The Bake-Off

by Beth Kendrick

  “Sorry about the cold.” Linnie retrieved her MIT hoodie from the closet and offered it to Grammy. “The A/C guy claimed he fixed it yesterday.”

  “In his defense, he did fix it, but it broke again four hours later.” Amy sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Speaking of cold, why aren’t you in Alaska right now?”

  Grammy made no move to sit down. She peered at Amy, imperious in her cabled turtleneck and pearls. “I’ll be asking the questions here, my lamb.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Linnie asked.

  “Yeah, what’s going on?” Amy stood back up. “We demand answers.”

  “Don’t be impudent.”

  “You can’t stonewall us forever.”

  Grammy patted her carefully styled white hair and smiled. “We’ll just see about that, won’t we? So, tell me everything. How were the semifinals? When do you hear the results?”

  “Oh, we heard already,” Linnie said. “It’s official: We made it to the finals.”

  “You did?!” Grammy Syl registered pure shock for a moment, then clapped her hands in elation. “I can’t believe—I mean, I knew you could do it! Oh, I’m so proud of you both.”

  “But we’re not sure if it’s because our pie was good or because they want to pimp out Linnie.” Amy provided a quick summary of the advertising gig they’d booked.

  “Modeling! My goodness! Oh, there’s no telling how far you two could go if only you’d work together and stay out of trouble. Tell you what: We’ll go to the grocery store later and have a few more practice sessions to make sure you’re ready for Friday. But right now, I’m a bit knackered from the trip and a catnap sounds divine. So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

  “Sounds good,” Amy said. “I’m always up for a nap.”

  “I’ll see you two later,” Linnie announced with what she hoped would pass for casual nonchalance. “I’m just going to run out and grab lunch.”

  Amy jerked her thumb toward the desk. “Room service menu’s right over there.”

  “No, I’m craving a hot pretzel.”

  Amy did a double take. “What?”

  “Yep.” Linnie never wavered in her composure. “And I saw a street vendor selling them over by the park. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Amy looked skeptical, but all she said was, “Uh-huh.”

  “Good night.” Linnie gave Grammy a kiss. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

  “Night-night,” Amy called as she started closing the curtains and turning off the lights in the bedroom. “Spelled N-I-T-E.”

  Thirty minutes later, Linnie crept back into the darkened hotel room, taking care to close the door silently. The bedroom door was shut, and Amy didn’t stir from her slumber on the sitting room sofa.

  Linnie barely breathed as she tiptoed across the room and removed the plain brown paper bag from inside her sweatshirt. Slowly, slooowly, so as not to rustle the wrapping, she slid the bag’s contents into the exterior pocket of her suitcase.

  With no warning, Amy sprang from the couch like a puma. Linnie put up a valiant struggle, but Amy wrestled the object out of her fingers.

  “Aha! What have we here?” Amy snapped on the newly replaced table lamp and read the DVD’s title aloud: “Naughty Nympho Call Girls 4.” She blinked a few times in rapid succession. “Well. This is a new and unexpected side of you.”

  “Lower your voice,” Linnie hissed, dragging Amy into the dining room. “Do not wake up Grammy.”

  Amy followed, too stunned to argue.

  Linnie sat down at the sleek varnished table and covered her face in shame. “I need help. Please.”

  “Oh God.” Amy plunked down across from her, sounding queasy. “Now what? You have some seedy porn addiction?”

  “No. I’ve never watched porn before in my life, but I have to do something drastic.” She lowered her voice to a funereal whisper as she confessed, “I’m bad in bed.”

  Amy started banging her head against the table.

  “Stop it!” Linnie shot her hand in between Amy’s skull and the wood to muffle the thumping sound. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to give myself amnesia so I can forget the last two minutes of my life.”

  “I’m desperate, Amy. This attractive, worldly man gives me his room number and tells me to come on up, and I can’t. . . . I mean, I just don’t think . . . I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Okay. Let’s just take a deep breath and step back here. It’s not like you’ve never had sex before.” Amy’s eyes widened as a thought occurred. “Right?”

