by Ellie Hall
Jenna rattles on with the kind of energy and enthusiasm that shouldn’t be allowed in the predawn hour. She outlines the itinerary for the day, including the assigned style of the item to bake, which I knew because I had to send my baking choices via email. In case anyone forgot, it’s projected on a screen behind Jenna.
Saturday (Day 1)
Bake 1: Breakfast pastry, any style but must involve cream and berries.
Lunch break
Bake 2: Cake, Cookies, or Bread, any kind but must include chocolate.
Sunday (Day 2)
Bake 3: The Crowning Glory. This is when anything goes, but must have baked elements, be entirely edible, and must wow esteemed judge Polly Spoonwell.
Jenna goes on to explain, “Ms. Spoonwell will judge each round, naming a first, second, and third-place winner. They will get an honorary mention on The Great New England Bakehouse Preliminary Baking Contest website.” Everyone claps.
I’m taking this seriously, but the other people are seriously devoted. Looking back, I entered because this is out of my comfort zone. Put me in a boardroom with high-powered executives and billionaires wearing stiff suits and I’m golden. This is new territory...and very crunchy. Although the woman with coiffed white hair and pearls looks like she could give everyone a run for their money.
Not only is this new territory so is Hazel. I figured if I could do this, I could navigate my feelings for her and whatever is going on between us. It made sense at the time.
Jenna says, “Typically, whoever gets the highest ranking of the three rounds wins the contest, but the third round gets the most weight. Occasionally, someone wows Ms. Spoonwell, and she awards them overall winner even if they didn’t perform as well in the previous two rounds.”
The guy with the beard stands nearest me and mumbles about season two being a travesty of the treacle sort.
A girl with glasses who looks like she’s still in high school says, “Miss Jenna, when will we meet Ms. Spoonwell?”
“She will make her grand entrance at the start of recording and then once more at the end of the first round and each subsequent one,” Jenna answers.
“And will we have the opportunity for her to sign our cookbooks? That’s what it said on the application.”
“Yes. After the second bake later today, along with the audience, Ms. Spoonwell’s cookbooks will be available for purchase and she will have a signing line.”
After another round of excited applause, we’re directed to form a few groups so we can get mic’d up. I get a glimpse of the set, which looks like a classic New England style kitchen with lots of knickknacks. But that’s where it ends. Thirteen stations contain state of the art baking equipment. Alright, I’ll admit, a few nights when Hazel wasn’t around I’ve geeked out on baking websites. I have the Viking stove, but this collection is clutch. They must move it from location to location during the prelim contests.
After they test the microphones, we step behind our assigned counters set up in two rows. Each has a quaint, food-related name like Sticky Bun Station, Jammy Scone Station, and Sweet Treat Station. I’m at Salty Snack Station. I did once get the sugar and salt mixed up in a recipe. Hopefully, this doesn’t portend a failure.
A few dozen chairs line one side of the room and people filter in. Cameramen and women bustle about. Jenna stands at the front of the room by a display of an old-fashioned kitchen with an ice-box style fridge, a replica woodstove outfitted for cooking, and a handmade farm table.
“As you know, Ms. Spoonwell came from the humblest of beginnings here in New England. At her grandmother’s side, she learned how to cook and bake. Now, she’s the best baker in the country, an accomplished author of twelve cookbooks, and your favorite baking show judge. You too can achieve baking fame. We’re going to begin in a moment. When you hear the timer ding, put on your apron, and get started. You will have two hours to complete your breakfast pastry. When you hear the timer ding the second time, you must stop what you’re doing. Yes, even if you aren’t done. You know the rest of the rules.”
I don’t. That’ll teach me to read the entire application next time. Before I can have another thought, a timer dings and everyone leaps into action.
Tying my apron takes a moment longer than everyone else because I’m struck dumb. The other contestants seem to know to make a mad dash to the pantry, collect their items, and get started. I watch for a long minute while Jenna begins commentating. This must be what the show is like.
