The Bake-Off

by Beth Kendrick

  Bridget craned her head to see the pictures. “Congratulations . . . and condolences. You’ve got your hands full.”

  “They’re great kids,” Amy insisted. “And my husband is a very hands-on dad.”

  The other women exchanged smiles. “No matter how hands-on the dad is, Mommy is always first on deck. We’ve all been there.”

  “I remember those days,” Joan said. “Hang in there, honey. Life will open up again in a few more years.”

  Amy felt her smile falter. “You promise?”

  “Promise. In the meantime, you need to cultivate something that’s just yours. Even if it’s only a tiny little corner of your life.”

  Chantal concurred. “This is the only way to stay sane.”

  “You know, when I first got married, I couldn’t cook at all,” Steph said. “We lived on peanut butter sandwiches and frozen pizza. Then my husband—he was an engineer in the army—got stationed in Papua New Guinea. Needless to say, there were no frozen pizzas or peanut butter for miles. And the kids were going through the picky-eater stage, so they didn’t want anything to do with the local dishes. I had to get creative with ingredients from the local markets. Pretty soon, I discovered that I had a real knack for cooking.” She raised her voice as a brass band launched into a fox-trot on the other side of the ballroom. “By the time we got back to the States, I was a force to be reckoned with. I got first place in the very first cook-off I entered, won five hundred dollars, and decided to invest it. As I started winning more serious money, I opened my own IRA, contributed to our children’s college funds, and diversified my holdings.”

  Melissa produced a contraband pack of Marlboros from her bag and lit up.

  “You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” Linnie announced.

  “Shhhh.” Amy shot her a look.

  “We’re going to get in trouble,” Linnie said.

  “No offense, sweetie, but you need to loosen up.” Jill pushed away from the table and made a beeline for the bar. “I’ll fix you one of my supersecret specialty drinks.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bridget said. “She’s just having a few puffs.”

  “I only smoke when I’m at competitions.” Melissa took one more drag and stubbed out the cigarette on her saucer. “So it doesn’t really count.” She turned to Amy and changed the subject. “What about you? How did you begin baking?”

  Amy didn’t even hesitate before launching into the tale she’d been crafting since she’d embarrassed herself in front of the Culinary Channel interviewer. “Well, there was a bake sale at my kids’ day-care center, and I was always the mom who brought those presliced cookies from the refrigerated dough.”

  “Mon dieu.” Chantal shivered in disgust.

  “I know, but I had always been too busy to make something more complicated. But I had to redeem myself, so I found a recipe in a cookbook for lemon-raspberry tartlets and spent a whole night making them.”

  “And they turned out beautifully?” Joan said.

  “No, they were horrible! All clumpy and cloying and nasty. But then I decided, this cookbook author’s not the boss of me; I can do better.” Amy threw in a sassy little head bob for good measure. “So I read over the recipe again, made a few tweaks and substitutions, and voilà, I was on my way to gourmet glory!”

  Linnie gave a strangled cough. “That’s quite a story.”

  “Isn’t it?” Amy dug into her dessert. “Why don’t you tell them how you got started?”

  “Oh, I always loved baking.” Amy could practically see the wheels turning behind those dark brown eyes as Linnie started lying with breathtaking speed and skill. “My grandmother and I were very close—we still are. We’d spend every weekend together in the kitchen, rolling out dough and talking. She taught me everything she knows about pies and cookies and breads. She always said I was a natural.”

  “And where were you, Amy, while your sister was baking with your grandmother?” Steph asked.

  “I was right there with them.” Amy tilted her head until it almost touched Linnie’s. “Though, of course, I was always a little more advanced. I made a soufflé by myself when I was seven.”

  “Wow.” Oohs and aahs all around.

  “I made flan by myself when I was six,” Linnie countered.

  Amy didn’t miss a beat. “I made pâte à choux when I was five.”

  “You two are so lucky.” Susan sighed. “Sharing a lifelong interest like that. I wish my sister and I could have the kind of relationship you do.”

