The Gift

The chocolate cake sat there on the counter, taunting her. “Decadent” was not enough to describe it. Luxurious, opulent, mouthwatering…

She needed it.

“Don’t you touch that cake, Maria!” Her wife’s voice rang out from upstairs.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” She called back cheerfully, still eyeing the massive dessert. It was Maria’s birthday. Why shouldn’t Maria get to have an early slice? Looking toward the stairs and hearing no movement, she slowly crept forward, carefully avoiding the creakier parts of the floor. The cake sat atop a beautiful stand, topped with a massive glass lid. Silky chocolate icing smoothly covered the cake, and elegant script, far neater than her own writing could ever be, spelled out “Happy Birthday Maria!” with a beautiful, stylized heart at the end. It was perfect. Just as her fingers touched the lid to lift it off, her wife seemingly appeared out of thin air.

“Hey! What did I say?”

“Agh!” was Maria’s response, snatching her hand away from the cake. It sat there, still untouched, taunting her. She looked at her wife, whose mouth was pursed, one eyebrow raised. “How did you know? And how did you get down the stairs without me hearing you?”

“Magic,” Claire teased. “Also, I know you. You’ll do anything to get a bit of cake. Even lie to your wife.”

“Only your cake. Does that make it any better?” Maria asked. It was true. No one’s desserts, no matter where she went measured up to Claire’s. They had travelled the world together, and still, Claire’s baked goods outranked every dessert Maria tried. Her wife had a gift.

“It does,” Claire replied, wrapping her arms around her wife. When she backed away, she looked Maria up and down. “We need to get you ready for your party.”

———

Claire had always been the more fashionable of the two of them, so she picked out Maria’s outfit while Maria sat on the bed, tracing the patterns on their comforter with her finger. Claire was taking forever, humming and hawing over each piece of clothing. Eventually, Maria got up and opened Claire’s bedside table drawer with the hope of finding a good book. She reached in, all the way to the back, found a book, and pulled it out.

“What’s this?” she asked Claire curiously. In her hand was an old, leather bound journal, tied shut with twine. She tried to pull at the twine to open the journal, but it wouldn’t budge.

“What’s what?” Claire asked back, her voice muffled by the closet. She had disappeared inside, probably trying to find the fancy shoes they kept at the back.

“This journal. Do you keep a diary? I’ve never even seen you write.” Maria kept turning the book over, pulling on the twine. It was just tied in a bow; why was it so hard to undo? Claire came tumbling out of the closet, launching herself at the bed, and snatched the journal away from Maria.

“Sorry,” was all Claire said.

“So it is a diary!” Maria exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Claire too quickly. She checked the journal over, then stuffed it down the front of her shirt. It stuck out awkwardly.

“You look ridiculous,” Maria laughed. Claire didn’t laugh. She looked distressed and guilty. “What’s the matter? I didn’t read it. I couldn’t get the damned thing open.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” Claire said quickly. “I just need to find an outfit for you for the party, and you’re distracting me, and I’m tired. Can you go make me a coffee?”

“Sure,” Maria responded, eyeing Claire suspiciously. Claire was never short with her. She trusted Claire more than anyone, but she knew her wife was hiding something. As she was heading out the door of the bedroom, Claire called after her.

“And don’t you dare touch that cake yet! I want it to look perfect when everyone arrives.”

———

Downstairs, Maria sat at the kitchen table. The cake sat tantalizingly in front of her, but she was too distracted to try to sneak a piece of it.

What about that journal had Claire so worried? Maria knew about Claire’s past relationships—all two of them—so it wouldn’t be anything about those, and she knew her too well and they loved each other too much for Claire to be cheating on her. So what could it have been?

“Maria?” Claire’s voice carried down the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Did you make any coffee?”

Oops.

“Uh, just a minute!”

When she went back upstairs with the coffee, Claire laid out a particularly shiny purple cocktail dress on the bed and set a pair of black stilettos sitting on the floor.

“Uh,” was all Maria could think of to say.

“Too much?” Claire asked.

“I think so. Most of our friends are the jeans-and-t-shirt types.”

