A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy

by A. Gardner

  "Nicky's."

  I step out of the car, and immediately my heart starts racing.

  "I've got to hand it to you, Jeff. You are full of surprises."

  "Don't tell me you've never heard of Nicky's?" he says. "About half our class raves about it every Monday morning."

  "I guess I'm always busy reading." I shrug and step carefully on the gravel path so I don't twist my ankles. Jeff walks slowly, assuming that I will too because of the shoes I'm wearing. I surprise him when I stroll up to the front door without any problems. I survived dancing pointe for half my life. High heels on a gravel road is no problem.

  When Jeff opens the door a chime rings, but I can hardly hear it. Nicky's Bar looks exactly how I imagined it would. From outside I assumed it was one of those side of the highway stops with pool tables and men in leather drinking the night away. I assumed right. I follow Jeff to the bar, feeling out of my element. I focus on keeping my posture straight. I slouch when I'm nervous.

  "Jeff," the barman says as we approach him. He's wearing an orange, flannel shirt, and it's tucked in so you can see just how far his beer belly extends. A thin strip of facial hair outlines his jaw, making him look like he's wearing a chin strap. The man holds out a hand, and Jeff shakes it like the two of them are old friends. "How are you, man?"

  "Nice to see you, Nicky," Jeff answers. "Bring us two of the usual, will you?"

  "Hey, man. You got it."

  "Come here often?" I comment. Jeff rotates his stool so that he's facing the pool tables. He stretches out his arms and rests them on the counter.

  "I spent a year in Ireland when I was twenty-five," he responds. He repositions his arms so that his bulky biceps are on full display. "Ever since then I have to know where my local pub is, no matter where I am."

  "What did you do there for a whole year?"

  He scoots a little closer to me. I bite the corner of my lip, staring briefly at his golden locks and the way they shine in the light. Jeff turns and looks at me. He chuckles and touches a strand of his hair.

  "Do I have something on my face?" he teases.

  "Your hair, actually." I squint, trying to look closer at a crusted piece of something hidden behind his ear. It looks like flour. Jeff automatically runs his fingers through his hair until he finds the leftover school assignment hiding in his mane.

  "Oh." He wipes his hands on his shirt. "That's embarrassing."

  "So." I change the subject. "Ireland, you say?"

  "Oh, yes. I lived there for a while when I decided to backpack through Europe. I stopped in a little village where this old lady ran a book shop. She needed an assistant to do the bookkeeping, so I stayed for a while."

  "Why did you leave?" I ask.

  "Well." He turns his stool so it's facing the bar counter again. "My dad passed away, so I went home. Got a proper desk job and woke up one morning years later wondering what the hell I was doing."

  "So you came here?"

  Nicky hands the two of us a cold mug of beer. The froth on the top barely spills over onto the counter.

  "Cheers." Jeff takes a sip and nods as Nicky places two baskets of fries in front of us. Fries are one of the many foods I've indulged in since I injured my back. Jeff watches me study the basket. I pick up a fry, impressed by how thick they are and how hot they are.

  "Fresh out of the fryer," he comments, taking a bite.

  I copy him but soon regret it when the heat sears my tongue. I pull the chunk of potato out of my mouth and blow on it until it's cool enough to taste. When I finally have the chance to try it I'm amazed that something this good came from this bar.

  "That extra crunch it has—"

  "Beer batter," Jeff says. "These are seriously some of the best beer battered fries I've had. Nicky's grandpa started making them with their leftover beer back in the day."

  "Wow." I look behind the bar where the man called Nicky is wiping glasses with a clean rag. He briefly looks up and winks at me. "These are really good."

  "Good enough for me to bring the bull out?" Nicky butts in. "We never get enough chicks in here who want to ride the bull."

  "Don't push it, Nicky." Jeff laughs and takes another gulp of his beer. "He says that, yet they bring out the bull every weekend."

  Nicky shrugs and chuckles to himself.

  "Maybe I'll come back on a Saturday then," I respond.