  Chapter 13

  “Holy hell.” Linnie could barely hear Amy’s voice shouting over the blaring saxophone solo. “What did you put in my sister’s punch, Jill?”

  “Nothing!” Jill was gyrating wildly along with the rest of the Confectionistas on the dance floor. “Hardly anything. Just a little splash of rum. And vodka.”

  Linnie, trapped in the center of the circle, couldn’t seem to keep her eyes focused or her thoughts straight. She jerked her legs roughly in time with the music, bouncing off one woman and careening toward another like she was in a mosh pit.

  “Jill!” Amy’s customary good cheer had vanished. “She can’t handle mixed drinks like that. She’s a total lightweight.”

  “Sorry, but you said she’s from Vegas, right? So I assumed—”

  “Ungh.” Linnie stumbled backward as Melissa shimmied into her.

  “I’ve got you.” Amy yanked her out of the fray and over to a table in the corner. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

  Linnie lowered her head onto the tablecloth and rested her eyes for what felt like a second, only to be jolted awake when Amy shook her.

  “Drink this.” Amy shoved a glass of ice water under her nose.

  “Leave me alone.” Linnie buried her face in her folded arms. The music from the brass band seemed to fade in and out, as if someone were turning a stereo dial up and down.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  Linnie’s eyes popped open as Amy flicked droplets of freezing-cold water onto her forehead.

  “Do not pass out on me at the black-tie ball. Come on, pull it together.”

  “I’m fine. I just need a little rest.”

  “Great idea.” Amy bent down and hauled Linnie to her feet. “Let’s go back to our room. Hup, two, hup, two.”

  Linnie’s stomach gurgled ominously.

  “What was that?” Amy demanded. “Are you going to be sick?”

  “No.” Linnie took offense at the very suggestion. “What kind of uncouth churl do you take me for?”

  Her stomach gurgled again.

  “I just hope your billionaire booty call fixed the damn elevators,” Amy muttered as they exited the ballroom, which was at the rear of the hotel’s ground floor. “The last thing I need is a confined-space puking situation.”

  “I told you, I’m not going to throw up.”

  “Maybe I’d believe you if your face wasn’t the color of pistachio ice cream.”

  At the mention of pistachio ice cream, Linnie felt the burn of bile rising in her throat as her abdominal muscles contracted.

  “Hey, Amy?”

  Amy gazed up the little arrowed plaque affixed to the wall, apparently trying to determine the shortest route to the lobby. “Hmmm?”

  “I’m gonna throw up.”

  “I’m going to look on the bright side here.” Amy dabbed the back of Linnie’s neck with a tissue while she held back her sister’s hair. “At least you’re not wearing my new red dress.”

  Linnie retched again, dispelling the last remnants of her dinner into the dark, damp alley behind the hotel. “See? My wardrobe choices have many hidden advantages.” She paused for a moment, then stood up and took a deep breath. Her throat felt raw and her stomach ached, but she no longer felt queasy. “Okay. I’m done.”

  “Are you sure?” Amy let go of her hair and placed the back of her hand on Linnie’s forehead, as if checking for a fever.

  There was a momentary lull in traffic on the street adjacent to the alley, and L
innie heard a trickle of water from a drainpipe and a furtive rustling from the trash bins that had to be rodents.

  “I’m done.” Linnie wiped her lips. “I feel much better. Although the rancid stench from that Dumpster isn’t helping matters.”

  “Then let’s get back inside.” Amy yanked on the handles of the double doors they’d exited through, but the doors didn’t budge. “Crap. We’re locked out. We’ll have to go around to the main entrance. Just hold your nose and—”

  “Amy, wait. Amy!” Linnie ground the tip of her high heel into Amy’s toe.

  “Ow!”

  “Look.” Linnie pointed out a patch of graffiti spray-painted on the concrete block wall next to the trash bin: ANARKY.

  Amy leaned forward and peered through the shadows. “Yeah? What am I looking at?”

  “Anarchy is spelled with a C-H.”

  “I know that. Everyone knows that. I’m sure it was done intentionally.”

