The Bake-Off (22 page)

Amy, who had been mentally composing a list of debate club–style points of persuasion, felt almost disappointed by this easy acquiescence. “Really?”

Linnie nodded. “It's the least I can do. I still owe you for what happened in high school.”

“Consider your debt repaid.” Amy did a little dance of joy, punctuated by uncoordinated attempts at vogueing. “Sashay, Shante.”

 

“
T
hey said we should be at the photographer's studio at nine sharp tomorrow morning,” Linnie said as the sisters got off the momentarily glitch-free elevator and headed for their hotel room.

“Excellent.” Amy rubbed her palms together. “I plan to enjoy every moment of my fifteen minutes of fame, even though I only got it by default. But I'm starting to wonder: Did we make it to the finals because our szarlotka was good or because they had us in mind for the advertising gig?”

“Who cares?” Linnie said. “As long as the grand prize check clears.”

“I care. I want to win because I was the best baker, not because my partner happens to be a hot blonde. Hey, what's this?” Amy picked up a small oblong box propped against the outside of the suite door, glanced at the card, then passed it on to her sister. “Here you go, blondie; I believe this is for you.”

Linnie lifted up the lid and pulled out a soft wool Fair Isle scarf in shades of cream, brown, and green. Then she opened the accompanying note scrawled on a folded piece of hotel stationery.

“Lemme see.” Amy knew it was none of her business, but she couldn't resist peeking over Linnie's shoulder to read along:

“Oh my God.” Linnie opened the door and hurried inside as if pursued by a pack of model scouts.

“Boy Toy wants you baaad,” Amy singsonged as she took off her shoes and turned on the coffee brewer in the kitchenette. “You should show up at his door tonight wearing that scarf and nothing else.”

“Don't be vulgar,” Linnie called from the sitting room. “So he sent me a scarf. It's the least he can do, considering the air-conditioning is still stuck on subzero. He probably didn't even buy this himself. I'm sure he sent one of his minions out to get it.”

“And the minion just happened to pick out the one that matches your eyes exactly? Hey, maybe he's got a knitting fetish. This could be totally hot. You could buy a few skeins of yarn and get crazy.”

Linnie was not amused. “While you sit here entertaining your depraved fantasies, I'll be in the shower for the next hour trying to scald off the stink, thank you very much.”

There was a knock at the door. Both of them raced to get there first.

“Butt out of my business,” Linnie said, jostling Amy out of the way.

“No way. I have to see what else this guy's got up his sleeve.” Amy jockeyed for position. “Maybe he sent up champagne, or exotic French truffles, or something sparkly from Tiffany.”

They threw open the door to find themselves staring into a very familiar but totally unexpected face.

“Well.” Grammy Syl heaved a powder pink overnight bag over the threshold. “I'm relieved to see you girls made it out of the correctional system in one piece.”

“
G
rammy Syl!” Linnie cried. “What are you doing here?”

Their grandmother held out her arms for a big, Estée Lauder–scented group hug, kissed each sister on the cheek, and then resumed chastising them.

“I'm here to restore law and order.” She took off her furtrimmed wool coat and handed it to Amy, along with her suitcase. “Clearly, you two hoodlums need a chaperone.”

Amy pointed at Linnie. “She's the hoodlum. Hood rat, actually.”

“I'm a martyr to the cause of proper spelling.” Linnie regarded her grandmother with suspicion. “How did you find out our room number, anyway? Did you bribe someone at the front desk?”

“It was a gift, dear heart, not a bribe. And you know people are powerless to resist my chocolate-chip cookies.” Grammy cocked her head and studied Amy's face for a moment. “You aren't getting enough sleep,” she announced. The she turned to Linnie and arched one eyebrow. “And
you
are falling in love.”

Linnie choked. “I am not!”

“She so is.” Amy hung up the coat and took Grammy's arm to lead her into the suite. “He's a smooth-talking hotel magnate who's plying her with knitwear.”

