Chicago’s elite? Normal?
“Anything but,” Lorraine said with a tortured sigh.
Her mother had instilled in her children that to be a Hawthorne-Hayes was to be dignified, distinguished and, above all, the consummate model of decorum. An elegant, sensible cake with delicate, sugared flowers and icing made to look like lace was dignified. It was the kind of cake her mother would approve of. The kind Abigail Hawthorne-Hayes would demand.
For that reason alone, Lorraine put the car in Reverse and backed out of the parking space.
To hell with what Abigail wanted. This bridal shower wasn’t about her mother; she was doing this for her sister.
Lorraine exited the garage and turned right. As she approached the intersection at Michigan Avenue and East Delaware Place, a thought occurred to her. If she was going to incur her mother’s wrath, she might as well make it worth it. She flipped on her right blinker and drove down a block, turned left and then made another left, pulling her car up to the valet at the Drake.
Her mother had insisted on elegance and refinement when it came to the bridal shower, but she could save that for the wedding. As maid of honor, Lorraine was in charge of shower preparations, and she would give her sister something that fit her personality. That cake she’d ordered at Lillian’s was just the start.
Lorraine walked up the carpeted steps leading to the landmark hotel’s lobby. As she entered, her eyes were instantly drawn to the enormous flower arrangement in the center of the room, sitting just below the signature crystal chandelier. Opulence oozed from every square inch of the place.
Lorraine met with the hotel’s special events coordinator. As she described her new vision for Trina’s bridal shower, she had a hard time containing her amusement at the way the woman’s face transformed from gleeful to completely horrified. The coordinator’s penciled-in eyebrows formed perfect peaks as Lorraine explained that she wanted the calla lily centerpieces replaced with seashells and coral on a bed of soft white sand. She wanted the walls draped in flowing light blue silk, mimicking the waves of the ocean.
The woman cleared her throat. “This all sounds lovely, Ms. Hawthorne-Hayes. However, are you sure we shouldn’t discuss this with Mrs. Hawthorne-Hayes before making such drastic changes?”
“No,” Lorraine said. “I’m the one in charge of my sister’s wedding shower. I have the last word. I will browse the web for some ideas and email them to you. Feel free to do the same.”
Her mother would have a fit, but Lorraine would deal with it. For once, Abigail Hawthorne-Hayes was not getting her way.
* * *
Carter leaned back in the chair and crossed his feet on top of his desk. He used a stylus to make notations on the inventory list he kept stored in his electronic tablet. Ever since they were featured at a Chicago Bulls pregame event, Lillian’s red velvet cupcakes with dark chocolate and cream cheese frosting, designed in the team’s colors of black and red, were flying out the door. Carter needed to increase the order of cupcake holders to keep up with the significant spike in sales.
There was a knock on the door. He looked up to find his cousin Monica. “Carter, were you supposed to have a cake for Maria Salazar ready for today?”
He frowned. “No, that isn’t until Thursday.”
“Well, she’s in the showroom right now to pick up her cake.”
Rising from his chair, Carter switched to the app that he used to keep track of his cake orders. He had a cake for an Arabian Nights–themed quinceañera scheduled for pick up on Thursday by Maria Salazar.
He turned the screen so Monica could see for herself. “She’s not supposed to pick it up until Thursday.”
“Well, somebody got their dates crossed. You need to go out there and talk to her.”
“I didn’t take the order,” he said. “It was probably Drake. I think he was working the retail store that morning.”
“You’re the one listed as the baker. You were specifically requested,” she pointed out. Carter didn’t miss the smug undertone of his cousin’s voice.
The Drayson grandchildren got along well enough, but in jockeying for position in the bakery, Carter definitely had a target on his back. Both their grandparents and his aunt and uncle had taken notice when customers started requesting Carter by name, and so had his cousins.
That wasn’t his problem. If the rest of the Drayson clan wanted to stand out, they needed to step up their games.
What was his problem was this mix-up with Mrs. Salazar’s cake order. It didn’t matter who had caused it. As Monica had just pointed out, he was the head baker on the project, which meant he was ultimately responsible for the customer’s one hundred percent satisfaction.
Carter entered the showroom, his eyes roaming around for Drake. Of course, his cousin was nowhere to be found. He was probably in one of the back offices playing around on Facebook or Twitter. Somebody needed to remind him that the same social networking he used to tout Lillian’s qualities could be used by unhappy customers to eviscerate the company’s good name if there were too many mix-ups like the one that had apparently taken place with the Salazar cake.
Carter walked up to the woman who was standing in front of the counter. “Mrs. Salazar, how are you?” he greeted.
“Where is my cake?”
“I don’t have you scheduled until Thursday to pick up the cake.”
“No, the quinceañera is tonight. I was told the cake would be ready by noon.” Her elevated voice caused several shoppers to turn their heads.
“Why don’t we move over here?” Carter said, gesturing for her to follow him to the rear left side of the showroom, which had been converted into a coffee bar. “Can I offer you something to drink? A latte? Cappuccino?”
“I want my cake,” Mrs. Salazar said.
“I found the original order form.” Monica came up to them. “It has Thursday marked off, but today’s date is written on it.”
Great. Carter bit back a curse.
“So I will have no cake for my daughter’s quinceañera? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Not to worry,” Carter said. “Just tell me where it is being held and I’ll have your cake delivered by five o’clock.”
“Carter,” Monica warned in a low tone.
He held a hand up to his cousin, keeping his full attention on Mrs. Salazar. “You’ll have the cake you ordered. I will see to it personally,” Carter assured her.
The worry lines creasing the woman’s forehead lessened, and a cautious smile relaxed the corners of her mouth.
“Thank you,” she said. She held up her checkbook. “I still need to pay the balance on the cake.”
“No, you don’t. It’s on us.”
“Carter!” Monica sputtered.
“I’m very sorry