  “But it’s wrong.” The typo rankled Linnie on an almost physical level, the way a stray hair in her eye or a tiny pebble in her shoe would irritate.

  “Who cares?” Amy shuddered as they heard something scurry across the wet asphalt. “Let’s get out of here before it turns into something out of The Secret of NIMH.”

  But Linnie stood her ground, fixated on the graffiti. “Do you have mascara in your purse?”

  “No,” Amy said. But even drunk and disgraced, Linnie remembered seeing her sister slip some cosmetics into her bag as they left the hotel room. So she snatched away Amy’s clutch, from which she plucked a tube of maracara.

  “Linnie Bialek, you give that back right now, or so help me—”

  “I need to borrow this for a minute.” Linnie unscrewed the cap, whipped out the wand, and started toward the wall. “I have to fix it. I won’t be able to sleep tonight knowing this is out here.”

  “This is the last time I take you anywhere.”

  Amy made a grab for the mascara tube. Linnie bobbed, weaved, and toppled into the side of the dented Dumpster. But she managed to regain her footing, blacked out the offending K, and smeared a squiggly CH above the word ANARKY.

  “Thief! Vandal!” Amy yelled. “I’m telling Grammy!”

  Both sisters froze in place when a blinding flashlight beam spotlighted their silhouettes against the brick wall.

  They heard a heavy set of footfalls. Then a gravely masculine voice asked, “I’m Officer Padley, NYPD. What seems to be the problem, ladies?”

  “Uh . . .” Linnie looked to Amy.

  Amy shook back her hair, which had started to frizz in all the humidity and excitement, and smiled winningly. “Good evening, Officer.”

  He shone the blinding light directly into Linnie’s eyes. “Are you all right, miss?”

  Linnie couldn’t see his face, but she was acutely aware of the fresh graffiti adorning the wall and the incriminating mascara wand still clutched in her hands.

  “Absolutely,” Amy said. “Thank you so much for checking on us. My sister and I are guests of the hotel. Just on our way back inside.” She put her arm around Linnie’s shoulder and prepared to lead the way.

  Linnie stumbled over the hem of her gown and emitted a loud, squeaky hiccup. She clapped her palm over her mouth, smearing mascara across her chin in the process.

  The officer focused the flashlight beam on her hands.

  “Drop the evidence,” Amy hissed in her ear. Linnie obliged, tossing the mascara to the asphalt, where it landed in a puddle with a splash.

  The policeman studied the lettering, still wet on the brick wall. “This your handiwork?”

  “Well.” Amy sighed. “Here’s the thing. . . .”

  “There was a typo.” Linnie indicated the wall with a spiraling swoop of her arm. “So I fixed it.”

  “Don’t mind her.” Amy made the universal sign for drinky-drinky. “I’ll give her some water and pour her into bed.”

  “I’m fine,” Linnie insisted. “And proper spelling is paramount. It’s one thing to defile private property, but there’s no need to take the English language down with you.”

  The officer’s expression never even flickered. “How much have you ladies had to drink tonight?”

  “Barely anything.” Linnie punctuated this with another body-racking hiccup.

  “I’m totally sober,” Amy said, carefully picking up the hem of her ball gown as she made her way across the trash-strewn alley. “And she’s only had, like, two glasses of punch. I’ll get her inside and under control.”

  “You’re visiting from out of town.” This was a statement, not a question. “You should be more careful about where you go and what you do at this time of night. And keep in mind that makeup is not meant to be used to commit misdemeanors.”

  “Absolutely, Officer. Will do. We apologize, and we appreciate your concern.” Amy maintained an expression of grateful humility and tried to hurry Linnie along.

  But Linnie refused to be hurried. She dug in her heels and planted her hands on her hips. “It’s not a misdemeanor,” she informed the officer. “It’s copyediting.”

  At this point, the cop’s expression shifted just a bit. “Are you waiting for a thank-you?”

  “No, but do you have any idea what the crime rate is in this city?”

