by Jackie Wang
I didn’t come here to see him. Honest to God, I didn’t.
“Today, we make pâte à choux,” Closette proclaimed, washing her hands thoroughly under scalding hot water. She was wearing a pristine, white chef’s jacket today, with the school’s logo emblazoned on the breast pocket. Somehow, the uniform made her look even more intimidating than usual.
What the hell was Pata-shoe? Was there a textbook I forgot to buy? What did I miss? I tapped Mandie’s shoulder and whispered. “What’s a Pata-shoe?”
“It’s the basic dough used for profiteroles, cream puffs, and eclairs etcetera,” Mandie answered, her nose scrunching. She began taking out her measuring cups. “Are you sure you’re a baker?”
I knew how to make a mean pie, but I was no expert with French pastries. That’s why I came here to learn how to bake. If I was already a professional, then I wouldn’t need this class. But I kept my thoughts to myself, and struggled to emulate what Mandie was doing over at her station.
Twenty-five minutes later, a puddle of goop sat in my mixing bowl. As Closette made her rounds, I cringed at the thought of what she might say about mine.
“What in the world is that?” Closette asked, pointing at my dough as if it was some hideous creation only Frankenstein could come up with.
“It’s my pâte à choux dough, Ma’am,” I squeaked out, sweat beading on my forehead. “I’ve never made it before.”
Closette dipped her finger into the gooey center of my dough and tasted it. Her face wrinkled with displeasure. “That, Miss Summers, is the vilest thing I’ve ever tasted. How much salt did you add to this?” She shook her head as if already ruling me out as a lost cause. “I’m not sure you’re a good fit for this class.”
“Please, Madame, I came here to learn,” I said, trying to clean off my sticky fingers. “I flew all the way from the States to attend this class. I want to be a pastry chef.”
“Many people want to be many things,” Closette said. “Doesn’t mean they can or should.”
“I know I can. I’m great with American desserts. I’m just not used to European cooking methods, that’s all. I need time.”
Closette smacked her chapped lips and made her way over to Mandie’s station. “Well, let’s see how you do then,” she said to me. “But be prepared to work your ass off. This class is not for the faint of heart.”
“I will, I swear.” I set the oven and wiped sweat from my brow.
Failure was not an option.
I didn’t fly thousands of miles to fail.
I wanted to leave London with my head held high. I wanted Greg and Jason to be proud of their mom.
By the end of the class, my arms were sore from measuring, piping and stirring. I’d made four cooked batches of pâte à choux: two were severely burnt, and the other two failed to rise. I looked at the light, golden, and airy creations my classmates made and felt despair sink through me like a hot knife through butter. Was I the only one who didn’t know how to make a perfect pâte à choux? Did they all share some secret knowledge that I wasn’t privy to? How could I mess up something so simple and straightforward?
A huge knot formed on my neck and it hurt every time I rotated my head.
But I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.
Not for a long time.
I never stepped down from a challenge.
I was going to show them all what Magnolia Summers was made of.
I was no goddamn quitter.
Chapter 33
Twenty-One Days Left
I didn’t come here to see Roman Finnegan again. Honestly. After the way we ended things last year, I’d be ashamed to see him again. I’d been an emotional wreck, and my problems only multiplied when I welcomed Carl Hennessy back into my life. He took my money, and I never heard from him again. I gave him almost everything I had. Five-thousand dollars. I stole from my own family for that asshole. A crime that, despite my family’s forgiveness, I’d never forgive myself for. What the hell had I been thinking?
Then again, what did I really expect from someone like him? I’d felt sorry for him, that’s why I gave him the money. He’d shown me a photo of his daughter, Christine, and my heart broke for that little girl. She was so young, and no child that age deserved such a terrible affliction.
But after all was said and done, perhaps I thought that being on his good side might benefit Greg somehow.
I was wrong.
Just because I helped Christine, his sick daughter, it didn’t mean Carl would visit his firstborn child more often. In fact, it immediately became clear that Carl favored his daughter more than Greg. Christine was the light of his world. Greg would forever remain in the shadows. I accepted that now. Greg deserved so much more than Carl’s half-assed tokens of affection. My son deserved the sun and the stars. Carl’s empty promises were mere mirages, cruel tricks. I was ashamed that I’d chosen such a poor partner to make a baby with. The most we heard from the bastard was in July, when Carl sent a grainy photo of him and his family, along with twenty dollars, for Greg’s twelfth birthday. My poor boy cried himself to sleep two nights in a row. He didn’t know that I heard every sniffle. That my heart ached for him and with him too.
Carl’s new wife, Lydia, was younger than me. Prettier than me. She had bigger boobs, and no eyebags. No wrinkles, even (thanks to Botox?). She was everything I could never be.
Carl hadn’t even bothered with a phone call. That’s how pathetic he was.
I felt more used and devastated than both my sons combined. After all, they didn’t know the whole truth about Carl. About how he stole from me ten years ago, knocked me up and left me to raise our son all by myself. My sons thought things just didn’t work out, and that was why we’d separated. I’d rather them never find out the truth.
