Page 56 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

But no Farthington box. Wiping the sweat off my face and lifting everything in my way, I stopped only when I hit the stone wall at the very back. And there it was, labelled Farthington. My little baby. The light of my former life. I hefted it onto my hip and, huffing and puffing, emerged from the cave-like depths of the cellars and into the sunshine, wiping my brow and then reaching into my pocket for my cell phone. I hit the Call-back button. Jackie answered immediately.

‘Please tell me you have a solution,’ she begged.

‘I have THE solution,’ I replied, feeling my face stretching into the hugest grin ever.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just the names of every single person that has booked since I started working there.’

‘What?’ she shrieked. ‘Are you serious, Erica?’

‘Is your email address still the same?’ I asked. ‘I’m going to scan these pages over to you right now, OK?’

‘Erica, I don’t know how to even begin thanking you.’

‘By keeping this a secret.’ I was not supposed to take this info off the premises, but my little ledger was a work of art.

‘I’ll keep this a secret until my dying day! And beyond!’

‘Thanks, Jackie. I appreciate it.’

‘You just saved my life. Oh, Erica, why did you leave me alone in this office?’

Because I wanted to be my own boss. If could solve a problem of that entity, I could sort my own measly B&B out, for sure. I turned on my printer and began scanning the documents, my mind already cast forward to my next effort to save my business.

‘You’ll be fine, Jackie. You’re a tough cookie. Good luck for that raise.’

‘God bless you!’ she called and hung up before the tears came. The perks of being in a stressful job. Glad I had got out of it in the end.

So, taking stock: it was an undeniable fact that this summer we were in no shape to offer guests a place to sleep. So what could I offer? I could offer food. Not on the property, granted. I didn’t want to infringe on Renata’s business as she catered meals. But I could offer another kind of food— cakes! Was I not a damn good baker? I would bake American-style cakes! Italians loved them, and yet, hardly anyone I knew here could quite replicate them. I already had all the right baking utensils. And I could operate from my own kitchen. All I needed at this level was word of mouth. I’d start slow, use a couple of friends as guinea pigs. I’d make birthday cakes, wedding cakes, divorce cakes, baby shower cakes, communion cakes, confirmation cakes, college degree cakes, coming out cakes. Any kind of cake! Without realizing it, Jackie had given me the one thing I’d lost. Confidence in myself. Once again, The Amazing Erica was back, only this time, she was back to stay for good!

July 15th, our intended wedding day, had come and gone, and where was Julian? You guessed it, away. And instead of cutting my own wedding cake, I was baking like there was no tomorrow while my aunts and Paul continued with the planning in my office. In the space of two weeks, the word had spread and I had cake orders up the wazoo. To Maddy’s utmost delight, I let her choose the color schemes and she watched in rapture as I carefully placed the decorations she handed me; beads, pearls, baby slippers or bride and groom, whatever the occasion was.

‘You’re a natural, sweetheart,’ I said, kissing her forehead. ‘Mommy could never have done this without you.’

‘You can do anything, Mommy,’ she breathed as I added the final touches to a baby shower cake.

‘So can you, Maddy,’ I assured her. ‘If you want something badly enough, you can do it. Just believe in yourself.’

As I had. The cakes flying out of my kitchen so fast that I didn’t have time to deliver them, so I had to have someone to do it for me. Was this how easy it was?

‘I can do anything? Like being a ballerina at the La Scala? Mila says it’s hard.’

‘Your ballet teacher is right. It is hard. But you can do it if you really, really want it. But always have a Plan B.’

‘What’s a Plan B, Mommy?’ she asked.

‘It’s your second-biggest dream. In case the biggest one doesn’t work out. It keeps you happy.’

‘Are these cakes your Plan B?’

‘That’s right, Maddy. Always have plans. Always have hope. You might not get exactly what you want, but you can always do something else. That’s what life is for. Making decisions. Good ones.’

‘Do you always make good decisions?’ she asked.

‘Most of the time,’ I said, dotting her cute little nose with pink butter-cream.

A week later, Marcy and Dad returned from their trip to Elba. And, as you can imagine, she wasn’t happy with what she found on her return – her three sisters.

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