The Bake-Off (17 page)

Linnie goggled. “Tell me you're kidding.”

But the Confectionistas seemed to be seriously considering the suggestion.

“How hilarious would that be? ‘Delicious Duet 4-eva' in a big pink heart on my biceps.”

“We could all get little rolling pins on our ankles.”

“It would almost be worth it, just to see the look on my eighth grader's face.”

Linnie looked around the table, obviously mystified. “But don't you guys understand that you're in competition with one another?”

“Well, of course,” Susan said. “But it's a friendly competition.”

“I really just compete with myself, to tell you the truth,” Joan added. “I don't worry about anybody else.”

“We're always trying to get better and learn new techniques.”

“Screw that.” Melissa grinned. “I just want to get out of the house. It's so nice to have this one thing for myself. Every now and then, my husband feels guilty about spending his entire weekend on the golf course, so he'll offer to stay home and help me. But the truth is, I prefer working alone. I love having the house to myself for a few hours.”

The other Confectionistas nodded. “Everybody needs a little peace and quiet.”

Amy leaned forward and confided, “I love my family, but there are days when an empty house sounds like heaven.”

“Not a lot of free time?” Jill asked.

“Not at the moment. I'm working full-time with my husband, fixing up the house, raising the kids.”

“How old are your children?”

“I have two-year-old twins. A girl and a boy.” Amy punched a few buttons on her phone to display photos.

Bridget craned her head to see the pictures. “Congratulations . . . and condolences. You've got your hands full.”

“They're great kids,” Amy insisted. “And my husband is a very hands-on dad.”

The other women exchanged smiles. “No matter how hands-on the dad is, Mommy is always first on deck. We've all been there.”

“I remember those days,” Joan said. “Hang in there, honey. Life will open up again in a few more years.”

Amy felt her smile falter. “You promise?”

“Promise. In the meantime, you need to cultivate something that's just yours. Even if it's only a tiny little corner of your life.”

Chantal concurred. “This is the only way to stay sane.”

“You know, when I first got married, I couldn't cook at all,” Steph said. “We lived on peanut butter sandwiches and frozen pizza. Then my husband—he was an engineer in the army—got stationed in Papua New Guinea. Needless to say, there were no frozen pizzas or peanut butter for miles. And the kids were going through the picky-eater stage, so they didn't want anything to do with the local dishes. I had to get creative with ingredients from the local markets. Pretty soon, I discovered that I had a real knack for cooking.” She raised her voice as a brass band launched into a fox-trot on the other side of the ballroom. “By the time we got back to the States, I was a force to be reckoned with. I got first place in the very first cook-off I entered, won five hundred dollars, and decided to invest it. As I started winning more serious money, I opened my own IRA, contributed to our children's college funds, and diversified my holdings.”

Melissa produced a contraband pack of Marlboros from her bag and lit up.

“You're not allowed to smoke in here,” Linnie announced.

“Shhhh.” Amy shot her a look.

“We're going to get in trouble,” Linnie said.

“No offense, sweetie, but you need to loosen up.” Jill pushed away from the table and made a beeline for the bar. “I'll fix you one of my supersecret specialty drinks.”

“Don't worry,” Bridget said. “She's just having a few puffs.”

“I only smoke when I'm at competitions.” Melissa took one more drag and stubbed out the cigarette on her saucer. “So it doesn't really count.” She turned to Amy and changed the subject. “What about you? How did you begin baking?”

Amy didn't even hesitate before launching into the tale she'd been crafting since she'd embarrassed herself in front of the Culinary Channel interviewer. “Well, there was a bake sale at my kids' day-care center, and I was always the mom who brought those presliced cookies from the refrigerated dough.”

“
Mon dieu.
” Chantal shivered in disgust.

“I know, but I had always been too busy to make something more complicated. But I had to redeem myself, so I found a recipe in a cookbook for lemon-raspberry tartlets and spent a whole night making them.”

“And they turned out beautifully?” Joan said.

