The Bake-Off (15 page)

“Too bad,” Linnie decreed. “You'll have to hold it. We're on a schedule here.”

Amy's eyebrows shot up. “Um, I have news for you: I don't need your permission. If I want a bathroom break, I'm taking one.”

“We just got here, and you're quitting already?” Linnie could feel the familiar, itchy heat creeping up her back and into her neck. “This is crunch time, Amy. Are you going to be my partner here, or just more deadweight for me to carry? You have to stop indulging yourself and get tough.”

Amy looked at her the way Linnie imagined she would look at a patient with a horrifically botched root canal. “Who
are
you right now?”

“I'm the girl who blew the lid off every standardized IQ test, got accepted to college, and mastered four languages, including Latin, before the age of sixteen.”

“And this is your worldview? Bathroom breaks during a practice run constitute a good-versus-evil, life-versus-death dilemma?”

“Yes. There's no such thing as practice—I came to win.”

 

“
Y
ou're doing that all wrong.”

Amy, who had spent the last fifteen minutes hunched over the flour-coated countertop, glanced up at Linnie, making no effort to hide her exasperation. “What now?”

“Don't get snippy,” Linnie said. “Let's go through this one more time.” She flipped back to the first page of the yellow legal pad she'd filled with instructions and diagrams. “You need to start from the middle of the dough, roll forward, and then roll back. Also, you need to stop rolling over the edges. That makes the sides taper down.”

Amy paused for a moment to reshape the marbled yellow dough, which had stretched into a lopsided oval.

Linnie cleared her throat. “And don't handle it too much—you want the mixture to stay cool so it'll be nice and flaky when we bake it. Remember what Grammy said about wanting to see striations of butter?”

Amy made a face. “Grammy Syl has never in her life uttered the phrase ‘striations of butter.' ”

“Well, I'm uttering it, and you have to listen to me because I'm the dough doyenne.”

“If you're the dough doyenne, why am I standing here rolling out crust and getting a lecture?” Amy pushed back from the counter and blew at the stray curl falling over her eyes.

“Because we have to be prepared for any contingency,” Linnie said. “What if I break my wrist tomorrow and can't use a rolling pin? What if you get hit by a bus, leaving me to make the apple filling while you languish in a coma?”

“Hey, you two! Care for a sneak preview of our turtle tartlet?” Ty and Tai called over from the neighboring prep station.

“No can do.” Linnie didn't even glance up as she used an offset metal spatula to scrape up the crust and drape it into the glass pie plate. “I'm at a critical juncture here.”

“How about you?” Ty turned his attention to Amy, coaxing her away from the oversize mixing bowl full of naked apple chunks, sugar, and spices. “Here, have a little nibble.”

Like a lamb to the slaughter, Amy abandoned her work, trotted right over to the adjacent prep area, and tried a bite of the pastry Ty proffered.

“Rookie,” Linnie muttered.

“Mmm.” Amy's eyes widened in appreciation as she sampled the chocolate-caramel confection. “That's really good.”

Ty couldn't have looked more offended if she had spit on him.

“It's
excellent
,” he corrected, his mouth crimping around the edges.

Amy slunk back with her head hung low and whispered, “Who takes ‘really good' as an insult?”

“People who came here to kick ass and take names, that's who.” Linnie picked up a pair of scissors and started to trim and flute the edge of the piecrust. “Word to the wise: Avoid future taste tests. The next one'll probably be laced with cyanide.”

“Excuse me; can I steal just a second of your time?” A striking woman with glossy black hair and heavy makeup approached their prep station with a microphone and a pair of cameramen in tow. “I'm Jacqueline Aucoin with the Culinary Channel.”

“Oh my God, I love your show,” Amy exclaimed. “
The Global Gourmet
, right? I watch that all the time on the treadmill at the gym.”

“That's me.” Jacqueline flashed a dazzling smile. “The network is producing a one-hour special on the Delicious Duet Dessert Championship and I'd love to interview you both.”

