by Maggie Knox
* * *
• • •
“Walter, I’m back. Give me ten minutes and I’m all yours.” Charlie poked her head into the bakery, having come through the back entrance so she could take off her snow-damp coat and boots in the mudroom.
“Uh, Cass, I—” Walter had a look on his face that Charlie wasn’t sure how to read.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s okay, but . . .” Walter glanced behind him, to the other side of the counter and Charlie wondered what the hell was going on. She was about to step into the bakery to see for herself, when someone stood up from behind Walter, now in view from where Charlie stood. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Hi, Cass.” Brett.
“Brett, what are you doing here?” Charlie asked.
“We need to talk.” Brett crossed his arms. “Walter can finish up.”
“How about you don’t tell me how to run my bakery?” Charlie’s voice was tense with frustration, and the knee-jerk reaction to being told what to do by her sister’s ex-boyfriend.
“That’s not what I’m doing, Cass. Why are you always looking for a fight these days?”
Walter glanced between them. “Uh, I’m basically done here anyway. It’s fine.”
“It is not fine, Walter.” Charlie seethed, wanting to tell Brett right then and there who she was and that he needed to leave her sister the hell alone, once and for all. But she didn’t want to escalate the situation. The bakery was opening in a half hour. She could be done talking to Brett in five minutes, and still have a chance to grab a shower and get behind the counter in time for the first customer.
Charlie walked into the bakery and grabbed an apron, tying it quickly around her waist. “Walter, you can go. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go and enjoy your day.” Charlie poured herself a cup of coffee, not asking Brett if he needed a refill. She wondered how long he had been there. Walter quickly removed his apron before giving Cass one last questioning look. She smiled and mouthed she was okay, and then Walter nodded, grabbed his coat and hat, and was out the door.
The doorbells stopped chiming a few seconds after Walter left. Charlie took her cup of coffee and sat down at the table with Brett. “Okay, Brett. Let’s talk.”
15
Cass
Monday: 5 Days Until Christmas . . .
Los Angeles
It had been a long but disaster-free day on set. Cass had even garnered several compliments from Sasha, who appeared to be over the sourdough bread mask incident, and had convinced wardrobe to let her wear flats. She unlocked the door to her sister’s apartment, tossed down her bag, and kicked off her shoes. Now that she had her sister’s file, she didn’t have to spend her evenings developing recipes—just an hour or so testing them. She thought about running a bath and soaking her aching feet and body, but the couch was calling her name. She collapsed onto the sofa, TV remote in hand, with the idea of ordering something for dinner and watching mindless television for a while—but she soon drifted off. In that dreamlike state between awake and asleep, Miguel’s face appeared. She let herself drift away a little more. In her fantasy, they were surfing together. Cass was expertly catching wave after wave, remembering to relax and breathe into it, exactly the way he had told her. Miguel was grinning, proud of her—and then, they were kissing in the waves, like a scene straight out of From Here to Eternity . . .
An ugly buzzing sound was messing with her reverie. She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, but the buzzing didn’t stop. Grumbling, Cass got up and followed the sound to the front door. “Hello? Charlie Goodwin’s residence?” she said into the intercom.
A chuckle on the other end, familiar even though it was muffled. “That’s how you answer your door?”
All thoughts of sleep were gone, and Cass was grinning with delight. “Miguel!”
“I have a food delivery for you from Fabrizio, who watched yesterday’s show and declared you looked like you haven’t been eating enough vegetables. Or meatballs. Or fettuccine. Or grilled octopus. He insisted I deliver it to you personally. Can I come up and drop it off?”
It took Cass a few attempts to figure out how to successfully buzz him up, but soon he arrived at her door, laden with bags of food.
“Fabrizio may have gone overboard,” Miguel said, before looking at her with concern. “Feeling alright today? How’s the head?”
“Oh, totally fine. I’m just tired. Oh my goodness, how much food did Fabrizio send?” She took one of the bags from Miguel; it was heavy. She carried it into the kitchen. He followed and put the other bag down on the countertop.
“I can’t possibly eat all this food by myself. Why don’t you stay and eat with me?”
“It’s really just for you.”
“Miguel, I could barely lift that bag. I think there’s enough food here for ten.”
He laughed. “Well, there were two daily specials I knew you would love, so I had to get both. Plus, an appetizer. And a salad. And then Fabrizio had two desserts he really wanted you to try . . . There, I’ve given myself away. It wasn’t Fabrizio who wanted to send over the food. It was me who wanted to bring it to you.”
She laughed, then put her hand on his arm. “Please, join me? I’d really like it.” He shrugged and grinned and she realized with gratification that this was what he had been hoping for. He wanted to spend time with her just as much as she wanted to spend time with him.
She set Charlie’s small table with place mats, cutlery, and a candle.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything stronger than sparkling water,” she said, emerging from the fridge with the bottle in her hand.
“That’s okay, it’s a work night,” he said.
“Yeah. For me, too.” She put two plates down and he started opening containers. A delicious aroma filled the space.
“What’s this one?”
