by Trent, Gayle
“She’s a master at this,” I whispered. “I think she’s even better than Chef Richards.”
Violet, Jason, Lucas, and Leslie joined us. Violet sat beside me.
“Why is she wearing those white cotton gloves?” Violet asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I made a mental note to ask her after the demo. Maybe they kept her hands from slipping or something.
The thought returned that Fiona could have bashed Chef Richards over the head with the cake stand and not left fingerprints on it if she’d been wearing the gloves at the time, but I dismissed it. If you’re angry at a boss, you simply quit your job. A decorator as talented as Fiona would have no trouble whatsoever securing another position. Besides, statistics show that people are more likely to kill a lover than an employer.
That begged the question of whether or not there had been something other than a professional relationship between the two of them. Somehow I couldn’t see that either. Fiona wasn’t the femme fatale type. Plus, I couldn’t imagine Chef Richards being attracted to anyone other than himself for long. A woman more ambitious than Fiona might’ve tried to seduce Chef Richards for whatever career boost he could offer her, but Fiona didn’t appear to be comfortable in front of an audience. I doubted it was something she’d want to do for a living. I could see her happily working behind the scenes making gorgeous wedding cakes or working in a five-star restaurant as a pastry chef. I was guessing Fiona viewed her apprenticeship with Chef Richards as a necessary evil on the road to working in a more private, quietly prestigious position.
When Fiona completed her demonstration, I excused myself from Ben, Violet, and her family, and I went to speak with Fiona privately.
Once the crowd had thinned, I stepped up to the table. “You did an excellent job. You’re so much better than Chef Richards. I was thinking as I watched you that you should be head pastry chef in an extravagant hotel somewhere.”
She shrugged. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I guess I’ve never had much confidence in myself before.” She lifted and dropped her shoulders again.
“I doubt Chef Richards ever helped you realize how talented you are,” I said. “During our class, it appeared that if he couldn’t belittle someone he didn’t say anything at all.”
“He could be all right once you got to know him. But, no, he wasn’t terribly encouraging.” She took off the cotton gloves.
“He was probably afraid he’d lose you . . . as an assistant . . . if you realized how good you were.” I’d watched her face as I’d said he might be afraid of losing her, but I didn’t detect any sign of her having more than a professional relationship with her boss. But then, I wasn’t a facial expression or body language expert by any stretch of the imagination.
I nodded toward the gloves. “Do those help keep your hands steady?”
“They do. Plus, they’re greener than latex gloves. I have several pairs of these, and I just toss them into the washer with my uniforms.” She smiled. “They can get a little warm in the summertime, but you get used to it.”
I nodded. “I’ll have to try those. Thanks.”
Most of the time I didn’t wear gloves when I was decorating . . . usually only when I was tinting fondant or using modeling chocolate. When I did wear gloves, I used thin, plastic ones that were very inexpensive. They might not have been as environmentally friendly as Fiona’s cotton gloves, but I couldn’t imagine tossing a pair of gloves with black gel coloring all over them into the wash with my other clothes . . . especially if my uniforms were white.
An announcement rang out in the ballroom: “Today’s activities for the first annual Brea Ridge Taste Bud Temptation Cake and Confectionary Arts Exhibit and Competition have now concluded. Please make your way carefully toward the exits and plan to join us again tomorrow morning at ten o’clock for another day of delicious fun. Thank you!”
I smiled at Fiona. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah. Have a good evening,” she said.
“You too.”
I turned and spotted Ben standing with Violet, Jason, Leslie, Lucas, Molly, Chris, and Alex. I made my way through the exodus to join them.
“We’re talking about going to dinner,” Jason said. “What do you think about us all descending on Dakota’s like a pack of ravenous wolves?”
I laughed. “Sounds good to me. I’m not so sure Dakota’s is ready for that, but . . . ”
“Then they’d better get ready,” Lucas said. “For a cake show, the food here wasn’t much.”
