Let Them Eat Cake

by Sandra Byrd

  He surprised me by opening up about his village near the famed Palace of Versailles, just outside of Paris. Fairy-tale land.

  “I miss it,” he confided. “Not as much right now, but soon, when spring is here, I will miss it. But I go back this summer, for personal and family business. Have you ever been to France?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve always wanted to go,” I admitted, “but my family didn’t have the money.”

  “Alors, you’ve not lived life,” he said. “It’s truly charmant.”

  “I’ve studied all of France,” I said longingly. “The rich history, the art, the literature. The palaces. Versailles.”

  “Ah, you must visit, Alexandra,” Luc said. “Je regrette.”

  “I went to college, but college was my parents’ dream for me. I guess I followed their dream instead of mine.”

  “I wanted to go to college,” he said, “but that wasn’t for me. My family wanted to open bakeries in the U.S., and voilà, here I am. So neither of us got our dream. We each got someone else’s, eh, Alexandra?” He smiled and leaned closer as he picked up his coffee. “But now, perhaps, we have to make our own dreams.”

  “There’s always time to do new things…,” I said, blushing. Blushing was a bad habit that I couldn’t always control, but no guy had made me blush since Greg.

  “That’s what I like about you, Alexandra,” Luc said, holding my gaze. “You fit in well at a restaurant named for hope. We’ll have to drink coffee together more often.”

  “Thank you.” I stood up. “I’d better help Sophie.”

  Was he being polite? Trying to help me fit in? Was it just that the sense of personal space was smaller for a Frenchman than an American? Or was he starting to feel a little personal about me? Did I like him? Or was it a crush on a Frenchman, and any Frenchman would do?

  I just didn’t know.

  Later that night, I went to watch Tanya coach volleyball. I walked into the gym and saw a swarm of girls encircling her, sweaty and pink with excitement, their ponytails bobbing. Tanya waved.

  During the game I clapped and cheered and scanned the bleachers for an attractive man who just might be the mysterious Steve. Non.

  “Go, girls! Dive for it, Amber!” Tanya called. One of her players did just that and came up right under the ball as planned. “Well done!” Tanya yelled as the girls applauded loudly.

  After the game, I helped put the balls away and listened to Tanya coach.

  “You girls did a fine job,” Tanya said. “You overcame adversity and didn’t listen to the rankings—Snohomish was supposed to whoop you tonight, and you won!”

  A cheer rose from the girls.

  “Go home, celebrate, get some rest, and I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” Tanya said, looking as happy as I’d seen her in ages. Volleyball was a place she felt safe letting her guard down.

  As the girls filed out, I sidled up next to her and said, “I remember when you were one of those girls.”

  “And you were in the stands cheering me on,” she answered, pulling her car keys from her purse and grinning.

  “I baked cookies for the team,” I reminded her.

  “Indeed you did. And that brought a lot of cute guys around too. Muchas gracias. Or should I say, merci bien.” She’d taken Spanish in school while I’d taken French. It was the only place my grades outdid hers: language.

  We drove to the International House of Pancakes.

  “So here we are, together again in a romantic restaurant on Valentine’s Day,” Tanya said. College students, retired folks, and young couples with babies peopled the room, which was thick with the smell of maple and coffee.

  “Yeah, here we are,” I replied. Greg and I had broken up last year just before Valentine’s Day, and Tanya had come up to spend the weekend with me.

  “Greg was way out of your league, anyway,” a “friend” had once told me. I supposed she was right. It wasn’t too long after the breakup before I saw him with a business major whose family was in real estate. Their fingers had been laced together intimately.

  Was Luc out of my league too?

  I snapped back to the present. “So, no Valentines volleyball rendezvous?” I asked Tanya, expecting her to tease back. She’d been playing on that coed volleyball league for a few weeks now.

  “Well, I had an option for that,” she said. “Steve asked what I was doing after the game. I told him I was busy.”

