Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  “Lauren’s Luscious Licks,” I purred into the mouthpiece and watched Maria roll her eyes toward the ceiling.

  “You selling cakes or porn?” Robin asked.

  “I was expecting a call from someone else,” I told her, recovering from my attempt at a sultry greeting. I swallowed hard and then admitted, “I have a date tonight.”

  Even though I’d braced myself for Robin’s wrath, she didn’t miss a beat. “Well, while you’ve been out meeting men, I’ve been thinking about how we can help Paige.”

  “I haven’t been out meeting men, he walked into the boutique,” I argued, managing to feel a twinge of guilt even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. Since Neil left I’d been on a few first dates and even fewer second dates, and none had managed to arouse my interest as much as the ten minutes I’d spent with Charlie. He’d stuck with me like a song you heard once and couldn’t get out of your head.

  Robin cleared her throat a little too pointedly. “In any case, can we get down to the matter at hand?”

  I’d managed to put Operation Save Paige out of my head since our last conversation, hoping that Paige would call and tell me that it had all been a misunderstanding and she and Steve had decided on the white cake with blackberry filling and white chocolate mousseline after all. But no call arrived, which I interpreted as a sign that the weekend hadn’t done much to thaw the situation. Obviously Robin held out little chance for a happy ending, and I just hoped that her brilliant scheme didn’t involve breaking the law or damaging property – two things she seemed to excel at when it came time to get even with Mark.

  “I don’t have to purchase a black turtleneck and ski mask, do I?”

  “Nothing that elaborate, although if my first idea doesn’t pan out, we may have to consider more drastic measures. In the mean time, you just follow my lead.”

  “Don’t I get any details?”

  “All in good time. I don’t want Paige to guess we’re up to something. Just show up at Filene’s Thursday morning ready to go.”

  I held the phone away from my ear and gave Robin a silent salute.

  “So where’s this date taking you?” she asked.

  “Sonsie.”

  “That’s mighty trendy of you.” Robin sounded impressed.

  “You know me, a real trendsetter.”

  “If this cake theory of yours holds true, you might be more of a trendsetter than you ever imagined.”

  Maria was glaring at me and tapping her watch, a not so subtle reminder that the UPS guy was waiting for us to make space in the supply room for our deliveries. I said a quick goodbye to Robin and followed Maria to the back room.

  Trendsetter. I kind of liked the sound of that. The last time I was trendy acid washed jeans were in style and I used a hair scrunchie to keep my ponytail in place on the top of my head. Unless you counted the cake boutique, of course, which was the first one of its kind in Boston. Ah, to be at a vanguard for the masses, or at least those about to wed.

  “And what trend are you setting?” Maria inquired, once again prying into a conversation she wasn’t invited to enter.

  “Oh, nothing. It was just something silly Robin said.”

  “That makes more sense,” Maria reasoned. “Leading edge isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe you.”

  “I used to be pretty leading edge, remember when we experimented with the layers of Black Beauty roses between the tiers of cake to make it look like the whipped cream layers were floating on the flowers? And we were the first ones to offer a Year to Remember package.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  I knew I should have just quit when I was ahead. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well I do, and I think you were wearing acid washed jeans and a hair scrunchie at that time.”

  “I was not.” Maria was off by at least a year on that one.

  So I hadn’t introduced any earth shattering innovations lately, but if Robin was right, that could be changing. Maria thought I wasn’t leading edge, but we’d see about that.

  I was quietly logging in a new shipment of meringue powder and almond extract when a little girl called looking for Maria. I knew something was wrong as soon as I passed the handset to her. Maria never got personal calls at the boutique.

  “I’ve got to go,” she told me, undoing her apron strings before she even hung up.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Does it look like everything is okay? Do I usually rush off in the middle of the day after receiving a phone call?” Maria was especially testy. “I’m going home to watch my niece’s children. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Maria was out the door before I could even offer to pay her cab fare. Or find out when she’d be back.

