by Tegan Maher
"Yeah, and the twenty-five grand you're gonna win won't hurt, either."
"I can’t wait," she said, her eyes shining. "That'll be a new stove, oven, and grill for the cafe. Jeremy will be thrilled. I feel awful that he doesn't have the tools he needs to do what he wants. He could do so much more if he had better equipment."
"Pht," I said. "The man's a genius in the kitchen and has done a fabulous job of working with what he has. But I agree—his life would be so much easier if he had space to work and didn't have to run the dishes through twice because your dishwasher sucks." I stopped myself, because I know she felt bad about all of that, and if she didn't win, I didn't want her to beat herself up any harder than she already was.
"And I may even have enough money left over to buy some new cake pans and tips and some other stuff," she added. "I need a third set so I don't have to cook in waves when I'm doing a wedding cake. I'll be able to bake everything at once."
"Yeah," I added. "You really need a couple more chocolate fountains, too. Twice now, you've had to turn one party down because another party was using the one you have." I gave her a sideways glance. "You're expanding. You could make do with minimal supplies when you started, but now it's time to take things to the next level. You have that whole extra room off the kitchen to put things, you know."
"I know," she replied. "I guess it's just that I've been a little afraid to spend money, because I don't trust it yet. What if something happens and the cash dries up? I like knowing I have that cushion to fall back on."
"Yeah," I said, "I get that, but things aren't going to dry up. You're the only real gig in town, other than that Sheila girl who bakes birthday cakes from boxes and uses store-bought frosting."
She shrugged. "She's a lot cheaper than I am, so people go to her."
I snorted. "The customers she attracts aren't your target market, anyway. Some people are always going to go cheap no matter how much money they have, and no matter how important the celebration is to them. Then there are working people like me and you who will scrimp for a couple weeks if it means getting the best for something that matters to us. Shoot, you've offered payment plans for cakes twice now to make it affordable. People financed a freakin' cake because they wanted the best. Then there are the folks who have plenty of money and taste. You've got the last two audiences hands down, and you never had the first to begin with. Trust me—your business is only going to get better."
"I never thought about it like that," she said, tilting her head.
"Well," I replied, "you should, because that's how it is." I smiled at her. "So does that mean I don't have to check your calendar for chocolate fountain availability from now one?"
She laughed. "Yeah, let the chocolate rivers flow."
"And bring on the strawberries," I laughed with her. "You know, when I helped you with the Frasier wedding, there were two kids actually putting cups in there and drinking it."
"Yeah," she replied, giving me the side-eye. "Like you wouldn't if you thought you wouldn't be caught and judged."
"Speaking of judges," I said, turning into the conference center, "it's time to go show the world what you're made of."
CHAPTER SIX
I was elated to see that they'd designated the spaces closest to the rear entrance as contestant-only. Otherwise, we'd have been stuck parking back in Hell's half-acre. It seemed everybody in town had turned up. Of course, the judges had the ones right in front of the door.
"Hey," she said, holding up a hand. "I don't mind walking a little further if a closer spot puts them in a better mood."
Once I shut the truck off, she straightened her shoulders and took a couple deep breaths, blowing them out through her cheeks.
Her eyes were sparkling with a combination of terror and excitement. "Well here goes nothin', right? It's now or never."
"It is," I said, smiling and squeezing her hand. "And you've got this. Go on in there, kick some ass, and take some names, girlfriend!"
"You're coming in, right?"
"Of course!" I said, a little surprised she'd ask. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Six months ago, I'd have never dreamed of spending my day off at a cooking competition, and now I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Steven, my ex-husband, was a man of fine tastes. He hadn't been that way when we'd met, but as he'd found success, he'd transformed from the carefree man I'd met to some high-society go-getter that I could barely recognize.
Ours was one of those marriages that ended with a whimper rather than a bang, and I couldn't help but wonder if it wouldn't have been easier for me to pull the plug if I'd caught him cheating or doing some other horrendous thing that would have pushed me over the edge and sent me running toward my divorce attorney like my hair was on fire. Instead, it was all quite civilized and sterile, which may have been the saddest thing of all.
We hopped out of the truck and made our way toward the entrance. Some guy dressed like he was shooting for runway chic but landed square on arrogant, over-gelled jerk was going in right in front of us, and he didn't even bother to pause long enough to even let us catch it. As clumsy as I was, and seeing as how I was expecting him to do what ninety-nine percent of civilized humanity does, I tripped forward when the door wasn't where I expected it to be.
Dee and I looked at each other.
"Rude!" she said, scowling as she pulled it open.
Ms. Maisey popped in beside us and tutted. "Society's gone to H-E-double pitchfork handles since I was alive. How is it you kids say it? He thinks he's all that and a bag of chips, too? High-falutin' city slicker wouldn't cut it ten minutes on the farm. No substance beyond all that cologne."
"So you can still smell?" I asked.
"Sometimes," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It comes and goes, but I don't reckon with as much as he was wearin' it would matter how dead I was. That stuff stunk to high heaven."
