A tinny, electric version of “Particle Man” blasted through the silence. Amy unzipped her handbag, and Linnie opened hers, too.
“It’s mine,” Amy murmured. “Same ringtone, remember?”
Brandon’s name flashed on her caller ID. She knew he’d be calling during dinnertime only if he was in crisis mode, so she slipped out into the hotel lobby and flipped open the phone.
“Sorry,” he said as soon as she said hello. “I know you’re in the middle of schmoozing and boozing, but Chloe can’t find her Lovey—”
“—and your eardrums are bleeding from the shrieks?”
“Exactly. Where’d you stash the backup?”
“Linen closet in the back hall by the kids’ bathroom. Should be on the top shelf tucked under the extra pillows.”
“Okay, hang on a second.” As Brandon walked over to the closet, Amy could hear her daughter’s plaintive wails in the background, and a sharp pang of love pricked her heart.
“Got it,” Brandon reported a few seconds later. The wailing subsided. “Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a lifesaver. Okay, go back to carousing. Sorry to interrupt.”
“No, I’m glad you called.” Amy felt simultaneously buoyant with freedom and tethered by homesickness. After she finished saying “I love you” and “bye-bye” to every member of her family, she rejoined the cocktail reception, where Mr. Millington had concluded his remarks and the participants were resuming their conversations. She made her way over to Linnie. “What’d I miss?”
Linnie held up a stack of white paper cocktail napkins, upon which she’d taken meticulous notes. “First they went over all the rules, most of which we already know from the handbook. But they elaborated on what the judges are specifically looking for, so I rated each item on a Likert scale of one to five based on relative importance.”
“A what scale?”
Linnie handed over the napkins so Amy could see for herself:
• Each team will be assigned to an oven and prep station tomorrow morning and must use this area for the duration of the competition. NO CHANGES OR SWAPS ALLOWED.
• All fifty teams will compete in a semifinal round on Wednesday; those twenty-five teams with the highest scores will advance to the final round on Friday.
• Each team must prepare three batches of their recipe on the day of competition: one for the judges, one for display/photography, and one for the audience and press to sample.
• Dishes will be scored on each of the following attributes:
• overall taste and flavor profile (importance: 5 out of 5)
• texture and consistency (importance: 3 out of 5)
• prominent and appropriate use of Delicious sugar (importance: 3 out of 5)
• presentation and visual appeal (importance: 4 out of 5)
• All equipment and ingredients will be supplied by the official “Delicious sugar supply pantry.” Each team will be assigned a “runner,” who will retrieve from the pantry the ingredients listed on that team’s recipe. Contestants are not allowed in the pantry, and inventory is limited. Before you begin baking, please double-check the supplies provided by your runner to ensure that you have sufficient quantities for three batches.
• Food must be served at proper temperature—allow for ample cooling time.
• Entrants may be disqualified if they violate any of the official rules, including:
• plagiarizing a recipe
• reusing an original recipe with which they already won a different contest
• claiming novice status when they are in fact culinary professionals (e.g., chef, caterer)
• Judges will remain sequestered throughout competition—any attempt to contact or influence judges will result in disqualification.
“Hold on, the judges are sequestered?” Amy looked up at Linnie for confirmation. “We’re not going to meet them until the day of the competition?”
“We’re not going to meet them at all,” Linnie corrected. “Their identities are top secret; they don’t attend any contest events, and even during the competition, they’ll be holed up in a separate area. The bake-off bunker, if you will. Runners bring our food from the competition floor to the bunker. No face time whatsoever.”
“But I was planning to dazzle them with my charm and bubbly personality!” Amy exclaimed. “Are you telling me we’re going to have to win this on skill alone?”
“I would worry less about chatting up the judges and more about this little rule right here.” Linnie pointed to the “no plagiarism” policy.
“Oh, that.” Amy shrugged this off. “That’s not gonna be a problem. I mean, we have an original recipe.”
“But we didn’t come up with it.” Linnie reddened and glanced away. “It wasn’t really our idea.”
“Somebody has a guilty conscience?” Amy paused a moment and watched Linnie squirm.
Before Linnie could reply, Susan and Joan flagged them down from across the room. “Amy!” cried Susan. “All the girls are going out to dinner. Come with us!”
“You must!” Joan said. “Everyone’s going to love you. There’s a little Chinese place a few blocks away; supposedly the dim sum is to die for. And then we might head uptown to Serendipity 3 for frozen hot chocolate—a bit touristy, I know, but let’s face it: We’re tourists.”
“Your sister is welcome, too,” Susan added as an afterthought.
“Sounds great.” Amy nodded. “We’re in.”
“No, thank you.” Linnie slouched into the depths of her sweatshirt. “I’m going to go to bed early.”
“Oh, come on,” Susan coaxed. “Don’t be a stick in the mud.”
Linnie whispered to Amy, “May I remind you that we’ve got orientation tomorrow morning at nine? We are here to work.”
“The accusation: being a stick in the mud. The verdict: guilty as charged,” Amy whispered back. “I’ll be back before sunrise. Enjoy your sudoku and your Sleepytime tea.”
