by Tracy Wolff
“Gloria Steinem doesn’t care about me.” Lyric sounded resigned, like her fate was always going to be at the hands of someone else.
That wasn’t okay.
“Gloria Steinem cares about all womankind, no men, they can kiss her ass … Your husband forbidding you to go on vacation so he can keep you barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen—”
“I am not pregnant.” Lyric enunciated every word like Harmony was hard of hearing. “He didn’t forbid us from going on vacation. In fact, he wants to pay for us to go to Paris or London or the Caribbean. Whatever you want.”
Paris, London, and the Caribbean were lame. “Where I want is to go is BASE jumping in—“
“That’s what Heath isn’t sure about.”
“What?” Harmony all but spit the word out of her mouth. “Why?”
“When I mentioned how I broke my leg that time we were skiing in New Zealand—”
“That was a freak accident. Your ski got caught in the lift chair. If that tree hadn’t broken your fall, it could have been a lot worse.” She propped one fist on her hip as she contemplated the best way to murder a six-foot-five, nearly three-hundred-pound man. “Did you tell him that?”
“I don’t think that would have helped our case.” Lyric was always the voice of reason—a.k.a. a total pain in the ass.
“Heath Montgomery is not going to push us around. We are going on this vacation.” She needed this vacation. Pretending to be her mother’s younger clone was one thing, but doing it all the time—with only the occasional trip to the next county over to be herself—was not okay. She counted on these trips to let her hair down, to show the world—and herself—that she hadn’t gotten lost no matter how many years she’d spent kissing Livinia Angleton Wright’s pasty, white, upper-class ass.
“We are,” Lyric agreed. “I swear. We just need to pick a different spot, someplace where there’s a much lower chance of me dying.”
“Your chance of dying is just as great at home, or have you forgotten about the planetarium bouncy house disaster?” Her sister had almost suffocated when a blow-up planetarium had collapsed at her neighbor’s kid’s birthday party.
“When they said they’d rented a planetarium for Billy’s birthday, how was I supposed to know that it was a converted bouncy house? Who’s ever heard of a bouncy house planetarium?” Lyric took a deep breath. “Anyway, that’s exactly my point. If I can almost die just doing normal things, how can I be expected to survive BASE jumping?”
Lyric was in logical PhD mode. It really pissed Harmony off.
“Is that your point or Heath’s point?” Harmony’s annoyance was turning to anger—and to hurt—deep inside of her.
There was a long silence. “Heath’s,” Lyric reluctantly admitted.
“Wow. Married three months and already he’s got you whipped.” Harmony was never getting married. Marriage seemed to be a license for men to push women around.
“That’s not fair, Harm, and you know it.” Her sister sounded resigned. Another point against marriage.
“What I know is that you’re my sister. My twin sister. You know more than anyone how much I need this trip—”
Call-waiting beeped, interrupting Harmony before she could work herself up to full steam. Which was probably a good thing, considering she didn’t want to say anything she might regret. After all, it wasn’t Lyric’s fault she was married to an ass. Or, at least, not completely Lyric’s fault.
Harmony knew what she needed to do. “I’m coming to visit. I’ll be there this afternoon. Heath and I need to nail down some boundaries. He may be your husband, but I’m your sister. Sister’s before misters.”
She’d been blinded by his love for her sister, but this macho madness ended today. Men didn’t dictate anything to the Wright sisters.
“Look, I’ve got to go. Someone is calling on the other line. It’s probably a customer.” Harmony was running a bakery. She didn’t have time for her sister to be wimpy.
“Harm, wait—“
“I’ll call you back when I’m done taking the order.” More like when she finally had her mouth under control—which, come to think of it, might be never. Still, she had to give it a shot. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate her sister and best friend.