  “Did you want to go?” I opened up three creamer containers and set them on the table, ready for my coffee.

  Tanya looked at me. It meant everything to her to remain in control, but if you lingered long enough, you sensed her vulnerability. I think it was attractive to guys, though, as was her seeming lack of desire to be paired up. It made her mysterious and enticing. I feared I, on the other hand, was a needy open book.

  “I think I might have wanted to go,” she said.

  “You can go on a date with someone and not have it be serious.”

  “I know.”

  I walked gingerly around the issue. “Do you like him?”

  “I—I might,” she answered. “I liked him, though, too.”

  She still never spoke Jasons name, more than two years later. It had happened on a date, after dinner. They’d gone for a drive to a remote part of town—a high place, deserted—to see the city lights. There wasn’t anywhere for Tanya to run, but he’d locked the car doors anyway.

  I’d gone to counseling with her, but since then, she’d been uninterested in guys. She’d sort of dated one guy in a half hearted effort to deflect questions from her family, whom she’d never told about Jason.

  “You know Steve’s sister,” I said, bringing her out of the past and into the future. “And you know his family.”

  “Yes, and he goes to church. He’s asked me to come with him to a church ski outing in a few weeks. Before the snow melts.”

  “See how it goes until then,” I said. “You never know. He might just be what he seems to be. And you said he’s cute!” I let my eyes twinkle.

  She smiled. “He is.”

  Progress!

  I dug into my pancakes.

  “Things going okay at work?” Tanya asked, nibbling some hashbrowns.

  “The good news: I like the environment. It’s fun. I love matching customers up with food and doing the little touches.” I told her about the flowers in the pastry case and how I’d noticed a few things missing on the pastries, but how busy Patricia was. “I especially love it when I get to interact with the food.”

  “Terrific!” Tanya said. “I’m so happy for you. Anything else going on?”

  “Luc had coffee with me today,” I said, knowing what she meant. “And you know, he seemed a bit more interested. I haven’t seen him have coffee with Sophie.”

  “Yeah, but Sophie’s not new,” she pointed out.

  “And,” I added triumphantly, “she can’t speak French!” I knew I sounded pathetic, but it had to be worth something. Certainly that would be an important skill for the assistant manager.

  “Is he a Christian?” Tanya asked, doubt in her voice.

  “He wears a cross necklace.”

  She laughed. “Madonna wears a cross necklace. Marilyn Manson wears a cross necklace.”

  Well, you never know. I wasn’t going to judge.

  “The bad news,” I said. I fished my paycheck stub out of my purse and handed it over. She hadn’t even had to ask me what was in my wallet.

  “Oh, Lex, you can’t live on that,” Tanya said. “I’m paying tonight.”

  “No way. I don’t want to be everyone’s charity case.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Pray.”

  Suddenly, I remembered a verse from Jeremiah that I’d memorized long ago in order to earn points for a youth group ski trip.

  “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

  I wish
I knew that plan, I thought. Actually, I’d like to direct and approve of that plan. I decided to look the verse up later. I wondered when I’d last looked anything up in the Bible without having a teacher, leader, or pastor suggest I do so. Never, maybe. I read it, but not on my own initiative or with fresh, adult eyes, driven by my own desire.

  It was something to try. After all, I had asked for God’s direction.

  I checked my watch. “We’d probably better go. Work night.” I grinned. “I want to do a good job.”

  She nodded. “Day starts early for both of us.”

  When we walked out to our cars, she bumped into me.

  “A couple of cups of coffee and you’re all jittery,” I teased. “You’re a Seattlite, girl!”

  She winked at me, then got into her car and drove away.

  I opened my purse to take out my keys, and as I did, I noticed a folded piece of paper with something scribbled on it. A twenty-dollar bill was folded inside the note, repaying my share of the meal twice over. She must have slipped it in when she bumped into me.

  Chacun croit aisément ce qu’il craint et ce qu’il désire.

  We soon believe what we desire.