Okay, Maxwell. You grew up with five siblings. You know what survival of the fittest entails. Get. It. Done.
I go into the “zone” and come out the other end with a passable puff pastry blueberry cream cheese breakfast braid with drizzle. Say that three times fast.
The last three hours were an effort in endurance and keeping my baking soda and baking powder straight.
A hush comes over the room and a middle-aged woman walks in holding the scepter with the golden cookie on top. Everyone goes bananas, but my attention drifts to movement from the audience.
Hazel stands at the back since there aren’t any chairs left and gives me a little wave.
A mixture of calm and sugared up glee comes over me. Whatever happens, it’ll be fine. I hardly pay attention to Polly Spoonwell’s imperious speech about the importance of perfection. Then she calls my name.
“In third place, we have Maxwell Davis. Who everyone on social media is calling the Banker Baker.” She lifts and lowers her eyebrows then looks me up and down.
I force myself not to squirm uncomfortably under her gaze. In fact, it’s hard to look at her head-on. Everything about Polly is someone’s idea, or more accurately, an attempt at perfection. To put it mildly, she’s had some work done—of the plastic surgery sort.
I step onto a podium and am given a certificate with a shiny third place label on it. The woman with the pearls got first and the guy with the socks and sandals took second.
Whatever happens next doesn’t matter because it’s lunch break and I get to be with Hazel. I push through the crowd as they descend on the array of baked items arranged as samples. The team of assistants put bite-sized amounts of everyone’s baked goods in cupcake wrappers.
She wraps her arms around me when we meet. I’ve never been so relieved. For a moment, I lose my footing and we almost tumble over.
“How did it go? Sorry, I would’ve liked to get here earlier, but Polly overslept and I had to wait around until she was put together.” Hazel uses air quotes. “In our sessions, I try to emphasize self-acceptance, but each time we meet, she has something else—eyelash extensions, permanent eye makeup, microblading.”
I wince. “Sounds painful.”
“That would be the seven nose jobs. According to her, it was never quite right.” Hazel huffs. “She put me in a bad mood. How do you feel about going to get something salty for lunch?”
“Funny, my station was called Salty Snack.” I point over my shoulder.
Polly stands in front of the old-fashioned kitchen, watching us closely. At least I think so. Hazel doesn’t seem to notice, but she links her arm through mine, and we exit.
When we settle in the lounge by the fire and order French fries with a “flight” of dipping sauces, Hazel lets out a long sigh.
“Is she that awful?” I ask, picking up on the fact that she doesn’t hold Polly in as high esteem as, say, Jenna and the other contestants.
“She really is.” Then a sly smile blooms on her face. “Although, there was one thing.” She brushes her hand dismissively. “Nah. Never mind. I can’t say.”
I lean in. “You can tell me.”
Hazel bites her lip. “I shouldn’t. It’s the kind of thing that happens to everyone. Also,” she wrinkles her nose adorably, “it’s not something I should talk to you about but it’s...” Then she erupts in laughter.
Pooty Pootwell
Hazel
I ripple with giggles. A server brings our French fries and I do my best to regain composure. “I’m ea
ting these mostly because Polly wouldn’t dare. She comes off as being sweet, okay, and sometimes shrewd, but that woman is—” I make a frustrated groan. “Impossible.”
“The other contestants seem to adore her.”
“That’s because they’re terrified. Notice, everything is filmed and shared on social media. It’s all for the likes and follows and fame. You’ve already been dubbed the Banker Baker.” I bite my lip again. “And someone already started a fan page. They think you’re hot. Especially when you took off your suit jacket, rolled up your sleeves, and...” I trail off.
No, I didn’t start the fan page, but I may as well have done so.
“And?” Maxwell asks.
I stop short of fanning myself. “You made a concentrating face. Like you really wanted to get it right. In my opinion, you did. The braid was perfect.”
“I took third.”
“Tough competition and it’s known that Pooty plays favorites.”