Clearly, I needed to make the same mistakes twice before the truth finally sank in. Carl was manipulative; a borderline sociopath with no conscience, remorse, or sense of responsibility. I knew that now. I was wiser now.
But it was too little, too late.
I let Roman leave without explaining my actions. Regret encased my broken heart like a cast. I let him walk away, thinking that I cared about Carl more than him. That I’d sacrifice my finances, my reputation, anything, to help out an ex-flame. That wasn’t true. I did it for Gregory. I thought I could mend a broken father-son relationship; help them cement a bond that never existed. Needless to say, I was misguided and sorely mistaken.
Too little, too late.
Now, a full twelve months since I’d first met Roman Finnegan, I’d come to terms with my past. I forgave myself for letting Roman slip through my fingers. He was nothing but good, and generous to my family and me, and I betrayed him in every way imaginable.
He had every right to disappear.
Every right to leave me in the dust; in the aftermath of my own stupidity.
It broke my heart that he never tried to contact me again, but if our roles had reversed, I would’ve done the same thing.
Signing up for Le Cordon Rouge was Sylvan’s idea. She was one of the few staff members who knew about my passion for baking. My parents, however, took the idea and ran with it. As an early Christmas present, they’d enrolled me in a month-long trial class with Mme. Closette in London, and they’d paid for the entire thing—even airfare and accommodations! Their only stipulation was that I worked hard and had fun too. I had been so overwhelmed by their generosity, I’d burst into tears.
Ever since the grand re-opening last winter, business at the lodge had been booming. General feedback from the guests was resoundingly positive, and word-of-mouth quickly revived our failing business, turning it into a profitable one. My parents became less crazy as well. Instead of trying to micro-manage everything, they finally learned the value of delegation and teamwork. Ray and Oz ran the new kitchen smoothly, and the food they put out kept hungry customers coming back again and again. Executive chef, Daniel Dumont had trained them well. All of this success was thanks to Roman.
N
ow, here I was, abroad for the first time in my life. And I was scared shitless. I didn’t know anybody in London, other than Roman (if he was even in the UK at the moment). I was pretty sure that Closette hated my guts. My class partner, Mandie Baumgart, a twenty-nine-year-old exchange student from Germany, was hot and cold, and didn’t seem to want to be friends. I was homesick already, and the thought of accidentally bumping into Roman gave me added anxiety. The chances were slim, of course, but stranger things had happened to me before.
Then there was this teeny part of me that actually wanted to see him again. To smell his rich aftershave, to see his dimpled smile, to run my fingers through his soft hair…
Apparently, I liked self-inflicted harm.
I’d never seek him out on purpose, though. I definitely wouldn’t search him up on the internet, as the boys suggested. That would be wrong. Creepy, even. And I definitely wouldn’t check up on his social media or website…
Yet somehow, there I was, at eleven p.m. at night, reading every single goddamn tweet and post Mr. Roman Finnegan had ever written.
The @MaisonChic team is the best I’ve ever worked with! Thanks for the cupcakes! #foodgasm
I ogled Roman’s candid selfie for a full minute. He was wearing a tweed jacket and jeans and smiling in front of a boutique store. Roman was more handsome than ever, and judging by the 1.2 million likes he had on his Facebook page, he was popular too. Really popular. Insanely so. I had no idea…When I met him last year, he was so down-to-Earth. Dressed, spoke and acted like a regular guy…
He had a tiny dollop of buttercream on his chin, and my tired brain wanted to lick it off the screen. Had he always been so yummy-looking? Maybe I’d just been single for far too long.
Tomorrow night, join me at @CommodoreEurope for its 100th birthday & grand re-opening! 8pm. Be there. #GetYourPartyOn
Another photo. This time, of Roman and an older man, both flashing the camera winsome grins and a thumbs-up. Like I said, I was a masochist.
Stalking Roman on Facebook was how I ended up learning that he had a new inn opening up just down the street from my pastry school. He would be there from nine to three tomorrow to reveal the name of the inn. Roman had built a lot of media buzz around this grand opening by deliberately keeping the name of the place a secret. Now he had crowds of adoring fans ready to visit his luxury accommodations, eager to spend big bucks to see their celebrity idol in person.
I reminded myself for the umpteenth time that I came here to bake, not socialize.
No matter how dreamy Roman looked in those photos, and how much I missed everything about him, I would not go looking for him. Seeking him out would be asking for trouble.
I drummed my fingers along my keyboard and rocked in my chair. Now that I was burdened with this knowledge about Roman, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
In ten hours, I would be less than two blocks away from the man who’d haunted my every nightmare and daydream for the past twelve months.
But of course, I wasn’t going to go look for him, right?
The past needed to stay in the past, right?
Chapter 34
Twenty Days Left
I’d spent a hectic morning getting the boys ready for camp, and out the door early. I’d learned my lesson after day one, and left the house at 6:50 a.m. to avoid excessive traffic, and to arrive to class half an hour early. It meant waking up at six every morning, but that didn’t bother me. Back at Crescent Hill, I regularly got up at 4:30a.m. in order to get the boys ready, fetch breakfast for Grammy, and start work at six. What did bother me about this morning, however, was knowing that Roman would be close by. What would I do if I saw him on the street? Pretend I didn’t know him? Engage in an awkward conversation with him? Run the other way?
