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“Could have prevented it?” I say. “Join the club.”
Although my back is still turned to Sam, I know she’s staring again. This time a faint cold spot blunts the heat of her gaze. Curiosity, left unarticulated. I want nothing more than to tell her about the email Lisa sent me before she died. It would be a relief to talk about it, to let Sam shoulder some of the burden of my possibly misplaced guilt. But it’s partly guilt that has brought her to my door. I’m not about to add to it, especially if this visit is some unspoken rite of atonement.
“What happened to Lisa sucks,” she says. “I feel like shit knowing that I—we, actually—might have been able to help her. I don’t want the same thing happening to you.”
“I’m not suicidal,” I say.
“But I wouldn’t have known it if you were. If you ever need help or something, tell me. I’ll do the same for you. We need to look out for each other. So you can talk to me about what happened. You know, if you ever need to.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m happy.”
“Good.” The word rings hollow, as if she doesn’t believe me. “That’s good to hear.”
“Really, I am. The website’s going well. Jeff is fantastic.”
“Will I be allowed to meet this Jeff?”
It’s a nesting-doll question, concealing other, unspoken ones inside. If I crack openWill I meet Jeff? I’ll findDo you like me?Out of which popsAre we becoming friends?Inside that is the most compact, most important question. The heart of the matter:Are we the same?
“Of course,” I say, answering them all at once. “You have to stay for dinner.”
I finish the table setting, the cupcakes angled so their frostedspiders will fill the frame. For the background, I’ve chosen a swath of fabric with a bold ’50s pattern and vintage ceramic pumpkins picked up at a flea market.
“Cute,” Sam says, the wrinkling of her nose indicating it’s not a compliment.
“In the baking blog biz, cute sells.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, studying the display. Despite all those minute adjustments, it’s still not right. There’s something missing. Some intangible spark I’ve neglected to include.
“It’s too perfect,” Sam announces.
“It’s not,” I say, when, of course, it is. The whole display is flat, lifeless. Everything is so pristine the cupcakes might as well be fake. They certainly look that way. Plastic frosting atop a foam base. “What would you do differently?”
Sam approaches the display with an index finger on her chin, lost in thought. She then goes to work, tearing through it like Godzilla stomping Tokyo. Some of the plates are cleared of cupcakes and hastily stacked. A ceramic pumpkin is knocked on its side and a napkin is crumpled and casually tossed, bouncing into the middle of the scene. Wrappers are torn from three cupcakes and dropped into the mix.
The once-pristine display is now chaotic. It resembles a table after a wildly entertaining dinner party, messy and satisfying and real.
It’s perfect.
I grab my camera and start taking pictures, zooming in on the disheveled cupcakes. Behind them sits an uneven stack of Fiestaware, some bearing globs of black icing dark against the green.
Sam grabs a cupcake and takes a gargantuan bite as crumbs drip and cherry filling oozes. “Take my picture.”
I hesitate, for reasons she can’t begin to understand.
“I don’t put pictures of people on the blog,” I say. “Only food.”
Nor do Itakepictures of people, even ones not intended for my website. No Lisa-esque selfies for me. Not since Pine Cottage.
“Just this once,” Sam says, faking a pout. “For me?”
Hesitantly, I look into the camera’s viewfinder and suck in a breath. It’s like peering into a crystal ball and seeing not my futurebut my past. I see Janelle, standing in front of Pine Cottage, striking wacky poses with her too many suitcases. I didn’t notice the similarity earlier, but now it’s obvious. While Sam and Janelle don’t physically resemble each other, they share the same spirit. Vivid and unapologetic and startlingly alive.
“Something wrong?” Sam says.
“No.” I click the shutter, taking a single picture. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Sam hurries to my side, nudging me until I show her the photograph.