The Bake-Off

by Beth Kendrick

  “No, but you already work full-time, you’re raising twins, you have a dog and a house and a husband with whom you’re trying to open a dental practice. Many people would consider that a full plate.”

  “I’m busy,” Amy agreed. “But the food styling would be for me. Yes, it’ll be hard work, but it will only be a few days a month, and it’ll be my project. My passion.”

  Linnie hesitated for a second, then offered, “Well, if you need a babysitter, maybe I could come out for a weekend now and then.”

  “Really?”

  Linnie tugged at the strings of her apron. “Sure. Why not?”

  “I didn’t realize you liked kids.”

  “They’re not ‘kids’—they’re my niece and nephew. And while I may not have much babysitting experience, I can assure you they’ll be in good hands. I know CPR, I can administer basic first aid, and I’m very familiar with the developmental research of Vygotsky and Piaget.”

  “But can you break up a toddler wrestling match involving biting, hair pulling, and a one-eyed teddy bear used as a weapon?”

  “I’ll read up on SWAT operational tactics.” Linnie glanced at the clock. “Are you done with that cream yet?”

  Amy drizzled a few more droplets of cream across the textured topping. “You can’t rush an artist at work.”

  “You can’t rush an oven, either. We have to get these in so we can get them out in time to cool. The last thing we need is a judge burning his tongue on our entry. You’ve got one hundred twenty seconds and counting. One hundred nineteen, one hundred eighteen . . .”

  Amy raised her basting brush and flicked a bit of liquid onto Linnie’s apron. “Get out of my workspace and go stalk somebody else for the next hundred and seventeen seconds.”

  Linnie complied, edging toward Tai and Ty’s prep station, where Ty had just returned from a lap around the ballroom to scope out the competition. “The Culinary Channel wants to interview us,” he told Tai. “I have to go right now.”

  Tai spooned sticky caramel filling into fluted chocolate crusts. “Oh, okay, just let me smooth out the top here and we’ll—”

  “I’m going to go talk to them.” Ty held up his wristwatch, trying to check his reflection in the crystal. “You stay here and make the chocolate ganache.”

  “But don’t they want to interview me, too?” Tai asked.

  “One thing at a time, sweetie. I’m sure everyone will want to talk to you after we win. But for now, I need you to finish up with the chocolate and make sure that nobody”—he glanced accusingly at Linnie—“tries any funny business.”

  “Fine.” Tai leaned away when he went in for a kiss. He either really didn’t notice or pretended not to.

  “Just mix the chocolate and cream, let it cool for two minutes, and pour it on top of the caramel, okay?” He waited until she nodded in confirmation. “Don’t touch the walnuts; I’ll put those on when I get back.”

  “I can handle the walnuts,” Tai said.

  “No. I want them to look a certain way. Your job is the ganache. No more, no less.”

  After her husband hurried off to dazzle the cable networks with his charm and good looks, Tai turned her attention to the saucepan of cream on the stove burner. She poured the simmering liquid into a metal bowl containing chunks of bittersweet chocolate, then stirred the mixture a few times with her spatula and set it aside to cool.

  Linnie spied a tiny glass prep bowl perched on the very edge of Tai’s cutting board. Hidden behind a stack of used bowls and a canister of Dutch cocoa, the prep bowl held what appeared to be sea salt.

  “Excuse me.” Linnie cleared her throat. “Is that your salt?”

  “Where?” Tai glanced around, but the bowl was out of her sight line.

  “Right there.” Linnie pointed to the corner of the cutting board. “Is that supposed to go in the ganache?”

  “Yes. Oh my God, yes.” Tai poured the pinch of salt into the warm chocolate cream and stirred. “I can’t believe I did that. Thank you for telling me.” She transferred the prep bowl back and forth between her palms. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot,” Linnie said. “We’re all under a lot of pressure today.” When she returned to her own prep station, Amy was waiting with flared nostrils and a rolling pin within reach.

  “What the hell, Linnie? Why are you helping her?”