“Morning, Maggie.”
I turned around and saw Mandie stepping out of her bright pink VW bug. Funny. It wasn’t the type of car I’d pictured her driving. She was wearing a dark trench coat, low-cut sweater, and suede ankle boots. She looked like a model fresh off the runway.
“Morning, Mandie. Nice car. And you look great today.”
“Thanks. Birthday present from my dad. The car I mean. This—” She gestured to her outfit—“This is for an event I’m going to after class.”
“Well, you’ll definitely turn some heads, that’s for sure,” I said.
“Thanks, Maggie. Come on, class is starting in six minutes.” Mandie held the door open for me. Just as it shut behind me, I caught a glimpse of something—someone, who made my heart splinter.
“Closette won’t be happy if you’re late again,” Mandie reminded me. “Come on.”
I nodded and trailed after her. I tried to distract myself by recounting the steps required to make the perfect pâte à choux. But the damage had already been done. Our eyes had connected, and I’d found instant recognition splattered all over his rugged face. He’d grown a nice beard, which made him look older and damn sexy. I wondered how that beard would feel against my cheek.
“Maggie! Get in. What are you doing?” Mandie asked, holding the elevator door open for me. “Let’s go.”
“Coming,” I called after her in a half-whisper. Once we were inside, I took off my poufy jacket and shuddered. Did he really see me?
“What’s wrong?” Mandie asked. This was the most concern she’d ever shown me, and I was somewhat touched.
I swallowed hard, my tongue parched. “Nothing. I—just thought I saw an old friend.”
“Well, get your head in the game. Today we’re making creme brûlée. If you thought pâte à choux was hard…”
“I’ve made creme brûlée a few times before.”
“Using Closette’s method?”
“Umm…huh?”
“Then you’ve never made creme brûlée before.”
We slid into our stations just as Mme. Closette was taking out her stand-up mixer. “Get settled, Miss Baumgart. Miss Summers. And turn to page 118 of your cookbooks.”
The cookbook in question was entitled Mastering the Art of French Pastries. It was translated from the original French version, published in 1999. Mme. Closette co-authored it with her twin sister, Mme. Bellatrice Laurie. The duo were two of the most successful pastry chefs in Europe, and co-owned Macarons et Moi, an upscale patisserie chain with stores all over Europe. I didn’t learn this until last class, much to everyone’s surprise. But then again, by now, I’d already earned the title of Class Klutz, so I had nothing more to lose, and everything to gain. They all underestimated me, but I’d been practicing nightly, and my techniques were getting better all the time.
Just as Closette was about to begin the day’s lesson, a knock came at the door. Her brows furrowed as she walked over to answer it. But when she opened the door, her ragged face lit up. “Oh, what a surprise. I didn’t know you’d be…” the rest of Closette’s words were swallowed by the hallway.
I arched my brow at Mandie, who shrugged. “Just read the recipe,” she suggested.
I was skimming the instructions for Closette’s own creme brûlée recipe when her mystery guest walked through the door.
Broad shoulders, hair the color of browned butter, and liquid pools of gold for eyes.
Shit. Of course, it was him.
“Students, I’d like you all to meet one of my greatest benefactors and closest friends, Mr. Roman Finnegan.”
Roman bowed, creasing his otherwise immaculate navy suit. I’d never seen him in a suit before. At Crescent Hill, he always wore sweaters and jeans. Now, seeing him standing beside Closette, looking so drool-worthy, and watching us, I felt my palms grow clammy.
He looked good. Too good.
So. Good.
Polite applause filled the room. An older lady named Nancy whispered to her friend, “Isn’t he the chap who own Champs-Laurier?”
“And The Earlston. Plus, that new one that’s opening down the street,” Missy Noecker (Mandie’s friend) said.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Who knows
?”
I knew.
I knew exactly why he was here. And I didn’t like it. In fact, I dreaded the thought of speaking to him.
A rush of heat spread through my body, warming up my chest and settling between my legs. My mind might’ve tried to forget him, but my body didn’t. In fact, the visceral reaction I felt when I saw him again…that was something that couldn’t be controlled. Despite all the lies my brain had spun to protect my fragile heart, my body still yearned for him. I wanted him, even though I was the one who rejected him in the first place.
I broke him, and now he was breaking me.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt,” Roman said, his eyes roaming over the classroom, as if on a mission. He paused when he saw me sitting in the back. His gaze held mine for what felt like a century. I was certain everyone in the room must’ve noticed, but no one said a word. “I’ll be back in three hours,” Roman said to Closette. “Au revoir.”
He was actually talking to me, right? What game was he playing at?
Closette nodded. “You can try some of the creme brûlées when they are done.”
“Can’t wait,” Roman said, licking his lips. “They’re my favorite.” He gave the class a little wave before disappearing again.
I wanted to puke. Not only had I failed at staying away from Roman, but I'd also chosen a class run by one of his closest friends. Did he know everyone in London? I wiped my sweaty hands on my apron and swallowed hard. My heart hammered inside my chest, pumping blood so hard I felt dizzy and overwhelmed.
