by Ellie Hall
Flexibility
Hazel
Ordinarily, before I teach a private class to someone like Polly Spoonwell or in this case, a group of people who answer to her, I primp and prepare, meditate, and do a brief yoga flow to get myself warmed up.
This morning, I sprint across the snowy grounds with my mat slung across my back and knocking into my head as I race to the building. I would have summoned the shuttle, but I couldn’t wait and don’t dare be late. I figured I’d be faster on foot.
Maxwell and I stayed up late talking again. If I’m tardy, the flimsy excuse that I was getting my beauty rest like Polly used when she was over an hour late for our session won’t work.
I have no idea what is in store for me when I find Polly standing by the entrance drumming her fingers on her folded arms. She makes a show of looking at her Rolex. “I don’t pay you to be late.”
I make an apology.
“I have bigger and better things to bake.” With a dark chuckle, she saunters off.
I’m practically the last person into the conference room where everyone else sits on their mats, lined up in colorful stripes waiting for the teacher. That’s me. I’ve never been late.
I take a minute to center myself—Maxwell, his eyes like browned butter in the firelight, bounces into my mind. I inhale. I exhale. I gauge my breathing, okay, heaving since I huffed and puffed to get here.
I lead the class through an opening intention, touching on maintaining energy and ease in our practice.
When I draw a blank and a stiff silence follows, I decide to speak my mind. “I often create a class theme based on a topic I’ve been thinking a lot about with the hope it will resonate with students. When Polly requested I offer this class, I struggled to come up with something that wasn’t all about me. See, the thing is, I’ve had something on my mind. I can hardly focus on anything else.” Without thinking, I blurt, “I’ve never been in love.”
You know when you reach the front of the line for a roller coaster or to get blood drawn or do something else that terrifies you? That. Full-on stomach plunging, skin tingling, wobbly kneed dread possess my entire body.
My ears buzz but not so loudly that I don’t hear the sharp inhalations, murmurings of assent, and brief chatter from the back left-hand corner of the room before someone shushes the pair.
What. Did. I. Just. Do? Say?
If anyone asks I’m shaking because it’s cold in here.
Okay, Hazel. If you’re going to humiliate yourself, go all in.
“I’ve never been in love until now,” I add. “I have to admit I’m scared. I’m here to instruct you, but I imagine some of you are or have dated, been engaged, married, or are trying to reignite the passion in your relationship so you know a thing or two about love.”
A short woman with braids and what look like pajama bottoms asks, “What scares you about it?”
My eyes widen. “Everything.”
A burly guy with a beard and wearing jeans says, “That’s not an answer.”
“No, but I get it,” a balding, middle-aged guy says. “Tell us how it started.”
I bite my lip. “That’s not really yoga. Uh, I’m supposed to be teaching you.”
The burly guy harrumphs. “I didn’t come here to do yoga. I came to build and take down the set. I only own jeans and flannels. Polly, I mean Ms. Spoonwell, had the wild idea to—”
“She meant well. We could all probably use some stress relief,” the girl with braids says. “It’s just—”
The middle-aged guy pushes his glasses up his nose. “Ms. Spoonwell is a strong personality.”
A few people chuckle.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Burly Guy says. He mumbles something about union work and entitlement.
Glasses adds, “She can be a bit pushy and as you see, we go along with her whims because we’ve seen her fire people for lesser things. Truth be told, I don’t want to do a pose, bend over, and split my trousers. So if it’s all the same to everyone, I’d be happy to discuss your love life. Sounds more interesting than mine.”
The girl with braids gives him a darting and daring look.
“Okay, but if she appears, contort yourself. We’ll call it interpretive yoga. Like modern dance.” I say.
Burly guy laughs.
I center myself. “I guess it started about a month ago. For the first time, I felt—” I search my mind for the right word. “Stirrings that led to sparks.” I tell them my one-date and done dating style and how something changed when Maxwell baked his way into my heart.
For the next fifty minutes, they ask questions and tell me their own love stories to help give me clarity about what’s going on between Maxwell and me. I also drop the bomb about my father’s infidelity. I wasn’t even the one he cheated on, but my mother’s pain was enough to make me want to steer clear of relationships.
A few people lay on their mats and nap. A woman with silver-streaked hair listens intently but remains quiet. Others comment about how awful Polly is. I’m tempted but refrain from telling them the Pooty Pootwell story.
When only five minutes remain of the class, I take my first deep breath of the day. The wall of windows in the back of the room frames two snowy slopes and the mechanics of a giant metal chair lift. I find myself distracted, thinking about Maxwell and how good he looks clad in his winter-weather gear.
Then I see him.
And Polly.
She has her arm linked in his as they leave the “Love Shack”—one of the resort dining options where they serve all-things chocolate.
Remember the stomach plunging, skin tingling, wobbly-kneed dread I felt before? It’s nothing to how my body knots now.
Someone says my name and then they follow my gaze to the window where the pair approach the lodge.
“That’s him?” Braids asks.
“And Polly,” Glasses says.
Burly Guy, aka Chuck, abruptly gets to his feet as if he’s ready to Hulk Out and smash through the window—he was cheated on once. Otherwise, he’s a teddy bear.