  Linnie shrugged, unable to explain it even to herself. “She forgot an ingredient, and I pointed it out. It’s not like I’m letting her share our oven space.”

  “Uh-huh. I see what you’re doing. This isn’t about Tai; this is about Cam. Admit it: You’re trying to lose on purpose because you have performance anxiety. You want those bastards to beat us.”

  “They’re not going to beat us. We don’t need them to screw up their recipe for ours to be better. We can still win, fair and square.”

  Amy leveled her index finger at her sister. “I don’t like this side of you.”

  “I had a momentary flash of human decency—it’ll pass; I promise. In the meantime, please hand me the oven mitts and prepare to witness baking perfection. All my calibrations, calculations, and computations are about to pay off.”

  Chapter 25

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Snowley Millington consulted the index cards in his hand and waited until absolute silence settled over the assembled crowd.

  Linnie held her head high and studied the rotund older man, watching for any nonverbal cues that might hint at what was coming. Mr. Millington wasn’t looking at any of the contestants, though—his focus remained on the film crews camped around the stage’s periphery.

  Next to her, Amy started to melt down. “This is worse than American Idol.”

  “Our third-place winners, recipients of a full suite of kitchen appliances furnished by DIY Home and Garden Superstores—”

  “If we get that, we’re selling that crap on eBay,” Linnie hissed.

  “—are Susan Miller and Joan Whitson of Phoenix, Arizona, for their Razzle Dazzle Rhubarb Upside-down Cake.”

  Polite applause ensued as Susan and Joan hurried up to the stage to shake Mr. Millington’s hand and pose for photos.

  Another agonizing pause. Amy started to gnaw on her fingernails.

  “Our second-place winners, recipients of a trip to France and a two-week intensive pastry workshop at Le Bernard Culinary Arts Academy in Paris, furnished by McMillan Hotels International—”

  “I’ve already been to France,” Amy murmured.

  “Screw Paris; I want to get paid.”

  “—are Tyson and Tai Tottenham of Fulton Falls, Ohio, for their Tempting Turtle Tarts.”

  People turned their heads and craned their necks as Ty stormed onstage, making no attempt to mask his disappointment. Tai trailed behind him and shook hands with Mr. Millington as if greeting her executioner.

  “Wow,” Amy said. “No one will ever accuse that guy of being a gracious loser.”

  Ty stomped down the stage stairs and out of the ballroom, letting the heavy double doors clang shut behind him.

  Mr. Millington waited for order to be restored. “And finally, our grand-prize winners, recipients of one hundred thousand dollars, are . . .”

  “I’m going to throw up.” Linnie moaned.

  “Spit it out!” Amy cried.

  “Amy Nichols and Vasylina Bialek, with their Secret Sisterhood Szarlotka.”

  For a moment, all Linnie could hear was Amy’s voice shrieking in her ear: “We did it! We won! Oh my God, we won!”

  Amy started hurtling over the laps of everyone between her and the aisle. Her elation was contagious, and the crowd’s cheering swelled as she headed for the stage with her arms held high like Rocky Balboa in a striped apron.

  Linnie followed in her wake, quiet and contained, but most of all relieved. Finally, she could stop worrying and pretending and evading. She would cash her check, go get Grammy’s brooch, and leave the spotlight behind.


  “Congratulations, both of you.” Snowley offered them the microphone, but Linnie had nothing to say. Her work here was done.

  She posed for a moment alongside Amy, both of them beaming for the cameras while showing off a six-foot-long poster-board check. She turned to the contest official to her right and asked, “Hey, can we actually deposit this thing?”

  “Right now?” the woman asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She looked taken aback. “Well, no, this is just for the photo op. In a few days, the corporation will send you and your sister traditional checks, along with some tax forms—”

  The double doors clanged again as another Delicious sugar representative loped in from the hallway. He had a cell phone in one hand and a stack of what appeared to be scorecards in the other.

  And then Cam walked in. He stopped, locked eyes with Linnie from across the ballroom, and she knew.

  The flour bowl was about to hit the floor, and there was nothing she could do but watch it shatter.