“I have to agree,” Violet said. “Did they offer boxed lunches for the decorators or anything like that? Because all they had available for spectators were the fruit and pastries in those large baskets, and those went fairly quickly.”
“That’s all that was available for us too,” I said. “If we’re given an evaluation sheet tomorrow, I’ll make a note that I heard several people saying they wished there had been a better selection and quantity of food available.”
There was another announcement: “Thank you again for joining us today. The ballroom doors will be locked in ten minutes. Please gather your belongings and exit the ballroom at this time.”
“They’re definitely throwing us out,” Ben said. “So, you guys will meet Daphne and me at Dakota’s?”
Violet said she, Jason, Lucas, and Leslie would be there.
“Are you sure it isn’t too much of an imposition for us to join you?” Molly asked.
“It’s no imposition at all,” Jason said.
“You have to come!” Leslie said.
Molly smiled. “All right, then. We’ll see you there.”
12
AFTER WE were seated at Dakota’s and waiting for our food to arrive, we had plenty of time to chat since, being the only steakhouse in town, they were swamped. The staff had pushed two tables together to accommodate our group. Alex was seated between Lucas and Leslie, Violet was sitting beside Leslie, and Jason was on Violet’s opposite side. Molly, Alex’s mom, was directly across the table from him, Chris was beside her, Ben was beside Chris, and I was to Ben’s right, facing Jason.
I peered around the men to catch Molly’s eye. “What do you do for a living, Molly?”
“I write freelance articles for magazines—and websites, now that the print magazine market is dwindling,” she said. “The writing allows me flexible hours and lets me homeschool Alex.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“How about you, Chris?” Jason asked. “What do you do?”
“I’m a pitching coach,” said Chris. “I used to play in the minor leagues, but I suffered a rotator cuff injury that pretty much put a halt to my playing professionally.”
“Did you go to The Show?” Lucas asked.
“Afraid not, buddy,” Chris said. “But I’m currently coaching a young man who I firmly believe will go all the way to the major league.”
“That’s wonderful,” Violet said. “It must be rewarding to be able to help shape a career like that.”
Chis took a sip of his soda before answering. “It is. It’s terrific to be able to look at someone’s face—especially the face of a child or a teen—and know he gets it. He understands what you’re teaching him, he’s applying it, and he’s pitching better than you were at his age. It’s a great feeling.”
I smiled at Leslie and Lucas, thinking about how much fun we’d had baking together over the past year since I had moved back to Brea Ridge. And Leslie had come such a long way. I knew that if she kept at it, she’d be an incredible decorator—far better than me—one of these days.
“Did you get to meet any of the major leaguers?” Lucas asked. “Like Big Papi, or Dustin Pedroia, or Jacoby Ellsbury?”
“Jacoby Ellsbury is cute,” Leslie said, and then blushed at her confession.
“You’re not a Red Sox fan, are you?” Chris asked with a grin.
“Yeah, I am. Me and Dad both are,” Lucas said. “Are you?”
Chris chuckled. “I lik
e Atlanta myself, but the Red Sox is a super team. I’m sorry to say I haven’t ever had the pleasure of meeting any of those guys.”
“Not yet,” Molly said. “Chris is very talented. I expect the majors to snatch him up and give him a plum pitching coach offer any day now.”
“If only my sister were the general manager for some team with deep pockets,” Chris said.
“Well, if I were, I’d hire you in a heartbeat,” she said.
We all laughed. Even Alex grinned, and it didn’t appear he was predisposed to many displays of emotion.
Then the food arrived, and the small talk turned to the cake show. Everyone thought all the cakes were beautiful, but they nicely told me they thought my wedding cake would win. After seeing the competition, I did not. I did say—sincerely—that I believed Leslie would win her competition.
“I think so too,” Molly said. “Your cake is gorgeous, Leslie . . . and, at first glance, it does look exactly like a burger and fries!”
“Just be glad Jordan Richards wasn’t around to try to disqualify you,” Chris said to Leslie. “He’d have thought no child was capable of making a cake like that without considerable help.”
