“Well, it matters to me,” Rose replied. “This is the most serious thing I’ve ever done. So are you going to help me or not?”
An hour later, Rose prepared a bowl of dry ingredients while Ty mashed bananas. “I think we’re gonna blow Lily out of the water!” he cried as he pounded at the yellow fruit.
Across the aisle, Lily was working on a Soprano’s Wedding Cake that had a layer of sponge, a layer of white chocolate mousse, a layer of blackberry compote, a layer of hazelnut nougatine, and several other delicious-looking layers that Rose couldn’t even hope to identify. All of it was tucked neatly under a white chocolate dome, infused with the soaring lilt of a Scandinavian soprano and a dash of Lily’s Magic Ingredient. It was an architectural miracle, and probably a culinary one as well, to say nothing of its magical properties.
Rose looked down at her own entry, which at the moment consisted entirely of a bowl of mushed bananas.
“This looks like garbage,” Rose said.
“Maybe,” Ty agreed. “But I look great. That ought to count for something, right?”
Rose rolled her eyes as she dumped flour, egg, and vanilla with the banana mash. After she stirred it all together, she poured in a half cup of the unspoiled rainfall. Instantly, the batter lost the unappealing, grayish color of baby food and took on a radiant, golden glow. Rose dipped a spoon into the batter and tried it.
The SUGARLESS batter was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted—not the cloying, chemical sweetness of aspartame and candy and diet soda, but a natural, delicious sweetness with more flavor than even maple syrup or honey.
Oh my, Rose thought. Maybe we might even . . . win?
Twenty minutes later, Rose took the freshly baked bread out of the oven and plated a slice of her golden banana bread on a simple white dish just before the ding of the giant wall timer.
Across the aisle, Lily had plated her intricate dome of cake next to the white-chocolate sculpture of a dove. When Lily sliced through the center of her cake, Rose could see that the differently colored layers of cake were arranged to paint a picture: a scene of doves and unicorns frolicking gaily through a meadow.
Wei Wen adjusted his glasses and stood proudly next to his creation. He had fashioned a chocolate replica of Notre Dame that stood five feet high and seven feet across.
Rose looked down at her modest slice of banana bread. Then again, she thought, maybe we won’t win.
Marco whisked Lily’s Soprano’s Wedding Cake and Rose’s Better-Than-Anything Banana Bread toward Jean-Pierre’s table with ease, but he had a harder time with Wei Wen’s chocolate Notre Dame. He inched along the black-and-white aisle, the audience gasping with every microscopic tilt of the chocolate sculpture. When finally Marco set the cathedral down in front of Jean-Pierre, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief, save for Rose.
Jean-Pierre tasted Lily’s Soprano’s Wedding Cake first. “Mon Dieu!” he gasped, peering with wonder at the cross section of the cake. “A scene of doves and unicorns created out of sponge and mousse! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Jean-Pierre cut through the scene with his fork and tasted it. “It’s . . .” he trailed off. “It’s . . .”
As Rose watched, the master chef’s eyes dulled, and his voice became slightly robotic. “How very sweet,” he said. “However did you manage this without sugar, Lily dear. You are the sovereign of sweetness.”
The cameras followed Jean-Pierre as he turned his attention to the chocolate replica of Notre Dame. The master chef fell to his knees and began to weep. “It is perfection!” he cried. “Why, why did I never think to attempt a chocolate cathedral?”
The great chef climbed to his feet and took a forkful of the South Tower, where just eleven hours ago, Rose and her brothers had been dancing with gargoyles. Jean-Pierre closed his eyes and savored the bite. “Sensational,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks.
I’m toast, Rose thought.
Finally, the cameras followed Jean-Pierre down the table to Rose’s plate. The master chef looked at her slice of banana bread and furrowed his brow.
“Mademoiselle, forgive me; I am confused,” he said. “Where is the baked good?”
Rose pointed sheepishly to the slice of golden bread. “That’s it.”
“But what does it do?” Jean-Pierre said, poking the slice with a fork. “Does it sing? Does it speak five languages? Does it bake more impressive baked goods?”
Rose shook her head as Jean-Pierre reluctantly took a bite of the banana bread. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and walked to his microphone without saying a word.