  While Amy continued to wave and blow kisses, Linnie stepped aside and met the contest rep at the top of the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” asked the woman who had presented the check to Linnie. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak with Ms. Bialek for a moment.” He refused to look Linnie in the face.

  Using the enormous check to partially shield them from the audience’s view, he introduced himself as Stephen Wexel, one of the contest’s chief administrators.

  “First, let me congratulate you and your sister on your win.” His smile flickered on and off. “I hate to take away from your big moment, but it’s my job to investigate any allegation of misconduct.” He adjusted his tie. “I’m sorry to embarrass you, but I have to ask this. You didn’t have any, uh, contact with any of our judges, did you?”

  Both of them peered around the edge of the check at Cam, who had been surrounded by a protective posse of men in green. Linnie could tell from the set of his jaw and his impassive expression that he hadn’t revealed anything about their relationship. He was leaving it up to her.

  “Why would you ask me such a thing?” she asked, trying to buy time while she scrambled to come up with a decent line of defense.

  Stephen continued to hem and haw about how he was just doing his duty. “One of the Delicious Duet contestants claims he has a photo of you kissing a judge, but as you can see”—he held up a cell phone, presumably Ty’s—“this image is rather blurry, and this particular contestant is known as something of a troublemaker. Still, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least ask. Do you or did you have any kind of personal relationship with Mr. McMillan over there?”

  Linnie knew she looked shocked—she was shocked. Shocked that Ty had caught her, shocked that she hadn’t figured it out as soon as she saw him by the elevator this morning. But she could play this off as dismay at being falsely accused. She could deny ever having met Cam, and she knew he’d go along with her.

  She could break the rules one more time and get away with it. No one would contradict her.

  She stared straight ahead, past the crowds and the cameras, and fixed her gaze on the glowing red exit sign hanging over the main doors. Then she squared her shoulders and uttered a single word:

  “Yes.”

  The microphone picked up her voice and carried it over the loudspeakers.

  Everyone in the room immediately quieted down and gave her their full attention. Amy paused in midlaugh, her head thrown back and her eyes sparkling. “Yes, what?” she asked.

  Linnie cleared her throat and covered the mic with her hand. “Yes, I know him,” she confirmed.

  This confession set off a round of gasps and exclamations in the front row of the audience, and word quickly spread back through the aisles.

  The contest rep looked even more horrified than Linnie felt. “You do?” he asked, as if he were hoping she would change her answer.

  Linnie nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you knew he was a judge?”

  “Not until this morning.”

  “A likely story,” somebody hissed. “She targeted him.”

  “And he didn’t know I was a Delicious Duet contestant,” she emphasized. “Or what I was baking.”

  There came a snicker of derision. “Riiiight.”

  “That explains a lot,” sniped another voice. “Did you taste the pie they left out for the crowd? B-minus at best.”

  “So you”—Mr. Millington looked over at Cam, then back at Linnie—“and you . . .”

  “Yes,” Linnie confirmed. “Yes to everything you are too polite to ask. But again, it’s entirely my fault. He was unaware of who I was and why I was staying in the hotel.”

  Cam started toward her, but a swarm of reporters blocked his path and a pair of security officers hustled him out into the hall while Stephen adjusted his glasses. “I’m going to need a moment to confer with my staff.” He stepped back into a cluster of corporate colleagues.

  Linnie remained where she stood, bracing for the oncoming tsunami of accusation and hostility.

  And then she felt a hand on her back as Amy stepped up beside her. “Don’t freak out. I’m right here with you.”

  “I’m not freaking out,” Linnie insisted.

  “You’re shaking like a bobblehead on a dashboard.”

  “It’s okay.” Linnie kept her chin high. “In the words of a very wise woman, ‘It’s just fucking pie.’ ”

  “Good girl. Hey, if you rip off your shirt and flash the cameras right now, I bet you could parlay this whole fiasco into a reality show.”

  “Ladies, we’ve reached a decision.” Stephen Wexel returned, looking somber. “I’m afraid you both are disqualified.”

