“Looking good, Billy Ray,” I call out to him.
“Feeling good, Louis,” he calls back, and we all giggle except for Amelia, who is apparently too young to get a decent Trading Places reference when she hears one.
“Two hours,” Amelia says.
And so it goes. We check things off the list; we deal with problems as they arise. The first batch of stained glass windows went too-dark-caramel with the blowtorch, losing the colors, so I tried the second batch in the oven under the broiler instead, and they are gorgeous, the colors clear and bright, and when you hold them to the light, they are absolutely stained glass. Mark, being handy, has set us up with a small battery-operated lighting system, with tiny LED bulbs that will go into the little vestibule to backlight the stained glass transom, and sidelights to show off that we will have done that entry to perfection: the mosaic tiled floor, the intricate crown molding, the William Morris–style wallpaper printed on edible sheets of rice paper.
By the time we hit the final hour, the house is up and both Mark and I are working on details. He focuses on the landscaping details, trees and shrubs and plants created with green cotton candy and chocolate and frosting, and I work on the people, fun little roly-poly characters sitting on the porch, a toddler in a little Cubs sunhat splashing in a kiddie pool that I’ve lined with crumpled tinfoil before filling it with blue melted sugar, to make it look like the sun is catching on the water. A Weber grill covered in tiny hot dogs and burgers with even tinier grill marks. When the bell rings, we are sweaty, muscles cramping, and bleary-eyed, but with the exception of a couple of the planned party guests, and some of the smaller details we had designed, like the green hose curled on the side of the house, the classic Chicago black garbage cans and blue recycling cans in the alley, and all of the animals we had thought of, the Labradors in the yard, the squirrels in the tree, the little nest of robins in the eaves of the house, the important stuff all got done.
“You guys,” Amelia says, handing us bottles of water as we collapse onto stools to sit for the first time in six hours. “It is amazeballs.”
“Really, it is just spectacular. You are totally going to win this thing,” Jean says.
“Have to admit, it’s very impressive,” Ruth says. “I hope this means we can all show up for just the last hour on Saturday, though, no one needs to sit through the whole thing twice, you know?”
Jean smacks her on the arm. I laugh. “Of course you can come at the end. I can’t imagine how boring it will be to watch it again.”
“It’s not boring, though; it’s fascinating,” Amelia says. “I was riveted.”
“Yeah, it was fine. But I don’t need to see it again. What I do need is sustenance. Are we going out for dinner?” Ruth asks.
“Hell yes, I’m starving,” Jean says.
“I’m in for sure,” Amelia says.
“I love you guys, but I’m barely going to make it up those stairs, and I’m not in any condition to change and make myself presentable to go out. You go and eat, thank you all again for helping us out today, and we’ll see you Saturday.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go, troops,” Ruth says and herds them away, Mark following to let them out the front and then relock the door.
When he comes back, we work in companionable silence, getting everything cleaned up.
“She looks good,” he says, giving the beast a once-over. “Damn good.”
“Yeah. True enough. Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“Well, necessary or not, I could not have done it without you. You are doing your dad very proud.”
I look over and see that Mark’s eyes are extra sparkly, and it touches my heart to see him getting a little emotional about his dad.
We finish cleaning up and shut down the lights in the kitchen, leaving the cake standing on the prep table. When Jason and Annabel get here tomorrow we will do a full tasting of the three tiers, just to make sure that no one has any notes on flavors that might need tweaking.
“Want a beer?” I ask Mark as we head into the store.
“That would be really good,” he says, following me through the secret door and up the stairs. I really hope he isn’t looking too critically at the wide expanse of my ass.
“Beer’s in the fridge, I’m just going to change really fast,” I say, heading for my room to get out of my sticky work clothes. I forgo a shower, figuring once Mark leaves I’ll take a long hot bath, and just give myself a fresh layer of deodorant and pull on some black leggings and an oversized gray long-sleeved T-shirt.
