“Well,” she said, unable to keep a bit of smugness from sliding into her smile. “Thank you for saying that. Very much.”
She’d earned that bit of nose-rubbing, he’d give her that. “You’re quite welcome. It’s the truth. I’ll be honest and admit that I truly couldn’t understand how someone with your natural talents and thirst for creating would be fulfilled, much less inspired, by what I thought of as such a constricting, elemental product. I was certain you’d become creatively stunted and feel stifled, even trapped after a while. I mean, I suppose at any point you could have broadened your shop concept and become a full bakery or patisserie, but—”
She was shaking her head. “No, cupcakes represented happiness and joy to me. I think they’re symbolic of that to everyone.”
“Don’t you feel all desserts are that?”
“No, not at all. I think they represent all sorts of things, and, certainly they’re all meant to be enjoyed ... but none so much as the happy little cupcake. And that’s what I wanted to do. Spread the joy.”
“But your work in New York was doing exactly that.”
“In a very different way, maybe. I know people liked and respected my work, but it was more about wowing with construction and details, than it was about the flavor profiles and the actual food itself. I’m quite certain more than half my desserts routinely sat unfinished on plates, not because they didn’t taste good, but because the consumer was more concerned about maintaining the perfect size zero, or not appearing to be a glutton, or thought it was awesome to be eating a Gateau creation more than they were actually indulging themselves in the experience of the food itself. But I can tell you this ... no one eats half a cupcake.” She ended on a laugh.
He smiled, too. “You have a point.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I was inspired by you, by Gateau, by the city, and by impressing our very important and demanding clientele. I am an overachiever by nature, so the greater the demand, the more challenging the criteria, the better it was for me. It was a real test of what I could do, of where I could go with what I knew, how far I could grow, reach, become.”
“And you were doing all those things. Wondrously so.”
“Thank you. I mean that. Your opinion matters, and not just because you’re a world class chef.”
“But?” He smiled again. “I can always hear them.”
She smiled back. “But,” she repeated, “I was also always stressed out, always worried, always cramming my brain with everything I could think of, to make sure I never ran out of new ideas, which was the main thing that drove me. Topping myself. When I took on the executive chef role at Gateau, I was proud I’d achieved that, and so soon in my career. It was what I wanted, right? I was climbing the ladder, challenging myself every day to become a better chef. It was my dream come true. How else could I measure success? If you’re successful doing something you love, that has to bring with it fulfillment and happiness. Right?”
“It’s the logical conclusion.”
“It was hard. Running Gateau. So hard. I thought I would thrive, but it was really scary, shouldering that much pressure. I hoped it would get easier as time went on, that I’d learn to handle it better. Enjoy it more. I thought it was about the staff, all the negative gossip, and a lot of other things, and surely, once that smoothed out and I proved myself—both to them and to me—it would feel more rewarding. After all, again, my dream was coming true.”
“And then your father got ill.”
She nodded, and he could see the stark fear flash across her face. They’d talked about family before, and he’d thought about her upbringing, in such a strong, matriarchal family, with a father who also loved her deeply. Though he’d empathized with her need to rush to her father’s side, he’d never been in a position to feel that same urgency, that same fear. The kind that grips your core, shakes it numb.
But, watching her now, listening to her talk so passionately, so certainly, he realized he envied her courage. Courage to deal with losing someone she loved so dearly, courage in confronting the terror of possibly losing her only remaining family, then making choices—fearless choices—on what she knew had to be done, what was the right thing to do. To hear her tell it, her father had been no proponent of her move south, or her business launch. But she’d done it anyway. It boggled Baxter and inspired a great deal of respect from him.
It was in that moment he also came to the realization there was one person who, if her life were in sudden jeopardy, could inspire in him the courage to make those same tough choices, face the same terrifying consequences. That person was Leilani.
The thought of forever losing her ...
“When I came down to take care of him, it was my first trip out of the city for any length of time since I’d become a chef,” she went on, mercifully pulling him from his thoughts.
His heart, however, didn’t recover so quickly.
“I thought the slower pace would make me crazy, and that I’d be worrying the whole time that things were completely falling apart back in New York. Between my father’s heart attack and walking away from our insane schedule at Gateau, I thought I’d be a stressed out, anxiety ridden disaster.”
“But—” They said it in unison, and both of them laughed.
“But,” Lani repeated, “once the doctors assured me Dad was expected to make a full recovery, I was able to focus on helping him get his strength back and make sure he followed doctor’s orders. I was still worried, but not in a panic that I was going to lose him. It wasn’t until I’d been here a few days I realized that while I did worry, of course, whether business was being handled properly back in the city, I wasn’t anxiety ridden about it. To be honest, by the end of the second week, I was starting to feel guilty, because the predominant feeling I had at the time was relief. I wasn’t under so much pressure anymore. I baked and baked at Harper House and I enjoyed every second of it, because no one cared, no one was looking over my shoulder, or tapping their toes impatiently waiting for me to finish, or worse, pointing fingers and whispering snidely behind my back.”