  Amy nodded and turned to go, but Linnie tried one last appeal. “I know I was wrong, sir, and I absolutely deserve to be disqualified. But please don’t disqualify my sister, too. Why should she have to pay for my mistakes?”

  The contest rep looked ready to pound back a bottle of bourbon and smoke a carton of cigarettes. “The Delicious Duet championship is a team event. If one team member is out, you’re both out.”

  “But—”

  “Forget it.” Amy strutted toward the stairs like she was working the runway at Fashion Week. “Begging is beneath you. They can choke on their hundred thousand dollars.”

  Mr. Millington stepped back up to the microphone and addressed the murmuring crowd. “We apologize for the confusion, ladies and gentlemen. Due to an unforeseen conflict of interest, we have no choice but to revoke the grand prize from Ms. Bialek and Mrs. Nichols. We are delighted to declare Tyson and Tai Tottenham the winners of this year’s Delicious Duet Dessert Championship!”

  There were a few halfhearted cheers and heckles as Tai and Ty took the stage, but the media throng surged as one toward Amy and Linnie.

  “Excuse me! Ms. Bialek!”

  “Do you have a comment . . . ?”

  “How does it feel . . . ?”

  Linnie cringed and huddled against her big sister. “Okay, now I’m freaking out.”

  Amy threw out a straight arm like an NFL running back and charged through the masses. She used her other arm to shield Linnie’s face from the flashbulbs and camera lenses.

  “Coming through!” she bellowed. “Step aside.” She continued zigging and zagging until they were safely out the door, then collapsed into giggles. “I feel like Angelina Jolie’s bodyguard.”

  Linnie gaped at her in disbelief. “You’re enjoying this?”

  Amy shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I had this much excitement. Now stop talking and run.”

  They hightailed it down the hallway, through the hotel’s back exit, and into the alleyway, where all traces of the ANARKY graffito had vanished.

  “Cam’s people must have been busy.” Amy jerked her thumb toward the brick wall.

  “His people? He was probably down here with a bucket and a scrubbing brush himself.” Linnie sighed. “Speakin
g of Cam, do you think the CEO of Delicious Sugar is interrogating him right now? Do you think his family will disown him? Do you think he’s banning me from all McMillan hotels for the rest of my life?”

  “Why don’t you give him a call and find out?”

  Linnie hung her head. “I don’t actually know his cell phone number. Or his exact age or his permanent residence. I never bothered to ask, because I wasn’t thinking about anything beyond a weeklong fling. You were right. I treated him like a disposable boy toy.”

  “Cookie nookie.” Amy nodded solemnly. She strode toward the sidewalk, raised her hand to summon a cab, and whipped out her cell phone. When a taxi pulled over, she dived into the backseat. Linnie followed, though with considerably less enthusiasm.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  Amy held up her index finger as she addressed the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, hi. I’d like to book two tickets to Las Vegas, please. The next available flight from JFK. We’re on our way to the airport now.”

  “What? But all of our luggage is still up in our room! What about checking out of the hotel? What about your car?”

  “Calm down; we’ll be back in like fifteen hours.” Amy shushed Linnie, then provided the customer service rep with passenger names and her credit card number. Then she clicked her phone shut and buckled her seat belt. “Road trip!”

  “But we lost. They’re going to shred our giant poster-board check. We’ll never bake in this town again.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Amy said. “We didn’t lose; we won. Yes, we got disqualified on a ticky-tack technicality, but we still won. Now, before we spend five hours trapped in coach eating stale pretzels, call the pawnshop and make sure the brooch is still there.”

  “We’re still short forty grand,” Linnie pointed out. She dialed the pawnshop’s number from memory.

  “I’ll work something out with them. Maybe they can put us on a payment plan, layaway, something.”

  “Don’t you think I already asked them about that during our daily phone chats? They don’t want to hear about hardship or installment loans or future earnings potential. They only want cash on the barrelhead.” Linnie hung up as her call went to voice mail. “They open late on Fridays and Saturdays, and there’s a three-hour time difference. But trust me: They’re not going to budge on their payment terms.”