Mark is standing at the stove. Something smells delicious.
“What are you making?” I ask, as I grab a beer out of the fridge, open it, and take a long pull at the cold, bitter brew.
“Dinner. We need to replenish what we lost,” he says. And I don’t blame him; all we ate for six hours were protein bars, which are great for speed, but don’t really sustain for long.
I go over to the stove and peer into the pot, where a thick, creamy mixture of rice is forming. “Are you making risotto?” I ask, as he pours chicken stock from the box at his side into the pot, never stopping stirring.
“Yes, a quick and somewhat bastardized version, but you had the rice and an onion and stock, and I saw some rotisserie chicken in the fridge, and a package of baby spinach, so I figured we could make do.”
“I think this is more than just making do. What can I do?”
“You want to shred the chicken? Maybe grate some of that chunk of Parm I spotted in the cheese drawer? Chop some of that parsley you have over there?”
“You got it.” I pull the chicken out of the fridge, only missing one breast from my dinner last night, and remove the rest of the meat from the carcass, shredding it into bite-sized pieces as Mark continues to stir. Without even thinking, when I remove the first oyster from the back, I reach over and offer it to him, and he eats it from my fingers as if it is the most natural thing in the world, which shoots tingles right up my arm and into my loins. I’m glad he can’t see me flush. Suddenly I wonder why I was always so annoyed by the whole cooking with someone thing. It’s kind of nice.
I put the shredded meat into a bowl and hand it to him, and he adds it to the pot with more stock, while I attack the wedge of Parmesan with a Microplane, creating a huge mound of fluffy cheese snow. I rip off a fistful of parsley from the bunch I have in a glass of water on the counter and give it a rough chop. Mark tastes the rice, and then throws a couple of handfuls of baby spinach in, with the last of the stock, giving it another good stir. He drops the stock box into the garbage, pulls the butter out of the fridge, cuts a large knob off the stick, and drops it into the pan, stirring with one hand and beginning to add fistfuls of grated cheese with the other. The smell is intoxicating. He drains the last of his beer, and without a word, I go to the fridge and open him another. He winks his thanks at me, pulls two large bowls from the cabinet, and spoons up a generous helping into each one, sprinkling more cheese over the top and adding a quick swirl of olive oil for garnish. He hesitates, then takes a lemon from the bowl on the counter, and my discarded Microplane, and showers a light bit of zest over each one. I give both bowls a hefty scattering of parsley, and we each grab our bowls and a fork from the drawer and head to the kitchen table with our beers.
The risotto may not be fancy, might not have the homemade stock or delicate saffron or special ingredients, but it is fucking delicious. Hot, savory, salty, cheesy, with the pop of acid from the lemon zest and the bright greenness of the parsley and spinach, and despite the fact that he made enough for what looked like six people, we devour our first helpings, and refill both bowls even more full than the first time and demolish those as well.
“I think we’ll do fine,” he says after dumping the empty bowls in the sink and getting us each a third beer.
“I agree. I think we should be in good shape to not mak
e a laughingstock of ourselves.” I grab the beer he proffers and take a deep swig as he walks around to join me on the couch.
He does the same, letting out a huge, resonant belch.
“Really?” I say.
“To-tal-ly.” He belches out.
What the hell. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. “Bbbbrrrrraaaaaap.” I let the full force of the built-up pressure explode out of my face with unapologetic vigor.
Mark starts to laugh, and then so do I, and pretty soon we are both wiping tears and making dolphin noises. There is something to be said for that punch-drunk laughter that only happens in strange situations. When we get control over ourselves, Mark says, “You’re a heck of a talent, Sophie Bernstein. What are you going to do when all this ends?” He waves a hand around the building.
