I ditch the marzipan idea and opt instead for a skin-toned buttercream. Tabby starts cleaning up, and I’m almost finished frosting when the bell over the door rings again.
“What is this, Grand Central?” Tabby mutters.
“How’s it hanging, girls?”
“Jesus!” Tabby jerks around with a gasp, running to meet Betty Pepper, Oceanside Village’s busiest of the ancient busybodies.
“Hi, Miss B!” she calls too loudly, intercepting the old woman. “What brings you to the store this evening?”
Betty glances around. “You should have items to sell if it’s a store.”
“Soon, Miss B… Just you wait,” I call out. I’ve finished
frosting the balls, and I reach for the bowl of dark chocolate shavings to sprinkle over them.
“How’s my order coming?” Betty asks, and I’m pretty sure Tabs swallows her gum.
“Just finishing now,” I call over my shoulder.
“Wait!” Tabby holds out her hand. “Hold the phone. Betty Pepper ordered that?”
The squat octogenarian pushes my rockabilly roommate aside and joins me at the massive, weathered-wood table where I work.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Emberly Rose!”
Tabby’s right behind her. “You ordered the penis cake?”
“Oh, yes!” BP clutches her chest.
“Well, don’t have a heart attack,” my friend snarks.
Stepping back, I survey the raunchy masterpiece. “I think it needs a vein.” I pinch a bit of fondant and roll it into a long, skinny column, laying it along the shaft.
Once it’s in place, I add the last bit of vanilla cream at the tip.
Miss Betty’s voice is thick with lust. “It’s so good!”
My friend arches a perfect, black eyebrow. “How long has it been since you’ve seen one of these?”
“Get a life, Tabitha Green. I see what I want on the Internet,” Betty says before turning to me. “I can’t believe you did this without a mold.”
“The frosting helps.” I walk to the wall of cabinets and take down my vanilla extract and a small paintbrush. “I thought about putting a square cake around the bottom and molding jeans with the fly down… Painting it blue, like it’s rising out of his pants?”
The old lady’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”
Using the paintbrush, I lightly dab the dark-brown vanilla around the ridges, giving the cake more dimension. “It would take a few hours.”
“Forget it, then. I need it for Donna’s shower now.” She carefully steps around me. “It’s absolutely thrilling! Hopefully it’ll loosen her up some.”
Tabs and I exchange a glance. “I’m glad you like it.”
“How much do I owe you?”
Tabby starts to speak, but I cut her off. “Two hundred.” I don’t miss my best friend’s glare, but I’m not going to charge an old lady full-price, even if she is annoying as hell half the time.
I also know the old biddies gossip about how much I charge for my cakes. They might call me a genius, but they won’t pay genius prices for something they think they can do at home.
“Two hundred dollars?” Her lust turns to shock.