I'm done at exactly 3:45, tucking the cake into one of our signature purple boxes, and head out, closing up
shop not only early but alone-Cindy is long since gone for the day.
I'm pretty sure Tough Mama traumatized her.

I barely have time to even breathe before I'm haul-assing across town (Thank God Charming is so small, otherwise I'd be late.)
in my vintage Impala, the cake buckled in a lot more securely than I was.
I have bare minutes to spare I note gleefully killing the engine halfway down the block from the instructed delivery address.
Even without the street number, or directions, I'm positive I would have been able to find the place-there were cars everywhere.
Cars and Harley's, which actually explained a lot.
And I was expected to go in there?
This is rich.
I fortified myself by thinking about the extra hundred bucks I had been paid, and hurled myself out of the car, heading up the
block before I could lose my nerve.

I rang the doorbell twice as a courtesy before giving up and following the sounds of a large gathering around
the side of the house and into a good-sized back yard.
I was greeted immediately, and warmly, which is not always as great as it sounds when you consider the group
of people I was dealing with.
"Hey honey, whatcha got there?"
A man with curly black hair asks and I will myself not to flinch as he wraps a casual arm around my shoulders.
How foolish I must have looked, standing there holding a pastel purple box, still wearing the apron streaked with flour.
"I told you!"
A short, chubby man roars nearby at an unidentified person.
"I would have baked the kid banana nut bread!"
This goes largely ignored, save for an older guy wielding an oxygen tank, who yells
"SHUT UP, ELVIS." before approaching me, asking, "You here with the cake?"
I nod stupidly and he jerks his thumb in the general direction of the back door of the house.
"Kitchen's that way. Tig, quit pawin' the new girl."
Taking care to disentangle myself from Grabby-Hands (Tig? Had I heard that right?) I head in the direction
he'd pointed, lobbing a polite 'Nice to meet you' over my shoulder as I take pains
to stay on the edge of the mob of people.

All of the women I'd later come to know and lean on were clustered around the french doors,
keeping outsiders, well...out.
I approached them with maximum trepidation, the cake held aloft like some kind of peace offering.
"Hi."
This is met with blank stares.
Hostile blank stares, if such a thing could be said to exist.
"I'm here with Ellie's cake...?"
I like to thing it's the 'E' word that relaxes them, softens the group up as a whole, but maybe it's just
the prospect of chocolate.
"Thank God," the oldest of the women sighs with relief, exhaling a stream of smoke.
"GEMMA!" She shrieks into the house without preamble, startling me.
"CAKE'S HERE."
The woman who placed the order barrels out through the women, who part like the red sea in order to
let her through and I'm glad to be able to put a name to the face.
Gemma. It fit her.
"Thank Christ."
Gemma seconds, and exhales her own cloud of smoke, one I'm almost entirely positive does not involve nicotine.
"I thought it was never gonna get here."
"I'm early!"
I cry before I can stop myself, indignant to have my rush job questioned.
It stung a little, that I'd busted my ass to get over here on time and it still wasn't fast enough.
Not that I needed this womans approval, or anything.
Gemma quirks a perfectly groomed eyebrow at me, flicking her
joint (ha! I knew it wasn't cigarette smoke) down and grinding it out with the heel of her stiletto.
"Smart-mouthed bitch."
I'm taken aback as she relieves me of the cake box, and it must show on my face because the woman
who yelled for Gemma speaks up.
"Don't worry, hon. She means it as a compliment."
Gemma stops short as she hears this, and then catches the incredulous look on my face.
"How the fuck else would I mean it?!"
And then, before I can even react to this,
"You gonna stay for the party, kid? Grab yourself a drink, you look like you need it."
She's off like a shot, looking for candles and I immediately begin to stealthily try to sneak my way out of this shindig.
All I want is to go home and watch WE Wedding Sunday-forget The Simpsons, I was breaking out the big guns.
Fortunately (although I didn't realize it at the time) for me, I'm halted before I can even begin.

"Luann."
There's a drink thrust into my hand, something dark in a SOLO cup, and I'm guessing that this was an introduction.
"Charlie. Thanks."
Gemma breezes by us again, on her way to deposit the cake on a picnic table set up right in the middle of the yard.
"Gotcha a drink." She notes. "Good. Enjoy the fruits of your labor."
I'm surprised by all of this, but Luann seems unphased.
"You did a solid for her, kid. Really saved the day with that cake-she must be impressed.
Gem don't issue invitations to outsiders easily."
This is oddly touching, and I feel myself caving.
"Okay. Alright.
One drink."
Luann smiles, lifting her own SOLO cup, and I can't tell if what's said next is snark or genuine awe.

"To the Queen of Charming."
Unsure, I toast.
If only I knew.