The Bake-Off (11 page)

“Oh goody!” The little lady clapped her hands. “I'm always so thrilled to meet my fellow bakers.”

“I'll say!” The man clasped Amy's hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Pleased to meet you. I'm Ty Tottenham and this is my wife, Tai.”

L
innie saw Amy's smile flicker as Ty and Tai introduced themselves. The change in expression was so fast, anyone else would have missed it, but Linnie caught the nanosecond of pure panic in her sister's eyes.

“Ty and Tai,” Amy echoed. “You don't say.”

“I know, crazy, right? Obviously we were meant to be.” Tai craned her neck to give her husband a quick buss on the cheek, then said, “Hope we'll see you gals around. What room are you staying in, anyway? Maybe we're neighbors.”

“We're in a suite up in the South Tower.” Amy glanced down at the digits scrawled on the paper jacket for her key card. “Room two-six-two-eight. Ow!” She yelped as Linnie threw a swift elbow jab to her rib cage.

“Lovely to meet you both. We have to go.” Linnie strode across the lobby and onto the elevator without a backward glance.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You are
so rude
.” Amy caught the elevator doors just as they were closing and forced them back open. She rubbed her side and winced. “Ow. I think you broke my clavicle.”

“Your clavicle's your collarbone,” Linnie said. “I hit your asternal ribs. And how could you be so stupid as to tell them our suite number? I can't believe you'd give them ammunition like that. Now we'll have to change rooms.”

“We got the last room in the entire hotel,” Amy reminded her. “We can't change. Not that there's any reason to.”

“Don't be so sure about that.” Linnie jammed her key card into the “restricted floors” slot and punched in twenty-six. “I know sharks when I see them.”

Amy burst out laughing. “Sharks in L.L.Bean corduroys and Nikes? They were just being friendly, for heaven's sake. They're from
Ohio
!”

“Don't fall for that wide-eyed, aw-shucks facade. What they just pulled in the lobby is a classic two-person pickpocket maneuver: the sandwich.” Linnie narrowed her eyes. “The woman bumped me and tried to distract me with her apologies and inquiries about things that are none of her business while her partner started to ransack my coat and bags. She's the stall; he's the pick. I see it all the time on the casino floor.”

Amy made a big show of peering into her purse. “Oh, thank heavens, my wallet's still here. Whew, that was a close one.”

“How can you be this gullible?” Linnie tapped her foot as the elevator zoomed up. “They don't want our wallets. They want our baking intel!”

“Do you have any idea how insane you sound right now?”

“Who spent five years on the Junior Science Olympiad circuit, you or me? People who spend their lives training for intense competitions don't see the world like you do. They get desperate and irrational. They get vicious.” Linnie had to avert her gaze as she finished with, “They stoop to things they never imagined they'd be capable of.”

Amy said nothing, so Linnie kept going. “I've met dozens of Ty and Tais. Keep your mouth shut and your guard up or you'll be sorry. Trust me.”

At this, Amy grinned. “Whatever would I do without you to protect me from the cold, cruel world?”

“You'd be an appetizer at the Delicious Duet feeding frenzy, that's what,” Linnie shot back. “From now on, you're forbidden to talk to any contestants unless I'm standing right there to supervise. That's right, I said
forbidden
.”

“So you're not allowed to be late, and I'm not allowed to talk to anyone.” Amy ticked off these points on her fingers. “I'm going to have to start writing this down.” She swayed on her feet as the elevator car shuddered to a stop.

“What was that?” Linnie demanded, scanning the button panel. “Are we stuck?”

Amy gripped the railing and glanced up at the ceiling. “Evidently.”

Linnie immediately shifted into meltdown mode. “What are we going to do? Who should we call? Where's the alarm button?”

“Why don't we just wait a few minutes? I'm sure it'll get going again.”

“We're already behind schedule,” Linnie exclaimed. “You have no idea how much I have to do this afternoon. I've got to track down the judges and make sure all our equipment arrived and start recon on the baking floor layout and atmospheric conditions.”