“I have no idea,” I say, not bothering to argue with him. I’ve seen the books. Our little uptick with the relaunch and social media blitz would have been enough to give me hope for the future, but not with Cake Goddess opening her doors in less than six weeks. We have not increased revenue nearly enough to withstand the kind of hit we are going to take, and even if some miracle happened and we win this contest on Saturday, there is not enough time for newfound event-cake business to kick in and save our bacon.
“What do you want to do?”
I think about this. “I wish I knew. I’m in limbo, a bit. I think I’ve changed too much to want to go back to what I had before, the pressure of that fine-dining tasting-menu place, chasing stars. But I also know that this”—I repeat his gesture—“this isn’t really enough, not for the long haul. I thought what I wanted was a restaurant, something in the middle, serious food, but unfussy atmosphere, less pressure, but still challenging creatively.”
“But not now.”
I think of my dream, currently being fully realized and lauded without me. “Not now.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.
“Yeah. I will. Thank you.” And then, not being able to stop myself, I lean forward and kiss him gently on the mouth.
He kisses me back for a moment, and then buries his hands in my hair, pulling my face away from his.
“Um, I sort of haven’t full finished that whole, um, housekeeping issue.”
What an ass. This one sentence sends the fluttery excitement that was building in my girl parts right into remission. “Seriously?”
He blushes. “It’s, um . . .”
“Yeah, complicated.”
“And you’ve got your guy . . .”
I think about poor Jake, and wonder if “my guy” will ever be anything more than theoretical. And if he wasn’t, if I would even be remotely interested in pursuing something purposeful with Mark. I think back to my brief thought of them being the same person, and wonder if I’m just trying to mentally Frankenstein the perfect guy. Mark’s looks and skills in bed, Jake’s intelligence and sense of humor and kindness. Or worse, if I just kind of wish it were Mark emailing me instead of Jake, and what would that mean? Really don’t even want to think about this right now. “Exactly. No worries, I’m just overtired and a little buzzed, and as impulses go, it was probably a spectacularly bad idea.”
“I should go,” he says, not disagreeing with me.
“Yeah, you should.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, you will.”
“Okay, then.”
“Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for dinner. For what it’s worth, when you do find the sack to break it off with the wrong girl, you will make the right girl a really good wife.” I grin at him.
He smiles and belches one more time for good measure, and bows, taking his leave. I shake my head, glad that he has saved us both from making a second, more serious mistake, and head back inside to run a hot bath, and hopefully fall into a dreamless sleep.
Wife vs. Secretary
(1936)
Gosh, all the fighting and worrying people do, it always seems to be about one thing. They don’t seem to trust each other. Well, I’ve found this out. Don’t look for trouble where there isn’t any, because if you don’t find it, you’ll make it. Just believe in someone.
• JAMES STEWART AS DAVE •
Friday morning, Jason and Annabel help me load up the van with all of our prepped materials. We have all of the cake layers, the dacquoise, sheets of Rice Krispies treats. The pre-molded chocolate columns, a whole bucket of gray fondant, and a rainbow of other pre-colored fondants and gum pastes. All of the fillings and ingredients, as well as our structural supports, templates, and preapproved specialty equipment. I check everything off my list, while Jason does the same, and before we lock the van, we compare lists to be sure they match. Mark has some work stuff to deal with today, so he is just going to meet me at the hotel for the reception tonight. Annabel is going to hold down the fort while Jason helps me make the delivery and get our station set up for tomorrow before heading back to the bakery. The two of them have been an absolute godsend, and I have to figure out the proper way to thank them when this is all over.
“Have fun storming the castle!” Annabel says, waving at us, in a fairly good Carol Kane impersonation as Jason and I get into the van.
“I’ll have him back as soon as I can,” I say out the window of the passenger seat, as Jason pulls away and we head downtown.
The Astor Place is nestled on a fairly quiet street in the Gold Coast neighborhood, but still walking distance to all of the hustle and bustle of the Magnificent Mile. Just eight stories tall, but taking up nearly a full block, the Italianate architecture is stately, and the new deep navy blue awnings and shutters really look terrific. Jason pulls down the alley, and into the loading dock, where another van is already parked.