  "You heard her say it, man." Nicky nods and returns to tending his bar.

  I can't imagine Bree in a place like this, riding a mechanical bull in front of drunken strangers. But there's still a lot I don't know about her, or Cole, or Jeff for that matter. I eat another fry, remembering my first greasy taste of them in college. My mom was very strict with me when it came to food. I guess that's why I always felt like it was Christmas when Grandma Liz came over to bake.

  "You still haven't told me what your plans are when you graduate," I say, watching Jeff down his basket of fries like they might disappear any minute now.

  "What are your plans?"

  "Still deciding," I answer.

  "I'm going to open a bagel shop." Jeff nods as he eats another fry in between breaths. "All kinds of bagels. And pastries, too."

  "In Seattle?"

  "Or Ireland." He chuckles. "We'll see what happens."

  I take a tiny taste of my drink and slowly allow myself to relax. Inch by inch I work on my basket of fries, gradually forgetting about my incident with Cole. It feels good to let that all go for a night and pretend I'm not on the brink of failing my courses. I focus on the positive instead—the fact that I rocked those éclairs after class, and I'm sitting in a biker bar eating junk food with a guy who looks like he sleeps on the beach.

  Before I have the chance to ask for a refill, Jeff's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, and immediately his shoulders go tense. He turns slightly so that I can no longer see his lips. He clears his throat and reluctantly takes the call.

  "Yeah," he says quietly. "Now? Really?" He takes a deep breath. "I'm kind of in the middle of something." He pauses for a couple minutes and rubs his forehead. "No," he mutters. "No. I don't want that. Okay, fine." He glances at me for a brief second. "Okay, I will. Bye."

  "Is everything okay?" I ask. By the frazzled look in his eye, I know that it isn't.

  "Yeah." He looks down at his empty basket. "It's just…something has come up and…"

  "We need to get going," I finish.

  My ex used to get that same look on his face when we would go out for Chinese. On more than one occasion he left suddenly because of some family emergency at his brother's food truck. Turns out our date nights kept landing on his dudes only poker night, and he was just too lazy to reschedule.

  "Sorry."

  "For what?" I make it easy for him by saying good-bye to Nicky and taking a handful of fries to go. "We came. We sat. We ate."

  "I promise I'll make it up to you," Jeff replies.

  That's what they always say.

  "It's okay," I answer. "Thanks for the beer."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cole looks a little tense as he takes his seat behind me. I know he's thinking about last night. I came home from my half date with Jeff and ended up eating most of Bree's oatmeal raisin cookies. I told her all about Jeff's sketchy phone call, all the while wanting to blurt out everything that Cole and I saw in the student kitchens. I promised Cole that we would forget about it, so I went to bed instead. I woke up about three times last night due to a very confused and very lost cricket in my room.

  "Look who decided to show," Bree mutters. I look over my shoulder and see Jeff enter the classroom. He avoids looking in my direction. Jerk. Bree seems to be more offended than me that Jeff bailed on our date before it even got started. Maybe she should go out with him.

  "Cut him some slack," I whisper. "Maybe there really was an emergency or something."

  "Like what?" She shakes her head. "His roommate lost his key?"

  "Listen up," Professor Sellers announces. "I have an important announ
cement to make." I focus my attention on the one teacher at CPA that I'm having a hard time liking. Not only did I sicken him with my lame attempt at pie making and nearly burn down his kitchen, but I called him Mr. Sellers once on accident because that's how we address all the other teachers. He reminded me that the proper way to address him was either Professor or Chef.

  "This ought to be good," I whisper to Bree.

  "Mr. Dixon wants me to inform you all of a little contest we are having this year."

  "Mr. Dixon," I murmur. "Surely that's not the appropriate way to address the school's president."

  Bree giggles.

  "Perhaps you would like to make the announcement, Poppy." The professor looks right at me. I shake my head. "So sorry to interrupt your little conversation."

  "No biggie," I snidely reply. He narrows his eyes and glares at me for a few seconds. He's trying to intimidate me, but it isn't going to work.

