Let Them Eat Cake

by Sandra Byrd

  A recipe writer!

  Sophie and I overcame our unspoken discomfort about the special products sales rack, and I didn’t say anything about her closing the store several afternoons a week. I still didn’t know what to make of it, but when I’d talked with Tanya about it, she’d agreed that it didn’t look like a good sign. I was trying to share my faith with Sophie, though, and I truly liked her. I didn’t want to burn that bridge.

  After we cleaned the café on Sunday evening, I went back to clean the bakery section too.

  “Voilà, c’est le Phoenix, ” Patricia said gruffly, as I walked into the back.

  I smiled. It was the closest she came to being friendly. “Come on now, no more ashes since my one accident,” I said, pointedly looking at her burned hands. “And I baked all last night.” I lugged some large mixing bowls to the sink.

  Luc came into the kitchen to chat with Patricia before leaving, as he usually did. “And just what did you bake, mademoiselle?”

  “Rhubarb crisp,” I said.

  “Buerk, la rhubarbe, ” Luc said. “C’est une mauvaise herbe.”

  “It’s not a weed!” I insisted. “It tastes wonderful. And rhubarb is listed in Larousse” I trumped them, knowing a mention in Larousse, the bible of gastronomy, would end the discussion.

  “What do you expect from a culture that uses cake mixes?” Patricia teased. “And thinks that a box of Jell-O qualifies as dessert? Mais non.” But I could tell she was impressed I knew rhubarb was in Larousse.

  I strode past them, imitating their haughtiness. My culture did just fine with desserts.

  When Luc and Patricia had finished their conversation, Luc said, “Well done, Alexandra. I’ll see you tomorrow and taste what you can do. My money is on you, as Americans say.”

  He winked, and I recalled the smell of his aftershave and the closeness of his forearms leaning near mine as he helped me knead dough. He left the room, and my eyes trailed after him until Patricia called me.

  “Attention, Alexandra,” she said.

  “Oui?”

  “I’ll be at La Couronne the entire day tomorrow getting the shop ready before la famille arrives from France. I do not have time to make the crème pâtissèrie before I leave. We have a special order for mille-feuilles. Can you make it in the morning, flash freeze it, and have it ready for the customers by tomorrow afternoon?”

  I tried to maintain a competent, professional demeanor in spite of my joy. “I can.” It’s not like it was pediatric neurology or anything.

  “Bon. “she said. “Save me some of the crème pâtissèrie so I can tell you how to adjust it for next time.”

  That was it. Nothing more. But it was enough.

  The next morning I arrived early. Luc and Sophie and I had a cup of coffee, Luc and I lingering a bit longer than Sophie. I mixed the crème pâtissèrie and rolled out the pastry dough before I had to help Sophie with the morning rush. I tossed the mille-feuilles into the freezer, assembled and glazed with lemon and chocolate, just as the first customers arrived. I’d slice it when it was frozen, after the rush.

  I’d been wrestling with my feelings since I’d seen the schedule. Sophie had no idea I’d been counting on getting the assistant manager’s job, and it still wasn’t a for-sure thing for her. Maybe Luc had simply asked her to fill in since I was busy in the bakery. Sophie wanted to open her own coffee shop soon. She’d be moving on.

  I hadn’t heard anything from Allrecipes.com in the few days since I’d applied either. Most of their candidates had probably gone to culinary school.

  I ran up front to help Sophie, who seemed totally discombobulated. She kept making eye contact with a scruffy guy in the back of the room.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered after the rush.

  “I’m taking a break,” she said. She grabbed a cup of tea and sat with Mr. Scruffy.

  I wiped down the counter and checked the clock. I could cut and plate the mille-feuilles in an hour. I wondered who had placed the special order. I hadn’t looked, as it was one of our most popular items, but now I was dying to know. I couldn’t leave the counter and register, though, until Sophie came back from her break.