Ty patted Rose on the back. “I guess we should have made the Golden Gate Bridge out of pralines or something,” he said.
Jean-Pierre tapped the microphone. “The decision was difficult in one respect, and simple in another. Choosing the winner was simple. Choosing who to eliminate was nearly impossible.”
Rose hung her head. At least it hadn’t been easy for Jean-Pierre to send her home.
“First, I will share the contestant who is safe, and who will move on to tomorrow’s final showdown. Coming in second place today is . . .”
Rose crossed her fingers.
“. . . Lily Le Fay.”
The audience erupted in applause as Lily forced herself to smile and wave.
“Now, the simple decision. The winner of today’s SUGARLESS challenge is . . . Rosemary Bliss!”
The crowd let out an audible gasp. Rose’s knees went weak, and she sagged against the side of the stage.
“I know it seems strange,” the master chef was saying, “but with a simple slice of banana bread, this young baker has shattered the lofty dreams of the chocolate Notre Dame. Its architect, Wei Wen, may now exit the expo center.”
Wei Wen fell to the floor, sobbing, as the South Tower of his chocolate Notre Dame crumbled to the ground.
“And then there were two,” Jean-Pierre continued. “Tomorrow will be, undoubtedly, the most important day of their lives.”
You have no idea, Rose thought. Jean-Pierre was under the impression that only Rose’s reputation was at stake. He didn’t know that her family’s most precious heirloom and the happiness of her beloved town were on the line as well.
Lily stepped to Rose’s side in front of the stage.
“Congratulations,” Lily said through gritted teeth. Glancing around to make sure the microphones weren’t close enough to pick up her words, she leaned in to Rose’s ear. “I’m going to crush you tomorrow.” Lily looked like a movie star and smelled like a queen, but she sounded like a murderer.
Rose felt icy fingers of fear trickle down her back at her aunt’s threat. Jerking away, Rose saw pure anger in her aunt’s eyes, but also, behind the anger . . . maybe a hint of fear? After all, Rose’s simple banana bread had defeated her aunt’s spectacular cake, complete with its magical ingredient and Lily’s Magic Ingredient.
And that’s when Rose knew—while Rose was competing for the Booke and to stop Lily’s Magic Ingredient, the only thing Lily cared about was winning.
And that gave Rose an idea. Maybe she and Lily could both get what they wanted. Rose had won the day, after all—maybe now she had a little leverage. Rose leaned in to give Lily a kiss on the cheek, and while she was there she whispered, “I’ll let you win tomorrow if you promise to stop selling the Magic Ingredient and return the Booke.”
Lily laughed. “Now I understand why you chickened out right before you were supposed to come to New York with me, Rose,” she said. She gripped Rose’s hand a little more tightly. “You don’t have what it takes to make it on such a big stage. You don’t have the guts.”
Rose considered for a moment. “I’m pretty scared, it’s true. There’s a lot on the line. But at least I’m brave enough to compete without using secret chemicals in my baking to make people like me.”
Lily looked like she wanted to slap Rose across the cheek. With the cameras watching, Lily gave her a kiss instead. “Let’s both do what we do best and s
ee who comes out on top in the end, shall we?” she whispered.
At the hotel that night, Albert made his famous Family Fajitas. He set out plates of sour cream, peppers and onions, tortillas, guacamole, black beans, and grilled steak; and everyone—including dinner guests Miriam and Muriel—went around the table assembling their own fajitas. Everyone, that is, except for Jacques, who nibbled on a piece of Monterey Jack as big as himself; Gus, who dozed in a tight knot of fur on the ottoman; and Leigh, who turned her nose up at the whole smorgasbord, which was odd considering that Family Fajitas were usually Leigh’s favorite meal.
But not since eating Lily’s Magic Ingredient. “I’ll not eat steak rolled up like a hot dog, thank you very much,” she said snootily.
“Then maybe you’ll eat this instead,” said Purdy, stepping out of the kitchen with a slice of cake on a plate. “Open up!” she commanded.
Leigh rolled her eyes at her mother but dutifully opened her mouth as Purdy slid in the slice of cake.
