Rendered (The Cass Chronicles Book 3)

by Susannah Shannon

  Chapter Sixteen - A Rancid Clementine

  The Clementine Burroughs media juggernaut did not take the Instagram jabs from the staff of Evan’s morning show lying down. Clementine’s blog featured glorious pictures of billowing corn soufflé. The blog dripped with venom. “It has come to my attention that some food stylists have alleged that my soufflé recipe doesn't work. It’s true that soufflés require a deft hand, perhaps line cooks aren't best suited to making them. I am not surprised that the crew at Good Morning with Evan enjoyed the simple salads cooked by my erstwhile compatriot.”

  Well, fuck that. Cass was poring over the recipe again. The pictures were stunning, just stunning. It made her mouth water. She had the ingredients at hand, so she decided to see if her hands were deft enough. The recipe began with pureed sweet white corn, egg yolks, a bit of flour and cream. The custard base was a luscious yellow, rich and glorious as a sunrise. Egg whites were whipped to a froth and the the ethereal cloud was baked in custard cups. While they settled into the oven to rise to dizzying heights, Cass pureed heavy cream and fresh chives together. The pictures were so enticing. She had followed the steps exactly—all fifty-two of them. She opened the oven door and felt her spirits deflate as rapidly as the custard cups full of what had to have been the hardest to make ever scrambled eggs. She tried again. Soufflés could sink and still be delicious. No such luck here. The corn skins left off little nubbly bits. The flavor was dull and structurally, they were a failure. Clementine Burroughs had insulted the wrong erstwhile compatriot.

  They weren't filming, so she decided to head to the studio kitchen. She let herself in and staggered to the counters laden with bags of sweet corn, eggs, chives and enough cream to float the Queen Mary. It had been a long time since she had taken a recipe apart. She was very good at it. She might have barely squeaked through chemistry with a B (and that was only because her teacher had been friends with her parents and had given her the benefit of the doubt every chance he had.) If only any of the labs had been framed with food. She took notes on a blackboard that took up a wall.

  She began again. She blanched, sliced and pureed corn. Those nubbly granite shards, were doing nothing flavor wise and she wondered if they were making the custard base heavy. She poured it through a wire strainer. She had a heretical thought—this was a fucking waste of time. I mean, she was going to master this recipe—but under what circumstances could anyone really want to go to this much trouble for what is essentially the perfect vegetable already. Hmmm. She'd try white frozen corn next. She measured out her ingredients. She didn't have a head for math, but seeing it laid out might help. A dozen egg yolks. Check. Eight egg whites whipped to stiff peaks, the recipe called for no flour. She was suddenly mesmerized by the glass measuring cup redolent with round bellied golden yolks. It couldn't work. “Finessing be damned. The recipe was a dud. NO way that eight egg whites could support the rich corny custard. Structurally there was nothing for the air bubbles to nestle into and create pockets of steam. She would start from scratch… Pureed corn, strained, egg yolks, a bit of flour, salt and white pepper. While the egg whites were getting pummeled, she grabbed herself a coke and did an internet search “Clementine Burrough’s recipe doesn't work.” Her screen was instantly filled with forums and posts of people bemoaning not being able to make the delicious looking recipes turn out. Cass took a swig of coke. It was impossible to foresee every eventuality that someone might run into in their own kitchen, but that was why you worked and reworked recipes. Apparently, all of Clementine’s career had been full of viewers who cried “foul” when they couldn't cook the food she talked about. It was nothing new. There would be a clamor, Clementine would show up, accuse people of committing slander and then it would all go quiet. Cass was thoroughly sick of bullies. But this one she could at least meet head on. She finally had it, the fifth time she had tried, the damn thing came out beautifully. Although they fell, they were delicious. They could also be made ahead of time and then rewarmed in some cream. She opened up her laptop.

  CassCooks Blog Post:

  If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, whip up a cranberry clementine glaze. Just like you wouldn't ask for recipes from a real life stranger, beware of online sources that are frequently accused of posting recipes that just don't work. In this spirit, I offer a creamy corn soufflé that totally works. Spray the heck out a muffin tin with baking spray and set aside.

