“It’s so great to see you.” My words are genuine. I’ve used Sally for a number of different events, and while I truly love her confections, I also adore her as a person. Only a few years older than me, she has a maternal personality, as warm and comforting as freshly baked chocolate cake.
“I’ve been thinking about the girls,” she says, leading me past the display cases and into the private tasting area set up to resemble a homey kitchen with countertops and cabinets lining two walls, along with a refrigerator, stove, and cooktop. It’s a new feature she added when she expanded the bakery into the space next door, and she gestures for me to take a seat at one of the stools surrounding the quartz-topped kitchen island that dominates the center of the room.
She stands beside me, her hip brushing the stool as if she’s thinking of sitting as well, but can’t quite commit to the action. “At the risk of it looking like I have no imagination at all, I think we might want to go with cupcake displays again. Only this time with a little bit of a twist.”
“A twist?” For our wedding, Sally had designed cupcake towers. The finished product had been stunning, and the guests were able to pick whatever flavor they wanted from the five tiers of beautifully decorated, fondant-iced cupcakes. My mother had been mortified by the idea, but I’d been thrilled.
Sally nods, then bends down to open one of the cabinets under the island. When she stands, she’s holding a huge platter with a two-layer round cake, perfectly iced with a thick chocolate frosting so enticing I want to drag my fingers through one of the ridges and taste the gooey sweetness.
“Something like this for the center,” Sally explains. “But I’ll build out and up for the kids.”
Once more, she reaches into her cabinet of goodies. This time, she pulls out a mountain of cupcakes. The center, as she described, is the double-layer of chocolate cake. But that base is ringed by two concentric circles of cupcakes, one frosted with what looks and smells like butter cream, the other with chocolate.
Four spikes extend upward from the main round cakes and act as support for the first layer of a tower that is topped with a collection of cupcakes. Another four spikes extend up from that, and this layer is smaller in diameter and hosts fewer cupcakes. The top layer has one over-sized cupcake.
“For the birthday girls,” Sally says, pointing to the top cupcake. “Obviously, we’ll have two towers, one for Anne and one for Lara. Each with birthday candles, of course. And I can frost in their favorite colors if you want.”
“I love this,” I say, genuinely delighted.
“I’m not done yet.” This time she doesn’t reach below the island, but goes to the shelf above the sink upon which sits a collection of her published books along with a few three-ring binders.
She pulls down one—a pale blue binder, lightly dusted in a layer of white flour. Inside are pages of photos protected in clear plastic sleeves. She flips quickly through, then shows me a photo of the tiered cupcake tower surrounded by a decorating station with plain silver bowls filled with colorful sprinkles, candies, and other cupcake toppings.
“It will be messy,” she says. “But I promise the kids will have fun. And when we set it up, we’ll put down a protective flooring that looks and feels like regular carpeting. We can even bring toddler tables if you need.”
“I’ve got that covered,” I tell her, then look up quizzically. “I didn’t realize you did such a booming business for the under five set.”
She laughs. “I catered my nephew’s party, then figured what the hell. Now I’m able to offer full-service toddler parties.” She winks. “I love my work, but there’s a special reward in watching a little kid grin at me with a mouth covered in frosting.”
“Can’t argue with that. I hope you’ll be able to attend yourself?” Sally often sends one of her employees to her catered events, but she’s known Damien for years, and we’ve asked her to join us as a guest after the cupcake station is set up.
“I can’t wait. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen your girls. Or you and Damien, for that matter.”
“We’ve all been busy,” I say. “Anything new in your life?”
“With everything I’ve got going in this business? Who has time for new?” She smiles as she speaks, but under her words, I think I hear a hint of regret. I start to ask, but stop myself. It’s not my place. More than that, it could very well be my imagination.
We wrap up the details for the party, making the final frosting and decorating choices right as Sally’s next appointment walks in the front door, a tall, young woman whose face is glowing in such a way that I’m certain she’s there to talk about wedding cakes.
All in all, I spend about half an hour in Love Bites, then I walk leisurely back to the car. Unless there’s been a wreck on Santa Monica Boulevard, I should arrive at my new office space in plenty of time to meet Luis and my team.