  The next work week rolled by pretty much as the week before had. Sophie and I worked side by side during the rush, quietly uncomfortable during the down times. She was the organizer. I was the beautifier and food innovator.

  One day I decided to powder the gâteau basque, Basque cake, with sugar. It’d been parked in the pastry case for a day or two, and soon it would be too old to sell. I dusted some sugar on the top and arranged early rosebuds on the side. I nodded, pleased at the effect.

  A few minutes later, Patricia came into the café to hand off some tartes Tatin, apple tarts. She took one look at the powdered gâteau and barked, “What happened here?” to Sophie, not even looking at me.

  Sophie shrugged. “Ask Lexi.”

  Patricia turned to me, and I felt my face flush.

  “I wanted it to look nice and sell. You work so hard on the cakes, and I didn’t want it to go to waste,” I explained, barely taking a breath.

  Patricia shrugged and hustled back to the pastry room. Victory! I’d evaded a royal scolding and claimed nothing said as tacit approval.

  “I’m going for a break,” I said to Sophie. I hadn’t taken a break in the month I’d worked there.

  “That’s okay. I’ll hold the fort. As always,” Sophie said. Sneered, maybe? I didn’t know or care. She couldn’t hurt my job, but I needed to win her over if I was going to lobby for the manager’s position.

  After the lunch rush, Sophie restocked the paper goods. “Would you arrange the special orders?” she asked me. “They’re really important to our business. I know Luc’s trying to develop that line.”

  “Sure,” I said, happy to learn more about the daily operations. At least she wasn’t freezing me out of new information.

  “Here’s what you do,” she said. “In the bakery, there’s a big corkboard. The pastry special orders go on one side, general special orders on the other. We just write them down on one of these slips,” she pointed to a pad by the phone, “when people call in. We pin them to the board in the back—filed by date under either pastry or general—when they come in. That way Luc and Patricia know what to prepare and when to have the order ready.” She showed me the board in the back. “Got it? Really easy.”

  “Even for you,” I sensed unsaid in her voice.

  “Got it,” I said. I copied the orders that had been scribbled on various napkins and wrote them neatly on the order papers. I took them into the back and tacked them to the bulletin board under the proper dates and with the proper person.

  “Hey, come here, Alexandra,” Luc called, motioning to me. “I’m trying something new. Taste it.” He handed me an almond croissant. “I’m glazing it and putting the almonds on before quick-toasting them in the oven, sealing the sides shut so the pastry filling stays fresh longer. Another day of shelf life.”

  I loved almond croissants. I’d eaten them often in Bellingham.

  “Go on,” he urged me. “Try it. I’m really interested in your thoughts.” He watched and waited like he really cared.

  I bit into it. It was crispier all the way around, not just on top. And the inside, just as Luc said, was still fresh. The nut filling was both smooth and coarse, with the texture of rough sugar.

  “Delicious!” I said. “It might work even better if you put just a dab of glaze on the inside of the croissant before you bake it, to seal it from the inside too.” I’d tried that with my pistachio ones last month.

  “Voilà!” he exclaimed. “That will work even better. Go on,” he urged. “If you like it, finish it. One little croissant isn’t going to spoil a pretty figure. Croissants are good for the soul. Just ask my maman.” He winked, but he seemed genuinely pleased that I liked his new idea.

  I wolfed down the croissant and went back to work, fighting a smile. Oh yeah, I’d heard right. My pretty figure!

  That afternoon I went home to find Dad there, organizing the pantry.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. I watched as he moved from the pantry to the laundry room cupboards. He was orderly, but this was above the norm.

  “Hi, Lexi.” He seemed agitated, but unless I wanted a fifty-minute lecture complete with overheads and laser pointer on whatever political “moron” had annoyed him, it was better not to ask.

  It was Monday, my dinner night. “Just you and me tonight, right?” I asked. “Mom’s at an early-planning meeting for the Easter celebration at church.”