“Fabrizio’s pasta alla chitarra with mackerel ragù. He only makes it in December, when he can get the mackerel at its freshest. He’s a perfectionist, as you may have noticed. It’s incredible, so I had to get it for you. Once in a lifetime experience. A must-try.”
Cass smiled. She loved that he cared about food as much as she did. Together, they opened containers and put them on the table, Miguel explaining what each one was as they did.
There were wild boar meatballs in a fresh marinara sauce (“He grows the tomatoes in his own little hothouse behind the restaurant”) and tagliatelle with black truffle sauce (“The wild boars are the ones who actually dig for the truffles . . .”). The grilled octopus was simply prepared with salt, pepper, and olive oil (“He boils it with wine corks to give it the most delicate flavor possible, and insists the corks come from his best wine only”), as was the salad she had so enjoyed the last time they were there, too. As they ate and chatted about the ingredients and flavors, she marveled at how comfortable she felt with Miguel, how natural all this felt.
She was stuffed and happy when they made it to the desserts. Fabrizio had sent mini Cassata Sicilianas, which were sponge cakes moistened with fruit juices and liqueurs, layered with sweet, creamy ricotta and studded with candied fruit that reminded her of Starlight Bread. There were also babas—small yeast cakes saturated in syrup and rum and filled with cream. Cass took a heavenly bite of the rum cake, then stared down at her plate, lost in thought as the happiness gave way to a bittersweet sense of melancholy she wished would go away.
“Everyone has a different reaction to the desserts at Fabrizio’s,” Miguel said, watching her. “But I’ve never seen anyone look quite so sad.”
She shook her head. “I promise you, I’m happy. I’m just thinking about how much work I still have to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I test run the recipes for the next day’s show every night at home, just to make sure there are no
kinks. And I still have to do that.”
“Which means . . .” Miguel said, standing and beginning to clear plates. “That I should wash up and get out of here, so you aren’t up all night.”
“Wait,” Cass said, not ready for their night together to be over yet. “It’s nice having the company. And besides, you inspire me.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to take them back—not because they weren’t true, but because they were. She had told herself that she had to start reining in things with Miguel, that it wasn’t fair to him and it certainly wasn’t going to be fair to her sister to have to deal with this when she returned to L.A.
But that was before he had come to her door with dinner and turned a good day into a great one. That was before she had seen his handsome face again and realized how much she had missed him, even after just one day. “Any chance you’d like to stick around and be my assistant?”
The grin on Miguel’s face was a perfect reward. “I’d love that,” he said. “What’s on the menu?”
She picked up her phone and opened the recipe file. “Well, my sis—I mean, I have a sugarplum layer cake planned for tomorrow. But I was thinking maybe I could add one more element, just to give it some pizzazz and definitely outshine Austin’s recipe. This Cassata Siciliana gave me an idea, actually. The flavors remind me of one of our most important creations at the bakery my family runs in Starlight Peak.” As she explained Starlight Bread to Miguel, his eyes danced.
“I’d love to experience a Starlight Peak Christmas Eve,” he said. “That bread sounds amazing. The whole place sounds amazing.”
She held his gaze. “It really is,” she said, imagining Miguel in her hometown. “I’d love that, too.” She turned away and focused on gathering the ingredients she needed for the recipe, trying to ignore the lump that had formed in her throat. “I just need to figure out how to add the elements of Starlight Bread into this recipe . . .”
While Miguel cleared and washed the plates, Cass took small bites of the dessert and jotted down notes. She was beginning to think what the sugarplum cake needed was an ice cream layer in addition to the icing layer, redolent with the flavors that made Starlight Bread such a hit: cherry, citrus, and spice. Adding an ice cream layer would make it a challenge for the contestants—but ice cream was a lot easier to set than gelée, meaning there would be no repeat of the Aperol Spritz cupcake disaster.
Two hours later, it was completely dark outside, the candles were beginning to burn into nubs, and the sugarplum layer cake was perfect—especially with an ice cream layer for an added twist. Miguel had been taking notes for her, and now his writing and hers combined on a piece of paper on the counter. “I love how festive it’s going to look,” Cass said, setting out red and green candied fruit to layer on top of the icing. The kitchen counters were littered with ingredients, measuring spoons, pans, and several sheets of recipe notes.
Cass stared down at the cakes, thoughtful. “I have an idea,” she said. “A final touch. A vanilla and cinnamon coffee cream topping drizzled on the plate. My assistant at the bakery in Starlight Peak adds vanilla and cinnamon to our coffee sometimes, and it’s just the perfect flavor combination.” Her heart rate ticked up as she realized what she’d just said. “I mean, when I help out there. Over the holidays. We have an assistant named Walter.”
Miguel simply nodded, not realizing the mistake she had made.
“I know I have some more cream in the fridge, and I definitely have coffee.” Flustered now, she poured the cream into a bowl, added the vanilla and cinnamon, and turned on the coffee grinder to fine grind some espresso beans. Then she plugged the hand-blender into an outlet beside the stove and turned it on. There was a loud zapping sound, and then all the lights went out. Now, Cass and Miguel were illuminated only by the candle still burning low on the kitchen table.
“Uh-oh, you have one of those finicky outlets,” Miguel said. “Same in my place. Seems to be a typical flaw in these vintage apartment buildings. Where’s your fuse box?”