Love Bites is on Beverly Boulevard, and my car is parked a few blocks away on Dayton Way at Two Rodeo Drive, one of the many upscale shopping destinations in the area. I’d been hurrying after I dropped the car off, focusing entirely on my destination. Now, I walk back more leisurely, letting my gaze wander to the storefronts.
The perfectly cut flirty dresses displayed on headless mannequins. The elegant evening gowns that cost more than most people’s cars, and will be worn down the red carpet, then zipped into a garment bag and tucked into the back of a closet or donated to charity. The meticulously constructed handbags. The stunning jewelry that glitters and sparkles under the hidden lighting, designed to display every piece to its best advantage.
I generally don’t pay much attention to labels, but I can’t deny that there is a world of beauty and opulence tucked into the blocks surrounding the famous Rodeo Drive. The prices are out of reach for so many, and yet the well-known shopping district is a draw for tourists and wealthy locals, both craving the glitz and the glamour. The attention to luxury and comfort and detail that acts like a balm against a world that can be harsh and brutal.
As I walk along, I soak in the colors and the patterns, then stop short in front of a window filled entirely with black and white images of nude women in undeniably erotic poses, modest only because of the contrast of shadow and light.
I know these pictures—they’re the work of Wyatt Royce, a rising star in the world of photography. His real name is Wyatt Segel, but since his family is Hollywood royalty, he changed it for work, wanting success on his own terms, without trading on his family name.
He’s also a good friend, and though I don’t really expect him to be inside the gallery that is hosting his art, I step inside anyway. Photography has been my hobby since my sister gave me a Nikon when I was in high school, and I crave a closer look at Wyatt’s beautiful compositions and stunning imagery.
I’m drawn first to a photograph of his wife, Kelsey, who was his model when he finally broke out in a big way. Her face isn’t identifiable in this photo, but she’d told me about the shoot, and I’m certain it’s her. Taken in her dance studio, she stands at the barre, one foot flat on the ground, the other flexed on the wooden rail. She’s bent over, touching her toe, wearing only her ballet shoes and a tutu. No tights, no leotard. Her long hair loose around her face, as if it’s that neglect—and not the lack of clothes—that is the affront to ballet.
She has a dancer’s lithe body, the lines of muscle revealed. And because he shot the image at an angle that captures three of the four walls of mirrors, it seems that there are an infinite number of Kelsey’s. The photo is both sensual and sweet, and though it seems tame at first glance, the more I look at it, the more I think that it will be the one that stays with me after I walk out of this gallery.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
A tall, slim woman with short silver hair that accents sharp cheekbones steps toward me. I guess that she’s in her mid-sixties, probably more than twice my age, and I hope that I look as amazing when I’m that old.
She offers me a welcoming smile, and I notic
e that she wears a small, neatly engraved nametag identifying her as Emily. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“To be honest, I was heading back to my car. I saw Wyatt’s work and had to pop in.”
“You’re familiar with Mr. Royce?”
“I’m both a fan and a friend. Nikki Stark,” I add, extending my hand.
“Ms. Stark, it’s a pleasure. I feel almost like I know you.”
I tense, and she laughs, a little awkwardly, as if hiding embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant that Mr. Royce has spoken highly of you and your sister-in-law. Ms. Steele? I understand you’ve both studied under him.”
Immediately, I relax, understanding that her perception of me wasn’t fed by the tabloid’s fascination with my marriage, the infamous painting, or Damien’s money.
“I’m not sure I’d call it studying,” I tell her. “Syl and I are both amateurs. But I do love photography, and I know good work when I see it. Wyatt’s work is outstanding.”
“That it is.” She waves an arm, indicating the freestanding display wall on which much of Wyatt’s work is displayed. “I don’t know if you’re interested in other mediums, but the gallery is currently exhibiting Sins of the Flesh, a curated exhibit of erotic art for sale in a number of mediums by a number of different artists.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Love the title.”
“In that case, I’ll take credit for it. I confess I was inspired by The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was a guilty pleasure of mine back in my youth, and I’ve always loved the music.”
“I wondered,” I admit. “My sister snuck out to see the movie when she was in high school, then bought the soundtrack. She played it over and over. Originally to irritate our mother. But then the songs started to grow on us. It was completely inappropriate for me, of course, but it was our sisterly secret.” I smile wistfully. I’d forgotten those memories until this moment, and now I blink rapidly, trying to forestall tears.