  “Of course I’ve had sex. But not steamy, seduce-a-stranger-in-his-hotel-room-with-my-irresistible-wiles kind of sex.”

  “What kind of sex are you having, then?”

  “Bad sex.” Linnie drooped in despair. “Boring sex. That’s why I’m freaking out. I need a tutorial before I go see Cam tonight, and it’s not like I can just order up a porno on pay-per-view and charge it to the room.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because! What if Cam—”

  “—scrutinizes your room account like a crazed stalker?” Amy finished for her. “He’ll assume you’re a hot-blooded vixen, that’s what.”

  Linnie started picking at the table’s edge with her thumbnail. “I was going to wait until you and Grammy went out to dinner and pretend to be sick so I could stay here and watch this. But would you please spare me the indignity and just give me a few pointers? Please?”

  “I have to tell you, I’m weirded out by this whole conversation. And anyway, how do you know that I’m any better than you?”

  Linnie snorted. “False modesty doesn’t become you. You could teach a master class on men, and we both know it.”

  “You must really like this guy. I mean, you wouldn’t even put on lipstick for a cocktail party, and now you’re sneaking out and buying X-rated movies so you can fine-tune your wiles?” Amy poured herself a mug of coffee from the glass carafe warming on the brewer. “Look. There’s no big secret to being good in bed—although ditching the flannel lumberjack pj’s would probably be a good start. Most guys are just looking for enthusiasm.”

  “Enthusiasm,” Linnie repeated.

  “Yeah. Whatever it is you’re doing, if you get into it and act like you’re having the best time ever, he’ll automatically consider you good in bed. You don’t have to be a Cirque du Soleil acrobat or a porn star. All you have to do is enjoy yourself.”

  “Well, there goes that idea.” Linnie swung her feet under her chair and brooded. “How did I get myself into this mess?”

  “You met a hottie in the freight elevator and went for it. Nothing wrong with that. You want him; he obviously wants you. Stop overthinking everything and just go for it.”

  “But that’s not who I am.”

  “You seemed pretty into it when I caught you making out on the sofa yesterday.”

  “That was different; I didn’t have any time to think about it beforehand.” Linnie pushed the DVD case across the table. “This is pointless. I quit.”

  “Well, you’ll never qualify as a naughty nympho with that attitude. I mean, if I can get freaky in the backseat of an SUV with all my cellulite and twin skin, you should be able to make Cam McMillan your sex slave, no problem.”

  Linnie paused. “I’m probably going to regret this, but I have to ask: What’s twin skin?”

  “It’s the special souvenir nature leaves on your stomach after nine months of carrying multiples. Picture saggy elephant skin that’s been mauled by a mountain lion.” Amy popped open the DVD case. “So are we going to watch this or what? Grammy Syl’s not going to sleep forever, you know.”

  Linnie shoved her chair back from the table. “I’m not watching that with you!”

  “Fine, I’ll watch it on my own. Don’t hoard all the high-class-hooker tips for yourself. I’ve been married for seven years; my bedroom routine could use a little spicing up.”

  “Brandon doesn’
t strike me as the spicy type.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Amy winked. “The buttoned-up, repressed guys are always the kinkiest.”

  “We’re both going to be scarred for life by the end of this afternoon.”

  “Probably.” Amy sounded cheerful. “Now fire up the DVD player and let’s broaden our intellectual horizons.”

  Chapter 18

  “Damn,” Amy murmured later that afternoon as they rolled out pie dough under Grammy’s tutelage. “That’s one thing to cross off my life list. Who knew porn would be so, well, pornographic?”

  “My sensibilities may never recover.” Linnie still looked a little shell-shocked. Only four minutes into the DVD, she had turned off the TV and announced she’d seen enough. “And if I’m expected to contort myself and carry on like a strumpet with men who look like cast rejects from Jersey Shore, then I’m going to be bad in bed forever.”

  “Stop ruining this for yourself. I promise you, guys care more about your attitude than technical proficiency. Nobody’s sitting there with a scorecard, judging you.”