“Leilani—”
“No, I’m not blaming you. I just didn’t realize how miserable I was. After all, I was living my dream. Sure, I was tired, stressed out, but that’s the life I signed on for. I could hardly complain about that. Look at the opportunities I was getting. Look at the people who were sampling my work, my food. I was stressed because I cared, and it was just the price of success.”
“I didn’t realize you were so unhappy.”
“That’s just it. Neither did I. If you’d asked me, I’d have told you I was the luckiest pastry chef in the world. Because I was.”
“You always seemed so calm, so focused, so centered.”
She smiled then. “Nothing noble about survival, you said. And you’re right. And that’s what it was. It took stepping out of that life, stepping away from it, to really understand. Last spring, I made the desserts, or some of them, for the big Easter dinner we have on the island. I got to sit and watch folks eat and enjoy my food. Many of them came up to me and told me how much they loved this cake or that pie and asked for the recipe. They shared stories of my mom’s cooking, and those who were old enough even had stories of Nanny’s dishes. By then, I’d already been kind of dreading going back to New York. And was having a hard time facing it. I felt guilty for not being more thankful for what I had. I felt ungracious, and part of me wondered if those first inklings of an idea to open my own place weren’t really just a cop-out, or an escape, an excuse not to go back to Gateau.”
“What made the final decision? It doesn’t seem like you had all that much support, at least not from those who knew you best.”
“My father said it was because he didn’t want me fawning all over him, making him feel like an invalid, but it wasn’t until recently I realized just how much it bothered him that I didn’t go back to my big career in the city. And Charlotte ... she supported my decision to be happy; she just didn’t get it. I hadn’t ac
tually told anyone what I was thinking about. I spent a lot of time playing with recipes in the Harper House kitchen while my dad was convalescing. He was used to me baking all the time and thought I was just keeping my skills sharp while away from the city.”
“Instead, you were ... working on your new menu?”
“That’s eventually where it took me, yes. Those were the kinds of things I could never introduce at Gateau, but I could imagine every one of them making the people in Sugarberry happy.”
A twinkle of excitement lit her eyes in a way he’d never once seen. He’d seen her quiet pride in her work when they’d been at Gateau, but this was entirely different.
“I’d been giving it thought, kind of toying with the idea, talking myself into daring to really give it a chance ... and then I spied the shop space for rent on the square. It had been a bakery before, but it had sat empty for over nine years. Gutted. No equipment. But all the wiring was there, the setup, the structure. It just needed a new face and new equipment. And a lot of tender loving care. But I think I knew. Maybe not that exact day, but when I called the agent to take a look at the place, I knew then I was really going to do it. If it was at all feasible, I was going to stay and open my own place.”
“How?” he asked, sincerely wanting to know.
“You mean how did I know? Finding the shop seemed like a huge, giant sign, especially given where my thoughts had been taking me. But how I knew for sure was when I stood inside that shop, and looked around ... and I could see it. Easily. Clearly. All of it. Right down to the figurines on the shelves. And I was excited, terrified—still am—and challenged. I wanted to do it, try it. It just felt right. More right than any step I’d ever taken. I did grapple with the guilt, the worry, the wondering. . . but I never doubted that it was a challenge I wanted to take on. Once I’d allowed myself to think about actually doing it—”
“You were happy.”
She nodded, beaming. “Some would say it was actually delirium from all the stress of my dad’s heart attack and my career, and questioning my sanity. I did, too. But, wow. I stood in that gutted out, horribly ugly little space, and ... it was just ... it was mine.”
“Did you ever think of getting your own place in New York? Was that ever a goal?”
“Not really. If I’d thought about it, I’d have assumed it would have to be a place like Gateau. Otherwise, why bother, right? Cute and homey would just be a gimmick in the city, if anyone really got it at all. I saw what it took to actually own and run a shop like that in the city. I wanted to cook, to create. Not manage. Being executive chef was as far up the management chain as I wanted to go. On really tough days I fantasized about becoming a private chef, or starting a catering business, but those were the dreams of the overtired and overstressed. At least that’s what I told myself.”
“And now? Any regrets?”
She shook her head. “I miss Charlotte and Franco.” Her smile softened, and grew a little poignant. “And you. But you know what my dilemma was where you were concerned, and I knew that if my friendship with Charlotte could sustain itself while I was overseas learning, it would surely survive my moving to Georgia.”
“I’ve seen you with the people here. And I know you’re happy. I can see a joy in you that I didn’t see in New York. You were proud of your work, but that pride didn’t include the kind of lively, full-bodied delight I see you living and breathing all the time here.”
“I am happy here, Baxter. You’re very right about that. I never lived here growing up, but the ties to my family feel so strong. I feel connected to my mother, and enjoy seeing how people admire and respect my father. Instead of just being good at what I do for the sake of proving I’m talented, it feels like I’m sharing my talent—my gift, if you want to call it that—with folks who’ll truly appreciate it. They don’t have the first clue what goes into it, or that it’s something I studied long and hard to learn, not just something I do, or picked up, like they can knit, or build tree houses, or chop wood. And I don’t care. It’s so much easier to experiment, to think, to create, to ... well, to just play. The end results are recipes I’m ridiculously proud of. It doesn’t matter that my customers have no idea of the complexity that goes into my cupcakes. I enjoy that challenge. I get it, so that’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter that my cupcakes won’t ever grace the plate of a formal state dinner, but instead be the featured dessert at the Kiwanis Club cookout. In fact, that’s turned out to be a hell of a lot more rewarding, and a lot more fun.” Her animated expression sobered a little, but the light of excitement didn’t diminish in the least. If anything, it grew stronger. “That’s why I know I won’t leave here. It wouldn’t be the same somewhere else. I’m meant to be here. But, more important, I want to be here.”
