The Bake-Off (19 page)

“Well, then call his cell phone. Be stealthy. Your mother-in-law will never know.”

“No.” Amy held firm. “He's got to be at the office tomorrow by seven; the man needs his sleep just as much as I do. You're the one getting it on with a swanky hotel scion—why don't you call Mr. Moneybags to bail you out?”

“The man doesn't even know my full name. I'm not calling him from jail.”

“Well, you got us in here; you get us out.”

Linnie looked at Amy. “Dad?”

Amy shook her head. “Mom?”

Both said in unison,
“No.”

“Well, that leaves only one other option.” Linnie stood up and squared her shoulders. “Let's hope they have cell phone reception in Alaska.”

 

“
L
innie, darling!” Grammy picked up the phone on the very first ring. “I'm so glad you called. I've been dying to know how everything's going in New York.”

“Well. It's been an interesting couple of days.” Linnie cupped her hand over the phone's receiver to muffle the ambient jailhouse noise.

“I can't wait to hear what's going on with you girls. Did you meet Ty and Tai yet?”

“We did. They're thuggish and underhanded, but I can handle them.”

“I have every confidence, my dear. And how are you and your sister getting along?”

Linnie mumbled a few platitudes about sisters being different flowers from the same garden.

“You'll have to speak up; I can barely hear a word. My, it sounds like a lively group of contestants this year. Are you at one of the cocktail receptions?”

“Not quite.” Linnie screwed up her courage. “That's what I'm calling about—is there any way you could wire me a thousand dollars? Like, immediately?”

“You need money? Again? What's going on?”

Linnie gnawed the inside of her cheek. Amy definitely should have made this call. She could handle people so much better. “Don't worry, Grammy; it's no big deal; we just—”

“Don't try to fob me off with that nonsense.” Grammy's voice went steely and stern. “Last month you called me and asked for forty thousand dollars, and now you need more? What on earth am I supposed to think?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I admit it does sound shady. But I swear to you—”

“Cut the bullshit, Vasylina, and answer me right now.”

Linnie sucked in a breath. She'd never, ever heard Grammy Syl swear.

“Are you buying drugs?” her grandmother demanded.

“What? No! How could you even think that about me?”

“Look at the evidence: You're so thin and pasty; you don't return my calls; you always seem so jittery.”

Linnie went to massage her temple, then stopped herself as she considered the exotic variety of surfaces and substances she'd handled in the last few hours. “I'm antisocial; I'm not a crackhead.”

“I was thinking heroin, actually.”

“Grammy, be serious. I don't even drink alcohol, let alone shoot heroin.”

“Well, something's going on,” Grammy said. “Out with it. Have you developed a gambling addiction? Do you have a mob enforcer threatening to cut off your fingers?”

Linnie slumped back against the peeling plaster wall. “Amy and I need to post bail.”

Grammy gasped. “You're in
prison
?”

“No, no, no. Prison is for convicted criminals. We're just spending a few hours in the holding tank due to an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Oh Lord.” Grammy sounded defeated. “What did Amy do this time?”

“Nothing.” Linnie closed her eyes. “It was me.” She delivered a bullet-point summary of the evening's adventures, concluding with, “And you know how I feel about phonetic spelling.”

Grammy digested this information for a few seconds in silence, then said, “Well, you had to act out sometime, I suppose. You did miss most of your adolescence. But this all sounds very worrisome. Do you need me to come to Manhattan? I can be there by morning.”

“You can?” Linnie frowned. “Aren't you in Alaska right now?”

Grammy paused again. “I'm still here in Connecticut, actually. Slight change of plans.”

“But I thought you and Harriet—”

“Don't concern yourself about me; I'll explain everything later. Right now, let's worry about you.”

“There's nothing to worry about,” Linnie assured her. “We just need you to post bail. We'll pay you back as soon as we get out of here, and then we'll never speak of this again. It'll be like the whole thing never happened.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.” Grammy clicked her tongue. “Your sister's there with you?”

“Yes. She didn't technically do anything wrong, but she made the arresting officer take her in, too, to make sure I didn't fall in with the wrong crowd.”

“That's my Amy. Such a trouper.” Grammy sounded aglow with pride. “You know, I can't think of a better way for you girls to reconnect than spending some time together behind bars.”

“Grammy!” Linnie's eyes flew open. “You can't do this to me. We have a national baking championship to win, remember?”

“Bonding takes precedence over baking.”

“You're just going to leave us in here to rot?” A note of hysteria crept into Linnie's voice.

“Don't fret, my lamb. I'll come down and arrange for your release. Eventually.”

“This isn't funny. We're dying in here. The stench alone is going to give me permanent neurological damage.”

“Kiss, kiss, darling. Talk soon!”

“Grammy, please. If you've ever loved me . . .” Linnie trailed off, remembering Amy's warning about not asking questions she didn't want to hear the answers to. “If you've ever loved
Amy
, you'll wire money right now.”

“Let me ask you something.” There was a clinking noise on Grammy's end of the line, and Linnie imagined her stirring a mug of hot tea. “Do
you
love Amy?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Don't be evasive. Do you love Amy?”

Linnie frowned. “Is this a trick question?”

“Why must you be so prickly?” Grammy Syl sighed. “Of course you love her. She's your sister.”

“Okay, fine. I love her. Can I have my bail money now?”

“After you tell Amy that you love her.”

“Fine.” Linnie threw up her hands. “You win.”

“I'm delighted to hear it. Now go share with Amy what you just shared with me.”

“And you'll post bail as soon as you can?”

Grammy's laugh was sprightly and warm. “When have I ever let you down?”

 

“
H
ey.” Linnie flung herself down next to Amy on the slab of concrete in the holding cell. “I love you.”