“That ought to do it,” Purdy said. “It’s a Matching Muffin! I calibrated it to who Leigh truly is so that she’ll match who she was before she ate Lily’s Magic Ingredient. It’s no Turn-Back Trifle, but it should do the trick.”
Leigh burped daintily, then said, “It’s a Matching Muffin!” in Purdy’s voice. She snorted and said it again.
Rose and Ty looked at each other, bewildered. It was the strangest thing Rose had ever seen—or heard. It was as if her mother’s voice had jumped into Leigh’s mouth.
“That’s not how it was supposed to work,” Purdy said.
“Incredible!” Miriam gasped.
“Incredible!” Leigh mimicked back.
Albert ran his hands through his hair. “Oh, perfect.”
“Oh, perfect!” Leigh repeated with Albert’s deep voice. Then she burst out laughing.
“That’s quite enough, young lady!” Albert said. “We’ll deal with this new talent of yours later. But first—” He held up his seltzer glass in a toast. “To Rose and Ty, for their victory today. I think you’re both ready for the Wild Card category tomorrow.”
Rose sighed heavily as she gnawed on a piece of spicy steak. She’d been ignoring the eventuality of the dreaded Wild Card, but it had, at last, arrived.
“How are we going to do it?” she asked.
Purdy wiped steak juice from the corner of her mouth. “Whatever the category is, we’ll just pick a recipe accordingly, and hope that Balthazar can translate it in an hour!”
Balthazar barely looked up from his fajita, which had collapsed onto his plate in a mess of sour cream and onions.
“But what if the recipe requires an ingredient we don’t have?” Rose went on, pushing her plate to the center of the table. “What if it’s something we can’t get in Paris, in an hour?”
Rose burst up from her seat and paced around the coffee table in the living room while the rest of her family continued to eat their fajitas.
“Just let her pace around,” Rose heard Ty murmur. “I think she’ll tire herself out.”
It was there, on the coffee table, that Rose spotted a large manila envelope with her name on it. “What’s this?” she asked, waving the envelope in the air.
Albert tried to speak through a mouthful of refried beans. “The bellhop brought it earlier,” he said.
Rose tore open the thick manila envelope and found an unmarked DVD inside. Great, she thought. It’s probably some threat from Lily’s assistant.
Rose popped the DVD into the suite’s player. Instead of the glimmering green eyes and bushy black brows of the Shrunken Man, Rose saw the sweeping blond bangs of Devin Stetson. Her stomach jumped around inside of her like a captive frog in a jar.
“Hi, Rose,” he said, staring straight out from the screen. He sighed listlessly, but the corners of his mouth were turned upward into a smile. “We here at Stetson’s Donuts and Automotive Repair wanted to wish you good luck at the Gala des . . .” Devin trailed off and yelled to the man in overalls standing behind him. “What is it, Dad? Oh, right. Gala des Gâteaux Grands. You guys are amazing bakers, the best in the whole world, and we know you’ll win. But don’t take my word for it!”
The camera panned through the aisles of Borzini’s Nuttery and settled on the peanut-shaped figure of Mr. Borzini himself, who hoisted a burlap sack of sunflower seeds atop a tall stack of burlap sacks, then wiped his hands on his apron and laughed into the camera.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re making a movie for Rose Bliss,” Devin said from behind the camera. “She’s competing in that French contest.”
“Oh, sure,” said Mr. Borzini, waving into the camera. “Hi, Rose. Hello, Purdy, Albert, kids. You’ll be great, Rose.”
The camera panned down the main street of Calamity Falls and stopped inside Florence’s Flowers, where Florence had fallen sleep in her chair.
Devin’s hand wandered into the frame and tugged at Florence’s sleeve. She awoke with a start. “What? What’s this contraption for? Why are you taking my picture?”
“It’s a video camera, Florence. I’m making a video for the Blisses, to tell them good luck at the Gala des Whatever.”
“Oh,” said Florence, staring through her Coke bottle glasses. “I just hope they come back in one piece. Calamity Falls would be lost without ’em.”
Rose winced. She knew that Calamity Falls was already lost, and would be lost forever if she didn’t win the Wild Card battle the next day.
By then the Blisses had finished their fajitas and had gathered on the couches behind Rose to watch the DVD.