  “We need to decorate tomorrow’s anniversary cakes,” Dominique reminded me.

  "What are we going to do about the three cakes we need to bake for Wednesday’s Year to Remember deliveries?” Georgina asked, looking to me for direction.

  They were my troops now that Maria was AWOL, and I had to step up to the role of fearless leader, even if I was feeling anything but fearless at the thought of making the cakes.

  I took a deep breath to get my bearings straight. How long could Maria be gone? She’d definitely be back in time to take care of this weekend’s orders, so I just had to take care of the anniversary cakes. That couldn’t be too hard.

  I stood tall and made my first executive decision. “I’ll get the anniversary cake orders and we’ll go over what we need to do today.” So it wasn’t really a decision, but it was a step in the right direction.

  The order forms showed that we had to decorate a pale buttercup yellow Broderie anglais anniversary cake with hand painted eyelet for tomorrow. That meant hours of meticulous cutting and forming the lace detail. I’d be taking a pass on that one. What was the point of being the boss if you couldn’t delegate the more daunting tasks?

  We also needed to bake a mocha cake, a strawberry rum cake and an amaretto cake for Wednesday’s customers. A few cups of flour, some sugar and a paddle mixer. That was definitely more my speed.

  “You two take care of decorating tomorrow’s order, and I’ll handle the baking.”

  While Dominique and Georgina got started on the Broderie anglais, I buttered the bottom of the anniversary cake pans and lined them with parchment paper. After brushing the paper with more butter and dusting the pans with four, I was ready to make the batter. And that’s when it occurred to me. I had no idea how to start.

  “Where’s Maria keep the recipes?” I asked Dominique, swallowing my pride and hoping she wouldn’t tell Maria how clueless I was in her absence.

  She looked at Georgina and shrugged. “The recipes? I don’t know. We don’t use them unless it’s something out of the ordinary.”

  Not a stellar beginning. I scoured the shelves and drawers and finally found a folder labeled recipes in the filing cabinet. I removed the folder and its yellowed pieces of paper stained with oil drippings and splotches of batter.

  I managed to locate the lesser-used ingredients, the espresso powder and coconut extract, and then followed the recipes’ directions exactly as described. The cups of flour were filled and then the tops leveled with a knife before being poured into the stainless steel mixing bowl. The sugar was sifted to remove any lumps and the softened butter added when my finger left a dent in the glistening exterior and told me it was room temperature. All was going according to plan.

  I took an egg in each hand and tapped them against the rim of the mixing bowl, but my touch was too light. I tried again, tapping harder this time as the shell cracked into fragments instead of the single controlled fissure I’d learned to make years ago. As the yolk and the whites spilled into the bowl I gripped the eggs too firmly and splinters of shell shot into the batter.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath, but not low enough to escape notice.

  “Everything okay over there?” Dominique asked.

  “Everything�
��s under control,” I lied.

  Normally sticking one’s fingers into the batter is a no-no. I knew lots of baking scenarios that required the poking and prodding of fingers, but mixing cake batter wasn’t one of them.

  I grabbed a wooden spoon from the utensil tray and turned my back to block Dominique and Georgina’s view. With the spoon in hand I tried unsuccessfully to scoop out the shells. Next I attempted to scrape out the shells with a spatula, which only ended up burying the shells deeper in the batter so I couldn’t even tell where they’d been.

  At that point I had two options. I could leave the shells in the batter, they were small pieces, after all, or I could use my fingers and go fishing. As much as using my fingers was a last resort, I knew I didn’t have a choice. Amaretto sponge cake wasn’t supposed to be crunchy. I washed my hands and dug in.

  When I finally slipped the pans into the pre-heated oven, I felt a sense of triumph. I may have been a little shaky at first, but I’d managed to survive just fine. Not bad for someone who hadn’t baked a cake in years.

  “You could have just run the batter through a strainer to get out the shell,” Georgina told me as I was stacking the mixing bowls in the sink.