Molly’s eyes flicked from Chris to Alex to Violet and Jason. “That’s what he told Alex at his competition . . . Alex’s last competition, I mean,” she explained. “We—Chris and I—had hoped to confront Chef Richards . . . to try to make him apologize to Alex.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Leslie said. “Who cares what that guy thought? We know Alex is an awesome cake decorator, and he’s going to be in the contest next year. Aren’t you, Alex?”
Alex nodded.
“Really?” Molly asked. “Darling, that’s wonderful!”
Alex shrugged.
Chris squeezed his sister’s hand. “I told you this trip would be good for him.”
Molly nodded, blinking back tears.
I was curious about Alex’s dad. Neither Molly nor Chris had mentioned him, and it was obvious that Chris was the major father figure in Alex’s life. Maybe Molly had confided to Violet about Alex’s dad. I’d ask Vi once we were alone.
“I heard some producers talking during Lou Gimmel’s demonstration,” I said. “I think he might be television’s next big celebrity chef.”
“Cool,” Lucas said. “I’ll be sure and get his autograph tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Leslie said. “I’ll get it too.”
“He seemed really nice during the class we were taking from Chef Richards,” I said. “He was my table mate.”
“How did Chef Richards behave during the class?” Molly asked.
“About as domineering and condescending as you’d expect him to be,” I said. “But he knew his stuff.” I frowned. “But then, so does Fiona, his assistant. She did the string work demo today, and she did a better job than he did in class.”
“I don’t know how anybody who was that much of a jerk could get to be where that man was,” Chris said. “Some people work so hard . . . treat everyone with respect . . . and never rise to the level of success he achieved.” He shook his head. “It makes me sick.”
“But professional success isn’t everything,” Molly said. “Chef Richards had to have been a miserable man deep down to have had so much anger and hatred in his heart. It makes me think he didn’t enjoy much real success at all.”
I couldn’t help but glance at Ben. Molly was right. Professional success wasn’t everything. But then, Ben wasn’t only considering his career in his decision to take—or to decline—the job in Kentucky. His personal feelings factored into the decision as well . . . maybe even more.
He winked at me, and I gave him a small smile.
AFTER DINNER, WE all said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. Ben and I walked to the parking lot and got into his white Jeep.
“I have to run home and feed Sandy, and I know you probably need to feed Sparrow,” he said. “I can run you by your house, go home and feed the dog, and then come back to get you.”
I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, so I simply didn’t answer.
“It would be easier for you to already be at the hotel in the morning when the ballroom opens and the judging gets under way, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “You wouldn’t have to worry about making yourself any breakfast . . . tidying up . . . What do you say?”
“I think it sounds like a good idea,” I said slowly. “Are . . . are you staying too?”
“No. Something has come up at work, and I need to go back in,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, and I know you’re tired.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Then I’d rather go back to the hotel and get my car . . . if you don’t mind. If Sparrow gets out and I have to wait for her to come back, or if something else has happened, I don’t want to delay your getting back to work.”
“Are you mad that I can’t stay with you?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. “I just don’t know what might happen or what might be waiting for me when I get home.”
“Okay.” He started the car. “I did reserve the room for the whole weekend, you know.” He shot me a glance from the corner of his eye.
“Good.”
“And, hopefully, we’ll have lots to celebrate tomorrow,” he said.
I smiled. “I hope you’re right.” I also hoped we wouldn’t be celebrating his upcoming move to Kentucky.
“I hope so too.”
After we pulled into the parking lot at the Brea Ridge Inn, I gave him a kiss that assured him I would miss him this evening and that—I hoped—was better than any kiss he’d ever received from Nickie Zane. I didn’t know I could feel such resentment against someone I’d never met, but I bitterly resented that woman.
We reluctantly separated, and I drove home. I’d no more than pulled into my driveway than my cell phone rang. I was hoping Ben was missing me already, but it wasn’t him. It was Myra.
“Thank goodness you’re home,” she said.