  Sophie toyed with her tea but didn’t really drink it. Mr. Scruffy leaned away from her rather than toward her. Finally he left without giving Sophie any money for his pastry and coffee. She came back to the counter, sighed, and paid for it out of her own money.

  “New friend?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “I thought vegans didn’t do animals,” I teased.

  Sophie cracked a smile and then laughed out loud. “Yeah, he doesn’t have a lot of potential, does he?”

  I shook my head. “Not good enough for Saint Sophia.”

  “Right,” she said softly, thoughtfully. “Saint Sophia. No, he was a friend of Roger’s. I think I’m done with that whole crowd.”

  I’d asked her back to church, but she hadn’t wanted to come. She said she was busy, and she looked like she was being honest. Of course, I didn’t want to go back either. I felt awkward. Constrained. Maybe I’d try again. I probably should, for Sophie’s sake.

  “You’d better get going on the special order,” Sophie said. “It needs to be delivered. Since the day’s deliveries have already gone out, I said you’d bring it by.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Glad to help. Where’s it going?”

  She continued restocking the shelves like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Davis, Wilson, and Marks.”

  I stepped back. “And to whom is it being delivered?”

  “Not Dan, if that’s what you’re asking. But it’s being delivered to the same floor, so if you wanted to take a chance and stop by…”

  “You’re evil. Evil personified,” I said.

  “Yep,” she said. “That’s me. Better get going. It has to be there in an hour.”

  I walked back to the bakery and looked at myself in the big oven windows. Not too bad. Hair was okay. I needed to touch up my makeup.

  Lexi! Get a hold of yourself. It’s been weeks and the guy hasn’t called you.

  Yeah, but maybe he wanted to be pursued, like Nate said. Guys want to feel wanted too. Maybe he felt since he’d asked me out the first time and stopped by the café, that I should show some interest.

  You know, go for it, I thought.

  I readied the pastry trays and then took a few small pastry rounds and spread them with the crème pâtissèrie I’d made. That would be my excuse: I’d finally made my own, as he’d mentioned, and I wanted him to try it.

  Auguste and I loaded everything into my car, and I drove to Dan’s building, which was right across the street from Leah’s office. I pulled into the loading zone and let the security guy know what I was doing. Then I brought box after box up to the twenty-seventh floor and set up the trays in the conference room. I’d brought some flowers to scatter around the tables, and I told the receptionist to call and we’d come and get the trays in the next week.

  Then I went down to my car, took off my apron, and looked in the mirror. I opened my purse and slicked on some peach lipstick; I knew it looked good with my golden skin. I grabbed the little pink box with the special mille-feuille inside and headed back to the twenty-seventh floor.

  “Can I help you? More to deliver?” the receptionist asked.

  “Oh no, I’m bringing this by Dan Larson’s office,” I said. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Yes, about three-quarters of the way down that hall.” She pointed to a long corridor carpeted in rich blue with stainless-steel-framed art hanging on the walls.

  I walked down the hall, peeking into office windows. Lots of high heels and shiny hair. Lots of smart-looking people.

  You’re smart, I reminded myself. Your hair is shiny.

  I tried to look like I knew what I was doing, but I still had to look into each and every office. Maybe she’d given me the wrong hallway.

  Then I saw him. Actually, I didn’t see his face first; I saw t
he suspenders, the cherry wood desk, and his strawberry blond hair nearly touching the brunette hair of a woman poring over a document with him.

  His office was a mess. Stacks of paper squatted on every available surface. A tower of stacked Starbucks cups rose in the corner. A Nerf basketball hoop was hooked over the corner of one of the barrister bookcases. I liked that.

  Dan and the woman stood on opposite sides of the desk, but they way they worked together looked…intimate. The woman laughed and pointed to something on the document, and Dan hit his forehead as if to say, “of course.” She touched the back of his hand. The two of them bowed over the document again, and despite the circles under his eyes, he was smiling.

  He didn’t see me. Maybe there was nothing going on between them, but I wasn’t up for an embarrassing confrontation if there was. After all, he hadn’t called.