  “Now, remember what I said about overmixing.” Grammy sprinkled a light coating of flour across the top of the priceless antique table. “If you insist on using the food processor, go easy on the ‘pulse’ button. And once you’ve mixed in all your liquid ingredients, it’s too late to add more flour.”

  Amy tried to look earnest and attentive, succeeded for about thirty seconds, then nudged Linnie again. “The real question is, What are you going to wear? The MIT sweatshirt with nothing under it? A Fair Isle negligee?”

  “Girls.” Grammy Syl rapped her wooden spoon against the table. “Stop that whispering and pay attention. I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

  Amy dropped her head and resumed work on her szarlotka crust, which had taken on the pale, uniform texture of manila card stock. Not a butter striation in sight. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What are you two being so secretive about, anyway?” Grammy demanded. “I hope for your sake you’re not conspiring against me.”

  “You know we’d never do that, Grammy,” Amy said.

  “Never,” Linnie added. Then she turned back to Amy and said out of the side of her mouth, “By the way, I’m totally going to call her doctor later and make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Good idea. I can help you get around those pesky HIPAA regulations if you want.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got my Grammy Syl impersonation down to an art form. How do you think I got away with Senior Skip Day in high school?”

  Grammy exclaimed something in Polish, scraped up her piecrust-in-progress, and tossed it in the trash. “That’s it. If you two aren’t going to pay attention, I’m not going to waste my breath.”

  “We’re sorry!” Amy said. “We’re listening.”

  But Grammy had taken off her apron. “We could all use a break.” She assessed Linnie’s striated, symmetrical circle of dough with approval. “Very nice, darling. That looks perfect.”

  “If it’s not perfect, it’s pointless. That’s my motto,” Linnie said. But she didn’t sound at all pleased about this.

  Grammy stepped into the powder room to wash her hands, and when she emerged, the customary snap had returned to her blue eyes. “Let’s go out and have dinner someplace nice to celebrate your victory at the semifinals. Anywhere you want. What’ll it be?”

  “The Confectionistas texted me and said they’re going to some world-famous steakhouse in Brooklyn tonight,” Amy said. “We’re more than welcome to join them.”

  “Sounds delightful. I only brought a simple skirt, but I can dress it up with accessories,” Grammy said. “Linnie, my love, did you happen to bring my grandmother’s brooch? Any chance you’d let me borrow it for the evening?”

  Amy froze, but Linnie didn’t hesitate. “Gosh, Grammy, I didn’t pack it. I was afraid to take it on the plane.”

  The furrows above Grammy’s mouth deepened. “You left it somewhere secure, I hope?”

  “Of course. It’s in my safety-deposit box.” Linnie made lying look so easy and natural. She didn’t sweat or fidget; her gaze never wavered.

  Grammy smiled fondly at her granddaughter. “It means so much to me to know that you have it, that you can pass it on to your own daughters one day.”

  “Well.” Linnie finally faltered a bit. “I might never get married.”

  “You will,” Grammy said with absolute authority. “I know these things.”

  “Really?” Amy asked. “What else do you know? Are we going to win on Friday? Is there anything juicy in my future?”

  “I’m not a carnival psychic, darling. Just because I know things doesn’t mean that I’m under any obligation to tell you.” She traded her small pearl studs for a bigger set and winked at them. “But as for the finals on Friday . . . Let’s just say I’ve got a good feeling.”

  “Ladies, may I take your orders?” The lanky young server seemed slightly overwhelmed by the crowd of brightly dressed women talking and laughing at the private table tucked away in the back room of the masculine, dimly lit steakhouse. Though the main dining room retained a hushed atmosphere of refinement, the Confectionistas brought the party with them wherever they went. Everyone finished remarking over the menu offerings, and requests came tumbling out on top of one another:

  “I’ll have the sirloin medallion, please.”

  “How are the seared scallops? Be honest.”

  “We’d like to get a round of martinis for the whole table, please. Actually, could you just bring us a pitcher or would that be too déclassé?”