Clicking off without bothering to say good-bye, she moved right into her usual spiel on the other line. “Thank you for calling the Wright Way. This is Harmony speaking. How may I make your day a little sweeter?” She tried not to gag as she said the last line—it was totally her mother’s brainstorm, and though Livinia wasn’t here, she had ways of finding out if Harmony was doing things her way. FBI interrogators could learn a thing or two from Livinia Wright.
“Is this Harmony Wright?” the slightly nasally voice on the other end said.
“It is.” She narrowed her eyes, preparing to unload her bad mood on whatever unfortunate telemarketer had chosen the worst moment to call. Bitch-slapping telemarketers was so much fun.
“Please hold for Holly Braeburn.”
Nasally woman was getting on Harm’s nerves. “You called me. I’m not holding for anyone—” She broke off as the name registered. Holly was the woman who had run Cupcake Cage Match, the Las Vegas cupcake war competition she’d secretly participated in last fall. It was part mixed martial arts and part Cupcake Wars.
Harmony had won the competition—of course she had, her cupcake recipes and her cage-fighting skills were unparalleled in the baking world. The ten thousand in prize money she had won was what she was using to finance the trip to Chile.
She barely had time to wonder what Holly could possibly be calling about, when the woman herself came on the line. “Harmony, how are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.” She knew she sounded cautious, but she really hoped Holly wasn’t calling because she needed the money back. Then again, with the way her day was going … anything was possible.
“I’m so glad to hear that. We need you in tip-top shape for the show we want to do.” Holly was all business. Harm really liked that about Holly.
“The show?” More cupcake MMA fighting sounded good to her.
“Yes. We’re looking to liven things up over here at Food Network, and when I started thinking about a new baking show, you were the first person who came to mind.” It sounded like Holly was shuffling paper on the other end of the phone.
“A new baking show?” Harmony knew she sounded like a parrot, but she was having a hard time keeping up.
“Yes, we want to call it Badass Baker, and we want you to be our resident badass. Kind of like Ace of Cakes, but with more sex appeal and more accessible recipes that the average baker can pull off. Kind of a Kat Von D meets Betty Crocker kind of thing.”
* * *
Chapter 2
* * *
“Badass Baker?” Harmony repeated. Damn it, she really had to stop repeating everything that came out of Holly’s mouth. But seriously? “My own show?”
She loved Kat Von D. Personal hero and style inspiration.
But her own show? These things didn’t happen in real life. TV producers didn’t just call you up when you lived the most boring life possible in itty-bitty San Angelo and tell you they wanted to give you your own show.
“Absolutely your own show.” There was a smile in Holly’s voice. “This can’t be that much of a surprise, can it? You dominated Cupcake Cage Match, and not just because of your baking and fighting skills. You have to know how much charisma you have. You’re sexy and beautiful and have a wicked sense of humor. The camera loves you—and so does the audience.”
Harmony glanced down at her pink-and-black Talbots dress and sensible pumps. Not much sex appeal or charisma in this getup, that was for sure. And absolutely no sense of humor. “I don’t know that I fully understand the show concept.”
“We want something edgy. All you have to do is just be your charmingly badass self.” Holly sounded so sure.
She thought about the middle finger donut she’d eaten for breakfast t
hat morning, and again looked down at her soccer mom dress. “I don’t know about the charm, but I have plenty of bad attitude.” A terrible thought struck. “I wouldn’t have to go on Chopped as a judge, would I?”
Holly laughed. “Not unless you wanted to.”
“Good. I’m not eating things made out of Skittles and lamb hearts.” This was a dream that she hadn’t even known she’d wanted coming true. “Will I have complete creative control? I refuse to bake complicated, weird things that no one has ingredients for and wouldn’t want to eat anyway. And there will be no kale.” There were some things a woman couldn’t compromise on, and kale was one of them. Just because everyone in California thought it was manna from heaven didn’t mean that the rest of the world wanted a thousand kale recipes. “And rose water. Where the hell do you even buy rose water. If you can’t get the ingredients at your local IGA, I don’t make it on my show.”
Damn—her show? She was starting to sound like a diva.