  Then Dominique decided to pipe in, “Of course Maria never has to do that, but it does work.”

  I nodded knowingly, hoping they’d think I was aware of the strainer option all along but was using some ancient technique that I learned from a wise baking sage. “Sometimes it’s better to do things by hand.”

  “And sometimes it’s better to use generally accepted kitchen practices,” Georgina concluded. “More sanitary that way. Not to mention faster.”

  They’d been hanging around with Maria too long.

  I washed my hands and avoided their stares as I went out into the gallery to wait for my first appointment of the day.

  Gloria Caldwell was one of the most revered wedding planners in the city, and her list of clients read like a who’s who of Boston society. With her fluff of short white hair and an air that was at once society matron and show girl, Gloria always reminded me of Carol Channing. The only thing missing was a silvery boa tossed over the shoulder of her tight fitting Chanel suits.

  As expected, Gloria’s entrance could not go unnoticed.

  “Lauren,” Gloria cried, throwing her arms out dramatically, as if expecting me to run into her arms like a child. “Come here you beautiful girl! Let me see you.”

  Because she’s Gloria Caldwell, I did as she instructed.

  “How are you dear?” she asked, pulling me into her bosom and then holding me at arm’s length so she could examine me from all angles. “Oh, you are a breath of fresh air. I love the blond highlights, now you don’t look so mousy. I hope you went to Giorgio, as I advised. He’s the only one doing good highlights these days.”

  “He spoke very highly of you,” I told her.

  “Of course he did, dear. I gave that man his start. Without me he’d be at Supercuts in Revere still giving women the Rachel. So what do you have for me?” Gloria made her way over to the tasting table.

  I followed her and we sat side by side in the Barcelona chairs usually reserved for clients. Gloria’s visit wasn’t just social, and after our initial niceties she was ready to get down to business. The portfolio was already opened to the most recent cakes, giving Gloria some ideas that she could take back to her clients.

  “Love the imperial dome crown with checked satin pleats,” Gloria tapped a long red nail on the plastic page. “And the ribbon tapes are a nice touch.”

  “She wanted sprays of white ginger and orchids, but I told her it would be too busy.”

  Gloria squeezed my arm. “Good advice. Sometimes they can go overboard with the flowers. What’s inside?”

  “That was a chocolate fudge cake with white chocolate mousse and white chocolate buttercream icing. We served fresh raspberries on the side.”

  Gloria let out a little gasp. “Perfect. So tasteful. Now, I’m seeing more brides going against the traditional white cake, which I have to admit is a nice change from the white on white on white we saw a few years ago. They’re asking for some pastel-colors or chocolate. What do you have?”

  We flipped through the portfolio and found cakes that fit Gloria’s description.

  “This has been popular; it’s a yellow sponge cake with amaretto-laced custard, dark chocolate mousse and rolled chocolate icing.”

  Gloria wrinkled her nose and made a face.

  “Not what you had in mind?” I asked.

  “No, it sounds divine. But do you smell that? Is something burning?”

  There was only one thing in the oven. The cakes.

  “Excuse me, Gloria. I’ll be right back.” I darted toward the kitchen and burst through the door. Georgina and Dominique were hunched over the rotating cake stand diligently working on the eyelet detail.

  “Don’t you smell that? The cakes are burning!”

  Dominique looked up. “We didn’t hear the timer go off so we just thought you dripped some batter in the oven when you slid in the pans.”

  I pulled open the oven door and inhaled a billow of dark smoke. “Shit! Grab me something!”

  Georgina brought me a dish towel and stood by as I removed three pans from the top oven, and then three pans from the bottom, dropping them all onto the butcher block work station with thuds. Over an hour of work, almost a dozen eggs, several pounds of butter and flour – all of it shot to hell. Every cake’s golden crust was charred.

  “Why didn’t you set the timer?” she asked, pointing out the obvious.