"He's not one of the judges it he?" If so, that would be terrible. I could just imagine him sticking his nose in the air and tearing apart everything that passed his lips.
"No," Dee said, shaking her head. "He may be a competitor, though."
I snorted. "I sure hope so. I can't imagine that man knowin' much. I bet you could beat him hands down."
"Don't be so sure about that," Dee said, an amused look crossing her face. "Think of all the cooking shows we watch. There are plenty of guys like him who own big-time restaurants."
"Nah," I said. "That dude has poser written all over him."
"I guess we'll see then," she said as we turned the corner into the cooking area. Mr. Arrogant was standing at one of the stations, rearranging everything on the table to suit himself.
"You get to pick your own stations?" I asked.
Dee shook her head and narrowed her eyes at the guy. "No, they're assigned. And we're not supposed to mess with them until they call for time."
"Well apparently he doesn't know that," Ms. Maisey said as she floated along beside us. "Either that or he just don't care."
"I'd guess it's the latter," I said. "He seems like the type who doesn't believe rules apply to him."
Ms. Maisey swooped over and knocked his expensive looking set of knives off the table, then did the same with a ceramic container of utensils. He glanced up when the knives fell, then startled backward with the utensils went. He looked around as if he expected to see somebody, but of course he didn't. If he'd had ghost vision, he would have seen Maisey hovering over his table, cackling.
She swooped back over to me, still smiling.
I shot her a curious look. "Why'd you do that?"
"Cause I can," she said. "Serves him right for bein' mean."
Registration had started the day before, and Dee had signed up when she was helping Darla. That meant all she had to do was check in and wait for them to call everyone in. They were going to spend the first hour and a half going over the rules and expectations, assigning stations, and learning whatever else they needed to know.
I decided to cruise th
rough the front part of the convention center to see what all was going on. I hadn't really experienced a fair before, so I wasn't sure what to expect. The sound of a hundred voices and the smells of baking bread, apple pie, and popcorn assaulted my senses before I was even to the partition, and my stomach rumbled. There was a ton of stuff to see—so much that I couldn't take it all in at once.
My phone chimed with an incoming text, and I smiled when I saw it was from Scout.
Red's in the garage. Can I hitch a ride home later?
Red was what he called his truck. I grinned.
Finally having her put down, or did she die of natural causes?
Ha-ha. Funny. So, will you be my taxi?
I felt like an idiot, because even though it was a utilitarian text, I was still blushing. Over the course of remodeling the lodge, I'd really come to like him.
Of course. At conference center for Dee's competition. Do you need a ride?
Nah, I'm right up the street.
OK. See you here.
Still smiling, I slipped my phone in my back pocket and turned my attention back to the action buzzing around me. There were so many things going on that I set an alarm on my phone so I wouldn't lose track of time.
I wandered around, amazed by some of the stuff I saw. What was most impressive, though, was that the carnival-like atmosphere gave me a sense of community, and the friendly way everybody I passed smiled at me made me feel at home.
Public events were always mixed bags where I was from—people from all over the world moved to Florida for a million different reasons, so you had small-town folks who were open and friendly, and you had big city folks who did everything possible to avoid even making eye contact with you.
For the thousandth time since I'd moved there, I thought again that Mercy was a refreshing change of pace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ten minutes before Dee was due to start, I headed back to the competition area. I'd barely made it around the partition when she rushed toward me, face flushed.
"I thought you left!" she exclaimed.
"Of course I didn't leave," I said, befuddled. "I told you I was going to go check out the fair side."
"Oh. I must not have heard you. Anyway, I'm the second station on the left," she said, crinkling her nose, "which means I'm directly beside the D-bag. I tried to introduce myself, and he flat out ignored me."
I smiled. "That's okay. He heard you. That means he'll know your name when you beat him."
She grinned and started to say something, but the loudspeaker cut in, calling all contestants to their stations.
The first task was to make three different coffeecakes, which I knew Dee could nail with her eyes closed. The problem was that she was so nervous, she kept dropping things. I couldn't help but notice Mr. Rude smirking every time he glanced over at her. After a couple minutes, he started goading her, telling her his was in the oven already, and reminding her how much time she had left, and asking her if she was sure this ingredient or that was the best idea. I wanted to punch him.
I put my hands over my face when a scowling Ms. Maisey swept over to his side of the aisle and started looking around his station. She lasered in on his last bowl of batter and my heart leapt into my throat. No way would Dee want to win like that.
Apparently the same thing occurred to Maisey, because she drew a deep breath, her silvery form shimmering with indecision as she glanced back and forth between Dee and the batter. I could see the moment she came to a decision, because that evil grin I'd seen her wear more than once when she was plotting something slid over her face.
She hovered near the guy's ear, then cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered something to him. He turned and stared at his batter, then dipped his finger in it. An unsure expression flitted across his face and he rubbed a hand over his mouth in thought.
Finally, he shook his head and turned back to what he was doing. I wasn't sure what she was saying, but it was clear that it was some version of what he'd been doing to Dee.
Dee, on the other hand, had finally gotten her sea legs and was whipping around her station like she'd been doing it all her life. The more she worked, the more sure each movement became until she was the Dee I knew and loved.
