How to Eat a Cupcake Read Free

actually eat? I wondered, lamenting the thought of trays of cupcakes with single bites removed being dumped into trash bags at the end of the night. When I was offered a glass of wine, I gratefully accepted it and made a beeline for one of the three sets of French doors that opened onto an enormous slate patio.
    It was among the final days of June, just past the longest day of the year, and remarkably clear and warm for a San Francisco evening. The heat lamps on the patio hadn’t even been ignited yet. Again, that view: shimmering bay, bridge the color of red velvet cake, sun just beginning to turn the sky a startling shade of peach above the Presidio’s gray-green slope of eucalyptus trees. To the south, the island prison of Alcatraz rose somberly out of the water; I wondered if the sight of it made some white-collar criminal who might be living in Pacific Heights sweat a little as he swilled his five-o’clock martini. Stifling a grin, I leaned over the edge of the railing, drank in the view, and then drank down my wine.
    â€œAnnie! It is you, isn’t it?”
    That voice. I spun around. Before me stood Julia St. Clair. Tall and willowy, she had cut her shiny curtain of blond hair so that it fell razor-straight and ended bluntly at her shoulders, making her look sophisticated and vaguely Parisian. Her face, under the stylish hairdo, was as placidly beautiful as ever.
    â€œJulia!” I said, feeling my calves tense. It was something that happened to me when I was anxious, as though my body, of which I only required running when I was late for a bus, nevertheless managed to tap into a biological instinct for flight. Just being near this woman , my legs seemed to be warning, decreases your chance of survival!
    Julia hugged me, enveloping me in her rose-petal scent. “You look surprised. My mom didn’t tell you I’d be here?”
    â€œNo,” I said coolly. “She didn’t.”
    Julia either didn’t notice or chose to ignore my tone. “Funny. Well, I’m living at home now. For now, I should clarify.” She smiled, glancing down at the sparkler on her left hand. “I’m engaged. Couldn’t bear the thought of planning a California wedding all the way from New York City, so here I am. We’re getting married up at the vineyard in the spring.”
    Actually, Lolly had mentioned that Julia was engaged. Her fiancé’s name was Wesley something-or-other, a Silicon Valley whiz kid. What Lolly hadn’t mentioned was that Julia was back in San Francisco. Sneaky lady! I thought. Hell, downright Machiavellian . I had to give credit where credit was due.
    â€œCongratulations,” I said, keeping my voice neutral even as my tongue went dry in my mouth. Seeing Julia brought me back to a time when rumors had buzzed around me as dark and thick as a cloud of flies. “That’s great news.”
    â€œI know, thanks. God, Annie, how long has it been? Ten years? Not since, I guess . . .” Julia faltered and I didn’t jump in to save her, enjoying the rare crack in her confidence. But then she shook her hair back and plowed forward. “Not since your mother’s funeral.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    We were both silent for a long moment, looking out at the bay.
    â€œI miss her,” Julia said.
    I looked over sharply. There was something plaintive in her voice, a quiet desperation I couldn’t help feeling was about more than my mother’s death. Julia St. Clair had always had the type of serene, classic beauty that practically begged to be studied, and I tried to view my onetime friend through the eyes of a stranger. Her features were understated, less dramatic than her mother’s, more pretty than glamorous; she had the look of someone who had never known less than eight hours of sleep per night, who opened her eyes each morning to the smell of lilacs and lattes, who wrapped herself in a cashmere blanket when she