  I looked at the pastry box in my hand, turned around, and walked back toward the receptionist.

  “Did you find Dan?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did,” I said, not trusting myself to look at her. I took my miniature mille-feuille and headed toward the elevator.

  The security guard seemed to sense my despair. “Anything I can do for you, miss?”

  “No, thank you,” I said and handed him the pink box. “Enjoy.”

  I got into my car and drove to L’Esperance, where I parked in the back. I sat in my car and let silent tears roll down my face for a few minutes, then pulled myself together and went back to work.

  I always heard bad things came in threes. First, no e-mail from Allrecipes.com. Then Dan and The Brunette. And as I walked into the café, I saw Jill of the Eternal Clipboard.

  She and Sophie were chatting.

  “Lexi!” she trilled as I walked into the room. “Sophie said you were doing errands, but I wanted to wait. What a cute little shop you work at.” She emphasized the word little. “If I come by this week for some lunch with my coworkers, maybe you could be our waitress!”

  “Maybe,” I said as sweetly as I could. “Sophie, I’m going back to make the pastries.” I emphasized make. “Hope to see you soon,” I told Jill, asking God to forgive me for the lie.

  I ignored the questions in Sophie’s eyes and took sanctuary in the pastry room. After a few minutes, I heard the bell over the door tinkle as Jill left.

  Sophie cast me concerned looks for the rest of the day, but she didn’t say anything until closing time. “Okay?” she asked after we finished cleaning.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Dan?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk?”

  “No. Here’s the deal,” I said. “Lawyers like lawyers. I’ve seen it in my own life. I don’t like law. I like cooking. End of story.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Your friend Jill asked me to come back to the Impact Group.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said I’d love to,” Sophie said. “I’m going to see when I can go.”

  I blinked. I had no idea she truly wanted to go back. And she hadn’t asked if I was coming too.

  So much to deal with in one day. Good for Sophie. Bad for me.

  Or was it?

  When I got home that afternoon, I pulled the romantic white blouse out of my closet and looked at it.

  I was supposed to make a move; I just made the wrong move. The wrong move with the wrong guy. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “You don’t mind coming with me, right?” Tanya asked, nervousness evident in her voice. We’d put the top down on her convertible, and I had a hard time hearing her. Not that I was complaining.

  “To the counselor?” I asked.

  She tightened her grip on the wheel. “I just wanted the moral support of someone sitting in the waiting room. My mother would completely panic, and Steve and I aren’t really there yet.”

  Yet.

  “What’s your best friend for?” I said.

  I sat in the office waiting room reading women’s magazines while Tanya talked with her therapist. I’d come with her for the six months or so after it had happened, and I’d hoped never to be back. It was an unpleasant déjà vu.

  After fifty minutes, Tanya emerged, wrote a check, and we left.

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Good,” she said. “I told her what brought all this back up, and we talked about how I could move past it.”

  “Are you coming back for more sessions?” I asked.

  “If I need to,” Tanya said. “One of the things that bugged me was the thought of another man—my husband, whoever he may be—touching me sexually in the same places that I was violated. The thought of it made me sick. I never wanted anyone to touch the same places.”

  “Hence, when things got more serious with Steve.

  “Yeah, when I thought he had potential, I backed way off. But my counselor gave me a great fact to think about. Every year, ninety-eight percent of the atoms in the body are replaced. Every cell is renewed. Every three months, you have a new skeleton. Every six weeks, you have a new skin. The skin, the body that he raped, isn’t there anymore. I’m a new me.”

  “You are a new you,” I agreed, “inside and out.”

  We drove toward my house. She was going to drop me off and go on a date. I was going to read a magazine in my brother’s old room.

  “So, no future with Dan?” she said.

  I shrugged. “He looked pretty tight with that other woman.”

  “Could you have been mistaken?”

  I considered this. “Maybe. But it’s not like he’s called either.” Out of my league.

  “So I guess that leaves French Hottie, eh?” Tanya teased.

