Let Them Eat Cake

by Sandra Byrd

  On her breaks, she smoked Gauloises, and I dipped coffee beans in deathly dark chocolate.

  I was busy, and I liked it. Sophie and I ran the shop up front during the rushes at breakfast and lunch, and then I ran back to help Patricia for the hours in between. I was a go-to girl for a lot of things, but I knew I was getting experience in every area of the shop.

  One day, Sophie and I took a quick break outside. Sophie lit a cigarette, and I tried to forget every dire warning my mother had told me about secondhand smoke.

  “So why do you work here, if you’re a vegan?” I asked.

  “I think I’d like to open my own coffee shop or something. Some kind of business, and that’s the only one I know right now. I’m thinking of applying for a small business loan. Roger doesn’t think it’s a good idea, though. He wants me to manage his band.”

  “Oh,” I said. I’d lived long enough to know not to comment on someone’s boyfriend at this stage in a friendship.

  We chatted lightly about nothing, feeling our way from animosity toward collegiality, and then walked back inside together. On our way through the catering area, a silver platter caught my eye.

  “Oh,” I said. “Dan returned this?” Sophie raised her eyebrow. “Dan?”

  I ducked my head and rushed to explain. “I called to apologize, and he said he was going to bring it by.”

  Sophie smiled suggestively. “He did ask for you by name. He stopped by on Sunday before you came in.”

  “Oh, no big deal.” It wasn’t a big deal. So why was I disappointed?

  “He’s sending his assistant back on Tuesday to get another special order,” Sophie said. “Frankly, I was surprised he came to get it himself last time. Someone must have been sick. Do you want to prep his order?”

  “Sure,” I said. I’d do it first thing Tuesday morning. I enjoyed preparing the catering trays.

  Tuesdays were really busy days now that the bakery was closed on Monday. Luc had begun delivering lunches to a few local businesses to offset the down times, and that added business—and work.

  “Alexandra?” Luc came into the pastry room. He raised his eyebrows at Patricia, who nodded that she could do without me for the moment.

  “Just a minute, I’ll grab my paperwork,” I said, thinking he wanted to talk about the special products rack.

  “Non, Alexandra, there’s someone here to see you,” he said. He stayed back in the bakery, discreet, but watching.

  Who could it be?

  I walked into the café and saw the man in suspenders standing in front of the bread rack.

  “Hi, it’s Dan,” he said. He held out his hand. “Remember me? I came by to pick up the special order.”

  Thankfully, I’d done it up that morning. He’d arrived fifteen minutes early.

  I liked that he wore suspenders. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were sending someone for it in a few minutes. Let me get it from the walk-in cooler.”

  “Wait,” he said. “I came early on purpose. I wondered if you might have time for a break?”

  Sophie leapt in. “Yes, what good timing. It’s exactly time for Lexi’s break. I’ll go make sure the tray is ready and bring it out in a few minutes.”

  She disappeared into the back. The Trois Amis pretended not to watch.

  “Lexi,” Dan repeated. “I like that even better than Alexandra.”

  “Would you like a café crème?” I asked. It seemed as good a thing to say as any.

  “Sure,” he said. “And one of those napoleons. Is that what they’re called?” He pointed to the case. “Since I imagine I’m getting bread and cheese today and not pastry.”

  My face colored, but I could tell Dan was only kidding. I wasn’t going to let him get the upper hand.

  “Their official French name is mille-feuilles,” I said, “not napoleons. I’d be glad to get you one.”

  I made coffee for us both, then plated a mille-feuille and brought it to the café table. I sat across from him.

  He was kind of cute, but I was only being nice to him because his account was important to L’Esperance. It’s good business.

  He took a sip of his coffee. “I wanted to come myself today because I told you I’d look for you when I brought the tray back, and you weren’t here.”

  “Yeah, I come in late on Sunday mornings.”

  “Your colleague said you were at church.” He nodded toward Sophie, who was pretending not to eavesdrop as she handed a cookie to one of the kids who came in every day. She eyed me over the little girl’s head and winked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Thanks for placing another order in spite of my mistake last time. I personally prepared these trays and made sure they look good.”