“Oh! The fuse box. Right.” Luckily, Miguel seemed to mistake her confusion for something else. He stepped toward her and looked at her in the flickering candlelight.
“Maybe there’s no rush right this second,” he said. “You’re so beautiful in candlelight, Charlie. I mean, you’re beautiful all the time, but especially right now.”
Cass’s cheeks grew warm and her heart rate accelerated to warp speed, the way it always seemed to do when she was with Miguel. She reached for him and they shared a gentle kiss in the semidarkness. After the kiss, Cass rested her head against his chest. She could feel his heart beating beneath her cheek and wished they could stay like this forever. But it was getting late; he had to work the next day, and so did she. Reluctantly, she pulled away.
“Let me find the fuse box,” she said, realizing too late that she didn’t really know her way around this apartment. She checked a few obvious places—the front closet, the tiny laundry room—then emerged, perplexed but trying to cover her confusion.
There was no hiding it, though.
“Wait. You don’t know where the fuse box is?” Miguel said. It was hard to read his expression in the dim light, but from the tension in his voice she knew it wasn’t good.
“I’ve never blown a fuse before . . . My landlord showed me when I moved in, but I just . . .”
“Forgot.” He finished the sentence for her, and Cass couldn’t tell if he bought her story—but he started helping her look anyway, using the flashlight from his cell phone.
Finally, they found it, in the bedroom closet, a housecoat hanging in front of it. Miguel opened the panel, flipped the correct switch, and everything in the kitchen whirred to life. Cass ran back into the room just in time to see whipped cream spraying everywhere. She turned off the blender and grabbed a rag. The lights were glaring; she felt exposed.
“Charlie.”
She didn’t look up, just kept wiping the counter, rinsing the cloth. “Yes?”
She could feel him close, although she kept her eyes on the now sparkling clean countertop instead of meeting his eyes, afraid of what she would reveal.
“Have you been having any other lapses in memory? For example—and I can’t believe I didn’t realize this before—have you forgotten big things you used to know how to do before? Like, for example . . . how to surf?”
“What? You think I lied to you about that?” She realized how absurd it was for her to be so indignant: she was lying to him about literally everything else. But she still pressed forward. “That was the truth: I never learned how.”
“And you just kept all this equipment for your sister?” She had never seen him like this. He seemed confused, maybe even a little angry—and how could she blame him? He didn’t believe her. It was all unraveling. Her heart was racing. How could she fix this?
But she could tell from the expression on his face that it had gone too far. It made her feel sick, how many lies she had actually told him. She truly cared about him—which meant she had to tell him the truth.
“Miguel . . .” She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The right words to explain what she had been up to escaped her. “I . . . ah . . .”
Miguel shook his head and momentarily rubbed his palm across his face in agitation. “I should have known better,” he said. “This is all my fault. I got too focused on my . . . on whatever this is between us”—he waved his hand like he didn’t know anymore, like it was all meaningless—“and forgot about my obligation to you as a medical professional. You came to me with a concussion, and I—God, what is wrong with me? I ignored all the signs.”
“Miguel, what signs? I don’t have a concussion—”
“Yes, you do. And a serious one, which I knew when I first met you. But you seemed to have recovered when I saw you again—except, you didn’t know the Hive always opened late, and you were so agitated and confused on set that day I came to wa
tch with Jacintha, which is not at all like the Charlie Goodwin I’m familiar with.”
Her heart sank at this and she broke eye contact. “Maybe you should just go,” she said.
“Have you had any other symptoms?” He seemed anguished now, but she knew it wasn’t because of his feelings for her and instead because the tangled web she had been weaving was threatening to strangle them both. “Headaches, blurred vision? You know, you probably shouldn’t even be driving. You definitely should not be working, which I told you the day I treated you, especially not if you’re having memory lapses like the one you had tonight.”
“It wasn’t a memory lapse. I told you—”
“Yes, you told me, and I don’t believe you. I think you’re hiding the severity of your symptoms from me, and maybe I shouldn’t blame you. I’ve put way too much on your plate. A new relationship on top of everything else?” He shook his head again. “That was selfish and unprofessional of me, and I’m sorry.”
This was her out, Cass realized. She could just say he was right, and that he should go, and that she would get reevaluated by someone else so there would be no more blurring of personal and professional lines, and thank him for his time, and then close the door. Instead, her eyes filled with tears.
“You need to get evaluated again, Charlie. Maybe even get a CT scan. Explain to your work that you need to take some time off, and if they don’t give it to you, or they really do give Austin that spot on the new show because of an injury you sustained on set you need to . . . I don’t know, sue them or something. But you can’t keep taking risks like this with your health, because of what you want professionally or for . . . personal reasons. This is serious, and you don’t seem to understand that.”
“I do understand.”
“So, let’s go back to the hospital. I’ll take you right now.”
Cass looked up at him. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone completely dry. She hated this kind of thing—that she was going to hurt his feelings, and that there was going to be conflict. But she saw no other way around it, as her wise friend Faye back home had once reminded her during a discussion about her relationship with Brett: The only way out is through.