  I laughed. “The only French hottie I’ve been in close contact with is the oven. But that might change soon.” I paused a moment. “I forgot to tell you that Dan knew the story of the loaves and fishes,” I said. I could see her mind scrambling to catch up. “I mean, on our date, he knew it.”

  She heard the sorrow in my voice. “That’s nice, Lex,” she said and laid her hand over mine for a minute.

  “So, does Steve pass the test?” I asked. The sun was setting over the Sound, and I cheered at the thought of how awesome it would look from my new apartment. I was already planning my open house.

  “Hmm,” she answered. “Not sure yet if he passes the test or not.

  I smiled, remembering when we’d decided on “The Test.” One day when we were teenagers, we came upon her mother shaving the hair out of her dad’s ears. We were totally grossed out.

  “Older men grow hair in their ears,” her mom had said, laughing. “If you’re going to get married, you’re going to end up doing this someday.”

  From that point on, it became our test. Would we be willing to shave this man’s ears in twenty or thirty years? If the answer was no, he wasn’t someone to spend a life with.

  “He isn’t particularly hairy,” Tanya noted, hope in her voice.

  “Yet.” I wiggled my eyebrows at her suggestively.

  “Speaking of weddings,” she said, shifting gears on the Beetle as we went uphill, “how are things going with Nate and Leah?”

  “All right. I never see Nate. He’s so busy working on a case that they haven’t even put money down on a place to live yet. He’s had migraines for two weeks. Leah and I are going shopping for shower stuff soon, though.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. “Steve set the date aside so he could escort me.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know. I—I think I’m going to ask Luc. I know he’s planning to go back to France for a while this summer, but I don’t think he’ll be gone by then.”

  “Are you going to start with him at the wedding?” she asked dubiously. “I mean, as the first personal thing you do together?”

  “Nope. My parents are going to Whidbey next weekend to move some stuff into the new house. I’m going to ask Luc over for dinner. A deux.”

  Les apparences sont souvent trompeuses.

  Appearances are
deceiving.

  Before going to work early the next morning I quickly checked my e-mail, expecting nothing. I was wrong.

  In my inbox, received sometime during the night, was an e-mail from Allrecipes.com.

  I prayed before opening it, voice trembling. “I’ll take what you give me, Lord,” I said. I’d just read the section of Matthew where Jesus taught the vineyard workers to be content with whatever work they’d been assigned and the pay they’d agreed to work for.

  I felt peaceful but resigned myself to the e-mail being an auto response saying they’d contact me if something was available. Instead, it was a personal note.

  “They want to interview me!” I shouted.

  My father ran into the room in his slippers. “What’s the matter?” he asked, scalp pinking up.

  I pointed at the screen. “I’m going to have a job interview at Allrecipes.com, the place that I post my recipes!” I jumped up and down like a teenager, just as Mom entered the room.

  Dad looked proud, Mom hugged me, and I hugged her right back. At my first break this morning, I’d call. After a round of congratulations, I headed out to the garage. That’s when a troubling thought hit me.

  I’d made a six-month commitment to Luc. Although that was before I’d begun to doubt the assistant manager’s position. But Luc didn’t know that, and I’d promised.

  I almost ran several red lights on the way to work.

  At work, we were preparing for the visitors from France, coming over Memorial Day weekend and staying a bit beyond. Luc seemed kind of wired, so I pretty much stayed out of his way. I realized that the clock was ticking if I was going to have a date for the wedding, and I still planned to ask him to dinner. If I’d had another option, I’d have taken it and not pushed things with Luc, but I had no other option. Sometimes, I told myself, when you’re out of options, you do things you might not have done otherwise and it all works out for the best. In theory, anyway.

  I snuck away for a break in my car—the only private place I could think of besides the walk-in—and called Allrecipes.com. I hoped no one on the street honked or made a ruckus. I asked for Cameron, as I’d been instructed. He answered, a warm Caribbean lilt to his voice.