Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster

by A. Gardner

  "What's your theme?" Georgina asks. She adds flour to her mixture and slowly stirs the contents of her saucepan until it forms a dough she can set aside for later.

  "It'll make sense when you see everything come together," Bree responds. She dives right into her buffet preparation, tuning out the rest of the kitchen.

  My eyes catch a glimpse of Cole who is setting up his space while still waiting for Jeff. He collects a few different types of chocolate and sets up a couple of saucepans with candy thermometers. I know he and Jeff decided on some sort of sweet shop for adults theme, but we haven't talked much about it. Both of us have been knee-deep in our work. After Leo Bianco was apprehended, Chef Otto deemed it necessary to step up his game even more. More assignments. More hands-on demos. A good, yet busy, change. I think he's trying to prove that despite the poor ratings of his new television show, he really does know his stuff.

  Chef Otto pushes through the kitchen doors in a hurry. The whole lot of us already in the kitchen curiously look up. We aren't expecting him until midday. His hair is gelled to the point where the top of his head shines, and he's smiling as if he's being followed by a camera crew. He searches the room and stops when he sees me. Oh, no.

  "Poppy." He points to me. "You're the girl I'm looking for."

  "Chef, every second I have right now counts. I don't have time to—"

  "I'm not trying to pull you away from your work," he clarifies. "Someone's wandering around campus looking for you."

  "Who?"

  "He's outside." Chef Otto shrugs and does a quick sweep through every station, making sure each team is on track. Before our graduation ceremony, we will be displaying our buffets in a separate room. A banquet room set up with tables and chairs. Our instructors will walk through first and taste everything. Then they will open the buffets up for public observation, and finally students and visitors will also be allowed to sample our work.

  "Be right back," I say to Georgina.

  I wipe my hands on my chef's jacket and loosen my neckerchief. My hair is pulled back in a tight bun. I have lots of experience smoothing each section so that every hair stays in place. I step out into the Georgia sun, and it greets me with an overwhelming urge to sneeze. I narrow my eyes as I study a man with hair as dark as mine. He glances up and down the landscaped path, rolling up the sleeves of his collared shirt and sporting an awkward smile.

  "Mark?" I rub my eyes, unsure if I'm seeing straight. My big brother is the last person I expect to see here today besides Leo Bianco.

  "Poppy, look at you." He smiles when he sees me. A smile that reminds me of my mom's, though he and I both inherited Dad's lanky limbs. Mark looks suave as usual, but he's sweaty. "You look like a real-life pastry chef."

  "What are you doing here?" I blurt out, approaching him for a hug. I straighten my chef's whites, trying to appear as professional as possible. "I mean, not that I'm upset or anything."

  "Didn't Mom get hold of you?" he asks.

  "I've been real busy."

  "Oh." He glances down at his loafers—a walnut brown that matches his belt. Mark and I are opposites when it comes to style. When I dress up, the artist in me always comes out in the form of jewelry or colored hairpieces. Mark is just nerdy. At least, he was nerdy. Now he dresses the part of a hotshot finance guy working in Boston. I think he has a personal shopper.

  "What is it?" My stomach churns, and I brace myself for bad news.

  "Mom and Dad aren't coming," he responds, lowering his voice. He waits for me to roll my eyes or throw my hands up in disappointment, but today means too much to me. I won't let them ruin it. Not one teeny bit.

  "No joke?"

  "I'm sorry, Poppy." He clasps his hands together. "Dad was called away on business, and Mom said something about the carpet guys rescheduling? She's remodeling again."

  "Right." I nod, accepting the news. It doesn't sting as much with Mark here.

  "Clearly, they're missing out." He grins again and surveys the greenery around campus. He yanks at his collar. "I mean. Wow."

  "Still think I'm baking muffins down in the bayou?"

  "Did I really say that?" he asks.

  "Um…yeah." My mind jumps back to the last time I saw him in person. It was almost a year ago when he introduced his ex-fiancée, Lauren, to the whole family. He, like the rest of my relatives, bought into my mom's elaborate story about how I'm having an early midlife crisis.

