The Bake-Off

by Beth Kendrick

  “Don’t psych yourself out.” Amy resumed work on the crust. “Repeat after me: We got this.”

  Linnie mumbled something unintelligible.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “We got this,” Linine said, but it came out more of a question than a pronouncement.

  Amy shook her head. “I hear you, but I don’t believe you.”

  “We got this!” Linnie yelled, just as all the nearby teams turned off their food processors.

  “That’s more like it.” Amy nodded. She gave a friendly wave to the onlookers. “Now peel those apples. Peel like you’ve never peeled before.”

  Linnie had to laugh. “If only that weren’t so close to the truth.” She sliced her thumb again, slapped on a Band-Aid, and demanded a labor shake-up.

  Amy was happy to relinquish crust duties, and the sisters worked side by side until Linnie grabbed the paring knife from Amy. “Whoa. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Cutting each apple into thirty-six chunks.” Amy referred to the annotated legal pad. “That was your edict. Says so right here.”

  “That was only half of my edict. Yes, we need thirty-six chunks per apple, but even more important is that each chunk be of uniform size.”

  “I’m doing it this way on purpose.” Amy grabbed back the paring knife. “I want some to be thicker than others so there’s a little crisp in every bite. Szarlotka is supposed to look rustic and homemade.”

  “ ‘Homemade’ is just another word for sloppy,” Linnie argued. “I don’t like inconsistency.”

  “I know, I know. You’re an excellent driver. You worry about your duties, Rain Man, and let me worry about mine.”

  Amy braced herself for a fight, but Linnie backed down and went back to draping the dough into the pie plate.

  When the pie was assembled and ready to bake, Amy sprinkled a thin layer of grated pie dough across the top to give the finished product a textured, confettilike effect, then stepped back to assess the result. “Does it look okay?”

  “It looks like the cover of Bon Appétit,” Linnie said. “I hope it tastes okay.”

  Amy licked the spoon they’d used to scoop the apple filling into the pie plate. “It tastes like we swiped it off Martha Stewart’s windowsill.” She placed the pie plate on the silicone mat atop the baking tray. “What now?”

  Linnie slid the baking tray into the oven, set the Delicious Duet automated kitchen timer, and clicked her thumb on the stopwatch she carried for backup. “Now we wait.”

  “Why does judging take so long?” Two hours later, Linnie wiped down their prep station for the umpteenth time and started fraying the threads on the edge of the fluffy greenlogoed dish towel. “Are they cleansing their palates with an entire gallon of milk between each piece of pie?”

  “They have fifty entries to taste and discuss,” Amy pointed out. “Stop scrubbing the same section of counter over and over. You’re making me nervous.”

  “What if something’s gone wrong?” Linnie’s dish towel was quickly unraveling. “What if our runner dropped the szarlotka on the way to the judges’ room? That kid looked like he had bad knees and the grip of a newborn.”

  “ ‘That kid’ probably has ten years’ worth of experience working in Manhattan’s finest restaurants.” Amy popped a leftover apple peel into her mouth and chewed, hardly tasting the browned and shriveled fruit skin. “I’m sure everything’s fine. I’d tell you to have a drink and relax, but I don’t want to end up arrested again.” Amy sniffed the air, then motioned Linnie closer. “Come here. We both still reek of booze and bodily fluid.” She grabbed the bottle of vanilla extract and shook a few drops into her palm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Freshening us up.” Amy dabbed the sweet-smelling liquid on the pulse points behind her ears and wrists, then did the same to Linnie. “It’ll have to do until we can go back upstairs and shower again. Plus, men love the scent of vanilla extract.”

  “Says who?”

  “Some women’s magazine we had in the waiting room of the dental office. But in my personal experience, it’s true. You should try wearing some to work—you might see a significant increase in tips.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Linnie checked the clock again. “Argh. The suspense is killing me.”

  The big double doors at the ballroom’s main entrance swung wide, and a supercharged silence settled over the room as an elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit and a green Delicious Duet necktie walked through.

  “Moment of truth.” Amy wrapped her fingers around one end of Linnie’s dish towel. Linnie held tight to her end until the cloth was stretched taut between them.

  The contest coordinator stepped up onto the dais, which was draped in green-and-white bunting, then cleared his throat once more before speaking. “Will contestant Vas”—he frowned down at the name printed on the index card in his hand and tried again—“Vasylina Bialek please step forward?”

  “Oh my God,” Amy squeaked. “What’s going on?”

  “People are looking at me,” Linnie whispered back. “Hide me.”

  Amy’s mind raced. “That guy is the one who went over all the contest rules on the first day. Snowley What’s-his-face. Do you think he knows something?”

  Linnie’s big brown eyes filled with panic. “What could he know?”

  “Uh, let’s see: That our recipe isn’t ours? That you were recently jailed for criminal mischief? Shall I go on?” Amy waited for Linnie to come through with her usual snooty self-assurance, but her sister just kept staring at her with those terrified, Bambi-in-the-forest-fire eyes.

  “Vasylina Bialek?” Snowley What’s-his-face’s voice boomed through the hall once more.

  “Let’s go.” Amy raised her hand and called out, “That’s us.” She took Linnie’s elbow and guided her toward the front of the room.