“I prefer Tension Tamer, for your information.” Linnie shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and marched down the hall.
“Hey, where are you going?” Amy called after her. “The elevators are that way.”
“I’m taking a shortcut.” Linnie sounded a tad evasive. “Freight elevator.”
Amy drifted slowly into consciousness, her limbs stretching out against soft cotton sheets. The hotel suite was silent, save for the hum of the air duct. Judging by the frigid draft blowing across her face, the room’s air-conditioning issues had yet to be resolved. She snuggled deeper into the airy down comforter and tried to savor the stillness.
The moment she’d been fantasizing about had finally arrived: No ravenous toddlers. No digestively disturbed dog. No impetus to leap up, shower, dress, and caffeinate now, now, now!
If she so desired, she could lounge around in bed for another half an hour. Read a book. Complete a thought.
Ahhh. Peace. Quiet. Serenity.
God, I’m bored.
She cracked open the door to the sitting area and peered over at the motionless mini–mountain range of blankets on the sofa. Linnie was still fast asleep.
Amy tiptoed toward the couch, perched on the edge of the coffee table, and listened to her sister’s slow, steady breathing.
“Psst.”
No response from the mountain range.
She leaned closer. Through the shadows, she could see Linnie’s eyelids twitching—maybe she was dreaming.
“Hey,” Amy whispered.
Nothing.
She leaned closer still, her nose almost touching her sister’s, and then—
“Aigh!” Linnie bolted upright, clutching the covers to her chest. “What are you doing?”
Amy reared backward to avoid getting bashed in the forehead. “I was checking to see if you were awake.”
“I’m awake.” Linnie swung her feet to the floor, ready to spring into action. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is there a fire?”
“No, no. Everything’s fine.”
<
br /> “How long have you been sitting there staring at me?”
“Just a few seconds. I—”
Linnie held up her palm. “What time is it?”
“Almost six thirty.”
“It’s the middle of the night!” Linnie snatched up her feet and burrowed back under the covers.
“What are you talking about?” Amy snorted. “I haven’t slept this late in years. Six thirty is positively decadent.”
“Some of us work the night shift. I’m used to going to bed at six thirty. Don’t make everybody else suffer just because you spawned two children who have profoundly disordered circadian rhythms.” Linnie flipped over and nestled back into her pillow.
“Okay, okay, good night.” Amy backed off and left her sister alone. For about two minutes. “Hey, I’m thinking about going down to the gym for a little cardio. Want to come?”
Linnie folded up her pillow around her ears and emitted a little growl.
“I see you’re still not a morning person.” Amy cracked open the curtains a few inches, hoping the sunlight might rouse Linnie. “Aren’t you going to ask me about hell-raising with the baking brigade last night?”
“No.”
Amy gave up. “You are no fun at all.”
“I know.” Linnie yawned. “But you know what is fun? Going to the gym without me. Do a few push-ups for me; I’ll be with you in spirit. Good night.”
One hour later, Amy returned feeling refreshed and carrying a shopping bag.
“Are you awake now? I’m back, and I brought bagels.”
Linnie stirred under the covers. A few seconds later, her head emerged from within the pillow sandwich. “You’re certainly in a good mood this morning.”
“Always.” Amy dropped to the carpet and started stretching out her hamstrings.
“Does this mean you’ve gotten past your outburst about the whole brooch thing?”
“No.” Amy closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. “But I met a couple of the other contestants down there, and one of them—Jill from Portland—is a yoga instructor, so we ended up doing a few poses and breathing exercises, and I feel much calmer about everything now. More centered. I am not going to let your negativity and self-destructive actions affect me. I choose to stay positive.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’ve decided not to wallow in the cesspool that is my life.” Linnie shivered as she slipped out from underneath her blankets. “It is so cold in here, I can practically see my breath.”
“Negativity,” Amy trilled.
“I’ll be more positive when I can feel my toes again.” Linnie picked up her MIT sweatshirt from the carpet and pulled it on. “I called the front desk ten times last night, and they swore they’d have it fixed by tonight.”
Amy went from window to window, opening curtains and reveling in the bright morning sunlight. “You did not call them ten times.”
“Fine, it was more like fifteen.” Linnie reached for the phone on the end table. “And I’m about to go for sixteen.”
“A freshly baked bagel will warm you up.” Amy opened the bag and headed for the dining room table. “I bought half a dozen. We’ve got plain, nine-grain, poppy seed, cinnamon-raisin, onion and jalapeño, plus cream cheese and lox. What’s your poison?”
Linnie shook her head and paged through the room service menu. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to call down and order some egg whites. Maybe steel-cut oatmeal, if they have it. I need to stay physically disciplined if I expect to be mentally disciplined.”
“Discipline is overrated. Especially when there’s cream cheese involved. Come on.” Amy sawed a bagel in half with a plastic knife. “How can you resist?”