The bitchy comments just kind of came out without her permission. Like being on the phone with someone who knew the real her—and liked her enough to offer Harmony her own show—had totally ruined the years and years she’d spent hiding her thoughts behind a mask.
Holly didn’t seem to mind, though. She was laughing like Harmony was the funniest thing since cat videos. “That’s the kind of comment we want on the show. We love that you don’t take any shit from anyone and do things your way. Also, we love that you run a small-town bakery—it’s one more dichotomy that the audience will just eat up.”
Harmony loved the word dichotomy. More people should use it in conversation.
“In fact, we want to film in San Angelo—partly in your bakery and partly in a studio we set up for you. To your specifications, of course—although we do have some design ideas already. We want it to look as badass as you are, so we’re thinking black and chrome with red accents. Everything will be sleek and sexy—including your appliances and bakeware. If we do this right—and we will—we’ll be able to launch a whole Badass Baker product line. Everything from baking pans to temporary tattoos.”
“Temporary tattoos?” She wasn’t sure why, but of everything Holly had just said, that was what Harmony’s mind latched onto. How could the secretary of the San Angelo garden club get on TV and hock temporary tattoos? Livinia would have apoplexy.
Damn, that was reason enough to do it.
“Absolutely.” Holly was very excited. “We’ll design them to mimic your own tattoos, so women can feel as badass as you are when they put them on. I’m telling you, Harmony, this show is going to be big. Huge, even. Between the money you make from it and what it does to drive traffic to the Wright Way … you’re going to be richer and more famous than you ever dreamed.”
But she’d never dreamed of being rich or famous. All she’d ever wanted was to be herself … and to have her family love her anyway. But she’d never had that option. Lyric had taken up all the zany in the family, just like she’d taken up all the chances to make mistakes.
With her tranquilizers and her Southern Comfort and her miles upon miles of ridiculous rules for women, Momma was already close enough to the edge without both of her daughters going hog wild. Harmony had stepped in sometime in junior high and towed the Livinia Angleton Wright line. It had kept Momma happy, which had kept Daddy happy, which had kept the heat off of Lyric, with her too big brain and her too sensitive soul.
“Harmony? Are you still there?”
“I am. I need to think about this …” Yes, she wanted it, but how was she supposed to be a badass baker in a town that thought of her as the good girl?
“What’s there to think about? We’ll pay you ten thousand dollars an episode, we’ll come to you so your life won’t even be disrupted during the first season, we’ll put your bakery on the map and turn you into a star. Just say yes. You know you want to.” Holly knew she was handing Harmony the brass ring.
Of course she wanted this. Who wouldn’t? She’d never thought about having her own show before, had only gone on Cupcake Cage Match because she’d wanted to blow off some steam and it had looked like a fun way to earn some traveling money. No more Talbots dresses and no more Junior League meetings—that was reason enough to say yes. But how would that work?
“I know that you’re only co-owner of the bakery, so we’ll have to get the other owner—your mother, isn’t it?—to sign the filming waiver.”
Harmony could practically hear all of the wind being sucked out of her sails. Momma would never sign off on Badass Baker. Maybe Prim and Proper Baker, but who wanted to watch that?
“Oh, and we’re thinking of trademarking your catchphrase, ‘the Wright Way,’ so we’ll need her to sign off on that too, since it’s the name of the bakery. But that won’t be a problem.” Holly sounded so sure. If she only knew.
It was going to be a huge problem. A gigantic problem. One of infinite proportions. There was about as much of a chance of her mother signing off on Badass Baker as her mother joining an outlaw biker gang. The mental image was pretty funny, but hell wouldn’t only have to freeze over, Jesus was going to have to change his forwarding address to 666 Satan Avenue for that to happen. Nope, Momma wouldn’t be on board with this.
Not in a million years.
