Chapter 7 - The Grand Exit
"Stop him!" Claudia shrieked, her voice reaching a pitch that could shatter crystal. "Somebody stop that maniac! That cake cost twenty-two thousand dollars!"
"And I paid for every single penny of it," I called back over my shoulder without breaking stride.
The two security guards looked at Preston for instructions, but Preston was paralyzed, staring at the horror unfolding in front of his wealthy guests. If they used physical force against the man who had funded the entire reception, the scandal would leak to the local press by morning, destroying his father's real estate PR campaigns.
So they stepped aside.
I rolled the towering, multi-tiered sugar sculpture across the polished marble floor. The tiers wobbled slightly as the wheels hit the transition strip between the ballroom and the grand foyer, but Carl—bless his professional heart—jogged alongside it, steadying the top tiers with expert hands to keep the sugar flowers from tumbling down.
"Where are we taking it, Mr. Holloway?" Carl muttered under his breath, a faint, appreciative smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Outside," I said. "To the parking lot."
As we crossed the grand foyer, heads popped out from behind doorways. Waiters holding trays of champagne stared in stunned disbelief.
And right by the main entrance stood eight-year-old Owen, holding his cardboard sign against his chest. When he saw me rolling the massive, beautiful, glittering cake toward him, his eyes went wide. A slow, brilliant grin spread across his face.
"Are we eating it, Grandpa?" Owen asked, looking up as we reached the front doors.
"Not here, buddy," I said, unlocking the heavy glass doors and pushing them open to the warm Arizona evening air. "We’re taking it somewhere people actually know what family means."
Behind us, the double doors of the ballroom burst open again. Diane came running out, her emerald gown bunched up in her hands, her face streaked with tears.
"Grant! Grant, stop! Where are you going?" she cried, chasing us down the limestone steps toward the valet circle.
I stopped the cart right next to the open bed of my dusty, reliable 2018 Ford F-150, which was parked illegally in the fire lane right outside the main doors.
I turned to look at my wife.
"I'm going home, Diane," I said quietly.
"You can't just leave! What about our marriage? What about us?" she sobbed, clutching her pearls as if they were a lifeline.
"Diane," I said, looking at the woman who had watched me be reduced to a service badge and said nothing. "You made your choice at the registration desk. I’m just making mine in the parking lot."
Carl and his bakery assistants, grinning ear to ear, helped me carefully slide the rolling platform’s locking mechanism and secure the massive cake boxes into the bed of my truck. We packed it tight with foam padding and straps, protecting every single sugar petal of the overpriced masterpiece.
Owen climbed up into the passenger seat of the truck, clutching his sign proudly against his chest.
May you like
I climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and put the truck into reverse.
As I pulled away from the El Mirage Resort, the glittering lights of the luxury wedding faded in my rearview mirror, replaced by the vast, beautiful, open expanse of the desert night.