Linnie curled up in her chair and tucked her knees under the hem of her sweatshirt. “I’m just not that into food, that’s all. If there were a pill I could take once a day that would supply all the necessary vitamins and minerals and meet my calorie requirements, I’d gladly take it.”
Amy hesitated, weighing her words. “Let me ask you something, in total seriousness. Do you enjoy anything?”
Linnie studied the menu. “Of course.”
“What?” Amy folded her arms. “Be specific.”
“Well.” Linnie had to rack her brain for a moment. “I enjoy being right.”
Amy bit into her bagel, then mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs, “I’ve died and gone to carb heaven. You have to taste this, Linnie. At least have a bite before you commit yourself to a breakfast of bland and blander. Come on.”
“Amy—”
“Come on!”
So Linnie leaned in and took a tiny nibble. She chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Amy shook her head as she started slathering up a second bagel. “I feel sorry for you. You’re, like, dead inside.”
“You’re just realizing this now?” Linnie sipped from her bottle of water and dialed room service. “Hello? Yes, I’d like to place an order, please. I’ll have the oatmeal. Plain. No raisins, no sugar, no cream.” She hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom in her shapeless men’s plaid pajamas.
“Nice jammies.” Amy catcalled after her. “Did you mug a lumberjack?”
Linnie turned around and regarded her sister with a sudden grim intensity that jarred Amy out of her cream-cheese reverie. “The time for mocking is at an end. Finish your bagel and let’s get focused. We’re about to enter the arena.”
Chapter 10
The second she set foot on the hotel’s mezzanine level, Linnie was mobbed by her fellow bakers. They grabbed her, they invaded her personal space, and they all had one thing on their minds: Amy.
“Are you Amy Nichols’s teammate?” asked a breathless blonde in an argyle sweater.
“You are sooo lucky,” gushed a gorgeous black woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a Southern accent.
“That sister of yours is a real firecracker! I’ve never laughed so hard in my life!”
“I’m hoarse today, and hungover like I haven’t been since college. But it was worth it. What’s she got planned for tonight?”
They looked at Linnie expectantly, waiting for her to crack a joke and chime in with anecdotes of her wild sisterly exploits, but of course she disappointed on all counts.
“Um, great,” she muttered. “I have to go.”
She moved to the periphery and tried to avoid any further interactions, but a wan, wired-looking fellow contestant sidled up to her and cleared her throat. “Excuse me? Um, hi, this is my first year to the semifinals, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about how everything works with the runners and the dry-goods supply pantry?”
Linnie shrugged one shoulder. “You can ask, but I probably won’t be much help. It’s my first time, too.”
“Really?” The woman looked surprised. “But you seem to know everyone already; I thought you were part of the in crowd.”
“What in crowd?” Linnie said. “You mean like high school? We’re adults here; there’s no in crowd.”
The brunette leveled her gaze. “There’s always an in crowd. I heard that the cool clique here calls themselves the Confectionistas. They’re very exclusive, too; they don’t usually bother with newbies like us.”
“The Confectionistas,” Linnie echoed, her eyebrows inching higher. “You jest.”
“So what’s your secret?” the woman persisted, gazing at Linnie with a mixture of pleading and envy.
Linnie turned up her palms and told the truth. “I guess you could say I know someone who knows the secret handshake.”
Even as a teenager, Amy had wielded her considerable social power with benevolence. She was friends with everyone and she’d try anything once—that went double when it came to dating. Over the years, she’d dabbled with muscle-bound athletes, sensitive poets, and tattooed motorcycle enthusiasts. Linnie had always envisioned Amy marrying a rock star or an international art dealer; it came as a shock to the whole family when she announced she was settling down with a dentist. But
once Grammy Syl declared Brandon to be “a fine young man” worthy of her darling granddaughter, everyone else welcomed him with open arms. Brandon was the kind of guy—sweet, successful, and slavishly devoted—that Linnie secretly wanted for herself, though she would die before admitting it.
When the newly crowned princess of the Confectionistas finally came down from the hotel room (three minutes late, but Linnie decided to let it go), Linnie asked her, “What did you do to those women last night?”
Amy rubbed on some Chap Stick and popped a breath mint. “What do you mean?”
“They’re all wringing their hands and babbling about you like you’re Jon Hamm in boxer shorts.”
“Huh.” Amy shrugged. “I just took everyone to a karaoke bar in the Village. It was kind of a tame night, to tell you the truth. But two points to you for knowing who Jon Hamm is.”
Before they could check in for oven orientation, they had to wend their way through a series of security checkpoints that put airport protocol to shame.
“Please have your contestant badge ready, along with a photo ID,” called a green-blazered woman with a headset and clipboard. “And remember that the use of cameras and recording devices is strictly prohibited inside the baking area.”
After submitting to having their purses pawed through and their cell phones temporarily confiscated, they were ushered into the official Delicious Duet baking suite. A long expanse of hotel carpeting had been divided into orderly rows of prep stations, each equipped with an oven, a small refrigerator, and a tall, sturdy worktable. All around them, Linnie could hear the whir of stand mixers in motion.
The Bake-Off Page 10