  "I like the baking bonbons on your biscuits description much better," Mark says. He rubs the back of his neck. "Does this building have AC?"

  "Is this your first time in the South, bro?"

  "I'm sorry to inform you that we're not hot-blooded people," he jokes. "How have you dealt with the heat for so long?"

  "Sweet tea," I answer. "Lots and lots of sweet tea."

  "Sweet tea," he repeats.

  "Yeah." I cross my arms. "I didn't taste it until I came here. We've been missing out."

  "So, are you headed back to Oregon after this?" he asks.

  It's the dreaded question I've been trying not to think about.

  "I don't know. My apartment is being rented, so I'd have to stay with Mom and Dad while I figure things out."

  "Ouch." He chuckles. "I wish I could help you out, but I know no one of importance in the culinary world."

  "I'll figure it out," I reply. I hold my head high, copying the way Georgina does it. Maybe if I pretend I'm not worried I'll actually believe it?

  "Hey, you made it this far."

  My eyes dart to his bare ring finger, and he glances at it.

  "Sorry," I mutter.

  "I'm getting more used to it," he informs me. "Lauren moved on a little quicker than I thought she would, but I guess that's a good thing. She's figured out what she really wants."

  And it's not you.

  "Are you happy?" Three words that seem harmless, but they can break even the strongest back. I take a deep breath, hoping that he's healed from his past relationship failure. He won't be able to lose himself in my chocolate truffles if he's too busy nursing an open wound.

  "I think so." He shrugs. "What is happy really? I'm content with myself."

  "Good. Well, I've got a ton of work to do, but if you walk straight down that path you'll end up at one of the best bakeries in all of Georgia. Make sure you try Buzz's orange rolls."

  "So that's where that smell is coming from." He pushes up his sleeves even higher. "Do you get a lunch break?"

  "Fifteen minutes maybe," I respond. And that's pushing it. In a perfect world I can take breaks, eat, and sleep all while working in the kitchen. Not so today.

  "I'll see you then." Mark shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls deeper through campus. I enter the student kitchens again with a giant smile on my face. My cheeks are starting to feel sore, but I don't care. Seeing my brother Mark, a man I thought I barely knew, here at Calle Pastry Academy feels like finding a puppy by the side of the road. I feel relieved that he's here even though it's to replace my parents. If anything, their absence just reminds me that the West is part of my past. A chapter I'm permanently closing today. I have a whisk in my hand and Grandma Liz in my heart. That's all I need.

  The South is my home now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  My moment has finally arrived, and it doesn't feel real. When I walked onstage for my very first ballet solo I remember feeling scared and excited all at the same time. I was scared of letting down the people I love and excited to be moving forward with my life. Graduating from Calle Pastry Academy feels similar to that, except my excitement stems from the fact that I've lived to eat another cupcake.

  I stand proudly next to my final buffet as our instructors from all of our classes pass through. Miss Chester, my favorite instructor from my basic-level courses lingers a few seconds longer to study each layer of my black and white wedding cake. She nods with approval as her eyes skim over the tier in the center of the cake that I decided to decorate with edible silver leaf.

  "Very creative," Miss Ch
ester comments. "And I love your theme."

  "Thank you, Chef," Georgina responds as if coming up with our theme was as simple as piping the cream into our cannoli.

  The center of our final buffet is a five-tier circular wedding cake. The base layer is white with delicate black lace wrapped around the bottom. I embellished the stringwork with royal icing, making it look like an actual piece of fabric that was ripped off of an antique dress. The next layer is a shorter silver-leafed tier, and the middle tier is plain white with gum paste Italian poppies decorating the surface. The fourth tier is completely silver leafed with another strand of black fondant lace around the base. And finally, the top tier is a classic white layer with an extra large Italian poppy placed on top. All together it's the perfect mix of me and Georgina. Elegant and edgy. Dark and Italian-inspired.

  It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever created.

  On both sides of our centerpiece are our pastries. First are two triangular cannoli towers. Georgina made the shells, and I made the pistachio and cherry cream filling. The tips of each shell were dipped in dark chocolate, and more edible Italian poppies decorate each row. Beside the towers are individual servings of vanilla panna cotta drizzled with black licorice sauce, and next to those are Georgina's zeppole which are dusted in powdered sugar and topped with vanilla bean cream and a sour cherry. And lastly, displayed at the ends of our serving table are my dark chocolate amaretto truffles resembling the assorted brigadeiro box that won my Parisian internship.