Amy tipped back her head in disgust. “Oh my God, are you still drunk?”

“No, Grammy strong-armed me into saying that. She agreed to bail us out, but first she made me promise we'd spend the rest of the night bonding.”

“The old lady plays hardball.” Amy straightened up as a thought occurred. “Do I have to say I love you, too?”

Linnie plucked at the folds of her baggy black dress. “Do you?”

Amy grinned. “If it gets us bailed out of here, I do.”

“That's what I said, too.” They both snickered. “But you want to hear something weird? She's not in Alaska. She's at home.”

“In Connecticut?” Amy finally looked Linnie in the face. “Why?”

“I asked her, but she got cagey and changed the subject. She sounded fine, but I can't imagine why she would cancel that trip. Her friend Harriet was counting on her to go, remember?”

“She probably just said that to coerce us to go to New York together,” Amy said. “Maybe the whole cruise was a ruse to begin with.”

“Maybe. Under all that cashmere and pearls beats the heart of a ruthless mastermind.” Linnie glanced over at the teenagers, who had huddled together and dozed off to sleep on the bench on the opposite wall. “So. You, uh, feel like bonding?”

“Sure.”

Linnie opened her mouth, then closed it again, then repeated the motion a few more times while trying to dredge up an appropriate topic of conversation.

“I never knew that about potatoes and vitamin C,” Amy finally said. “Now I won't feel so bad when the twins are eating Tater Tots for dinner.”

“I had fun tonight.” Linnie had to force out the words, stilted and self-conscious. “Hanging out with the Confectionistas. I mean, I know they're really your friends—”

“They're
our
friends,” Amy said firmly. “We're a team. A Delicious Duet.”

“Well, in any event, I've never really had a lot of girlfriends.”

“Most of your friends are male?”

“Nope.” Linnie shrugged. “I just don't have friends.”

“Sure you do. What about Kyle?”

“He was my roommate, not my friend. Big difference.”

“Well, you don't need a lot of friends—that's one area where quality is way more important than quantity. I mean, sure, I hang out with people from my book club and playgroup and the office, but I don't share all the nitty-gritty details of my life with them. I know it sounds cheesy, but I think Brandon's my best friend.”

Linnie nodded. “That's because you have the perfect life.”

“Are you kidding me? I'm a dental hygienist. People loathe and fear me. I have one patient who has to take Ativan before he can even sit down in my chair.”

“Well, I make my living degrading myself for tips as Blackjack Barbie,” Linnie countered.

“You're only Blackjack Barbie because you're slumming it intellectually.” Amy waved her hand dismissively. “But if you wanted to, you could be curing cancer. Let's face it: You got the brains, the beauty, the good genes, the good name—”

“Objection. By no stretch of the imagination is Vasylina a good name. It's impossible to spell and impossible to pronounce.”

“Yeah, but you're named after Grammy Syl. It has history and significance. ‘Amy' is so ordinary. Do you know how many Amys there were in my graduating class? Four. I had to go through high school as Amy B.”

“I would have killed to be Amy B.,” Linnie said. “When I was little, I told Mom that I was going to change my name to Jennifer Sarah Smith as soon as I came of age.”

Amy laughed. “What'd she say to that?”

“She said that once I grew up, everyone would just call me ‘Doctor,' so it wouldn't matter.”

“Figures. Mom always had big plans for you. I think she gave up on me around adolescence.” Amy's lips twisted into a wistful moue. “Marrying a dentist was the most I could aspire to, in her eyes. Success by association.”

Linnie wanted to argue this point, but they both knew that the two of them had grown up with very different sets of parental expectations. “So you didn't cure cancer,” she said instead. “So what? I'd say you've done all right for yourself.”

“I've done all right,” Amy agreed. “But sometimes, I'd like to be really great at something. Look at the Confectionistas—all of them are ‘normal' moms with ‘normal' lives, but they have this one talent, this one part of their lives that's only theirs, and they really kick ass. It makes me wish I were really a baker and not just a fraud. Doesn't everyone want to be exceptional?”

“No,” Linnie said flatly.

“You only say that because you already had your chance.”

“Yeah, and look what happened.” Linnie pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. “I used to think that if I was smart enough and careful enough, I could map out my whole life and sidestep all the stupid mistakes that trip people up: falling in love with the wrong person, committing yourself to the wrong career path, all that stuff. I honestly believed that everything bad in life could be avoided, and when I was on my deathbed, I would look back at my life and see a perfectly executed master plan where everything had meaning and purpose.” She paused. “I no longer believe that.”

“Dude. Why are you wasting all your time thinking about your deathbed? You're only twenty-eight—you could still finish college, go to med school or whatever. You're exceptional. It's not fair, but it's the truth.”

“Let me ask you something. Have you read the latest experimental research on intelligence?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Well, it turns out that the traditional view of IQ testing might be all wrong. Early performance on standardized intelligence tests doesn't reliably predict performance in adulthood. Lots of higherlevel processing functions don't even come online until adolescence. In fact, most truly gifted individuals are late bloomers, cognitively speaking. So it doesn't mean anything that I qualified as a genius when I was four or six or eight.” Linnie raked her fingers through her hair. “By now I could be, you know, normal.”

Amy started laughing again, so loudly that she woke up the snoozing trio of teenagers. “Linnie, I promise you that you'll never, ever have to worry about being normal.”

“Don't you dare make fun of me.”

“I have to, a little bit. This is ridiculous. You started college at fifteen.”

“But I dropped out at sixteen.” Linnie couldn't stop herself or even slow down as she blurted out her darkest, deepest doubts. “For all we know, you've been the smart sister for the past twenty years.”

Amy gave up trying to reason with her. “One thing we know for sure: I'm definitely the
sane
sister.”