  “Everything turned out fine,” he said. He bit into his mille-feuille. “Delicious! Dont you like them?” He motioned to my lack of pastry.

  “I do like them,” I said. “They’re my favorite. I just try not to eat them too often.”

  Like, any day I have a half marathon run planned.

  He fiddled with his fork. “I can see how that’d be tough, working in a bakery. Do you work only in the front? Or in the back as well?”

  “Both,” I said. “In fact, I made that mille-feuille you’re eating.” I beamed. “Well, okay, I prepped it, even if I didn’t make it.”

  I washed the bowls. But that was prepping. No one can make food in a dirty bowl.

  Dan stayed long enough to make small talk about my work and his. I was glad we hadn’t lost his company as a customer.

  I was also glad because….well, it was fun to talk to him.

  Finally Dan stood and Sophie waltzed out with the catering box. She placed it in my hands, then went to help a café customer.

  “Thanks again,” I said. “I’m glad this all worked out okay.”

  “I’ll be sure to return the tray sometime other than Sunday morning, Lexi,” he said, letting his voice linger on my name.

  Something tingled inside me. He had a nice smile, I’d give him that.

  But he was also a lawyer, and I had plenty of those in my life already; no need for another one.

  Later that week, Patricia called from La Couronne and said she was ill and wasn’t coming in. Could I please make sure all the pastries were out and looking good?

  “Mais oui!” I told her, ecstatic. “Don’t worry!”

  “What’s with the high-watt smile?” Luc asked me, playfully tugging on the back of my apron strings.

  “Patricia wants me to put the pastries out for her today,” I said. “She’s sick.”

  “Good for you, bad for me,” he said. “I’d better get over to La Couronne and make sure everything is okay. The manager there is a little…” He waggled his hand back and forth as if to say “iffy.” “We’re going to replace him soon,” he said. “With a woman. Women seem to make better managers for bakeries.”

  I was a woman, a woman with managerial abilities wielding full control of the pastry case today. My smile grew. I was on my way.

  Luc talked with Sophie, handed something to her, and then left the shop. I felt bad for him, having to come back later and close up since Patricia wasn’t here. He was running around a lot. I wondered if he ever had downtime or a night out. Or a date.

  I took stock of the pastry case. “What do you think we need?” I asked Sophie.

  “Lemon and fruit tarts,” she said. “Apple tarts. Mille-feuilles and perhaps some of those mini opera cakes.”

  Sophie seemed so sure of herself, so in charge. The way she said it made me vaguely uncomfortable, like I was talking to my boss.

  “Maybe a couple of chocolate mousses, too,” I said, needing to add something.

  She happily agreed, and things returned to normal. “When I get the register done, I’ll come back and see you in your new home.”

  I went back to the pastry kitchen and pulled out the lemon tarts, topped with the lemon slices I’d candied the day before. I’d stayed late, off the clock. Luc had noticed.

  I set out the
rest of the pastries, and Sophie came back. “You look good back here!” she said.

  “Who’s up front?”

  “Auguste.”

  Jacques, one of the other Trois Amis, put a tall chef’s hat, a starched toque blanche, on top of my head. He and Sophie clapped, and Guillaume took a picture with his phone.

  “Voilà, le chef de cuisine,” Jacques said with a flourish. Then he and Guillaume returned to rolling the day’s fifteen hundred croissants.

  Sophie sat on one of the stainless steel counters, and I bit back a comment. It was like someone wiping their hands on the frame of the Mona Lisa. Okay, not really, but the room was mine today!

  “So what’s with the hat?” she asked.

  “Standard chef wear,” I told her. “Each fold in the hat represents one way to cook an egg.”

  “There are a lot of folds on there,” she said. “Several dozen.”

  “A hundred or more,” I answered, dusting cocoa over the top of the mini opera cakes.

  “Did they teach you that in college?” she asked.