  "Italy at midnight." Chef Otto studies our buffet and samples a zeppola. "Not what I was expecting from you two."

  "Yes well…" Georgina looks at me. "We wanted to create a table that represented the two of us."

  "I think you accomplished that," Chef Otto responds, eyeing our centerpiece. "What flavor is your cake?" We are required to include at least one tier of actual cake for sampling, but the rest is allowed to be fake.

  "Our top tier is an almond cake with a blackberry basil filling," Georgina answers.

  "Curious choice." He uses a fork to sample a small piece without damaging too much of the final product. "But exquisite to the taste buds." Georgina and I glance at each other. "Whose idea was this?"

  "Poppy," Georgia immediately replies, giving me full credit.

  "Just a little something I picked up in Paris."

  "Mmm…" He nods. "I thought it tasted similar to a cake I've had on my many travels abroad. I have quite a following in Europe you know."

  "I'm sure you do." Georgina forces a fake smile. Chef Otto tastes the rest of our desserts and moves on to the next table.

  "I can't believe I ever liked that guy," Georgina mumbles. I giggle, covering my mouth so as not to laugh too loud. "Oh, shut up."

  "Remember our very first class with him when you volunteered to pass out our new chef's jackets?"

  "Whatever." She rolls her eyes. "He had everyone fooled."

  "And still does," I respond, watching a gaggle of female students huddle around him with copies of his cookbook. One that I won't be buying, but if I do, it'll be for the laughs. "Some people never learn, do they?"

  The two of us wait as a few more instructors pass by our table including President Dixon, the current head of Calle Pastry Academy. So far, Leo Bianco's capture on campus hasn't made it far in the news while Chef Otto at the dog park with his sassy Italian pointer certainly has.

  When the time finally comes for us to observe each other's work, I dart to Bree's table. She was absolutely right. Her cake is beyond words. It makes me smile as I imagine Karl standing next to her display trying to explain each and every technique used throughout the piece.

  "So," I say to Bree, "are you finally going to tell me your theme?"

  "In honor of my late partner," Bree begins. "I've decided to take ordinary everyday things and make them extraordinary. Karl had a knack for spotting untapped potential."

  She motions toward her three-tier cake and accompanying sweets. Her wedding cake is round, and each layer is covered with white fondant. Her edges are crisp, and the surface of her cake is perfectly smooth. Decorating each tier are rows of chocolate malt balls, or candy Whoppers. Each candy is the same size and each row surrounds the cake like a string of chocolate beads. Every surface and every tier is covered with them, but I only know what sort of candies she used because I saw the packages in the kitchen. Each row of candy is also airbrushed with gold. The bottom row of chocolate beads starts off chocolaty brown and eventually fades to gold. Bree has created a multi-tier, ombré Whopper cake.

  And it's stunning.

  Next to her cake are plates of yellowish cookies complimented with pink handmade marshmallows. I reach out and try a cookie. Bree hands me a marshmallow. The two flavors meld together in my mouth making my taste buds sing.

  "Is this—"

  "Corn?" Bree grins. "Yeah. Corn cookies with strawberry marshmallows. Who knew those two flavors go so well together?"

  "I'm speechless," I respond.

  "That's the idea." She nods, looking up at the ceiling. "I wanted to create something that would make even Karl at a loss for words."

  "The mother of all Franken-sweets," I say quietly.

  Bree clenches her jaw when Jeff approaches her table—his ice blue eyes fixated on her ombré cake. He studies her desserts while rubbing the bottom of his chin. I glance down at his mud-colored hiking boots.

  "Do you sleep with those things on?" I comment.

  "Seems like it, doesn't it?" Jeff runs his fingers through his golden hair and reaches for Bree. He kisses her cheek. Bree freezes like a block of ice, and a bead of sweat forms on her brow.

  "Jeff," she scolds him. "You know how I feel about PDA."

