgh’s Septembers. His mum would’ve made a picnic out of it.

          The address was a few streets down, so he took out his bike and set the cake box snugly on the front-mounted rack. After the first couple hundred yards, the skies began to gray. 

          A haze descended, softening the sharpness of silhouettes, as if a shadow cast from above.  

          #

Danny sighed. After all these years, he still didn’t know what to expect from the weather.

          ‘Did you order from Apron and Whisk?’

          ‘Hi, yes,’ he replied, still gathering himself. ‘Thank you so much for bringing it by. How much do I owe you?’

          ‘A hundred and fifty.’

          He held out four crisp fifty-pound notes.

          The delivery guy shook his head. 

          Money cannot be your solution for every time you can’t make an effort.

          Danny ignored the voice and continued, ‘Keep it, mate. You’ve no idea how much this means to me.’

          The delivery guy accepted the cash with a small smile. At least he’d made one person smile today. 

          He sat at the doorstep, the box on his lap, every sinew strung tight. On a whim, he broke off the seal to peer at the cake. It was a beauty. And even in the damp air, the boozy cherries were unmistakable.

          There’s wisdom in the haze. 

          Time mists over memories like that. 

          Whatever you hold on to, holds on to you.

          Lines from his childhood came to him unbidden.

          Could there be forgiveness in those lines? They had once held hurt, a betrayal—she’d been aghast when he’d told her about the move. The resentment had initially bubbled up in casual remarks like ‘you’re not built for the sun’. And then there was no going back after she said, ‘When have you ever thought about anyone but yourself?’

          Sometimes an apology isn’t about right or wrong at all. 

          Another thing she’d said. It had sounded unreasonable even back then. And yet here he found himself.

          A decade long silence bridged with black forest cake suddenly seemed like a leap.

          But when he rang the bell and she answered the door almost immediately, hope clutched at his throat so hard, he couldn’t breathe.

          The woman standing before him had looser jowls and more wrinkles than he remembered. The unreadable gaze almost marked her a stranger. But she wasn’t. Of course, she wasn’t.

          ‘Happy Birthday, Ma,’ he said, the apology already in his smile.

          She lifted the lid of the box long enough to look inside. But as he sought to wipe the tear threatening to roll down her cheek, she pulled herself away.

          And before he could utter another word, she pushed the box out of his hands and it landed on the porch in a mash of crumble and cream. Danny only watched as she slammed the door on his face. Again.