Even if Harmony decided she wanted to blow her whole family dynamic straight to hell—which she wasn’t sure she did, no matter how she felt about Momma—there was no way in hell Livinia would ever agree to let a show like Badass Baker film in her bakery. And in her mother’s mind, the Wright Way was very much her bakery, no matter that Harmony was the one who showed up there every morning at 3:00 a.m. to do the actual baking—and created all of the recipes and did all of the work.
Just the idea of her youngest daughter showing up on a TV show in leather hot pants, all tatted up, and with attitude to spare, would be enough to send her mother spiraling straight to the bottom of her bottle of Southern Comfort. Not to mention, the world’s Xanax supply would take a huge hit. With Thanksgiving and Christmas just around the corner, Xanax was the one thing keeping in-laws around the country from serious bodily harm.
Holly had obviously taken her continued silence as encouragement, because she continued, “Why don’t you let us come down there? We’ll set up at the bakery, put together a mock show just so you can see what we’re thinking of doing, let you see how much the camera loves you. Maybe film part of the pilot. Then, if you don’t like what we’re doing or the direction we’re going, I promise I won’t push you. You can stay a secret in San Angelo and we will look elsewhere for our Badass Baker.”
“You’re willing to do that?” Harmony massaged the tension at the back of her neck. She wanted this, but convincing her mother was going to be difficult. “Doesn’t it cost a lot of money to come down here and film a show?”
Holly laughed. “Well, it isn’t cheap, that’s for sure. But that’s how much I believe in you, Harmony. I’ll set everything up, get my bosses to sign off on it, and see you in three weeks. All you have to do is say yes.”
“Yes.” It was out before she could stop it.
Butterflies started fluttering in her stomach … and she never got butterflies. She never got nervous. What the hell was there to get nervous about, after all, when you had nothing to lose—and nothing to look forward to beyond a two-week vacation every other year?
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was why she felt so testy all the time—and why her stomach was flipping all over the place now. Because for the first time in longer than she could remember, she actually wanted something for herself. And it was within her reach—all she had to do was reach out and grab it.
But could she do it? Could she really throw away a lifetime of pretense and show the world—and her mother—who she really was?
Damn right she could. The Badass Baker wouldn’t hesitate in a situation like this, and neither would Harmony. Livinia and her Xanax were just going to have to get on board. Because the Wright Way was about to become on
e Badass Bakery.
* * *
Chapter 3
* * *
An hour later, Harmony wasn’t so sure she was a badass anything. Dealing with her mother was like handing nitroglycerine. She was unstable, explosive, and went off for no good reason.
This must have been how Custer felt when he realized he wasn’t getting out alive.
“Badass Baker?” Her mother actually choked on the words. Or maybe she was choking on her too-large sip of Southern Comfort. It was hard to tell, what with all of her pacing and drinking and coming as close to ranting as her ladylike Southern drawl would let her. “That’s not acceptable, Harmony. That’s just not acceptable. And where would they even get the idea that you would be interested in a show like that?” She made it sound like Harmony would be smoking crack and screwing johns on camera.
Her fingers went to twisting at the pearls around her neck, a sure sign of her agitation. And the glazed, somewhat frantic look in her mother’s eye said it was real agitation, not the fake stuff she manufactured on a regular basis to keep her husband and her oldest daughter towing the company line.
“It’s just a gimmick. Something to distinguish it from all the sweet-baking shows out there.” Even Harmony didn’t buy that one.
“What’s wrong with sweet-baking shows? People love watching good old hometown shows with lovely Southern women showing off their cooking skills. Who do they think will actually watch a show with some woman dressed like a tramp and pretending to be a badass?” Her mother looked her up and down. “There’s nothing badass about you, Harmony Marie Wright. A fact for which I am eternally grateful.”
“I want this.” The words slipped out before she knew she was going to say them. But once they were out, she didn’t regret them. She’d spent her entire life hiding who she was—and what she wanted—from her family in order to keep the peace. She was tired of hiding, tired of pretending to be less than who she was. “I really want this.”