  IN a food processor, blitz together a can of white corn (don't use yellow) and a cup of milk. Pour it through a wire sieve. Add three egg yolks and beat thoroughly. In a saucepan, melt ½ cup of butter and add ¼ cup flour. Stir thoroughly—don't let it brown, but do keep it over the heat for a minute or two. Add the corn/milk mixture and stir with a whisk—you are essentially making a corny white sauce. Stir in a handful of finely minced chives and set aside to cool. In a spotless mixing bowl, beat your egg whites. When they are stiff, foamy clouds, you will take a dollop of them and and it to your sauce. Stir thoroughly. Then fold in the remaining whites. Don't stir exactly—run your spatula down and then lift. Immediately plop spoonfuls into your prepared muffin tins. Bake at 375 degrees for twenty minutes—they will loft up in a most encouraging fashion. Alas, it's only flirtation and within a few minutes of being removed from the oven they will collapse. Despair not—allow to cool and (you could store them at this point—do not freeze) then put them in a Pyrex baking dish and pour the cream around. Heat them through in a hot oven.

  The whole point of this whole rigamarole is that I want you to trust yourself. Sometimes things don't work because they don't work. It goes against all the lessons Disney dinned into us, I know. But sometimes, spirit and spunk can't fix something that is broken. There’s a lot about the world I wish I could change, but I’m not an expert on much—except cooking. Send me any recipes you just can't make work—together we can figure it out. Make it delicious! Cass

  She checked her phone. Somehow she had forgotten to turn her ringer on and saw she’d missed an incoming message.

  I do not appreciate you encouraging Mimi in her rebellion.

  She texted her reply:

  I do not appreciate the fact that you are a lying, moron. Go fuck yourself, Ahab.

  Let me guess, your husband the pussy whipped mangina figured it out for you.

  Where to begin. Did she mention that he was a fraud, and she could prove it? Did she mention that his treatment of the woman pregnant with his child was despicable? Did she enumerate his business failures? Her brain hadn't caught up to her fingertips when her opening salvo was I have a TV show. She shook her head at herself. She was trying to convey that she was successful. She’d conveyed that she was the empress of dorkdom.

  Is that supposed to impress me?

  “Well,” she thought, “yes.” But her message read: I don't care what you think. I hope Mimi gets so much child support that you have to live out of your fucking car-parked in your Mom’s driveway, you pitiful manbaby.

  You would be nothing without me.

  Oh, please. While she was composing her response which leaned heavily on the words “fucking moron,” a text from Mimi came through.

  I am so so sorry.

  Not your fault.

  Cass fired off another text to his royal assholeness, conveying a confidence she did not feel.

  Keep going after me—go ahead. Do you really think this whole network doesn't have lawyers who can prove your whole business is based on a series of lies?

  As he was wont to do, Stephen read the wind and turned weasel.

  Perhaps we can work something out.

  Cass snorted. What on earth are you talking about?

  My movement needs to increase its mainstream exposure.

  Movement. Gad.

  Your “movement” is a bunch of man babies who hate the world since they can't get laid. I wouldn't help you even if I could.

  Maybe your new BFF would find dealing with me easier if you worked with me.

  Her phone was literally hot from all
of the texting. She was going to nail this fucker. If she could catch him on film saying this sort of crap, it would all be over. He would cave.

  Fine. Come to Arbor Studios. Door five. We will work something out.

  That’s a good girl.

  Had she a different constitutional make up, she might have thrown her phone. Instead, she stood there looking at it.

  She texted Mimi and Jen. They had a plan.

  * * *

  She was more than a little ashamed of it; she found him loathsome. She did, however, not want to confront him while wearing stained leggings and a tee shirt that was too icky to even be worn by Killian—who had literally been raised in the wild. She ducked into her dressing room. She pulled on a pair of Spanx—being on TV had made her a total convert. Spanx, hose, a flattering dress and a pair of heels. She didn’t look fancy, but she did look put together. Quick brush of her hair and a slip of blush and mascara. Jen and Mimi arrived together after running into each other in the parking lot. It was fairly simple. Although they were in a studio, Cass had zero idea how to work the giant cameras. Instead they each set their phones to record and hid them in different spots in the kitchen, hopefully at least one of them would capture Ahab the fuckwit he-man woman-hater trying to make a deal. Jen and Mimi made themselves scarce; they figured if Stephen saw either of them, he would be less likely to step away from his party line.