“Well, well, my other sister Sophie,” I hear as I get out of the van. I turn to see Sophie Goodman, owner of Bakehouse, behind me. “I thought you were dead, woman.” She walks over and grabs me in a hug. Sophie is a few years younger than me, but we met when I was doing a workshop at the French Pastry School while she was studying there, and for a week we were “Sophie Squared” or “The Sophies,” and we kept threatening to start a band. She took over at Bakehouse a few years ago, and has been knocking it out of the park with her impeccable takes on French classic pastry work.
“Not dead, just laying low,” I say. “I was very happy to see you on the list for this thing, it’s one thing to come to probably lose, but at least I can lose to someone I like.”
She smacks me on the arm playfully. “Whatever, you’ll kick my ass for sure. I’m just glad we’re both here, it’s a freaking sausage fest in there. But I had no idea you were competing, you weren’t on the list. I thought I was the only girl.”
I laugh. “I know, right? You’d think with all the girls killing it these days that we would have had all five slots. But the lead on this was supposed to be my boss, he owns the bakery, but he got sick so I’m taking the lead.” I never contacted the organizers about the change. I figured Mark’s real name is still technically Herman Langer, there wasn’t a need to make any changes. Chicago pastry, especially for fine dining, is heavily weighted with women, and they are absolutely moving the industry in exciting directions. But the other three teams are all men; Thomas Beckman is a pastry instructor at Le Cordon Bleu Chicago, and the other two, Dimitri Fayard and Scott Gerken, are hotel guys, Dimitri at the Peninsula and Scott at the Four Seasons. Just some of the most amazing and talented pastry chefs we’re lucky to have in Chicago.
“Hey, Soph, I know I probably should have called or, or something . . . you know, when it all went down . . .” She looks a little sheepish.
“Why? It was a shit show, and totally not remotely up to you to reach out. The phone dials two ways, and I didn’t call you either.”
“Well, you could have. You still can. If you want to, I m
ean, after I kick your ass tomorrow.” She winks at me, that bubbly personality shining through.
“Sounds like a plan. I will call you to take you for a consolation cocktail after I wipe the floor with you.”
She gives me another hug and whispers, “Fuck it, let’s tie. The Sophies, together again.”
“Deal.”
“You broads want to start a book club or have a mani-pedi over there, or should we unload these vans?” Jason says, walking up behind me and greeting Sophie with a hug.
“You gonna let him talk to the boss like that?” Sophie asks, laughing.
“It makes him feel important, which gets his man-juices all riled up, and then he does more of the heavy lifting.” I shrug, like it’s all part of my master plan.
She laughs, and we all head to our vans to carefully unload our wares.
“You look beautiful, Sophie,” Mark says, handing me a glass of champagne.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting it gratefully. I’m standing in the corner of the beautiful ballroom at the Astor, having a small panic attack. The room is full of my former colleagues and peers. A good fifty people here were actually in attendance at the wedding that wasn’t. I was feeling okay when I left the house, almost happy. It had been a good day, setting up, reconnecting with Sophie. The other contestants I only ever knew peripherally, so there was a formal respectful friendliness there, but I didn’t feel awkward with them, and all of their team partners were younger sous chefs and assistants who I didn’t know at all. Jason and I got everything set up and did another full checklist and everything was in good shape. I went home, visited with Herman and Bubbles, and had a sweet email from Jake, who said he was going camping with some work friends for the weekend, but would write Monday night. I got into my new outfit, a simple black pencil skirt with a drapey charcoal gray top that hides my multitudes of flaws, and even got my hair to behave. I was sort of happy.
And then I got here, looked around the room, and my stomach turned over. I found a dark corner and kept my head down, my hair hiding my face in shadows, until Mark found me.
Wedding Girl Page 29
