Wedding Girl (19 page)

“I meant hanging out at another bakery. Unless you are here on a recon mission, stealing secret recipes.” He pauses. “Or you're here for an interview? You do look lovely by the way; that color suits you. Makes your eyes very blue.”

“Thank you. It seems to be a very popular hue these days. You look, well, less sweaty than the last time I saw you.”

“Showered and everything. So not an interview, then?”

“I'm waiting for someone, if you must know.” I don't know why I even said this.

Mark looks around, as if he would recognize Jake if he spotted him. “Where is the lucky fellow?”

Crap. Now I have to salvage it. “Well, it wasn't a firm date. I just let him know about the wine tasting tonight; he said he would stop by if his schedule allowed.”

Mark pulls out the seat across from me and sits down.

“What? Don't . . .”

“Relax, princess. If your prince arrives, I'll vacate. Just keeping you company. Besides, he should know better than to leave a beautiful girl waiting on him; someone else might swoop in and steal his prize.”

This man is insufferable. “I'm neither a princess nor a prize, nor a girl if you want to be specific about it.”

“I notice you didn't mind my calling you beautiful.” The waitress comes over and asks what he would like. I begin to tell her he isn't staying, but he talks right over me. “The three-wine flight and a slice of the chestnut cream cake, please.” Damn his eyes! That was the dessert I was most interested in: layers of chestnut cake with a filling of chestnut cream, apricot glaze, and dark chocolate ganache. “Well, he must be quite the catch, this paragon of manhood.”

“I don't know if I would say that.”

“He isn't a catch?”

I'm definitely starting to wonder. “I have no idea. We've not yet met in person.”

Mark laughs. “No wonder you're all
fertutzed
. Who set you up with this charming fellow?”

I put on my most casual attitude. “We met online, the way everyone does these days.”

“No shame in that. Some of my best friends have met perfectly suitable spouses that way.”

“I'm not ashamed in the least.”

“Good for you. After all, he might be The One. So what do you like about him? His intelligence? Wit? Washboard abs?”

I can't help but laugh. “At this stage I can neither confirm nor deny that he has much of any of the above, and I'm highly doubtful that he is The One. After all, when I mentioned that this event was happening, he never confirmed his availability, nor did he make it a firm date.”

Mark's face gets a little puzzled. “Well, maybe he is nervous; those online dating sites are notorious for being a place of dishonesty. Or maybe he really thinks he might like you, and it spooks him a bit.”

“Pish. If that is the case, then he's a mouse, not a man, and definitely not worthy of my time.” I'm more disappointed than I should be, and being a little mean because of it. But I can't help it. If Jake really wanted to meet me, he would have figured out a way to show up here. I know I shouldn't have put so much pressure on myself, with the new outfit, the care I took with hair and makeup. Deep down I thought this was going to be a meet-cute worthy of Rosalind or Myrna, and the fact is, it's looking like it's not even going to be a meet, cute or otherwise.

“Ouch. Not playing around, is our Sophie. So then, why invite him here?”

The waitress brings over his wine and cake.

“Everyone says not to let these things go too long before meeting, makes things complicated and easily becomes a time-suck. I figured I was going to be coming here anyway, why not give him the opportunity to show up and wow me? As you can see”—I gesture around—“I'm not wowed.”

Mark takes a huge bite of the cake and rolls his eyes in delight. “This is amazing; you have to try it.” He pushes the plate towards me. I hesitate, but the fact is, with me, hunger wins over everything. I pick up my teaspoon and take a small bite, and am transported. The cake is nutty and moist, the cream with the barest hint of rum, the dark chocolate ganache smooth and silky with just enough bitterness, the apricot bringing that perfect amount of tart brightness, cutting through the rich flavors, and making the whole thing sing in the mouth. It is perfectly balanced and absolutely amazing, and I'm mentally making notes to see if I can replicate it.

“It's terrific, right?” Mark says, sliding the plate so that it is
dead center in the table, the universal sign for sharing. I start to move it back towards him, and he stops me. “Please, you have to help me. This morning's run won't make a dent if I eat the whole thing myself. Ditto the wines.”

I want so badly to be strong, to say no, but I have no pride. Not when faced with temptation like this. I take another bite. And a sip of the first wine.

“Well,” Mark says, licking the back of his fork. “Looks like your fellow has definitively failed the first test. Is he off the list?”

I take a sip of the second wine. “Not off, necessarily; just no longer anywhere near the top.”

“You've got hard standards.” Mark sips the third wine.

“I've got standards, full stop. You know the old saying: ‘It's gonna take one heck of a man to beat no man at all!'”

“Poor fellow, he has quite an uphill battle ahead of him.”

I try the third wine. “If he's deserving, he'll have plenty of stamina for that climb. But enough about my no-show non-date. He's barely worth offhand mention, let alone an analysis of his viability. What brings you here solo on a night like this?”

Mark looks a little pained. “I live next door.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. At least when I'm in town. They sent a note to all the residents of the building about the wine tasting; sounded sort of interesting. Plus I figure it's good karma. Son of a baker and all. Figured it might also be a bit of good networking; if I met anyone, I could mention the events this weekend.”

“Hmm. Very Jewdhist of you. Shockingly supportive as well. So you came on a mission of goodwill, spotted me happily immersed in my book, and thought you'd love any opportunity to, what? Give me more shit for dragging your dad kicking and screaming down the path to ruin?”

“I thought I'd like an opportunity to make you an offer.” His tone, which had bordered on banter, is now all business.

“It's not indecent, I hope.”

“Nope, just straightforward. I've got some friends in the industry; I could get you some interviews, for serious pastry work. It wouldn't be at the level you were at before, but at least closer than where you are now.”