  Chapter Seventeen – Ahab’s Adversary

  Cass opened the door. Stephen looked the same, perhaps more tan and wearing an even tighter tee shirt then she remembered. She couldn’t believe she had had her heart broken by this douchewad. He nodded curtly. “I know better than to trust an American spoiled princess.” He gestured towards a tall thin man following him with a large video camera. “This way you can't manipulate the media.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. Like she was going to contact CNN.

  She nodded at the would-be TV correspondent. He seemed a little less than enthusiastic. “I’m Cassandra Nelson,” she said.

  “Todd.” He nodded in her direction, still balancing the camera on his shoulder.

  “Let’s go sit down.” She led them into the test kitchen. Stephen stopped suddenly. “Like I'm going to go where you have hidden cameras.”

  Cass sighed, she wished she was a better liar. “Actually, I need a coke.”

  His sneer made her blood freeze. “Trust me—you do not need any such thing.”

  She would not lose her cool. “Fine, where do you want to go?”

  He took the lead. Cass heard a faint scurrying which she hoped meant that her companions were following at a safe distance. His voice dripped with venom. “Let me think, you have set up the cameras in the studio. You suggested the kitchen knowing I’d want to go somewhere else.” When had her life devolved into a Scooby-Doo episode where the inept villain made a choice based on what he thought the Scooby gang anticipated?

  This was absurd. “Stephen, you are even dumber than I remember—those aren’t like home video cameras. I don’t know how to use those even if I wanted to.”

  “You see, that is exactly why women can't accomplish shit.”

  He looked around the studio triumphantly. “It never entered your vacant little mind that I would be a step ahead of you.” He leaned closely to Cass and jabbed a disrespectful finger into her sternum. “I saw through your stupid little plan before you were done asking me here.”

  Cass swatted his hand away from her. “Stephen, you are a fucking moron.”

  “Let me guess, you thought that you could invite me here, throw your rancid, stretched, land-whale pussy at me and suddenly I would say that I never meant the things I say in my conferences.”

  “Wasn’t your biggest one like six guys? That's not a conference, Steph—that's not even a basketball game.”

  “Can’t that hillbilly husband of yours keep you in line, bitch?” he asked, clearly delighted to be in front of Todd’s camera.

  “You have never built anything. Your bodybuilding career was a bust, your personal trainer career never got off the ground, three days with you at the helm and my business nearly went belly up.” She was trying to remain calm.

  He turned towards the visible camera. “See—no matter what happens, a woman cannot take responsibility for her own failures. They are like chimps, only stupider. Patriarchy was a kindness, really.”

  “I am not a failure in any sense of the word.” She was determined to rein in her fury.

  “Except at controlling your weight. You suck dicks at that.”

  “Everyone who buys your stupid lectures or pays you for advice is being swindled.”

  Stephen raised one eyebrow. “Hmmm, I'm pretty sure every one of my brothers in arms will agree that ditching you for the borderline retarded hard nine that I took instead, was a good move.”

  Cass had intended for the others to stay hidden, but evidently they’d had enough, stepping from the shadows. Stephen grinned like an evil cat at seeing Mimi. “She’s brain dead and you’re a money grubbing fat whore. You cunts deserve each other.” He turned to the camera he was playing for. “Even in a coven, they can't outwit ONE man,” he sneered.

  Jen raised her voice, “You are a fraud, you pathetic charlatan.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes and grandstanded for his camera, “That one thinks she’s a lawyer.” He stepped closer to his pregnant ex. “Did they tell you this was a good idea? You really need to have a better class of people do your thinking for you.” His voice was shrill and furious.

  Mimi’s voice was low. Unlike Cass and Steph, she was in total control of herself. “Do not call me stupid ever again.”

  This revved Stephen up. “Stupid is a step up from what you are. Let me give you some new vocabulary words, cupcake. Moron. Ignoramus. Simple. Naive. Puerile.” He moved closer to her, taunting, “Dense. Mindl—”

  Cass’s first thought was shock at the way Stephen’s musclebound body bounced as it hit the floor of her faux farmhouse kitchen. She wouldn't have thought it possible.