“No, they were horrible! All clumpy and cloying and nasty. But then I decided, this cookbook author's not the boss of me; I can do better.” Amy threw in a sassy little head bob for good measure. “So I read over the recipe again, made a few tweaks and substitutions, and voilà, I was on my way to gourmet glory!”

Linnie gave a strangled cough. “That's quite a story.”

“Isn't it?” Amy dug into her dessert. “Why don't you tell them how
you
got started?”

“Oh, I always loved baking.” Amy could practically see the wheels turning behind those dark brown eyes as Linnie started lying with breathtaking speed and skill. “My grandmother and I were very close—we still are. We'd spend every weekend together in the kitchen, rolling out dough and talking. She taught me everything she knows about pies and cookies and breads. She always said I was a natural.”

“And where were you, Amy, while your sister was baking with your grandmother?” Steph asked.

“I was right there with them.” Amy tilted her head until it almost touched Linnie's. “Though, of course, I was always a little more advanced. I made a soufflé by myself when I was seven.”

“Wow.” Oohs and aahs all around.

“I made flan by myself when I was six,” Linnie countered.

Amy didn't miss a beat. “I made
pâte à choux
when I was five.”

“You two are so lucky.” Susan sighed. “Sharing a lifelong interest like that. I wish my sister and I could have the kind of relationship you do.”

“
H
oly hell.” Linnie could barely hear Amy's voice shouting over the blaring saxophone solo. “What did you put in my sister's punch, Jill?”

“Nothing!” Jill was gyrating wildly along with the rest of the Confectionistas on the dance floor. “Hardly anything. Just a little splash of rum. And vodka.”

Linnie, trapped in the center of the circle, couldn't seem to keep her eyes focused or her thoughts straight. She jerked her legs roughly in time with the music, bouncing off one woman and careening toward another like she was in a mosh pit.

“Jill!” Amy's customary good cheer had vanished. “She can't handle mixed drinks like that. She's a total lightweight.”

“Sorry, but you said she's from Vegas, right? So I assumed—”

“Ungh.” Linnie stumbled backward as Melissa shimmied into her.

“I've got you.” Amy yanked her out of the fray and over to a table in the corner. “Stay here. Don't move.”

Linnie lowered her head onto the tablecloth and rested her eyes for what felt like a second, only to be jolted awake when Amy shook her.

“Drink this.” Amy shoved a glass of ice water under her nose.

“Leave me alone.” Linnie buried her face in her folded arms. The music from the brass band seemed to fade in and out, as if someone were turning a stereo dial up and down.

“Oh, no, you don't.”

Linnie's eyes popped open as Amy flicked droplets of freezing-cold water onto her forehead.

“Do not pass out on me at the black-tie ball. Come on, pull it together.”

“I'm fine. I just need a little rest.”

“Great idea.” Amy bent down and hauled Linnie to her feet. “Let's go back to our room. Hup, two, hup, two.”

Linnie's stomach gurgled ominously.

“What was that?” Amy demanded. “Are you going to be sick?”

“No.” Linnie took offense at the very suggestion. “What kind of uncouth churl do you take me for?”

Her stomach gurgled again.

“I just hope your billionaire booty call fixed the damn elevators,” Amy muttered as they exited the ballroom, which was at the rear of the hotel's ground floor. “The last thing I need is a confined-space puking situation.”

“I told you, I'm not going to throw up.”

“Maybe I'd believe you if your face wasn't the color of pistachio ice cream.”

At the mention of pistachio ice cream, Linnie felt the burn of bile rising in her throat as her abdominal muscles contracted.

“Hey, Amy?”

Amy gazed up the little arrowed plaque affixed to the wall, apparently trying to determine the shortest route to the lobby. “Hmmm?”

“I'm gonna throw up.”

 

“
I
'm going to look on the bright side here.” Amy dabbed the back of Linnie's neck with a tissue while she held back her sister's hair. “At least you're not wearing my new red dress.”