Grammy surveyed the sitting room, clucking with disapproval at the open suitcases spilling clothes and shoes across the floor. “My word. This place looks like a refugee camp. Aren't you embarrassed to live like this?”

Amy immediately started making the bed while Linnie picked up the sitting room. Her breath caught when she realized she'd left the claim ticket for the brooch in plain sight on the end table after her daily phone call to the pawnshop, but with a deftness honed by years of dealing cards, she managed to palm it and tuck it into her sleeve.

Fortunately, Grammy had turned her attention to other matters. She unzipped her overnight case, extracted a stack of folded sweaters, and placed them in an empty dresser drawer.

“What are you doing?” Linnie blurted out.

“Unpacking.” Grammy added a nightgown and velour robe to the drawer.

Amy and Linnie exchanged a look, and then Amy said, “You know, we are so thrilled you're here—”

“Thrilled,” Linnie emphasized.

“—but you're right about the sorry state of this suite. It's a sty, and you shouldn't be subjected to our filth. You'd be much more comfortable in your own room. Let me call downstairs and ask if—”

“I already checked; they're booked solid. Don't fret about me.” Grammy hummed and plumped the pillows on the bed Amy had hastily made. “I'll be quite comfortable on the sofa.”

“Absolutely not, Grammy,” Amy said. “You're sleeping in the bed. I'll take the sofa.”

“Then where will your sister sleep?”

“She can crash on the floor. There's an extra blanket in the closet.”

“Thanks,” Linnie said.

“You girls are too good to me.” Grammy shivered a bit as a blast of cold air blew out of the vent.

“Sorry about the cold.” Linnie retrieved her MIT hoodie from the closet and offered it to Grammy. “The A/C guy claimed he fixed it yesterday.”

“In his defense, he did fix it, but it broke again four hours later.” Amy sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Speaking of cold, why aren't you in Alaska right now?”

Grammy made no move to sit down. She peered at Amy, imperious in her cabled turtleneck and pearls. “I'll be asking the questions here, my lamb.”

“Is there something wrong?” Linnie asked.

“Yeah, what's going on?” Amy stood back up. “We demand answers.”

“Don't be impudent.”

“You can't stonewall us forever.”

Grammy patted her carefully styled white hair and smiled. “We'll just see about that, won't we? So, tell me everything. How were the semifinals? When do you hear the results?”

“Oh, we heard already,” Linnie said. “It's official: We made it to the finals.”

“You did?!” Grammy Syl registered pure shock for a moment, then clapped her hands in elation. “I can't believe—I mean, I knew you could do it! Oh, I'm so proud of you both.”

“But we're not sure if it's because our pie was good or because they want to pimp out Linnie.” Amy provided a quick summary of the advertising gig they'd booked.

“Modeling! My goodness! Oh, there's no telling how far you two could go if only you'd work together and stay out of trouble. Tell you what: We'll go to the grocery store later and have a few more practice sessions to make sure you're ready for Friday. But right now, I'm a bit knackered from the trip and a catnap sounds divine. So if you don't mind, I think I'll lie down for a bit.”

“Sounds good,” Amy said. “I'm always up for a nap.”

“I'll see you two later,” Linnie announced with what she hoped would pass for casual nonchalance. “I'm just going to run out and grab lunch.”

Amy jerked her thumb toward the desk. “Room service menu's right over there.”

“No, I'm craving a hot pretzel.”

Amy did a double take. “What?”

“Yep.” Linnie never wavered in her composure. “And I saw a street vendor selling them over by the park. I'll be back in a little while.”

Amy looked skeptical, but all she said was, “Uh-huh.”

“Good night.” Linnie gave Grammy a kiss. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

“Night-night,” Amy called as she started closing the curtains and turning off the lights in the bedroom. “Spelled N-I-T-E.”

 

T
hirty minutes later, Linnie crept back into the darkened hotel room, taking care to close the door silently. The bedroom door was shut, and Amy didn't stir from her slumber on the sitting room sofa.