“And as exciting as that all sounds, there's really nothing we can do to change our situation right now. So let's take a nice deep breath and try to have a pleasant conversation.”

Linnie crossed her arms. “I don't do small talk.”

She had her finger on the red button depicting the alarm bell when she heard a muted grinding noise and the elevator lurched back into motion.

“See?” Amy released her death grip on the side rail. “Here we go. Just a momentary glitch.”

When the elevator finally opened on the twenty-sixth floor, Linnie grabbed her bag and bustled down the hallway, leaving Amy to wrestle with her oversize suitcases and the closing doors.

“No worries,” Amy called after her. “I got this.” Linnie heard a few muffled bumps and grunts of exertion, and then a deep male voice said, “Let me help you with that.”

Amy's voice instantly took on a fluttery, girlish lilt. “Oh, thank you!”

Linnie glanced back over her shoulder to see a tall, darkhaired man hoisting up her sister's luggage. She didn't get a good look at his face, but she deduced that he must be handsome from all of Amy's carrying on.

“Such a gentleman!”

“My pleasure,” the man replied. “May I carry these to your room?”

“Oh no, I can take it from here, but thanks again.” Amy caught up with Linnie at the door to their room and hissed, “Did you see that guy?”

“Yeah.” Linnie shrugged. “So?”

“So he's cute! He's got lots of potential.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Linnie looked down her nose with a stern schoolmarm stare. “Must I remind you that you're married?”

Amy looked shocked for a moment, then laughed. “Oh my God, you're hopeless. Not potential for me—for you. He was so busy checking you out, he practically ran into the wall.”

Linnie brushed back her hair. “I didn't notice.”

“Of course you didn't. I guess it must be hard to find men who live up to your standards, huh?”

Linnie swiped the key card through the door lock and waited for the tiny lights on the lock to flash green before turning the knob. “What standards?”

“I believe you once told me that any man with an IQ under one fifty might as well be brain-dead,” Amy said. “You said you were holding out for Einstein's intellect, James Bond's savoir faire, and Debussy's musical sensibilities.”

Linnie thought about the handful of dates she'd had over the last few years: nice, normal men who asked her out with great enthusiasm, only to take her dinner, bring her home early, and never call her again once they realized that the blond hair and buxom body were false advertising and that she was, in fact, more puritan than party girl.

Not that she cared. Much like small talk and tardiness, Linnie didn't do relationships.

She'd tried out a few one-night stands in her early twenties when she wanted to feel more desirable and less lonely, but she found the whole experience—from bar hookup to breakfast—debasing and distasteful.

“I've given up on finding anyone who can actually keep up with me.” She flipped on the light switch, illuminating the suite's interior.

“Dude.” Amy dropped her bags, bent her elbow, and jerked down her fist in a gesture of triumph. “Score.”

A sumptuous gold brocade sofa and a pair of padded, embroidered French chairs surrounded a limestone-topped coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling silk drapes flocked the huge windows, which were framed with molded wood panels. An original oil painting hung above the fireplace mantel. Silver bowls full of fresh fruit and crystal vases full of fresh flowers completed the atmosphere of quiet elegance. Everything looked authentically antique, exorbitantly expensive, and highly breakable.

“We have our own dining room!” Amy reported, peeking around a corner.

“Where's the thermostat control?” Linnie pulled her coat tighter around her torso. “It's freezing in here.”

“Check out this bathroom.” Amy's voice echoed off the slabs of white marble. “You could swim laps in this tub.”

Linnie zeroed in on the cut-crystal tumbler next to the sink. “Oh my God. Look at this.” She pointed out the ring of coral pink lipstick on the rim. “That is
vile
.”

But Amy had moved on to the next room. “It's the bed of my dreams,” she whispered reverently. “There must be fifteen throw pillows.” She ran her hands over the puffy down comforter and the massive hardwood headboard. Her eyes got misty. “And look, there's a white-noise generator right here on the nightstand.”