  "So?"

  The two of them are still dating, and Bree still complains to me about all the things he does that annoy her. But Bree still agrees to go out with him. Strangely, I think Jeff is exactly what she needs right now. He's pulling her out of her shell. I even find him in our kitchen some nights, participating in her late-night baking debacles.

  "Excuse us." Bree drags her sort-of boyfriend away from the crowd.

  "You know, I think he enjoys that," Cole comments, sneaking up behind me. He observes the look on Jeff's face as Bree waves a finger at him.

  "You never know with Jeff." I try to avoid looking at him. I've been able to do it for a while now, but it isn't easy. I still think about our kiss, wondering if insisting on being nothing more than friends was a mistake.

  "I'm heading back to Atlanta tomorrow," he says quietly.

  "Oh, right. Congrats on that promotion. You deserve it, Cole." For a brief second our eyes meet. I hang on to the blue-green sparkle in his eyes because when I look at them I relive my wild ride here at Calle Pastry Academy. I'm going to miss this school—scandals and all. And I'm going to miss Cole.

  "Can I call you?" he asks. My stomach fills with butterflies.

  "Oh…"

  "Let me rephrase that." He chuckles. "If I call you, will you answer?"

  "Yes." I take in the sight of him again, burning the image into my memory. "We're friends, right?"

  "Right."

  "Plus, I think I'm going to need it," I add. "As of tomorrow, I'll officially be unemployed."

  "There's plenty of work in Georgia." He grins, leaning in just enough for me to catch a whiff of his familiar scent—the smell of whatever meat he's currently smoking on his patio.

  "I'll be looking. I promise."

  Our private moment is interrupted by Georgina and an older woman who I can only assume is her adoptive mother. The two of them have the same snide look on their faces. Georgina's hair is blonder, but by looking at the two of them I can't tell that she's adopted. It isn't blatantly obvious.

  "See you around, Poppy," Cole says as he turns to leave. He lowers his voice, saying it in my ear like a secret. The steam of his breath against my skin sends tingles down my spine.

  "Careful, darling." Georgina's mother gives Cole a once-over as he walks away.
"The flirting is where it starts. Then all of a sudden you're a boring old housewife who vacuums the kitchen floor and makes her own laundry detergent because it's fun. Of course, I'm assuming that you don't employ a housekeeper in this scenario." She adjusts the neckline of her plum cocktail dress. It complements the diamond dangling from her neck.

  "Poppy, this is my mother," Georgina introduces the woman.

  "This tablescape seems particularly sparse," her mother points out, looking at Bree's display. "The cake is very sophisticated though. Those are handmade chocolates on the outside. I can tell."

  "Of course, Mother," Georgina responds. It's strange to see her so obedient.

  "Ooh, eye candy." Georgina's mother watches a man in slacks and rolled-up shirtsleeves walking in our direction. She winks at her daughter. "I'll leave you to it, dear." She slowly leaves the two of us, turning to observe my brother Mark as he walks right up and hugs me.

  "Georgina, this is my brother, Mark."

  "Nice to meet you." Mark reaches for her hand, and Georgina smiles. She quickly fixes a strand of her shiny blonde hair so it looks tidier.

  "Poppy," Georgina responds. "You never told me you had a brother."

  "You never asked." I eye the two of them as they both smile from ear to ear. It's always nice to see the pleasant side of Georgina come out, but my stomach starts to tie itself in knots.

  "Your display is amazing," Mark comments. "Who came up with the designs?"

  "We both did," Georgina jumps in. I guess she's done giving most of the credit to me. "It's a blend of our artistic selves."

  Mark examines the cake at the center.

  "The silver is definitely Poppy."

  "You caught me," I jump in, inching myself in between the two of them.

  "And so are the poppies," Georgina jokes.

  I know Mark's ex-fiancée reminded me a bit of Georgina at first, but this is just ridiculous.

  "May I?" Mark chooses one of Georgina's zeppole to sample. His eyes go wide as he slowly chews it. "Wow."

  "It's my own recipe." Georgina stands up straighter, placing a hand on her hip to show off the trim figure underneath her chef's whites.