“Okay,” Claire said, unbothered, and pulled out a more casual blue dress and a pair of flats.

“Much better,” Maria approved, and Claire kissed her on the cheek, back to her usual cheerful demeanour.

“Thanks for the coffee, love,” Claire said as she walked out the bedroom door. “I’m going to go tidy up the kitchen.”

As soon as she heard Claire downstairs, Maria opened up the side table drawer, rifling through it to find the journal. She didn’t want to read it, per say, but she wanted to find it anyway. But as she suspected, Claire had moved it. She closed the drawer, checked a few other spots, and, giving up, put on her party outfit.

———

Claire knew how to throw a great party, and this one was no exception. The food was incredible, the guests were their closest friends, and there were ample amounts of good wine. But the hit of the party was the cake. It should have been Maria—it was her birthday after all—but no one could compare to that cake. First bites were met with various noises of amazement, delighted groans, and exclamations. Maria winked at Claire, who blushed deeply from all the praise. There were barely crumbs left on the plate by the time everyone said their goodbyes, and when the last friend left, Claire walked into the living room to find Maria picking up the last crumbs from the plate and eating them.

“Come here, you,” said Maria, her lips spotted with chocolate.

“You’ve eaten too much of it!” Claire laughed. “You’ve got icing between your teeth.” Maria grinned at her, not caring.

They sat together on the couch after cleaning up, cuddled up on the cushions, when Maria tentatively asked, “You’re not keeping something from me, right?” She felt Claire stiffen beside her, and she sounded forcefully cheerful when she responded.

“Of course not, love. Don’t think that.”

Maria eyed her suspiciously, and Claire’s look turned pleading. Maria pleaded in return.

“Claire,” she said carefully, “I love you. No matter what is in that journal, that will not change.” She paused for a moment, worrying at her bottom lip. “But you don’t have to tell me. I trust you.”

Claire sat with this for a moment, clearly struggling, before standing up abruptly and heading toward the stairs. She said nothing until she returned, journal in hand.

“You have to know,” she said as she sat back down on the couch, “that what I am about to tell you has to, at all costs, stay between the two of us. You cannot tell your parents, your sister, our friends. You cannot tell anyone. The consequences would be… severe. If this is too much, tell me now.”

“I promise that I won’t tell anyone,” said Maria, now not only intrigued, but a bit worried.

Claire nodded silently, and undid the twine that bound the journal together. Maria stared in wonder. It just came undone with no difficulty, like untying a bow. The journal fell open on Claire’s lap, and Maria stared at it in wonder. It seemed like there were more pages than she could fathom, somehow all wrapped up in a small, unassuming journal. Every page was filled to the edge with notes and sketches, ranging from complex building designs to lists of different kinds of plants.

“I don’t understand,” said Maria honestly. “Is this all yours?”

“No,” said Claire slowly. “This journal has belonged to every woman in my family for the last couple hundred years. “We’re… different. We have abilities. And this is where we keep all our notes.” Claire flipped toward the end of the book, where complex recipes and drawings of desserts covered the pages. “This one is mine.”

All of Claire’s recipes lay there. Beyond intricate, Maria could barely understand a thing.

“So, you’re really good at baking?” Maria asked, and Claire laughed.

“'Really good' is an understatement. It’s a like a talent, but better. If someone by chance got ahold of this, and somehow managed to open it—which they couldn’t by the way—” she winked at Maria, “they still wouldn’t be able to do what we can do. You have to be born with it. My grandmother’s gift was mathematics. Mum’s is gardening. Mine is baking.” She eyed Maria, who stared skeptically at her. “Is this too weird? This is too weird.” She started to shut the book.

“No!” Maria grabbed her hand. “I mean, yeah, it is weird. It’s crazy. But it’s amazing. And it explains a lot about your desserts. And your mum’s gardens! They have always felt so magical. I feel like I’m in a fairytale every time I’m there.” Claire nodded, quiet again, turning carefully and lovingly through the pages of the journal.

Maria sidled up closer to her, putting her chin on Claire’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” she whispered, and together, they sat and read together until the sun came up.