Ms. Maisey had distracted Jerkface long enough that he'd given up on heckling Dee in the spirit of getting his own cakes finished on time.
When the time came for judging, all the contestants had their cakes at the ends of their tables. Each of the twenty bakers wore varying expressions of confidence. One girl had accidentally added salt to hers instead of sugar and had had to start over. She didn't look so hot as she glanced at her cakes. Two looked awesome, but one was missing the crumble. I felt bad for her.
There were two judges—Bella DaCourt and Robert Taylor, a rugged guy who looked like he'd be more at home on a fishing boat or at a wing-eating contest than judging coffeecake. Apparently, he owned several top-notch pastry shops and bakeries across the country, though, and even had one in Paris.
I pulled in a breath as the judges sampled the first two contestant’s cakes. One received rave reviews and the other, not so much.
They moved on to Dee's station. Her cakes were gorgeous as always. She wore a shy smile as she told them what she'd made, and I held my breath. I knew she was good, but that didn't mean the judges with their fancy-pants refined palates would appreciate a good, down-home coffeecake.
Bella DaCourt closed her eyes once she popped a piece into her mouth. "Divine. The orange flavor comes through, and the pecans in the crumble give it a nice texture and balance out the sweetness of the brown sugar. The texture is perfect, as well. Not to light, but not dense, either. Well done!"
The man said nothing, keeping his face a contemplative mask until he'd tasted the last cake, a caramel apple coffeecake. He nodded as he ran his tongue over his teeth. "I agree with the Bella about the first; divine. Your lemon-raspberry has the perfect balance of sweet and tart. The caramel apple is a little heavy because the apples have so much moisture in them, but overall, some of the best coffeecakes I've had in a long time."
She thanked them, then shot me an excited glance and two thumbs ups once they'd left her table.
Next up was Mr. Rude. He smiled smugly and crossed his arms as the judges approached, leaning a hip against his station as if he didn't have a care in the world. When he greeted the judges by their first names, I rolled my eyes at what a tool he was being and hoped the judges viewed him the same way I did. I wished I could see their expressions, but their backs were to me.
They tried each one, neither judge saying a word, not that they could have anyway; Jake—according to his apron—was vomiting on about the special flavors he'd combined to get them just right. Apparently, he'd opted to veer from tradition and make a savory one with sausage and about a million spices. He was showboating.
And he failed.
Robert spit it out. "This is one of the worst things I've ever tasted," he said. "The grease in the sausage weighs down the cake and gives it a greasy mouth-feel, and the mix of spices is ... just not good. Poorly executed all around."
Bella agreed with him, though she was much nicer about it.
"I disagree, judges," he said, his face a mask of contempt. "Perhaps you're just not seeing my vision. I've served that to some of the biggest foodies in the country, and they all raved about it."
The audience gave a collective gasp, though we kept it quiet, per the instructions given us before filming started. Rather than respond to him, the judges just moved on to the next cake. I couldn't imagine they were pleased with the sass or the backhanded insult.
Bella enjoyed the next one, but added that she also had a sweet tooth. Robert declared it was overly sweet with nothing to balance it out. They both liked the third one.
By the time they were through, he was seething.
They worked their way through the rest of the contestants, who offered up cakes that ran the gamut from amazing to ones that "missed the mark a bit," bu
t none got the scathing review that Jake's had. The poor girl who'd failed to finish her third cake was crying. Her cake hadn't been cooked all the way through, and the other two only got lukewarm responses. Bella was especially hard on her.
The final contestant was a woman with a huge chip on her shoulder. The judges pointed out flaws in her baking—including that she'd over-beaten her batter and over-cooked all of her cakes—she defended herself on each point rather than just take the critique like she probably should have.
Bella, apparently having had enough of lippy contestants, shot her down, telling her that she'd never improve if she wasn't willing to take advice, and that she definitely needed to improve if she expected to be competitive.
The judges gathered up front and put their heads together for a few minutes.
"Okay," Bella said when they turned back to face the bakers. "First we're going to name the bakers who prepared the best cakes of the day."
"If we call your name, please step forward," Robert said. Dee was the first name he called, singing her cakes praises, and my heart swelled. She deserved the recognition and I was proud of her.
After they made it through the top three, it was time to announce the bottom three. Not surprising to me, it was Jake, the poor girl who didn't finish, and the loudmouth woman at the last station.
I crossed my fingers, hoping they eliminated Jake, but after making some dramatic plays and reviewing again what each contestant did wrong, they sent the loudmouth girl packing.
The girl with the under-baked cakes sagged with relief, crying, and Dee rushed forward to comfort her. I smiled; no doubt, the girl would probably be having dinner with us later if she didn't have anybody else. Dee wouldn't leave her alone to dwell on things if she could help it.
The cameras had stopped rolling and the contestants were wrapping up their knives and gathering their belongings. Everybody mostly seemed happy to have made it to the next round, except for Jake, of course. Robert had given his food and his attitude another round of not-so-nice remarks during the drama when they were declaring who was going home.