Linnie barely breathed as she tiptoed across the room and removed the plain brown paper bag from inside her sweatshirt. Slowly, slooowly, so as not to rustle the wrapping, she slid the bag's contents into the exterior pocket of her suitcase.

With no warning, Amy sprang from the couch like a puma. Linnie put up a valiant struggle, but Amy wrestled the object out of her fingers.

“Aha! What have we here?” Amy snapped on the newly replaced table lamp and read the DVD's title aloud: “
Naughty Nympho Call Girls 4
.” She blinked a few times in rapid succession. “Well. This is a new and unexpected side of you.”

“Lower your voice,” Linnie hissed, dragging Amy into the dining room. “Do not wake up Grammy.”

Amy followed, too stunned to argue.

Linnie sat down at the sleek varnished table and covered her face in shame. “I need help. Please.”

“Oh God.” Amy plunked down across from her, sounding queasy. “Now what? You have some seedy porn addiction?”

“No. I've never watched porn before in my life, but I have to do something drastic.” She lowered her voice to a funereal whisper as she confessed, “I'm bad in bed.”

Amy started banging her head against the table.

“Stop it!” Linnie shot her hand in between Amy's skull and the wood to muffle the thumping sound. “What are you doing?”

“I'm trying to give myself amnesia so I can forget the last two minutes of my life.”

“I'm desperate, Amy. This attractive, worldly man gives me his room number and tells me to come on up, and I can't. . . . I mean, I just don't think . . . I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“Okay. Let's just take a deep breath and step back here. It's not like you've never had sex before.” Amy's eyes widened as a thought occurred. “Right?”

“Of course I've had sex. But not steamy, seduce-a-stranger-in-his-hotel-room-with-my-irresistible-wiles kind of sex.”

“What kind of sex are you having, then?”

“Bad sex.” Linnie drooped in despair. “Boring sex. That's why I'm freaking out. I need a tutorial before I go see Cam tonight, and it's not like I can just order up a porno on pay-per-view and charge it to the room.”

“Why not?”

“Because! What if Cam—”

“—scrutinizes your room account like a crazed stalker?” Amy finished for her. “He'll assume you're a hot-blooded vixen, that's what.”

Linnie started picking at the table's edge with her thumbnail. “I was going to wait until you and Grammy went out to dinner and pretend to be sick so I could stay here and watch this. But would you please spare me the indignity and just give me a few pointers? Please?”

“I have to tell you, I'm weirded out by this whole conversation. And anyway, how do you know that I'm any better than you?”

Linnie snorted. “False modesty doesn't become you. You could teach a master class on men, and we both know it.”

“You must really like this guy. I mean, you wouldn't even put on lipstick for a cocktail party, and now you're sneaking out and buying X-rated movies so you can fine-tune your wiles?” Amy poured herself a mug of coffee from the glass carafe warming on the brewer. “Look. There's no big secret to being good in bed—although ditching the flannel lumberjack pj's would probably be a good start. Most guys are just looking for enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm,” Linnie repeated.

“Yeah. Whatever it is you're doing, if you get into it and act like you're having the best time ever, he'll automatically consider you good in bed. You don't have to be a Cirque du Soleil acrobat or a porn star. All you have to do is enjoy yourself.”

“Well, there goes that idea.” Linnie swung her feet under her chair and brooded. “How did I get myself into this mess?”

“You met a hottie in the freight elevator and went for it. Nothing wrong with that. You want him; he obviously wants you. Stop overthinking everything and just go for it.”

“But that's not who I am.”

“You seemed pretty into it when I caught you making out on the sofa yesterday.”

“That was different; I didn't have any time to think about it beforehand.” Linnie pushed the DVD case across the table. “This is pointless. I quit.”

“Well, you'll never qualify as a naughty nympho with that attitude. I mean, if I can get freaky in the backseat of an SUV with all my cellulite and twin skin, you should be able to make Cam McMillan your sex slave, no problem.”

Linnie paused. “I'm probably going to regret this, but I have to ask: What's twin skin?”