Page 51 of Sister of the Bride

“Does rainbow chip even taste good without all the chemicals?” Mackenzie asks, and I huff out a laugh.

Merilee looks at Mackenzie like she’s something she stepped in.

We taste the rest of the cakes while Merilee disappears into her kitchen, then—through what I’m assuming can only be some form of witchcraft—reappears with a small cake that looks like a very classy version of rainbow chip.

“I had to use sprinkles, but I can make rainbow chips myself using white chocolate. I can mix them into a classic buttercream frosting, and for the cake itself I recommend alternating layers of vanilla bean cake and devil’s food,” she says, gesturing to two cake options.

“Wow,” I say, biting into the devil’s food. “Okay,thisis what cake should taste like.”

“I’m shocked to say it tastes better than Duncan Hines,” Mackenzie says.

“Seriously, Polly, do this one. I want to eat this again,” Toby says.

Polly sighs, but she tastes both cakes. I can tell she wishes she could have the one that tastes like champagne-scented dish soap, but even she has to admit that these cakes are delicious. “Fine,” she says, forking another bite into her mouth. “Not my first choice, but these do taste pretty epic.”

“Wonderful,” Merilee says. She snaps her fingers at her assistant, who pulls out a small pink invoice detailing the cost. And when I see the number next to deposit—just thedeposit!—it takes everything in my body not to react. Guess Dad is going to be buying the cake for this wedding too.

And he would havelovedthis one.

Chapter22

Toby

Do you like my dad jokes?

Pippin

No

Toby

Guess I need to update my dad-a-base

Pippin

What would you have done if I’d said yes?

Toby

I know you way too well for that

As July fades into the steamy heat of early August, everything actually goes back to normal. Toby and I have not spoken of the kiss again. He was right—wearefine. Granted, I haven’t gotten to see very much of him in the last few weeks. Residency has completely swallowed him whole.

He’s always either at the hospital or sleeping, and I only get to see him for fleeting moments when he’s on the way to one or the other. As much as the dad joke texts make me want to roll my eyes into space, at least they mean there’s still a bit of him in my day. I missed him something fierce those eight years he was gone, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t still miss him. But he keeps assuring me that once he gets “into the swing of things,” it will be better. I remain skeptical, but then again, I’m not the one who wants to be an ER doctor when I grow up. Which is apparently now. We’re grown up now, which—let’s be honest—is fucking wild. Sometimes when I’m with Toby I still feel like I’m seventeen, my whole life and the whole world laid out before me.

As for me, my life has returned to its normal state, which means living and breathing the restaurant for as long as it’s mine. I work so hard that I’m able to ignore the question of what will happen when this work disappears entirely. I’m sure Dr. Nora would have thoughts about this coping mechanism, but she’s on a book tour for the paperback release of her latest self-help book,Future to Come, so I haven’t had a chance to run it by her.

Queen’s greatest hits are blasting through the kitchen during the lull between lunch and dinner. Ladles, spatulas, and wooden spoons have all been employed as microphones as we lip-sync and work. Evie uses a mop to do some very impressive Freddie Mercury mic stand work as she scrubs the floor.

We’re all gathered back in the kitchen prepping for a busy Friday night. Nonna is pressing her thumbs into fresh pasta dough to make orecchiette, Evie rolls silverware when she’s done mopping, and Mom is making the base for pistachio gelato, which will be served with her house-made pizzelles as tonight’s dessert special.

And I’m standing at the prep table, chef’s knife in hand, mincing my way through a crate of garlic.

“It was so bad, Evie,” I tell her as I smash cloves beneath the flat of the knife. “I’m serious, it was like if you marinated Jolly Ranchers in lemon Pledge and then used the sludge to bake a cake.”

“I told her I’d make her millefoglie,” Nonna says.

“Nonna, we want you to just enjoy the wedding,” Mom tells her for the millionth time. Dissuading Nonna from cooking for any event is nearly impossible, but Polly was adamant that our grandmother not spend the days leading up to the wedding making hundreds of sheets of puff pastry from scratch, even if her millefoglie is heavenly.

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