  I put on my most serious, academic face. “Wikipedia.”

  She laughed, and I did too.

  “Don’t you want to smoke?” I asked. She usually used this time as her smoking break.

  “Nah,” she said. “I’ll hang with you for a while. You’re different than I thought,” she said. “I thought you’d be a spoiled little college girl who thought she was something special because she spoke French.”

  “I thought you were bossy because you were experienced. And blocking everything I wanted to learn just to be mean.”

  “I was,” she admitted. “But when you had your meltdown I saw you weren’t Barbie, so maybe I didn’t need to hate you on principle anymore.” She smiled.

  I pulled the sheet of mille-feuille out of the cooler and slid the pastry off the huge pan and onto the chilled marble work counter. Patricia made them every couple of days and then froze them so they cut neatly.

  “Mille-feuille means ‘one thousand sheets’ in French, and the flaky pastry and thick pastry cream make a mess if sliced when thawed,” I said in my best professorial voice.

  “Learn that on Wikipedia?” Sophie teased.

  “I don’t know if crème pâtissière is even on Wikipedia,” I laughed. I cut along the edges to even them up, leaving fragments of crust on the counter.

  Sophie checked her watch and jumped off the counter. “I’d still like to come with you to church sometime, if you give me a ride. No car. And Roger would definitely not be into driving me there. Might worry that I’ll go moral on him.”

  I realized I should run the gauntlet once with the Impact Group before I took Sophie.

  “Can I eat one?” Jacques strode into the room, grinning, and motioned to the cut-off crusts. I bet Patricia let him eat the ends.

  “Bien sÛr.” I handed one over.

  Jacques bit into the edge, now thawed enough that the crème pâtissèrie swelled out, pillowlike, onto the pastry. “Magnifique!”

  Sophie winked at me. I snapped a towel in her direction as she left to relieve Auguste.

  Alone again, I stared at the mille-feuille, then picked up one of the crusts and nibbled at the end. Flaky, buttery, light on my tongue. Then the soothing, vanilla-flecked cream hit. And last, tart-sweet lemon glaze with chocolate squiggles. I took three or four bites and then set aside another crust for later.

  I sliced the mille-feuille, humming to myself. Maybe Patricia would be sick all week.

  When I got home that night I looked up crème pâtissèrie on Wikipedia. Not there? Criminal! I got typing.

  My own little contribution to the civilizing of American desserts.

  A few nights later, while trying to sneak out to the midweek church service, I ran into my mom in the kitchen.

  “Where are you going all dressed up?” she asked.

  “Church,” I whispered. I tried to slip past her, but alas, it was not to be.

  “Church!” she cried excitedly. “In the middle of the week!”

  I sighed and gave up. “My friend Sophie works on Sundays, so if I’m going to bring her to the Wednesday service, I need to try it out.”

  “Oh, Im so glad you’re going.” She hugged me.

  She was happy, so why was I so reluctant? A few reasons, actually. First, there was the Desperation Factor, in which everyone in the room would spend the entire night sizing up every member of the opposite sex as a possible mate. Then there was the John Travolta Factor, in which a large number of single Christian men did not know how to dress themselves.

  And I was going alone.

  I walked into the church and felt like I had at college in Belling-ham all over again. The new girl.

  The annex they held the class in was nice. It had its own latte bar, and one of the group members acted as a casual barista.

  There were leather easy chairs and small groupings of comfortable furniture.

  I looked around the room. The only person I recognized was Jill, whom I went to Sunday school with in junior high and high school. Back then, she was like a drill sergeant about activities, constantly prepared with sign-up sheets galore. I hoped she hadn’t brought her clipboard and whistle.

  “Hi.” A guy about Luc’s age approached me. Funny how I now judged all men against his standard. The guy held out his hand. “Have we met?”

  It didn’t seem like a come-on, just genuine and nice. His clothes matched, and he hadn’t flipped the collar on his shirt like a frat boy. I felt embarrassed that I had labeled these people with my obviously erroneous assumptions before I even met them.