  He grunted from inside the pantry.

  “Anything special you want?” I asked, still trying to put a finger on the vibe.

  “Whatever you make is good,” he said. Uh-huh.

  I did some research on Allrecipes.com and finally found some inspiration. I kneaded some dough and set it aside to rise. Then I went to put some things away in my room.

  Just for fun, I unwrapped the Chihuly vase and held it up to the window. Even the muddy mid-February twilight cast a lovely glow through the handblown vase. I would find a home for it— and for me. I had tucked away last week’s paycheck in savings. I’d tuck away this one too. Soon I’d have enough for a deposit, if I could find someplace willing to work within my budget.

  I sat on my bed and looked at my Bible, unopened since my foray to church with Mom about a month ago. I had to give her props. She asked if I was coming to church with her the next week, and when I’d said no, she hadn’t pushed or even asked again.

  Remembering the verse I’d thought of at IHOP, I flipped to the concordance in the back and looked up “plan.” The reference sent me to Jeremiah 29:11-13.

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

  With all my heart. With all my heart, I’d chased a job. With all my heart, I’d chased a man. With all my heart, I was scoping Craigslist.org every day to find a new apartment or condo. But seeking God? Not so much.

  I set the Bible aside and put one of Mom’s bud vases on the table with a rose I’d brought home from L’Esperance, then checked on my dough.

  I stretched the dough out nice and thin, Italian style, and let it rest and rise. I cranked the oven to “phoenix”—four hundred and fifty degrees—so the bricks I’d laid in the bottom of the oven would get nice and hot. I’d have to take them out and stack them in the garage when I was done. Mom didn’t like bricks in her oven.

  I cooked down tomatoes, sugar, salt, and a pinch of basil, then spread it over the rising dough. Now, for toppings: what did we have?

  After rummaging through the fridge and cupboards, I diced artichoke hearts, pitted Kalamata olives, chopped feta cheese, and put thin shreds of Italian salami on my Athens-Meets-Rome Pizza.

  “This is really good,” my d
ad said when we sat down to eat. “Not as good as that beef stroganoff that you make, though. Where did you get the recipe for that?”

  I beamed proudly. “I made it up myself.”

  “Wow!” he said. “I thought you got it off that recipe site you’re always visiting.”

  “Nope. I didn’t like what they had to offer, so I tweaked a couple of recipes till it became what I wanted it to be.”

  Dad chewed his pizza and took a sip of his beer before answering. “Why don’t you put your recipes on there too? You make things that are good but still simple American food. Do they pay you for those recipes?”

  I wish. “No, they don’t pay.”

  But why didn’t I post my recipes? Well, what if no one else liked them?

  Silence extended well beyond the time needed to chew and swallow. In fact, it seemed to stretch into the time it would take to digest the food!

  Dad finally spoke. “It doesn’t sound like the cooking and baking thing is going to pay, Lexi. Why not let your old dad help you? I have several contacts who might be able to find a decent job for you.”

  “I’m doing okay, Dad.”

  “You can’t live on what you’re making, Lexi.”

  “I could live on the assistant manager’s salary. And it’s a place to start.”

  “You had time to start, Lexi. It’s long passed. And who knows if you’ll get the manager’s job?”

  He should have been a lawyer after all.

  “I will get that job, Dad. I’m a natural for it. I love food, I’m motivated, I understand both baking and French.”

  “I could ask Uncle Bennie to look.”

  I stood up. “No, Dad. Don’t mention anything to Uncle Bennie.” I started clearing the table. “I don’t want any help. I want to do it on my own now. And I’ve made a commitment.” I don’t know want you to know I was fired, Dad. I want you to be proud of me.

  “Have they made a commitment to you?” Dad asked.

  My silence was my answer and he knew it, but at least I hadn’t given in.

  He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card, then slid it across the table.

  “Peterson’s Food Distribution. Mack Abiad, Manager, Information Services,” I read aloud. “What is this?”