  “I forgot,” I blurted out and then realized I may as well have just said Lauren Gallagher is a complete baking farce.

  Georgina looked over at Dominique, whose head popped up when she heard the boss admit such an amateur mistake. Needless to say, the Broderie anglais on their cake was flawless. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the icing was mocking me.

  “I’ve got Gloria Caldwell out there and then three more appointments after her. Can one of you throw these out when they cool and then start over?” I asked, the heat from the oven warming the kitchen and allowing the burnt stench to spread.

  Georgina nodded.

  “Great.” I peeked out the kitchen door’s window and caught Gloria restlessly shifting in her chair. “And let’s not tell Maria about this, okay? I don’t want her to worry that we can’t handle things when she’s gone.”

  On my way into the gallery I thought I heard Georgina ask when Maria would be back.

  Dominique quickly answered her. “Not soon enough.”

  “Is everything okay?” Gloria asked, angling for a better look inside the kitchen as the door swung closed behind me.

  “Sure, it’s fine.”

  “Were cakes on fire in there?” She pointed to the kitchen like it was the scene of a crime. “My clients wouldn’t look favorably upon Lauren’s Luscious Licks burning their wedding cakes.”

  “I assure you, everything is under control.”

  Gloria let the subject drop, but as we went through the pages of the portfolio I couldn’t help but get the feeling that she was thinking the same thing I was – had Lauren Gallagher lost her touch?

  It was such a careless mistake. I’d barely burned a cake when I was just starting out, and here I was in front of the most influential wedding planner in the city and instead of acting like a seasoned pastry chef I was trying to cover up my oversight like a guilty kid. Even if the only thing I was guilty of was being out of practice; well, that and that and leading everyone to believe that I actually had a hand in every cake that was made. If I couldn’t bake a two layer anniversary cake without setting the kitchen on fire, what was I doing?

  Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon was relatively uneventful. Georgina and Dominique managed to finish decorating the Broderie anglais cake and bake the three anniversary cakes for Wednesday.

  My appointments went well, a nice contrast to Thursday’s fiasco with Paige and Steve, and as I sat acros
s from the couples I put Gloria’s insinuation out of my mind and let my thoughts wander to Charlie and our impending date. I was still Lauren Gallagher, uber pastry chef, as far as my clients were concerned.

  I couldn’t help but let the anticipation of Charlie grow, like when you order a soufflé at the beginning of a dinner and then spend the entire meal building it up in your mind, the way the batter slowly rises in the oven, vulnerable to loud noises or unexpected interruptions that could undo hours of work. I imagined the two of us sharing stories about our clients like modern day anthropologists, delving into the ingredients for a successful relationship and recipes for disaster. We’d be like Louis and Mary Leakey, only instead of exploring the relationships between monkeys and apes, we’d explore the relationships between men and women. And we wouldn’t have to travel to the far reaches of Africa. Or live with native tribes or learn a foreign language – unless you counted deciphering what men really meant when they said they told a woman they’d call.

  Maria returned around three o’clock, grabbing her apron and heading straight for the delivery boxes without offering an explanation for her absence or an excuse for leaving us to fend for ourselves.

  “Everything okay?” I finally asked, peeking my head into the storage room.

  Maria kept her head down, checking off supplies on the list in her hand. Her answer was a short and not all too sweet, “Yes.”

  “Everything went smoothly here,” I assured her, even though she didn’t seem too worried. “No problems at all.”

  Maria stopped logging the supplies and looked up at me, stifling a knowing smile that I could tell was growing at my expense. “That’s good to hear. Remind me to show you how to work the timer when I’m done with the supplies. I know it can be tricky with all those minutes on the dial, but maybe if you practiced you’d get the hang of it.”

  Damn Georgina and Dominique. They probably couldn’t wait to tell Maria about the burnt cakes. My troops had defected. I was the emperor, and Maria was holding my clothes. “What did they tell you?”