  Except Jill. I was right about Jill.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” I answered. “I’m Lexi. I went to this church growing up, but I’ve been away for a few years, so I’m basically new.”

  “I’m Brett. Let me introduce you around.”

  He introduced me to a few people, and I recognized a few more. Then we got to Jill.

  “Well, Lexi, you’re back,” she said, eyeing me. “I thought you’d left Seattle in your dust! Off to France, wasn’t it?”

  “By way of Bellingham,” I said.

  “Did you get there? I’d love to hear all about it.” She still pulled her hair back in a ponytail and wore no makeup, but she had a furrow between her brows now.

  “No, I didn’t. But I work in a French bakery downtown.”

  “How quaint,” Jill said. “A bakery. I’m working for a lobbyist downtown. I’ll have to drop by sometime.”

  The group talked as everyone drank coffee, then broke up into discussion groups. Actually, it was okay. The discussion was good—kind of stilted, but the church had always been that way, so what had I expected? A tent revival?

  I still didn’t feel right here. Maybe because I was new again.

  “Next week we’re off for Easter,” the leader, Bill, said at the end of the night, “but the week after that is our mixer. If everyone would sign up to bring or provide something, we’ll have a good time. We’re going to have a game night.”

  “Is it okay to bring a guest?” I asked.

  “Yeah, definitely,” Bill said. “A good time for that.”

  Jill’s clipboard started to circulate. I suppressed a smile. I’d known her since seventh grade, and she obviously hadn’t changed. Definitely a Type A personality.

  By the time the clipboard reached me, all the “bring food” places were filled in with names. I chewed on my lip. Food was what I did best, but the only open spaces were for providing icebreakers. Because it was a game night, the icebreakers were supposed to be based on games everyone has played.

  Lovely. I signed my name and handed the clipboard to the woman next to me. The simple act of looking me in the eye brought a deep blush to her face. She hadn’t said a word the entire night.

  It had been a lot easier being at church group things when Tanya had been with me. I wonder if she’s been going to church with Steve? We’d have to talk about it.

  I dove back i
nto the present. “Hi, have we met? I’m Lexi.”

  “Michelle,” the quiet girl said. “Nice to meet you.”

  I left that night not feeling all that bad. I could bring Sophie here without worrying. Finding someplace for myself was another matter entirely.

  I went to work early the next day and helped Sophie set up. With a little help from my friend café crème, I dealt with the morning rush and then went back to help Patricia.

  “Alexandra, here,” Luc called as I passed. He waved me in front of one of the machines he used to bake bread.

  “I want you to learn to roll dough,” he said.

  The only person I’d seen him teach to use the massive dough roller was Auguste, whom Luc was mentoring. This could not be better. I was learning all aspects of L’Esperance.

  “Move here,” he said, positioning me right in front of the machine. “Now, take a morceau de pâte, a piece of the dough, and run it through the rollers, like this. You see?” He reached around me from one side and ran it through, then reached around me from the other side and ran another blob of dough through.

  It had been a long time since a guy stood so close to me. Since Greg, and Greg and I had been really cautious about not getting too physical.

  Luc didn’t touch me, nor I him, but I was intensely aware of how close he really was. I couldn’t breathe without smelling his cologne. It wasn’t spicy-smooth like Greg’s, just smooth. Really, really smooth.

  Luc ran a few more dough balls through the automatic kneader, then stood back and let me do it on my own. He’d moved away, but I still felt that presence, like an invisible touch. And the scent of that cologne.

  “Bon. You really do deserve to wear la toque blanche,” Luc teased. “I saw the photo.”

  I looked over his shoulder at Guillaume, the naughty tattle-tale who had snapped my picture. I hoped my hair looked good in it.

  Everyone got a big laugh out of Luc’s comment except Patricia, who glared out the pastry room door in my general direction.

  I stepped back from the dough machine to see Sophie motioning in my direction. I met her halfway.

  “There’s a cute guy here to see you,” she said.

  “The lawyer from Davis?” I asked.