Polly leans into Maxwell’s ear. Her proximity causes something to slither in my stomach. Then through the enormous glass window, she makes eye contact with me. It’s as if she wanted me to see how close she is to him, how she got her fangs into him. Forget Pooty Pootwell. Polly Spoonwell is a snake.
Then again, I’d told her we’re just friends. Shame on me.
Apparently, I’ve said all of this out loud.
“She often picks a contestant as her pet,” says Glasses aka Maurice.
“Let’s just say the winners do not always have the best bake,” says Braids, aka Brenda.
I rush to the washroom and hide in a stall. My mind is a storm of conflict. I want to run away and I want to run into Maxwell’s arms and hear him tell me everything is okay.
What has come over me? Why him? Why now?
Someone knocks on the bathroom stall door. “Hazel,” a thin female voice says.
I unlatch the lock and peek out.
It’s the older woman from the class with streaks of silver in her hair.
“I’m hiding.”
“I know. I also know a thing or two about relationships.” She leans against the sink and says, “Frank is my third husband. The first one ran off with some young thing.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Meanwhile I was only twenty-seven. Oh, to be in my twenties again.” She smiles in reminiscence and her eyes sparkle. “The second one passed almost twenty years ago. I still miss him. Frank and I got together when we were already old and wrinkly.” She winks.
“You’re radiant. You look only to be in your sixties.” It’s true. The lines on her face seem to glow.
“And that’s too old to put up with people like Polly. She and I go way back. I’m Dorothy. The head baking consultant on the show. Polly thinks she runs things, and I let her most of the time because while I love baking, I don’t want to let the likes of her drain it of its joy.”
I emerge from the stall and wash my
hands. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for following me in here—if you hadn’t someone may have filed a missing person’s report because I had no plans of coming out.”
“Doesn’t look like a good place to do yoga.”
We move to the lounge part of the bathroom—ritzy places like this have settees and mirrors adjacent to the washroom.
“Back to love. At the heart of it is intimacy—letting someone get close to you emotionally. Frank and I have seen each other through loss, surgery, grandbabies, marriage, divorces—we’re best friends. We know each other intimately, inside and out.”
“I’m stuck on what you said about letting someone get close to you emotionally.”
“From what you said, it sounds like you move from one young man to the next, leaving smoldering fires in your wake. It’s easier not to get attached, right?” She shakes her head and sets her fingers on my forearm. “Not in the long run. If you really want to live a fulfilled life and have a meaningful relationship, it’s worth taking the risk of letting someone in and allowing them to see all parts of you—your fears, wants, desires. All of it.”
Wringing my hands, part of me wants to get away from her well-meaning, lavender-scented wisdom as fast as possible. The other part wants a hug and to be told it’s all going to work out.
“Oh, and about Polly cozying up to Maxwell? If he’s half the man you deserve and have made him out to be, he’ll see her for what she is. If not, well, at least you loved and can now better gauge future relationships.”
The knots tighten.
As if reading my mind, Dorothy gives me a hug and whispers, “I have a feeling things will work out.”
We leave the bathroom and I say, “Thank you for being my fairy lessons-in-love godmother.”
I go back to the cabin, shower, and change before heading back to the lodge to watch Maxwell’s final baking event.
He’s so focused on the Crowning Glory he’s creating out of butter, flour, and a lot of chocolate, he doesn’t look up. Not at me. Not at Polly.
But she notices me. Polly’s gaze slides up and down and she wears a simpering grin as she moves closer to Maxwell’s baking station.
The knots inside dissolve. Now, I’m just salty, which is another way of saying ticked off. At her. At him. At this entire stupid situation I got myself into.
Thwarted
Maxwell
I’m elbow deep in whipped cream when Jenna Carmichael, the host of The Great New England Bakehouse Baking Contest, updates social media viewers about progress on bake number three, The Crowning Glory. This is when any recipe goes and creativity is encouraged, but the outcome has to have baked elements and must wow the judge.
I understand that the reason they’re recording portions of this is that footage of the winner will be used in portions of the actual show when it airs to track the baker’s progress. And using social media is a way to keep a captive audience between the seasons of the show.
Clever. Slightly sneaky. But nothing to Polly’s tactics.
Jenna leans in and the camera pans over my messy baking counter. “Your fans want to know, how is the Banker Baker holding up? Your hashtag is trending you know.” She has a wink in her voice, but I don’t look up long enough to confirm it.
“I survived this morning, this should be a piece of cake.” It certainly couldn’t get worse.
Jenna laughs at my pun and says something quippy in reply.
This bake requires every ounce of my focus. Not because I want to win, but I want to get it right for Hazel. Because I have a question for her in the form of butter, sugar, and chocolate. And because I know she saw Polly and me emerging from the Love Shack this morning.
Because of the early call time to get prepped for the contest, I didn’t have a chance to find Hazel and explain. To tell her about Polly’s indecent proposal. The truth is, I detest the baking show judge, but don’t want to miss the opportunity to say what neither Hazel nor I could when we checked in at the reception desk or to Polly earlier or to each other.