“And this you would do to get me away from your dad.”

“This I would do because as great as what you have done has been for my dad, you and I both know it is too little, too late, and in a few short months when Cake Goddess opens, she will crush the business in a very rapid fashion, and you will be out of work. So I thought I would just let you know that I can get you some interviews, and from my perspective, you might want to at least talk to some people before you are officially unemployed.”

I hate how much I agree with him, but whatever willpower I don't possess with cake, I do possess with the things that actually matter.

“Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine. I promised your dad I would be with him till the bitter end, and so I shall be. What I do after is not yours to worry about.”

He shrugs. “Just an offer. An open one. You know where to find me.” He takes the last bite of cake and finishes the last sip of the third wine.

“Sophie? Is that you?” I look up and there is Jason. He used to be the pastry chef at a farm-to-table place around the corner from S&S, and we'd help each other out in a pinch with ingredients now and again, have the occasional drink after work.

“Hi, Jason. How are you?” I say, wishing I could crawl into a hole. “This is Mark. Mark, Jason.”

“Nice to meet you; are you responsible for this?” Mark gestures at the empty plate.

“That would be me. You like?”

“It's amazing. If the rest of the stuff in that case is half as good, you'll make a mint.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. Sophie, yours is the opinion I crave; I was so stoked to see you here. Lemme have it!”

“It's spectacular, J, truly. Congrats.”

“You been out of town? No one has seen or heard from you in forever, I mean, not since . . .” And then he pauses and turns a bit red.

“Just floating.”

“Floating, nothing! She's in Uptown, saving the neighborhood from pastry dullness over at Langer's Bakery!” Mark says cheerfully.

I could fucking kill him. All my efforts to be quiet and anonymous and hidden are now in vain, and it will only be a matter of time till all of the Chicago fine-dining chefs know exactly how far I've fallen.

“That's cool. Going old-school. Must be, um . . . a nice shift, for you,” Jason says in a tone that makes it clear he knows I must be mortified.

I put on a brave face. “Well, you know, just consulting until I figure out my next project.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, and then, nothing. The moment becomes uncomfortable, and Jason finally breaks the silence. “Well, great to see you; glad you liked it. Thanks so much for coming, and I hope you'll make it a habit. I've got to get back.” He gestures back to the kitchen, then shakes Mark's hand and leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Well, I don't know about you, but a bit of wine and cake always makes me hungry for dinner. Looks like your guy is officially a nonstarter. There's a great little Italian place up the block. I was going to get some linguine for takeout, but if you're up for it, I'd be happy to have you join me?”

Oh, hell no. “I think I will stay for a bit; the place is lovely and my book is a good one. I might try the other wine flight.” I hope this makes me seem sophisticated and self-assured, and
not like some sad sack who is just going to sit here and drown her sorrows in pastries and wine. I will not let him see me run away with my tail between my legs.

“Sounds delightful. I hope you enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

“See you Saturday, Sophie.” He gets up and walks out. I wait until I'm sure he must be well away from the café, and then stand and gather my book. I leave the now-wilted carnation on the table. I'm almost at the door when the hostess stops me and hands me a bag.

“Jason wanted me to send you off with some other things to taste. His number is on the card; he'd love any input you might have.”

Sigh. “Please thank him for me; tell him I'm sure it's all perfect, but I'd never turn down an opportunity to enjoy his work.”

“I'll let him know. Have a good night.”

I check my phone one last time in the car: no messages, no texts, no emails. I even turn it off and reboot it. Nothing. It's after eight, and Jake just blew me off completely with no explanation. I reach into the bag and pull out the first box on top. Inside, an éclair, nestled in a frilled paper boat. I drive home with one hand, eating the éclair with the other, marveling at how pastry, which can seem on the surface so complicated and difficult, is really easy for me, and men, who can seem so simple and straightforward, are really so very hard.

Bubbles was blissfully still out when I got home from my non-date. I poured myself a hefty double bourbon and retreated to my bedroom with the rest of Jason's bounty. In the bottom of the bag was a little note from Jason saying that it was nice to see
me and that he would love to get any relevant feedback on the things he sent me home with; he indicated that he sensed I was in self-imposed pastry chef witness protection, and said not to worry, my current location and employment would not be revealed to anyone, and if I ever wanted to get together somewhere quiet, just give him a call. Jason always was a good guy.

In gratitude for my continued privacy, and in spite of the fact that I had already consumed a small wagonload of empty calories today, I ate a piece of walnut cake, a small chocolate mousse bombe, a caramel bar, and three different cookies before effectively passing out in a sugar and alcohol coma. I woke briefly at around three in the morning to slither out of my lovely new outfit, now a mass of wrinkles, then finished my sleep of the dead. At five this morning, I got up, figured I could skip the shower since I had showered the previous evening before the festivities, and dressed for work. Today will be insane, the last day of prep before the relaunch tomorrow. I have a zillion things to do, including help Herman get the challahs out the door. I look over at my computer. I know I have to check.

And there it is. Time-stamped around ten p.m., right about the time I passed out.

Sunny—

Sorry I missed the wine tasting, I hope you had a great time! I got stuck in a crazy strategy meeting at work. My company apparently needs me to save a chunk of business in London, so what I thought was a meeting I might sneak out of early enough to meet you turned into a planning session of insane proportions. The work craziness will likely continue all weekend and through next week. I've got the bachelor party and wedding the following weekend, and the Monday after will be
headed to the airport for parts both Anglo and Saxon, and won't be back for at least three months. But I was really hoping to get free to come to the event last night so that we might meet in person, and if you are feeling up to it, would love to retain my pen pal privileges while I'm across the pond, and then maybe we can set up a proper meeting when I return?