The camera panned over the outdoor café tables at Pierre Guillaume’s French bistro. Pierre Guillaume himself stood in the entrance to the café, wrists tucked limply into the pockets of his chef’s coat.
“I wish to wish the family Bliss the very best of luck in my beloved hometown of Paris.” He sighed. “I am very excited for them.”
“He doesn’t sound excited,” said Sage. “He sounds like he just found out he needs a root canal.”
“There’s no one at the café,” Ty remarked. “Jeez, where is everybody?”
The camera panned over to the only people sitting at the cast-iron tables: Mr. Bastable and Mrs. Thistle-Bastable. They were sipping spoonfuls of French onion soup, staring into the distance.
Mr. Bastable looked directly into the camera. “I miss the Blisses. They make wonderful muffins, but mostly, they’re just nice people.” Then he turned back to his soup. Mrs. Thistle-Bastable smiled wanly.
“This is so sweet of everybody,” said Purdy, pulling Rose onto her lap. “See, Rose? It doesn’t matter if you win tomorrow. Everyone in town still loves us.”
“But look at them!” Rose yelled. “The whole town is gray. And it’s my fault. I have to fix it.”
Rose shot off of Purdy’s lap and ran into her room, slamming the door behind her.
Later that night, after the Desjardins twins had returned to their room and everyone else had gone to sleep, Rose found herself tossing and turning in bed, praying that the Booke would magically fall through the ceiling and land next to her on her pillow. She would cradle it in her arms, and if she went out, she would carry it in a BabyBjörn so it would never again stray from her sight.
While Leigh snored in the bed next to hers, Rose looked over the walls of her hotel bedroom. There were framed prints of old French advertisements from the 1900s for bars of soap and hats and corsets. There was a bookshelf with a few thick books stacked on top, one of which was just about the same size and color as the Cookery Booke itself.
Rose got out of bed and crossed to the bookshelf. She slid the heavy book down from the shelf and blew a half inch of dust off the top. She opened the book, praying that somehow, through some bit of magic, it might be the Cookery Booke.
“What fools these mortals be . . . ,” she read. Of course. The collected works of William Shakespeare.
Rose sighed. The book could have fooled her. It could have fooled anyone.
>
It could have fooled anyone.
Rose gasped. She ran across the suite into Sage and Ty’s room and jumped on Sage’s bed.
“Ty! Sage! Wake up!”
Ty threw a pillow at Rose’s head, and Sage buried deeper into his blankets.
“Look what I found in my room!” Rose held up the Booke look-alike.
“The Cookery Booke!” Sage said.
“No, it’s a book of Shakespeare plays. But it looks like the Booke! If we can get Lily out of her room, we can steal the Booke back and leave this as a decoy!”
Sage groaned. “Rose, the last time we were up there, we couldn’t even find the Booke. And what’s the point of leaving a decoy anyway? As soon as they open it, they’ll see that it’s not the Booke.”
“But maybe they won’t open it right away!” Rose replied. “If they win the competition, then get on the plane carrying the book, open it up on the plane, and realize it’s not the Booke, by then it’ll be too late! Imagine the look on her smug, stupid face.”
“But Rose,” Ty said, his hair sticking out at ridiculous angles. “How are we supposed to get Lily out of her room? It’s the middle of the night, remember?”
Leigh wandered in. “How are we supposed to get Lily out of her room?” she said, mimicking Ty’s voice exactly.
Rose smiled at her brothers. “That’s the best part of my idea,” she said. “Leigh, how would you like to talk to Lily, the magnificent mistress of muffins, on the phone?”
“Hello, I would like to speak with Ms. Lily Le Fay, s’il vous plaît.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
“Monsieur Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre,” said Leigh with Jean-Pierre’s haughty, robust French accent.
“But, sir, it is four a.m.”
Rose sat beside Leigh while she spoke on the phone with the front-desk manager. Rose told her what to say, and a moment later, Leigh repeated it in the voice of the pompous French chef. It was uncanny.
“I think she will want to accept this phone call,” said Leigh in Jean-Pierre’s voice. “I am calling to discuss her victory at the Gala des Gâteaux Grands this morning.”
A Dash of Magic: A Bliss Novel Page 14