If the triple-tiered cake is any sign, I’m serious. As I measure and mix, pour and pipe, spread and smooth, my thoughts are on one woman. The one with the bright blue eyes, the one with the silky hair, the one whose smile is more delicious than anything that comes from an oven.
I’m doing this for her. For us.
When the timer dings, indicating time is up for bake number three, I take off my apron and prepare to present my crowning glory.
The other bakers have amazing creations, including a layered cake with a rainbow heart baked inside. Another contestant baked forty-eight eclairs stacked to look like Stonehenge, and someone else reproduced their grandmother’s quilt out of cupcakes.
When it’s my turn, Polly smirks at me then whispers. “It’s all yours, Maxwell.”
But the golden scepter with the cookie on top isn’t what I want. I came here to have fun, to try something new, and to prove to myself that I could, which would give me the courage to move forward with Hazel.
I scan the audience for her and land on those blue eyes I can see even when mine are closed.
“I present my crowning glory because only one woman is my queen.”
Beside me, Polly’s leg subtly jerks in the direction of the display table and my triple-layer chocolate cake with a chessboard chocolate collar as the base, a red velvet chiffon center covered in whipped buttercream, and topped with a crown made of caramel and filled with truffles topples to the floor. Along with it goes the engagement ring I’d planted in the center of one of the truffles.
Yes. I was going to propose to Hazel.
Yes. It’s bold but so are my feelings for her.
Yes. The French-set Halo Diamond Band Engagement Ring is lost in a mass of chocolate.
Where did I get the ring? That’s another story, but I’ve had it since college.
I fight between diving after it and announcing to the audience and staff that Polly tried to proposition me when we were at the Love Shack, promising I’d win if I ditched the yoga teacher and spent more time with her.
No doubt, she realized what I was about to do and sabotaged me. Probably used to getting what she wants. Not this time. Hopefully, it was caught on camera. Although, I imagine she’ll realize that and have it deleted from the record.
Adrenaline spikes through me. I crouch down, searching for the ring. This isn’t how I wanted it to go. A little voice races through my mind. Maybe it’s for the best. Perhaps you weren’t supposed to go through with it. Too soon. Too fast.
My shoulders drop.
Polly makes a big fuss of the disaster as staff members swoop in to help. A woman with braids tries to rescue my cakes, but it’s too late, they’re ruined. I spot something shiny, swipe it, and tuck it in my pocket. Her eyes widen in recognition. I give a slight shake of my head. Please don’t say anything.
I can’t recover from this situation now. I’ll regroup. Figure out something else.
Dorothy, an older woman with silver hair, plants a motherly hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry, Maxwell. The cakes can still be sampled and we have footage of your baking so we can assess your skill using that material.”
Everyone is very nice and well-meaning, but I feel dreadful. Crushed.
“I will not be sampling that.” Polly frowns and points at my dilapidated cake, a saggy, soggy mess. “He probably did that on purpose to gain favor with the audience.” She harrumphs and storms over to the cameraman.
A growl rises in my throat. This woman is insufferable.
Hazel stands on the sidelines and sharply eyes Polly. I break from the chaos and stride over.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “I’m so sorry about your cake. I saw it for an instant and it was impressive. I also saw what Polly did.”
I shift from foot to foot not sure if she means the stunt this morning at the Love Shack as Bake-Zilla cozied up to me, which Polly promptly showcased to her social media following or the stunt she pulled with the cake. Either way, a certain circular
, bejeweled item burns in my pocket like a beacon.
I say, “This morning, Polly was out of line. She arranged for me to go to the Love Shack. Her assistant told me it was to obtain footage for the show. I knew they had baked goods so no big deal. Turned out Polly was there.”
I measure Hazel’s response. Green light, go. Yellow, proceed with caution, Red, hightail it out of here. It’s over.
Her eyes are sharp and flit around the room. “Yeah.”
Yellow it is.
I lean in and tell her what Polly suggested.
Hazel is quiet for a long moment and then arches the severest of eyebrows. “She said that? That was why she arranged to keep me busy.”
Fists form.
Hazel hones in on Polly.
Fur is going to fly.
“Polly Spoonwell is a—”
“What was that, Hazel?” the contest judge asks. “I came over here to apologize to poor Maxwell. I guess you can call that dumb luck. Don’t worry. I have fired the set carpenter.”
“Chuck?” Hazel asks.
“Yes, and the design assistant. While I’m at it, Dorothy, you’ve been here long enough.”
The woman with silver hair fumes. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Polly?”
The judge and staff begin to squabble. While the rest of the contestants watch in rapt horror, I flash them an apologetic smile before pulling Hazel from the fray to a quiet corner.
I want nothing more than to envelop her in a hug. She keeps a slight distance.
“I am so sorry. I should’ve realized something was off when it was just Polly this morning. She tried to woo me with baking stardom.”
“Is that what you want?” Hazel’s voice is smaller than usual.
“No. I want you. Remember I mentioned that online program?”
Hazel toes the floor with her foot and barely nods.
“I’m not the kind of guy who usually does things like that. I’m also not the kind of guy who dates.” I gently pinch her chin and tilt her head to face me. “And you’re not the kind of girl that dates.”