Maxwell’s brow wrinkles. “Pooty? I thought her name was Polly.”
I practically choke on a French fry. “I didn’t say that out loud did I?”
Maxwell gently pats my back and passes me water. He’s so perfect. Too bad half the country thinks so too. I saw the posts and comments. Women are already proposing to him and they want him to braid their pastries—whatever that means.
I’m about to change the subject but the laughter returns.
He gives me an I’m being patient, but I’d really like to know what’s so funny look. Either that or he thinks I’m deranged.
I catch my breath. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. That way, if your hands start to shake and you feel that unique kind of Polly-pressure when under her scrutiny, you can use this instead of picturing her naked.”
Maxwell tucks his head back and frowns.
“Yeah, best not to think about that. Anyway, when I was growing up, my mother used the term poot for passing gas.”
“Poot,” Maxwell repeats. “Sounds dainty.”
“Well, Polly is not. I’m just polite.” Or not since I’m telling him this story. “She was raving about an amazing culinary experience last night and how she’d been out late with some corporate big wig investors or something. She said it was a gastronomical adventure with some exclusive chef they flew in from Paris.” I resist the smile cracking across my lips.
Maxwell dips his fry into the curry dipping sauce.
“She was in downward dog.”
The fry drops onto his plate mid-bite.
I nod my head and then stifle laughter. “The earth shook, Maxwell. I’m surprised there wasn’t an avalanche up on the mountain. In a stern voice, she said, ‘You didn’t hear that.’ But I did. I can never unhear it. It’s echoing in my head. I’m afraid I won’t be able to teach her session tomorrow and keep a straight face.”
We both burst into snorting laughter.
It’s not like I’ve never passed gas in yoga, but it’s a delicate release. Not the powerful gust like a car backfiring. Also, we were in an enclosed space and she didn’t even say excuse me.
“I won’t call her Pooty Pootwell to her face,” Maxwell says.
And this is why I love this guy.
I mean...
I don’t know what I mean.
That afternoon, I get a seat and can watch Maxwell’s full three-hour bake. He takes second place for his S’mores bark brownies, which are a triple-layered threat of chocolate, graham cookie, marshmallow cream, and caramel drizzle.
I take two samples afterward.
I also take notice of Pooty. I mean Polly. She has her eyes on Maxwell. He’s mine, lady. Back off.
Polly has told me of her many trysts. Yes, she calls them trysts or encounters. She considers herself a cougar and her ego is bigger than the mountains that form the backdrop to the baking set.
Just as I’m about to nab Maxwell and go make good on our plans to ski and snowboard, she saunters over.
“Hello, Hazel. I see you’ve taken an interest in my little project here. How sweet of you.” She laughs at her pun.
“It seems like everyone is having a lot of fun.” They were this morning, but now that they’ve met her, they’re baking in terror.
“Especially my Maxie, the baking banker.” Polly coos. “Tell me, how do you know each other?”
My jaw drops. My Maxie? I plaster on a smile. “We’re friends.” Instantly, I could kick myself. It’s better than when I claimed we weren’t together, but now I’ve given her free rein and boy does Polly Spoonwell believe herself a queen.
Maxwell slides to my side and plants his palm flat on my low back as if ready to politely rescue me from Polly.
“Hazel, why didn’t you tell me about your handsome and talented friend during our session this morning?”
He blinks once, twice, and then his lips quirk. He’s recalling the Pooty Pootwell story.
I swallow back a giggle. “I try to keep things professional.”
Polly goes on, “Speaking of that, I felt so relaxed afterward—”
Maxwell snorts and covers it with a cough.
Polly proffers him a genial smile and continues what she was saying, “I felt so relaxed after our session this morning that I thought tomorrow, Hazel, you can offer yoga to our entire staff. We won’t get started until ten so there will be plenty of time if you teach the class at eight. I’ll have the resort clear out space and provide mats.” She stops short of snapping her fingers as if someone will magically appear to meet her demands.
