“Thanks,” Phoebe said. “Sometimes teaching adults is odd.”
“It’s not easy being a stranger in a strange land, eh?” Eva’s grin telegraphed something coming. “We starved in our countries, and our parents sacrificed, so we could come here and learn how to put cakes in cups.”
“In America, big problem is stopping eating,” Zoya said. “That’s why they learn to make tiny ‘cup’ cakes. Perhaps I become famous for a Russian diet plan. Stand in line for your food.”
“Americans want to have cake and eat too.” Linh laughed as she beat the eggs. She repeated her words in Vietnamese. “Did I say the words right?” she asked another Vietnamese woman in the class, who nodded yes.
“We can show before and after pictures.” Zoya moved her hands from showing far apart to close together. “We make pictures of women turning skinny from standing on line for long enough.”
“American women do love makeover stories.” Phoebe handed out cupcake tins to be oiled.
“What is ‘make over’?” Zoya asked.
“It’s when we work to become better versions of ourselves,” Phoebe said. “With makeup or diets.”
“Where is money in the makeover?” Yen, a newcomer, asked. “Cash makes only difference in becoming new you.”
Phoebe began to speak about inner beauty and peace until she realized if she weren’t the teacher, they would all yell “bullshit!” if she said those words. “I guess money is the true agent of change.”
“Yeah,” Zoya said. “Money buys almost everything.”
“It doesn’t buy happiness,” Phoebe said.
“It doesn’t buy unhappiness,” Zoya said. “Better to be unhappy with money than unhappy without.”
“Paychecks are what we need. Not sugar.” Yen scooped a hollow in the cupcake as she spoke and stuck in a strawberry. “Will learning to make cupcakes buy our children clothes? Send them to college? Heaven isn’t cupcakes.”
“Heaven is not cupcakes. What a perfect name for an article.” Eva stood to her full six feet and lifted her arms. She spoke in a deep voice, as though imitating God. “They needed help, and I sent them cupcakes.”
“My people,” Linh said, continuing with the godlike delivery, “you will be like the Americans. Sweet and stupid.”
“Or, if the cupcakes fall, you will be flat and mean. Also an American,” Zoya said.
Linh glanced at Phoebe, seeming to judge if she were angry. Phoebe grinned and laughed to show how not-angry she was. If Phoebe and her family had been forced to uproot and live in Vietnam, eat strange foods, learn new languages—if Jake suddenly had to work as a dishwasher rather than wearing thousand-dollar suits—they’d probably blow off steam in more ways than making fun of sticky rice balls.
More than anything, a fat savings account would help these women. Businesses made the difference for her family back when they arrived from Romania, right? Her great-grandfather peddled hats up and down the East Coast before opening his store. She’d mentioned this, her immigrant grandparents, to the women in class. They knew she’d come from humble beginnings and moved way up. Of course, they had no clue of how far up the ladder she’d climbed with Jake. They didn’t know that Jake could make more in a day than many of them made in a year. Maybe more.
“We should be selling these.” Phoebe spoke with deliberation as an idea formed.
“Selling them to who?” Eva held up one of the finished products. The luscious twirl of white frosting surrounding the perfect plump berry half-buried in the white cake appeared like a jewel. “Like children with lemonade?”
“No. Like Mrs. Fields.” Phoebe imagined it all at once: aprons, boxes, and window fronts like jewel boxes.
“Who is Mrs. Fields? Does she work here?” Linh asked.
“It’s a cookie,” Zoya said. “Very expensive cookie.”
“Sold by a very smart woman,” Phoebe said. “On her way to being a very wealthy woman.”
“And we can get rich with these cupcakes?” Linh asked.
“Maybe we can.”
? ? ?
First she discussed the idea with Helen; a conversation she considered the equivalent of trying out a show in Boston before taking it to Broadway. Helen being Helen—always busy, usually working, and a huge fan of managing two tasks with one motion—they walked as they talked. Helen worked close to the United Nations, so they speed-walked along First Avenue until they reached Sutton Place, an area cushioned with wealth, and continued uptown on York.
Helen exchanged her trademark spectator pumps for Nikes before their walk, though she still wore her favored royal-blue suit. Phoebe, always small next to Helen, now felt like a child. Her friend worked out daily, building her arms to a female version of Herculean strength. As she strode, her calves almost burst the pantyhose containing them. She held herself straight as the buildings surrounding them. The hair that Helen had formerly tortured into a tight bun now waved over her shoulders.
“Slow down,” Phoebe said. “Are we in a competition?”
“Aren’t best friends always in a bit of a contest?”
“Only when one’s a lawyer.” Phoebe skipped a few steps until she was even with Helen. “Remember when we were in high school, and all we did was compare Alan and Jake?”
“And now we complain about them—”
“I don’t complain about Jake that much. Do I?”
“About the same as all women moan about their husbands.”
“You hardly say anything about Alan.”
“Ah, he’s a steady guy. Not much to whine about, so you won that particular contest, eh?” Helen put up her hands. “Enough with the men. That’s not why you wanted to talk, is it? Or is something wrong at home?”
Did Helen look hopeful? Phoebe suspected that Helen’s opinion of Jake could be better. “Home is fine. I want to run an idea by you. A business I’m thinking about. What do you think of me and the women of Mira House becoming the Mrs. Fields of cupcakes?”
“Your Cooking for English women?”
“Exactly.” She explained all the details she’d worked out: from having the women buy in through sweat equity to using as many local ingredients as possible. She envisioned a women-owned, women-supported business.
“So you’re proposing a high-end product will benefit your immigrant students. Sort of like soaking the rich to build up the poor. I love it. But what does Jake think?”
Phoebe looked away as she answered. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“Are you afraid he won’t approve?”
Phoebe knew from Helen’s tone that her friend was convinced that Jake would try to stop her.
“Because, if you want my opinion,” Helen said, “I’d worry more about him taking it over. Absorbing it.”
“Why would he want a cupcake store?” Phoebe asked.
“Sometimes I think Jake wants everything.”
“I’m only going to ask him for start-up funds. I helped him enough to have earned the investment.”
Helen twisted her head to the side. “Most certainly, honey. But you know Jake. I don’t think he tracks debts the same way as other people.”