“Myra, what’s wrong?”
“There’s the meanest-looking dog I’ve ever seen on my porch. I’m afraid to get out of the car,” she said. “I tried to call Mark, but his phone is going straight to voice mail. He might be on a stakeout or something. Anyway, would you come over and shoo the dog away?”
“Maybe we should call animal control,” I said. “How big is the dog?”
“It looks kinda like the one that used to sell tacos in those commercials,” said Myra.
“A taco-selling dog?” My mind raced until I could remember the commercials Myra was referencing. “The scary dog on your porch is a Chihuahua?”
“Well, I don’t know!” She huffed. “I started to get out of the car, and it ran up barking and growling at me. I didn’t try to make conversation by asking its name and nationality.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes . . . albeit the eye roll didn’t have the desired effect of letting Myra know that I thought she was being ridiculous. “I’ll be right there.”
I got out of the car and stepped into the kitchen to get a slice of ham. Then I walked across both our yards until I was at Myra’s porch. I’d always gotten along with animals, and I didn’t see any reason—at least, nothing obvious—why I should be afraid of this one. As Myra said it did her, the little dog stood up and began barking at me as I neared.
“What’s the matter? You hungry?” I tore off a piece of the ham and tossed it to the dog.
The dog wolfed down the ham and hurried to me with its tail wagging. I gave it another bite of ham.
“Now, that’s a good boy,” I cooed. “Or girl . . . ” I looked over my shoulder at Myra, who was still barricaded in her car. “I think it’s okay to get out now.”
“Are you sure?” she called.
“I’m almost positive,” I called back.
“I’ll wait until you’re a hundred percent sure!”
I groaned. “I’ll toss the rest of this ham, and when the dog goes after it, you come running, all right?”
“O
kay!” she called. “Just don’t throw it between me and the porch!”
Didn’t she give me credit for having any common sense at all? “Fine! Ready, set . . . ” I tossed the ham. “Come on, Myra!”
Myra got out of the car and sprinted to the front door. She quickly unlocked it and got inside. “Ha! You didn’t get me, you little demon! Hurry, Daphne, and get in here!”
Shaking my head, I stepped through the door.
“Quick! Shut and lock the door!” she demanded. She frowned. “I think I have some leftover pot roast we can use to help you get back home.”
“Myra, if you’d have stomped your foot at that dog, I bet it would’ve run off.”
“You never can tell. It looked awfully mean to me. And just because it was small, that doesn’t mean a thing,” she said.
“I guess that’s true,” I said, and then I threw out that old chestnut about looks being deceiving.
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to tell me a thing about deceitful looks,” Myra said. “I could rant on about women I’ve known for the rest of the night, but instead I’ll tell you how I know not to ever underestimate someone—or something—based on its size.”
I went ahead and stepped out of my shoes, padded into the living room, and sank onto Myra’s sofa. This ought to be good.
Myra followed me into the living room and sat on the other end of the sofa. “There was this boy in Carl Jr.’s tenth-grade class. He was cute as he could be, but he wasn’t big as a sixth grader. A lot of the other boys gave him a fit . . . well, at least, the ones who didn’t know him well did. He was little, but he could be as mean as an old cross-eyed barn owl.”
“I’ve heard they’re pretty mean,” I said. I actually hadn’t heard that—I mean, how many cross-eyed barn owls were flying around in the world anyhow—but I was getting into the story.
“Oh, honey, they are,” Myra said. “Well, one day this long, tall, skinny boy started making fun of the little one—they called the little one Buck. I can’t remember the skinny boy’s name. Anyway, Slim—I’ll call him Slim—kept putting his elbow on Buck’s head and leaning on him and taunting him that Buck wasn’t as big as Slim’s sister who was in the third grade. Well, Buck didn’t take kindly to that, but he tolerated it as long as he could. Finally, he got so mad that he balled up his fist, stuck it up as high as he could, and started jumping up and down right there in the hall punching Slim in the nose!”