“I just hope it's properly sanitized,” Linnie fretted. “Though after seeing that drinking glass, I don't hold out a lot of hope. Bedbugs are absolutely rampant in this city. No one in the hotel industry wants to acknowledge it, but I just watched a PBS documentary on parasites and—”

Amy silenced her with a look. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You like rules, right?” Amy kicked off her shoes and flung herself backward onto the bed. “Here's a rule for you: No more complaining.”

“But that glass had someone else's
lipstick
—”

Amy turned on the white-noise generator, drowning out Linnie's voice with the sound of waves crashing on the beach.

Linnie stopped protesting when she noticed the time on the digital alarm clock. “The welcome cocktail reception starts at six. I'll go freshen up and leave you to your linen fetish.”

 

W
hen she turned off the faucet after her steamy shower, Linnie heard Amy talking out in the sitting room. She finished toweling off and was reaching for the hotel's hair dryer when she heard Amy utter a word that sounded like “Kyle.”

The air-conditioned chill suddenly turned icy against her bare skin. Her limbs broke out in goose pimples.

She cracked open the bathroom door and peeked out toward the sitting room. “Amy? Who are you talking to?”

Amy was nestled into the sofa cushions with her feet propped up on the priceless antique coffee table. She pointed to the cell phone pressed against her ear and made a shushing gesture. “Yes, she has a sister . . .” she said into the phone. “Yes, for real . . . No, I can't imagine why she's never mentioned me.”

“Is that my phone?” Linnie demanded.

Amy ignored this and continued her exchange with the caller. “No, she never mentioned anything about
The Joy of Cooking
. Why do you ask?”

“Is that Kyle?” Linnie charged toward Amy, who pushed off the couch and dashed to the other side of the suite, where she closed the bedroom door in Linnie's face.

Thunk
. The dead bolt slid into place. Linnie rattled the knob, then pressed her cheek up against the thick wooden door in a desperate bid to overhear.
“Hang up the phone!”

“Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .” Amy murmured. “Wow, that does sound terrible.”

“Hang up!” Linnie shrieked again. She pounded the heel of her hand against the door.

A few seconds later, Amy yanked open the door and stared her sister down with pursed lips and flinty eyes. “That was your old buddy Kyle. Want to guess what he had to say?”

Linnie turned away, suffused with guilt and shame. Then she shook off her self-reproach and went on the offensive. “How dare you answer my phone?”

“It was an honest mistake.” Amy strode past her into the sitting room and plunked down the sleek silver phone next to an identical model on the coffee table.

Linie blinked. “We have the exact same phone?”

“And the exact same ringtone, apparently.” Amy wrinkled her nose. “‘Particle Man,' huh? I never would have figured you for They Might Be Giants. What happened to Debussy?”

Damn.
Linnie had meant to update her phone before she left Vegas. “I've basically had ‘Particle Man' stuck in my head nonstop since that summer when you played it over and over and over,” she said accusingly. “Even the dog probably knew ‘Particle Man' word for word. And that other song, what was it?”

“‘Birdhouse in Your Soul.' ” Amy brightened. “Ryan Kincaid gave me that CD when we first started dating. Wow. I haven't thought about him in years. Remember Ryan Kincaid?”

Linnie more than remembered Ryan Kincaid; she had
yearned
for him. He had been the star of the varsity soccer team and played the guitar and looked like a cast member of a WB drama, and Linnie had spent that entire summer fantasizing that he would come to his senses, break up with Amy, and realize that Linnie was the only girl he could ever love.

“Ryan who?” she said. “Was he the one who ended up going to Dartmouth?”

“Beats me. But he was a cutie, huh? Good kisser, too.” Amy's expression hardened as she returned her focus to Linnie. “Kyle asked if I would pass along a message. He says to tell you that he's ‘brutally sorry' and that he got a callback for some regional radio commercial, and just as soon as his voice-over career takes off, he'll pay you back so that you can get Grammy Syl's brooch out of the pawnshop.”

Linnie cringed at the disdain in her sister's voice.