Chapter 8: My Grandmother's Cake

I didn't sleep that night either.

I lay in the narrow bed under the slanted ceiling and stared at that photo until my eyes burned.

It was my cake.

I knew it.

The coconut was pressed on in my pattern, heavier at the base, the way my grandmother did it so the bottom edge wouldn't crack.

Someone in that kitchen had copied my hands.

At seven in the morning I knocked on the door at the bottom of the stair.

Ronan opened it in a T-shirt and sweatpants, a mug of coffee in each hand.

He held one out.

"I saw it," he said. "Bree sent it to me too. She used a lot of capital letters."

"They're shooting it today. The teaser said 'behind the scenes, Saturday morning at our flagship.'"

"You want me to come?"

"I want you to drive. I'm too angry to park."

The flagship on Broad Street had its blinds half down and a sign on the door. CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT.

Through the glass I could see lights on stands and a camera on a tripod.

The door wasn't locked.

I walked in.

The whole room turned.

A photographer. A woman with a clipboard. Two lighting guys. Three of my old pastry cooks in fresh white jackets, looking at the floor.

And Brandon, behind the counter, in a crisp new chef's coat with his name stitched on the chest in red.

He'd never worn a chef's coat in his life.

On the counter in front of him sat a seven-layer coconut cake on a glass stand.

A sign leaned against it, printed on heavy cream card stock.

BRANDON'S GRANDMOTHER'S COCONUT CAKE. A KEARNEY FAMILY RECIPE SINCE 1952.

Brandon went pale.

"Noelle. You can't be here. This is a closed set."

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