  Later, Stephen’s fans would insist that he was responding to biological imperatives to protect the mother of his unborn child. The viciousness of his tirade had made it hard for any but the most fervent believers to think that what happened wasn't exactly what it looked like happened. That, Ahab the whale-slayer, real name “Steph,” had the shit kicked out of him by a heavily pregnant one-hundred-pound woman. She only kicked him once. Once was all it took. He was lifted entirely off his feet and lay in a crumpled fetal position, while Mimi calmly stepped over him. With a foot on either side of his inert form, she said, “Say you are sorry.”

  “Fuck you, twat.” He lurched himself to the side in an attempt to crash into her knee and topple her over. With a quickness that belied the basketball of baby at her midsection, Mimi caught his wrist and twisted it in away that left Steph shrieking. “Okay. Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

  Mimi glanced at Cass Her compatriots could have sworn she winked at them. “Say this is your baby.”

  “Of course it is. I love the baby. “

  “Who built up the Cass Cooks website?”

  “I—” his voice lifted higher, “We did—okay, okay—she did. Cass did.”

  “Good boy,” Mimi said. “Now, listen. This is the only reality you need to pay attention to—You are at my mercy. Any time I want to, I can remind you that I am better at this than you are. Any fucking time. You are wholly dependent…” she gave his wrist a little upwards twist here, which led to some intensely labored breathing on Ahab’s part, “…at my mercy. Do you understand me?”

  Steph’s hysteria was increasing; it was really no longer fun to watch. Mimi finished, “I am going to let you up and if you take one step in my direction—every mouth breathing jackass who watches this is going to see me take you down a second time.”

  She let him up and he stood stock still for a moment, eyes not on Mimi but on his cameraman. He was weighing his options. Mimi took one aggressive step towards him, which caused her mat
ernity shirt to ripple around her. Stephen fled, his cameraman capturing every ignoble step.

  * * *

  She happily slid into the booth at the restaurant. “You look handsome,” she said. And he did. When had she married 007, she wondered. “I want to hear all about your meeting, but first I have to tell you something.” She could not contain her laughter as she told him about her adventures. She was enjoying herself too much to notice that she was the only one laughing. “Did you know that a body builder can actually bounce when they hit the ground? Totally serious.”

  “Wait.” He held up a hand. “You met Stephen by yourself?”

  So that was what he was worried about, silly man. “Nope, no nothing like that. Jen and Mimi were with me.”

  “Isn't Mimi very very pregnant?”

  He was just not picturing how hilarious it had been. “Yes!” She held her hands over her belly like Tweedledum. “She’s huge! And there was a guy with a camera that Stephen brought with him.”

  “You know who wasn't involved?” he asked, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table and clasping her wrist, “your husband.” No one who saw them could possibly misconstrue what was happening. This was not a leisurely lovers stroll. Killian was much taller and walked faster than she did at the best of times. Add in the too-high heels, Spanx and the narrow skirt, she was running on her toes to keep up. Killian hailed a cab and violently swung the door open.

  As he slid in beside her, she hesitantly began, “Honey, I…”

  He rested his hand on her thigh and commanded, “Quiet.”

  Killian viciously turned his key in the lock and, as soon as they had cleared the door, he tossed his keys onto the bookshelf with a clatter that made Cass jump. He started the stereo with an almost violent jab of his finger. He turned the volume up. He resolutely strode through their bedroom and into the master bathroom. He grabbed the bath brush from where it hung from the showerhead. Wordlessly, he bent his wife forward and firmly wrapped his left arm around her waist. He roughly thrust her coat and skirt over her shoulders and lit into her with the bath brush. All things considered, it was probably in her best interests that she couldn't catch her breath enough to give voice to her thoughts, because her first thought was “mother fucker!” He didn't let up for a second. She was scrabbling with her arms trying to get her hand back to protect her bottom. Her toes tattooed the tile floor, unable to get a foothold solid enough to wrench herself away. After about thirty very hard swats, Killian suddenly stopped, put the brush under his arm and marched her to the bed. Usually Killian lectured her while he corrected her. He hadn't said a word. He sat down and Cass thought he would guide her over his lap. He did not. He slid her coat off of her shoulders and tossed it aside. As if he was dealing with a small child, he turned her around and unzipped her dress. It puddled at her feet and then he rolled her Spanx…