Chapter 4 - THE FRAME ON THE KITCHEN WALL
The reception hall held its collective breath as Diane reached the gold pedestal.
The matriarch stood over the gouged peony, her nostrils flared, staring down at the sticky fingerprint etched into the ivory fondant. Two hundred guests held their forks, waiting for the nuclear detonation that usually accompanied any disruption to Diane Sterling's plans.
Diane looked down at the trench. She looked across the room at Lily, who was currently sitting happily in her grandmother’s lap, smearing leftover vanilla sugar into a dinner napkin.
Then Diane looked up at Brooke, whose face was glowing with unrestrained, breathless laughter, her husband Mark laughing so hard tears were running down his cheeks.
Diane’s ramrod posture softened by half a fraction.
A tiny, reluctant twitch tugged at the corner of the older woman’s crimson lips.
She turned on her navy pumps, walked briskly to the microphone at the bandstand, and tapped the grille twice:
THUMP. THUMP.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Diane announced into the hall, her crisp, formidable voice ringing through the speakers. "The critic has officially spoken. The pastry chef has passed inspection. Band leader... play the waltz before she comes back for tier two!"
The entire ballroom erupted into deafening cheers, whistles, and table-shaking laughter.
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Mark vaulted up from the head table, dragging the wedding photographer by the elbow straight to the cake before anyone could attempt a cosmetic repair.
The photograph captured the masterpiece in its true glory: the four-foot golden tower, the elegant sugar flowers, and right in the center of the lower tier, the unmistakable scoop of a tiny baby fist, labeled on the baker's card in neat script: Lily's Quality Control.