“Okay. Do you want your private session as well?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t have anything cut into my beauty sleep, now can I?”
I twist my lips into a sort of smile. “Sure. I’ll find out where to go from the front desk.”
“And this is for staff only. Not contestants. I’ll be having a private meeting with them.” She winks at Maxwell.
My Maxie.
“Hazel, just make sure you don’t break wind like you did this morning. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.” Then she glides off.
I go red. If steam could come out of my ears it would.
Maxwell starts laughing.
I shake my head rapidly and my eyes widen. “No, Maxie. I swear, it wasn’t me. I didn’t poot.”
With his hand still on my low back, he leans in and whispers, “Maxie?”
I gaze at the ceiling, wishing the heavens would open up and carry me away or at least cause a commotion so I could escape this embarrassment.
“Pooty. I mean, Polly, thought it was sweet I came to today’s event. I said it seemed like everyone was having fun. She replied, ‘Especially my Maxie, the baking banker.’” I cover my face with my hands. Then I mumble, “I told her that we’re friends.”
“Is that what we are, friends?” His voice is low, rumbly.
I don’t know what we are. “She was upset I hadn’t mentioned you this morning.”
We’re no longer in the event space, but in a long, quiet hall with windows on one side and sconces with dim lighting on the other.
Maxwell scratches the attractive layer of scruff on his jaw. “Yeah. She seems a bit...much. Maxie?”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?” Maxwell leans close, speaking in a low voice. I can smell mint on his breath and chocolate from his second bake.
“The friends thing.”
“Well, we are friends.” Then his gaze hooks mine. He bites the inside corner of his lip. “Friends and...”
I clear my throat, thinking of the fill in the blank question during the Galentine’s Day party. “Friends and...”
Maxwell plants his hands on either side of the wall behind me, caging me in. The snow on the slopes outside the window contrasts with the warmth pulsing between us.
We’re exactly five chocolate kiss candies apart.
“Friends and...” Maxwell repeats softer this time.
“Friends and...”
We seal the rest with a kiss. Th
e world and this morning and all my trepidation fade away the moment our lips press together. Maxwell continues to brace himself against the wall and I cup my hands around his strong jawline.
The moment between us begins to deepen when a nearby door slams and the clicking of high heels on the floor draws us slowly apart. I catch a figure with platinum blond hair whip around the corner in a huff.
Polly.
I have to be careful, especially now that she has her sights set on Maxwell. She already tried to humiliate me. I dealt with a few women like her during my modeling days. It’s clear that she sees me as a threat otherwise she wouldn’t have made it out like I’d been the one who pooted this morning. Like an idiot, I should’ve told her that Maxwell and I are together. But are we? Neither one of us could say it.
“Those gears are turning and I know what we both need.”
Another kiss like that?
Maxwell takes me by the hand and we step into the evening as the lights around the property turn on, casting everything in soft, glowing halos. We get outfitted with ski gear and hit the slopes, remaining out there until our stomachs growl.
Back in the cabin, the fire blazes and we have dinner delivered. I eat a pasta dish with burrata cheese, fresh basil, and a spicy, creamy, I don’t know-what-y sauce that is so divine I may have lost consciousness.
After, Maxwell pulls out a container. “I made us our own S’mores bark brownies, the perfect size for sharing.”
He feeds me a bite. Scratch that. The triple layers of chocolate, graham cookie, marshmallow cream, and caramel drizzle causes me to lose consciousness. When I regain it, I tell Maxwell, “Now, that’s a bowl scraper. You know, the kind you practically want to lick off the bowl so you don’t miss a single taste.”
“It’s second place material.” But Maxwell smiles wide anyway as if proud.
“If that’s second place material, I cannot wait to see what you have in store for tomorrow.”
His smile grows and a silly, mushy thought that is so not typical of Hazel, the world-traveling model with a Ph.D. comes to mind. He’s first place to me, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. I just hope my smile says enough.