“We're busy,” Linnie said, not bothering to look up from her pie plate.

But Amy preened for the camera and said, “We'd love to help you out, but the truth is, we're both very new to the bake-off scene. You might be better off talking to some of the more established ladies.” She pointed over toward Susan and Joan.

“Actually, I'd love to hear your perspectives as newcomers.” Jacqueline sandwiched herself between the two sisters. “Are you scared? Excited? Stressed?”

“Excited,” Amy said, at the same time Linnie snapped, “Stressed.”

The TV host motioned for the camera crew to zoom in on the pie-in-progress. “So tell me, what are you ladies preparing? It smells divine.”

“Secret Sisterhood Szarlotka,” Amy said. “Basically, a Polish version of apple pie.”

“I love the name,” Jacqueline said. “Very provocative.”

Amy beamed. “Thank you.”

“I don't suppose you'd like to let us in on what the secret is?”

“Nope,” Linnie replied, her eyes and hands still focused on the task in front of her. As the external pressures racheted up—from the precious seconds ticking away on the official Delicious Duet clock to the television interview being conducted right in her face to the undisguised death glares of Ty and Tai—she found it paradoxically easier to shut out all the distractions and concentrate, with laserlike intensity, on her end goal.

After all these years, she had rediscovered the Zone.

“So what do you two do when you're not taking the baking world by storm?” Jacqueline asked Amy.

Amy gave up all pretense of work and lollygagged over by the minifridge. “I'm a dental hygienist, and my sister here is, um, in casino management.”

“And baking is a hobby for both of you?”

“Totally.” Amy nodded vigorously. “Nothing helps me unwind after a long day at the dental office like firing up the food processor and knocking out some lemon-raspberry tarts. I find the whole process very Zen.”

The interviewer turned to address Linnie. “And what about you? Would you also describe your baking style as Zen?”

“More like deterministic chaos.”

This stopped Jacqueline in her tracks for a moment, but she recovered and segued with, “One more question. How did you two come up with this recipe?”

 

“
W
ell, that was awkward.” Amy fanned her face with Linnie's legal pad as Jacqueline and her production team moved on to a new set of contestants.

“
Awkward
isn't the word,” Linnie said. “That was one epic, inarticulate,
incriminating
bout of stammering. Why are you even talking to the press? Media exposure can't help us; it can only hurt us.”

“I feel another rule coming on.” Amy moved out of the way so that Linnie could slide the szarlotka, carefully arranged on a cookie tray lined with a silicone baking mat, into the meticulously preheated oven.

Linnie checked the readout on the oven thermometer one last time, then closed the door. “No more rules, just a heartfelt request. Try to fly under the radar. I know you don't believe in being lowkey, but just for a few days, I'm asking you to try.”

Forty-five minutes later, the pie was browned, bubbling, and redolent with a homey blend of apple, cinnamon, and lemon that literally made Linnie's mouth water.

“And now the moment of truth.” She sliced into the szarlotka, carved out a sliver, and deposited it on a plain white plate. She handed this to her sister. “Taste, and prepare to admit that my methods are infallible.”

Amy took a big bite. Her face contorted and she spit into her hand. “Blech.”

“Too hot?”

Amy shook her head, still swiping at her lips with a napkin. “It tastes like we marinated the apples in the Dead Sea.”

Linnie didn't bother with the niceties of flatware; she broke off a chunk and popped it into her mouth. Her taste buds exploded at the overwhelming taste of salt. “Blech.”

“That is nasty.”

Linnie frowned, her mind racing. “I didn't add any extra salt.”

“Well, neither did I,” Amy insisted. “So what happened?”

Linnie's gaze slid over toward the dynamic duo at the neighboring prep station. “They did something while we were distracted with the film crew.”

“Be serious.”

“I'm deadly serious.”

“When did you become a crazed conspiracy theorist? Let's look at this logically, Linnie—”

“
You're
telling
me
to be logical?”