Linnie retched again, dispelling the last remnants of her dinner into the dark, damp alley behind the hotel. “See? My wardrobe choices have many hidden advantages.” She paused for a moment, then stood up and took a deep breath. Her throat felt raw and her stomach ached, but she no longer felt queasy. “Okay. I'm done.”

“Are you sure?” Amy let go of her hair and placed the back of her hand on Linnie's forehead, as if checking for a fever.

There was a momentary lull in traffic on the street adjacent to the alley, and Linnie heard a trickle of water from a drainpipe and a furtive rustling from the trash bins that had to be rodents.

“I'm done.” Linnie wiped her lips. “I feel much better. Although the rancid stench from that Dumpster isn't helping matters.”

“Then let's get back inside.” Amy yanked on the handles of the double doors they'd exited through, but the doors didn't budge. “Crap. We're locked out. We'll have to go around to the main entrance. Just hold your nose and—”

“Amy, wait. Amy!” Linnie ground the tip of her high heel into Amy's toe.

“Ow!”

“Look.”
Linnie pointed out a patch of graffiti spray-painted on the concrete block wall next to the trash bin: ANARKY.

Amy leaned forward and peered through the shadows. “Yeah? What am I looking at?”

“
Anarchy
is spelled with a C-H.”

“I know that. Everyone knows that. I'm sure it was done intentionally.”

“But it's
wrong
.” The typo rankled Linnie on an almost physical level, the way a stray hair in her eye or a tiny pebble in her shoe would irritate.

“Who cares?” Amy shuddered as they heard something scurry across the wet asphalt. “Let's get out of here before it turns into something out of
The Secret of NIMH
.”

But Linnie stood her ground, fixated on the graffiti. “Do you have mascara in your purse?”

“No,” Amy said. But even drunk and disgraced, Linnie remembered seeing her sister slip some cosmetics into her bag as they left the hotel room. So she snatched away Amy's clutch, from which she plucked a tube of maracara.

“Linnie Bialek, you give that back right now, or so help me—”

“I need to borrow this for a minute.” Linnie unscrewed the cap, whipped out the wand, and started toward the wall. “I have to fix it. I won't be able to sleep tonight knowing this is out here.”

“This is the last time I take you anywhere.”

Amy made a grab for the mascara tube. Linnie bobbed, weaved, and toppled into the side of the dented Dumpster. But she managed to regain her footing, blacked out the offending K, and smeared a squiggly CH above the word ANARKY.

“Thief! Vandal!” Amy yelled. “I'm telling Grammy!”

Both sisters froze in place when a blinding flashlight beam spotlighted their silhouettes against the brick wall.

They heard a heavy set of footfalls. Then a gravely masculine voice asked, “I'm Officer Padley, NYPD. What seems to be the problem, ladies?”

“Uh . . .” Linnie looked to Amy.

Amy shook back her hair, which had started to frizz in all the humidity and excitement, and smiled winningly. “Good evening, Officer.”

He shone the blinding light directly into Linnie's eyes. “Are you all right, miss?”

Linnie couldn't see his face, but she was acutely aware of the fresh graffiti adorning the wall and the incriminating mascara wand still clutched in her hands.

“Absolutely,” Amy said. “Thank you so much for checking on us. My sister and I are guests of the hotel. Just on our way back inside.” She put her arm around Linnie's shoulder and prepared to lead the way.

Linnie stumbled over the hem of her gown and emitted a loud, squeaky hiccup. She clapped her palm over her mouth, smearing mascara across her chin in the process.

The officer focused the flashlight beam on her hands.

“Drop the evidence,” Amy hissed in her ear. Linnie obliged, tossing the mascara to the asphalt, where it landed in a puddle with a splash.

The policeman studied the lettering, still wet on the brick wall. “This your handiwork?”

“Well.” Amy sighed. “Here's the thing. . . .”

“There was a typo.” Linnie indicated the wall with a spiraling swoop of her arm. “So I fixed it.”

“Don't mind her.” Amy made the universal sign for drinky-drinky. “I'll give her some water and pour her into bed.”