Barbara had gone white. “Janet —”
“What? It was an accident.” Janet spread her hands. “It’s just cake.”
Just cake.
Fifty years. The recipe I’d tracked down like a detective. The sugar flowers I’d matched to a yellowed keepsake from my mother’s handwriting. The one thing I’d allowed myself to want, three years after burying my husband.
My hands were shaking. Michael’s grip tightened on my arm. “Mom. Please. Not here.”
What Janet didn’t know
I looked at the ruined cake. Then I looked at Janet’s face — the smirk she wasn’t quite hiding, the satisfaction in her eyes. And something in me went very, very calm.
“You’re right,” I said.
Michael blinked. “What?”
“You’re right, Janet. It is just cake.” I walked — slowly, steadily — to the wreckage on the floor. I bent down, and from the mess of frosting I picked up a single intact sugar flower. I held it up so everyone could see it.