  “Linnie,” Grammy piped up. “Would you care to share the lobster with me?”

  “I’d love to,” Linnie replied.

  The waiter made the rounds patiently, answering every question and accommodating every special order, until he arrived at Amy.

  “And for you, madam?”

  Amy nibbled her lower lip. “I’ll have the garden salad. Dressing on the side.”

  “What?” Steph cried. “Honey, you’re on vacation!”

  “This is the best steakhouse in the known universe,” Susan said. “Indulge a little.”

  In the face of all this peer pressure, Amy relented and asked for filet mignon, but when her dinner arrived, she left her meat and martini untouched, restricting herself to leafy greens and a few mushrooms.

  “What’s up with you?” Linnie asked after swallowing a mouthful of butter-drenched lobster.

  “I can’t eat anything,” Amy explained. “I have to try to lose some weight before the photo shoot tomorrow morning.”

  Linnie did her patented Stare of Disdain. “I have so many things to say about that, but I’m not even going to start.”

  Melissa leaned over from across the table and yelled at them, “Ladies, your grandmother rocks.”

  Grammy beamed.

  “Mais oui! She’s like the grande dame of the Confectionistas,” Chantal agreed.

  “Really, Mrs. Bialek,” Joan said, “it is so great that you spent all those years baking with your granddaughters.”

  Grammy shot a look over at Amy. “Pardon?”

  “Oh, yes.” Amy slung her arm around Grammy. “I told them all about how we learned to bake, and the pâte à choux I made when I was five.”

  “I see. Well, they get all their baking talent from me,” Grammy boasted. “And my girls have always been close. That’s how Linnie got her nickname, you know.”

  “How?” Bridget asked, swilling her second martini.

  “Yeah,” Linnie said. “How?”

  “When Linnie was a baby, Amy couldn’t pronounce Vasylina. So she started calling you ‘Linnie,’ and it stuck.” Grammy smiled at the memory. “She would correct people anytime they called you anything else.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Amy.

  “Neither did I,” said Linnie.

  “Well, it’s the truth. Your father wanted to call her Syl or Sylvie, but you wouldn’t hear of it.” Grammy said th
is in such a way that Amy believed her, even though all three of them knew everything else was wishful thinking and outright lies. “You took her under your wing as soon as she was born, and she’s been there ever since. Now. Who wants dessert?”

  “Oh my God,” Linnie said as the group poured out of the steakhouse and into a waiting group of cabs. “Is Grammy drunk?”

  “Heavens no, Vasylina,” Grammy admonished, stumbling a bit as the heel of her boot caught on a crack in the sidewalk. “I only had the tiniest nip of sherry.”

  “She’s sloshed,” Amy confirmed. “You must have inherited your lightweight tendencies from her, too, along with all that baking talent.” She herself hadn’t touched a drop, and started shivering as soon as the icy winter winds smacked her in the face.

  She waved good-bye to the departing Confectionistas, and put a steadying arm around her grandmother. “Hey, Grammy, there’s a coffee shop right over there. Let’s run in and get a cup of cocoa to warm us up. Linnie, you want anything?”

  Linnie looked offended. “Am I not invited to Starbucks?”

  Amy used her other arm to steer her sister in the direction of the neon-lit lingerie shop on the corner. “You need to pick up a few things.”

  “Who wants to go for a carriage ride in Central Park after this?” asked Grammy. “Or, ooh, we could go ice-skating!”

  “She is not mixing sherry and skating,” Linnie declared. “I forbid it.”

  “Let me worry about her,” Amy said. “Now skedaddle, and don’t come back until you’ve found something that’s going to inspire that guy to break another lamp.”

  “Wait till you see what I got,” Linnie said after they’d returned to the hotel suite and tucked Grammy into bed with a bottle of Gatorade and strict instructions to alert them if she needed anything else. “It’s utterly racy and scandalous.”

  Amy snuggled under the comforter and stretched out her legs—the sitting room sofa had turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. “Let’s see.”