  "As I was saying," he continues. "The school is putting on a contest, and all students are encouraged to enter. Entries will be made after the Christmas holiday."

  "What kind of entries?" Georgina asks.

  "Desserts." He smiles. "The best dessert will win, and that student will receive a position interning with the one and only Jean Pierre." The class breaks out in whispers. "Yes, that's right. The winning student will receive a coveted internship with one of the world's top pastry chefs in Paris."

  "Paris?" I whisper. "I have always wanted to go there."

  "What are the requirements for each entry?" Georgina asks. She's looking calm and collected compared to the students around her.

  "One entry per student," Professor Sellers answers. "And you can submit anything that can be served as a dessert. No savory entries, please. The judges are looking for originality more than anything else. The recipe must be of your own creation. No team entries."

  "Excellent," I hear Georgina say.

  "What are you going to make?" I whisper to Bree. She shrugs and stares off into space.

  Hardly anyone is paying attention when Professor Sellers starts explaining the differences between galettes and tarts. I find myself starting to daydream about Paris too. The cobblestone streets. The fresh farmers' markets. The authentic French food and an excuse to eat carbs three times a day. I have to win that contest. It will prove to everyone and to myself that I do belong here, and I am a good chef.

  Not to mention winning would be the perfect payback for Georgina.

  "Red velvet," Bree mutters.

  "Huh?"

  "I think maybe I'll do a red velvet layered cake," she says.

  "Well, you are the best cake maker here." I am happy for her, but I am also jealous, because I know she will be a top contender. I glance over at Georgina who is taking notes. I am sure she already has her entry perfectly planned out in her head.

  And the judges' phone numbers on speed dial.

  I doodle on my notepad and feel like it has only been minutes when Professor Sellers concludes his lecture and leaves us to do our assignment for the day. We've been tasked with making a simple fruit tart with ingredients of our choice, but this time we have to calculate our own nutrition facts.

  "Remember," Professor Sellers says as he passes my desk. "There is such a thing as too sweet."

  I nod and accept his advice even though inside I'm cursing at him.

  "Sounds like my last boyfriend," Bree jokes.

  "So red velvet, huh?" I turn to her and close my notebook. "Isn't that a southern thing? It will have to be really good to win."

  "I have an old school recipe with beet juice and everything," she comments. "I only break it out for special occasions, because it's amazing."

  "Wow."

  "What about you?" she asks. "What are you going to submit?"

  I've been wondering the same thing myself. My mind is moving at a million miles a minute trying to decide. I want to perfect something that takes a lot of skill. If I do that, the judges will know that I mean business. I am not just an average woman about to turn thirty who thinks that Betty Crocker counts as being made from scratch because you have to mix it.

  "What do you think of a napoleon?"

  "Whoa." Her eyes go wide. "Aren't those kind of tricky to make?"

  "But they're good."

  "There's a ton of ways to mess it up," she goes on. "First there's the consistency of the cream, and then there's the puff pastry that can go soggy on you. Not to mention you have to make the design on top look artistic and professional, and—"

  "Okay," I interrupt. "I get it. It's risky, and I've never made one before."

  "You better get practicing."

  I was afraid she might say that.

  "I'm going to have my serving platter handmade and flown in from New York City," I hear Georgina say. She is talking to one of her friends as she cuts kiwis. She's purposely talking loud enough for the entire classroom to hear. Georgina lifts her chin and continues to talk about how she has this secret family recipe that has won all kinds of awards in the past. She thinks she's the winner already.

  "I don't care who wins," Bree mutters under her breath. "As long as someone beats her."

  I laugh and get to work on my tart. I start by mixing my crust, but I stop when the strong scent of cologne fills my nose. I sniff my strawberries again to make sure I'm not going crazy. A hand touches my shoulder, and makes my chest start pounding.

  "Hey, Poppy," Jeff says.

  "Oh, hey." I carry on with my tart like nothing is wrong.

  "About last night," he begins. "I really am sorry about how things played out."

  "Don't worry about it," I respond.