  “Shut up,” Amy said into her ear.

  But Linnie was on a roll. “I have to assume you have better uses for your time than harassing some harmless tourists.”

  “I’d stop while I was ahead, if I was you, ma’am.” The cop now seemed amused, which Linnie took as encouragement.

  She gave him the prissiest smirk in her extensive repertoire. “You mean, ‘if I were you.’ ”

  Amy sucked in her breath.

  The officer pressed the button on his radio receiver and said, “I’m at the McMillan Hotel. I’ve got criminal damage from a female who appears intoxicated. I’m gonna go ahead and tenfifteen her.”

  “What’s ten fifteen?” Amy asked.

  “Turn around and put your hands on your head, ma’am.”

  The cop moved fast for a man so bulky. In one fluid motion, he spun Linnie around, captured her wrists, and cuffed her with a rapid-fire succession of metallic clicks.

  Amy clasped her hands together and began flat-out begging.

  “Oh, please don’t arrest her. Please, Officer. I know she’s obnoxious, but—”

  His face was like stone. “She’ll go in the holding tank; you can bail her out tomorrow morning.”

  “She can’t spend the night in jail alone. Just look at her.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Linnie lifted her chin. “I work in Vegas, remember? I can take care of myself. I’m practically a hood rat.”

  Amy stopped begging long enough to roll her eyes at her sister. “Define hood rat.”

  Linnie shrugged. “A mouse who wears a sweatshirt?”

  “I don’t have the time or patience for this, ladies. We’re leaving.” He escorted Linnie to the sidewalk, opened the door to the cruiser, and helped her into the backseat. “Watch your head, ma’am.”

  “I’m going with her,” Amy insisted, offering up her wrists. “Arrest me, too.”

  “You’re asking me to arrest you?”

  “Yes, please. You can put me down as her accomplice or whatever.”

  The officer shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  Amy winced as the sharp rim of steel handcuffs bit into her skin.

  “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

  Chapter 14

  “ ‘Hood rat’?” Amy sat down next to Linnie on the cold concrete bench in the precinct’s holding cell and grimaced down at the stained cement floor. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I had grammar rage.” Linnie huddled by the wall. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Hey, I’m just here to make sure you make it out of here in one piece. I don’t want to have to explain to Mom and Dad and Grammy Syl how you died in a prison riot and I wasn’t there to protect you.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t need protection.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Well, I guess you would know.” Linnie raised one eyebrow. “Until they ran your name through the computer system, I had no idea you had a record.”

  “I don’t have a record; I have a prior arrest,” Amy clarified. “Big difference. The charges were dropped.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Art school. It wasn’t a big deal. Getting arrested was practically a prerequisite for graduation.”

  “What was your crime?”

  Amy sighed. “What I called an urban interactive installation piece, the police called petty vandalism.”

  “So you got cuffed for semantics and I got cuffed for spelling. Must be in our blood.” Linnie shifted and scowled down at the ink smudges left on the pads of her fingers. “I had no idea that getting arrested was so demeaning. I understand that the fingerprinting, the mug shot, and the background check are standard procedure, but was the full-body pat-down really necessary?”

  “You said you were a hood rat—they had to take you at your word.”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated.” Even clad in a puke-stained polyester dress in a New York City drunk tank, Linnie managed to retain her air of regal refinement, like a Russian princess exiled into poverty.

  “Well, the officer who frisked me was really nice.” Amy brightened. “In fact, we got to talking about which museums gave you the best bang for your buck around here. She recommends the Frick gallery.”

  Linnie glowered. “Are you going to invite her to join the Confectionistas for martinis after we get sprung?”

  “Maybe. I bet she loves karaoke.”

  “Speaking of the Confectionistas, are you going to kick Jill out of the clique now?” Linnie grimaced every time she brushed any surface with her hands, as if she could feel the germs accumulating.

  Amy shifted position on the bench as her butt started to go numb. “First of all, it’s not a clique.”

  “Don’t give me that. You guys have a gang name and you were talking about getting matching tattoos.”