  “What are you doing?” Linnie asked.

  “I’m coming with you, obviously. If you’re in trouble, so am I.”

  This show of allegiance seemed to jolt Linnie back to her senses. “Listen to me very carefully. If they try to interview us separately, do not waver. Admit nothing, Amy.”

  “I’ll admit nothing.”

  “You swear? Don’t forget what game theory says about the prisoner’s dilemma and the Pareto-suboptimal solution.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but they’ll never break me,” Amy assured her.

  Amy greeted Snowley with a big smile and a hearty handshake. “Hi. I’m Amy Nichols and this is Vasylina Bialek. We’re team number thirteen.”

  The official frowned down at his paperwork. “I’m to understand that you two are sisters?”

  “Yes, sir, righty-o.” Amy’s tone was so cheery, she was setting her own teeth on edge.

  “And you have prepared the apple szarlotka this afternoon?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I see.” The contest coordinator put on a pair of spectacles and peered closely at Linnie’s face. “Ms. Bialek, do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

  Linnie cast a confused, sidelong glance over at Amy before replying, “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “I see.” Snowley nodded to the assistant two steps behind him, who scribbled something on her clipboard. “Ms. Bialek, would you mind stepping into the next room for a moment? We’d like to have a word with you in private.”

  Amy started to offer to accompany her, but Linnie cut her off with a quick shake of her head.

  “I can handle this,” she muttered. “Just remember what I said about game theory.”

  With her posture resolute and her head held high, Linnie went with the officials into a small conference room at the end of the exhibition hall. Amy trailed after them until the door closed.

  Then all she could do was wait.

  And fidget.

  And pace.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, Linnie emerged by herself and closed the door behind her. Her perfect posture had devolved into a slo
uch, with her hair hiding most of her face from Amy’s view.

  “Well? What happened?” It was all Amy could do to restrain herself from grabbing Linnie by her apron strings and shaking her. “Are we busted? Are we facing disqualification and public humiliation?”

  Linnie remained determinedly detached. “We’re going to the finals.”

  Amy’s hands dropped to her sides. “What?”

  “The finals. We’re in.”

  “But why . . .? How . . .? What . . .?”

  Linnie strode toward the exit. “Let’s go. Everyone’s staring.”

  “Hello?!” Amy chased after her. “I asked you a question.”

  “I heard you.” Linnie blew through the double doors, rounded the corner, and buttonhooked into a secluded little alcove, where the sound of their voices was nearly drowned out by the gurgle of the lobby’s fountain.

  “So why won’t you answer me?”

  “Because.” Long, gusty sigh. “It’s stupid.”

  “I know you did not just sigh at me. Sell that supercilious crap somewhere else,” Amy warned. “You either start talking right now, or I’ll—”

  Linnie crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling. “They asked me if I wanted to do some media promotion for Delicious sugar.”

  “Media promotion? Like what? Interviews?” Amy envisioned hours of the same question on an endless, repeating loop: How did you come up with this recipe?

  “No, more like print work.”

  Amy could see an angry pink blotch appearing at the hollow of her sister’s throat. “You mean modeling?” she pressed.

  “I don’t know.” Linnie blinked up at the emergency fire sprinklers. “I guess.”

  “Well, what exactly did they say in there?”

  “Just that they’re trying to update their corporate image and they want to produce some ads featuring contestants who are young and fresh. ‘The new face of the Delicious Duet Dessert Championship’ or whatever.” Linnie shrugged one shoulder. “I told you, it’s stupid.” As an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and they said you could do it, too. Since you’re the other half of my duo.”

  “I see.” Amy’s voice was high and tight.

  Linnie finally looked her in the face. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Of course I’m not.” Amy turned away. “Why would I be mad?”

  “I don’t know, but you look like you’re about to go on a bloody rampage with an apple corer.”

  Amy pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead and tried to articulate her frustration. “I’m not angry, Linnie. I’m just sick of being the runner-up. When there are two sisters, one is supposed to be pretty, and the other one’s supposed to be smart. Smart or pretty. You don’t get to be both. Everybody knows that.”

  “You’re pretty,” Linnie said.

  “I’m cute. You got stopped in the airport when you were twelve by a modeling scout.”

  “Oh yeah.” Linnie nibbled her lower lip. “I forgot about that.”

  “Well, I remember. Vividly. You ripped up the poor woman’s business card right in her face and went off on a rant about how the modeling industry dehumanizes young girls and undermines the fundamental tenets of feminism.”

  “I stand by my rant.” Linnie lifted her fist to indicate power to the people. “So let me get this straight: You’d actually want to be the face of Betty Crocker two-point-oh?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Me.” Linnie slouched even further into the depths of her striped apron. “But, I mean, if you want to . . .”

  “Well, they’re going to pay us, right?” Amy tried a different tack. “I thought you agreed to all this because you need money.”

  “I need at least forty grand. They’re only offering to pay ‘union scale,’ whatever that is.” She paused. “But it’s up to you.”

  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.”

  “They 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:

  I’m in the penthouse and would love to see you. Hope this keeps you warm until then.—Cam

  “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.”

  Chapter 17

  “Grammy 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.