“I know that,” he said. “I honestly do. It’s obvious, like I said, just looking at you. Beyond that, I’ve tasted your work now, and it’s nothing short of inspirational. What you can do inside a fluted paper cup is unbelievable. You’ve made a convert of me. You haven’t walked away from your talent at all, but embraced it and pushed it in an entirely new direction. In fact, you’ve already done what I was attempting to do with this season of the show. Take elegant, fussy, elaborate desserts and find a way to combine them with the more local, the more rustic and rudimentary, so they’ll work for anyone. Rosemary hasn’t stopped raving since we did the recipe read through and narrowed down the choices. You saved me because I honestly hadn’t a clue how I was going to pull off the theme.”
“Don’t you think your show already does that? Bringing elegant desserts to the masses? I mean, your viewers are those very same people.”
“Not really. I mean, yes, they are, but that’s not why they watch. I explain technique and the recipes are available to them online, and I have to keep things somewhat simplified in order to be able to demonstrate them within the time constraints of an episode. But I think viewers tune in not because they think they’re going to really make my desserts, but just to see them, be wowed by them a little, and—”
“Drool over your handsome face and hot British accent.”
He felt his face warm a bit. “I’m thankful they tune in, whatever the impetus.”
“And humble, too,” she teased.
Their gazes met and held, as did their smiles. “I do understand why you’re here, Leilani,” he said at length. “Truly. You’ve found your home.”
She nodded, but with a bit of sadness, maybe resignation. He really, really didn’t want to think about that.
She pushed her stool back rather abruptly, and stood. “I should be heading home. Early start tomorrow.”
“Right. Quite.” He stood as well.
“They have you over at Frank and Barbara’s place, right? At least, I heard—”
He nodded. “Yes, yes. I couldn’t commute from Savannah and I’d put the kibosh on the tour bus idea, but I’m rethinking that.”
She grinned widely. “Tour bus. You’re a rock star. You totally should go for that.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Precisely why I passed on it. But for privacy’s sake, I’m reconsidering.”
“I can understand that, actually,” she said with a light laugh.
“Are you going back to the cottage?”
She nodded. “I think so. I’m so tired I don’t think any number of people who might be in my kitchen at the moment could deter me from a good, solid face-plant.”
“Face-plant,” he repeated. “Very descriptive.”
“And true.” She laughed. “Hey. You know, I have a bed up in the loft above the shop. I stayed there often when I was cramming to get everything built and installed. You’d have to share the space with a bunch of storage shelves, but the linens are clean and it’s comfortable. And private.”
He had to admit, it sounded pretty much perfect at the moment, but in the end, he shook his head. The last thing he needed was to wrap himself in Leilani’s sheets. “I don’t want the Hughes’s to think I’m not grateful for th
eir hospitality.”
“I doubt they’d care one way or the other; they’re a pretty sweet old couple. But suit yourself. You have a key to the shop anyway for production, so you could let yourself in up there if you change your mind. Same lock. Separate entry outside, and up the back stairs.”
He nodded. “I saw those. Thank you.” He moved to the trailer door and opened it for her.
She waited for him to go through first, but realized he was holding it for her. “Oh, thank you.”
Stepping through it meant brushing close to him to get by, and though it had only been the two of them in the trailer for the past half hour or so, it wasn’t until that moment that the proximity felt truly intimate.
He wanted—badly—to block her there, trap her in the doorway, and ... he didn’t know what he’d do next. He just wanted to keep her right there, her body next to his, for one more moment in time.
Their gazes caught and held, and she paused, making his breath catch in his chest. But then she stepped through, and down the steps.
“Good night.” She lifted her hand in a short wave, before trotting over to her little SUV.
“Night.” He lifted his hand in an automatic return wave. “Sweet dreams,” he added, more to himself, as he watched her taillights while she drove off the lot. “Dammit,” he muttered, and slapped the door shut behind him, before trotting down the stairs himself. Couldn’t have her, couldn’t get her out of his bloody mind. There was no future for them, none. He knew that. Just in case he’d tried to talk himself into believing otherwise, listening to her in there had been all the proof anyone would ever need that this was where she belonged. To make it more frustrating, he was happy for her, seeing how truly content she was. He wanted that for her, though it would have been a lot easier if he could have found some fault in it, yes?
But no. No, this was where she belonged and he wanted what was best for her. He wished what was best for her didn’t also leave him feeling as if his heart was being ripped from his chest, and stomped on until lifeless. As if he was being forced to give up the one thing he’d ever cared about more than his work. Work was his life. It was what defined him. What fed his soul. What made him happy. So there was no reconciliation. No way to combine their dreams.
Sugar Rush Page 23