“That's right. And logically speaking, today's just for practice. Why would they bother?”

“Intimidation tactics,” Linnie whispered. “You heard Joan and Susan this morning—they like to psych out the newbies. They're trying to break us down before the big day.”

“Elvis is alive,” Amy intoned. “The moon landing was a hoax.”

Linnie noticed a sudden lull in activity at the next prep station. Ty and Tai were watching them. Waiting for a reaction.

Ty caught her gaze and gave her one of his trademark Mr. Rogers waves.

“Your pie smells delicious,” Tai called. “How'd it turn out?”

Linnie took a bite and forced herself to swallow without gagging. “It's
excellent
.”

“
T
his is not over,” Linnie warned Amy as they filed out of the baking area amid a throng of other contestants.
“This is not over
.”

“It is for today; they're kicking us out.” Amy queued up to reclaim her cell phone. “There's a sightseeing tour scheduled for the afternoon for all the contestants. The Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, the whole nine yards. It's going to be totally kitschy and fun. You going?”

“Tempting as that sounds, I think I'll pass.” Linnie rubbed her eyes. “I'm going to head back to the room and take a nap. Somebody woke me up at the crack of dawn, and I need to keep up my endurance if I'm going to properly handle the Tai and Ty situation.”

“Want me to bring you back an ‘I Heart NY' T-shirt or a Statue of Liberty snow globe?”

“If you'd like to give me a gift, how about letting me skip the ridiculous black-tie ball tonight?”

“Never gonna happen.” Amy smiled brightly. “You'll be there with bells on.”

“Why do you insist on punishing me? I thought you'd decided you weren't going to allow my negativity and self-destructive choices to affect you anymore.”

“Most people don't consider getting dressed up and going to a party with gourmet food and an open bar to be punishment.”

“Most people are morons,” Linnie muttered.

Amy cupped a hand to her ear. “What's that?”

“I said, have a good time at the Empire State Building.” When they reached the lobby, Amy headed for the elevator bank while Linnie kept walking toward the back of the hotel.

“Hold on,” Amy commanded before Linnie could make a clean getaway. “I thought you were going up to our room.”

“I am.” Linnie put on a bored, brusque expression, but Amy caught a glimmer of guile behind the facade. “Shortcut, remember? I'll meet you up there.”

 

T
he leaky bathroom faucet finally sent Linnie over the edge. She'd closed the curtains, tossed and turned on the sofa, and tried to nap while the steady
drip, drip, drip
from the sink slowly drove her to madness.

Once she'd given up on sleep, she showered and gave herself a lecture on the importance of psychological toughness. Amy was right—she should stop obsessing over every little flaw in her environment and conserve her energy for baking to the very best of her ability. She dried off, slipped into an enormous white bathrobe embroidered with the hotel's logo, and turned on the television to drown out the steady dripping from the sink.

It almost worked.

“You can't hear that,” she told herself firmly. “You only think you hear it. This is a case of mind over matter, and mind is going to prevail.”

She picked up the phone, dialed the front desk, and ripped into the hapless employee who answered.

“This is Linnie Bialek, the enraged occupant of room twenty-six twenty-eight. I'm calling to complain about the air-conditioning in my room. Again. Plus, now my bathroom faucet is broken. . . . No, no, no, don't you dare try to fob me off with promises of visits from some phantom maintenance crew. I want to speak with your supervisor. Your supervisor's supervisor's supervisor. I expect a call back immediately. In the meantime, I'll be buying a parka and sending you the bill.” She slammed down the receiver, combed out her tangled wet hair, and paced the perimeter of the sitting room, her fury mounting with every passing second.

When she heard a knock at the door, she flung it open, ready to unleash a blistering tirade. But all her frustration short-circuited when she saw who was on her threshold.

“Someone called about a parka?”

Linnie clutched the lapels of her robe together and reminded herself to close her mouth. “It's you.”