  He grins. He must have thought I would put up a fuss. Scold him, maybe? Instead I do what I usually do when guys act lame. I try to make them jealous.

  "I am a man of my word. I'll make it up to you."

  "Actually," I respond. "I am not sure I'll have time now with this contest coming up. Cole and I are going to be in here practicing every night and weekend I suspect."

  "Oh." Jeff looks surprised. He folds his arms. I look up at him and his ice blue eyes glimmer in the light.

  "He's a good tutor." I sigh.

  "Cole?" he repeats.

  I look back at Cole and wait for him to make eye contact. When he does I wink at him for Jeff to see. Cole stares at me looking confused before shaking his head.

  "Maybe after midterms?"

  "Sure," he replies. "Midterms."

  I nod.

  As he grins and walks away, I hear Bree giggle. She glares at me like I'm insane for letting Jeff get off that easy.

  "If he's not your type just tell him," she whispers. "Otherwise, make him buy you a nice steak dinner."

  "I don't know if I like him like that or not," I admit. "It's complicated."

  "Are you sure?" Bree glances back at him with a twinkle in her eye. She tosses her strawberry blonde locks over her shoulder. "He stinks at first impressions, but I hear he drinks as much coffee as you do."

  "Hang on." I raise my eyebrows. "Weren't you the one who called him a jerk earlier?"

  "I can't help it. I'm unusually bitter when it comes to flaky men. He's a jerk for running off like he did, but that doesn't mean you have to turn him away." She glances over her shoulder at Georgina who is forming her tart in her specialized tart pan.

  "Oh." I place a hand on my chest and sport a wide grin. "I see what you're doing. You want me to lead Jeff on just long enough to drive Georgina crazy."

  Bree looks away and gets back to slicing peaches. She chooses a small bowl and begins measuring ingredients to mix her glaze. She arranges her fruit on her cutting board in the shape of her tart. She studies the design before shaking her head and changing it.

  "So," she breathes. "It's the least you could do to get her back for what she did to you."

  "This contest will take care of that," I say quietly. "Can you imagine the look on her face if I won?" Bree pauses for a minute and nods in agreement.

  I take a deep breath
, realizing that if I want to win I will have to give up all of my free time.

  All of it.

  * * *

  I bite the bullet and stay after my evening class with Miss Chester to begin practicing the art of napoleons. Cole promised his roommate that he would make dinner, so he said he would meet me later if I needed him. I reminded him that I wasn't planning on using an oven, so he had the night off.

  Miss Chester cleans up her station as I turn my focus to napoleons. I look at a few pictures of this tasty dessert on my laptop for inspiration. There are so many things I have to figure out.

  Do I want to use fruit?

  Do I want to use chocolate?

  Do I want to make a traditional vanilla napoleon or come up with my own concoction?

  "Are you sure you don't want my help?" Miss Chester asks before leaving me by myself. Despite the rumors circulating about me among the staff, Miss Chester's opinion of me hasn't seemed to change. She is a patient middle-aged woman. She's short, petite, and light on her feet. She also whips together most of the recipes in my school booklet by heart. She traveled the world working for a company that organizes chocolate shows. I had no idea that things like that even existed until she shared her story with the class. Miss Chester went from event planning to entering her own confections in competitions, eventually winning a national award for her mint chocolate bonbon.

  "Ask me in a week or two," I reply. "I want to try and figure it out on my own first."

  "I'm rooting for you, Poppy." She takes off her glasses and picks up her purse. "You don't have as much experience as the other students but you are more creative than most."

  "Thanks, Miss Chester."

  "Class is over. Call me Mel." She smiles and glances at the pictures of napoleons on my laptop on her way out. "Ballsy choice."

  "I am hoping it will show the judges that I belong here."

  "As long as you believe it." She glances at the time. "Ah, I need to get home to Norman."

  "So you are married?" I ask, feeling way more comfortable asking her personal questions that any of the other teachers. "Some of us have wondered that since you hardly ever bring up your personal life. On second thought, none of the teachers really do."