by Nina Lane
Mia then reassured her that Mr. Hottie had been entirely solicitous and helpful in getting her to the car and that he’d appeared far more concerned about her than his ruined shoes.
Polly suspected her friend told her that just to make her feel better, but it didn’t work. In no language anywhere in the world could find your happiness be defined as “get drunk on birthday cake shots and make an ass out of yourself with the hottest man you’ve ever seen.”
With a groan, she tossed her cell phone on the nightstand and hauled herself out of bed, wincing as sunlight speared through her eyes. Her studio apartment over the bakery—which was old and decrepit, but came with low rent and a fantastic commute to work—was usually a place where she felt happy and peaceful. She’d painted the walls a warm blue, decorated them with posters and paintings of Paris, and furnished it with comfortable, shabby furniture and secondhand bookshelves.
But this morning not even her little nest had the power to make her feel better. Maybe she was just more suited to Cheetos and video games than scotch and sex.
Polly gave herself a mental kick in the pants before she did something stupid like call Brian and ask how things were going on League of Legends. She wasn’t going to regress just because of one stupidly drunken night. Besides, people were supposed to get drunk and be stupid on their birthdays. It was a rite of passage.
Okay, so maybe the rite was just for one’s twenty-first birthday, but as a late bloomer who’d spent her two previous birthdays with her mother, Polly was still entitled to a bit of stupidity. She’d bet dimes to doughnuts that Mr. Hottie had—
Stop. Don’t think about him.
Just the memory of how she’d acted with that handsome, utterly sophisticated man made her cringe. So much for hoping he’d see her as a woman.
Life, Polly reminded herself firmly, goes on.
Despite her mind-numbing hangover and scorching embarrassment, she dragged herself into the shower. After getting dressed, she went down the narrow staircase to the Wild Child Bakery that had once been her mother’s dream come true.
Located in an old building that also housed a foreclosed car-parts store and a bail bondsman’s office, Wild Child had been in business for fourteen years, but it had started going downhill when Polly’s mother got sick and was unable to run the day-to-day operations.
Against Jessie Lockhart’s wishes, Polly had dropped out of the San Francisco State history program four years ago to return home and take care of both her mother and the bakery, but the ensuing struggles with hospital bills and rent had put Wild Child in a hole that she’d purposely kept hidden from Jessie. If there was one thing Polly had been able to do for her mother, it was ensure that she didn’t worry about money.
Not that there had been any of it to worry about. And now Wild Child was so far into a hole that Polly could no longer see the sky above. Trying to lift the bakery out of that hole was proving much more difficult than keeping it solvent.
Her heart sank a little as she stepped inside. The gilt paint lettering on the window was peeling, and her mother’s once-fantastic decorations of dream catchers, lava lamps, and mandala tapestries now looked old and shabby. Once upon a time, the mosaic tables and seating area had been filled with easygoing hippies and artists who gathered here to eat, read, talk, and play music.
Several loyal customers still came in regularly, but their patronage wasn’t enough to offset operating costs, much less help make a profit.
The bakery’s long-time employee Clementine was already behind the counter, putting out trays of fresh-baked cookies. In her mid-sixties with long gray hair and an endless supply of tie-dyed caftans, she had been one of Jessie Lockhart’s closest friends.
“Morning, Polly.” Clementine nodded toward the espresso maker. “Hate to break it to you, but old Bess has been making some gurgling noises that I don’t like.”
“Give her some Pepto-Bismol, if we can afford it.”
They exchanged wry smiles before Polly went back to the tiny office to tally the week’s receipts. She’d had to let their other two employees go because she could no longer afford to pay them, but Clementine had stuck around out of sheer loyalty.
Ignoring her throbbing headache, Polly studied the list of vendor bills she still had to pay and wrote up a priority list. She made a few calls asking for credit and deadline extensions. When she hung up the phone, she glanced toward the door. Clementine stood in the doorway, her brow creased with worry.
“It’s okay,” Polly assured her. “I’m working on it. I got us some extra time.”
Clementine didn’t respond, her forehead still furrowed. Unease rose in Polly’s chest.
“Clem? What’s going on?”
Clementine entered the office and sat in the chair next to the desk, reaching out to cover Polly’s hand with hers. “Polly, you know how much I love you and your mother.”
“Why does it sound like you’re about to give me bad news?”
“It’s not bad news. Just a change.”
Polly’s heart began to sink. Clementine had been devoutly loyal to her mother and Wild Child for years, and she’d stayed on to help run the bakery so Polly could finish her Culinary Arts certificate. But Clementine was widowed and had to make a living too. And they both knew Wild Child couldn’t provide her with one.
“You know my daughter and her husband have been trying to have a baby,” Clementine said. “Well, it turns out she’s three months pregnant.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.”
“And since they recently moved into a larger house, they asked if I wanted to come and live with them, to help Elaine during the pregnancy and then when the baby is born.”
“But they live all the way up in Humbolt County.”
Clementine nodded, her hand tightening on Polly’s. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You know I want to help you with Wild Child, but I also want to be closer to my family. I need to be, now that I’m going to be a grandmother.”
“Of course.” Polly swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I understand. You’ve done so much for me. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to.” Clementine gave her a sad smile. “Your mother was one of my dearest friends. And I can stay on until summer so you can finish your semester and find a replacement.”
Polly managed to smile and nod, even though she had no idea how she was going to afford a replacement. But at least she had until summer to figure out a way.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “And congratulations, Grandma-to-be.”
They stood and embraced before Clementine went back out to the front. Polly tried to focus on her accounts, though there was a new sense of dread in her stomach at the thought of losing her only employee. On the other hand, it was all the more reason for her to work even harder to turn the bakery around. Or at least try and figure out where things were going so wrong.
She finished up the paperwork, then took her laptop out to the front. Mia was on the other side of the counter, eating a sample of coffee cake and studying the display cases.
“You okay, Pols?” Her eyebrows drew together with concern.
“If you can get this hammer out of my skull, I’ll survive.”
“Sit down. I’ll bring you some tea.” Mia went around the counter, saying to Clementine, “Polly got her party on a little too hard at the Troll’s House last night.”
“About time,” Clementine remarked.
“Polly, did you try the sage smudging?” Ramona, a dreadlocked woman in her fifties with bright tattoos covering most of her exposed skin, was busy threading beads onto a piece of thin wire.
“Yes, but I was also baking cookies at the time.” Polly put her laptop beside Ramona’s plastic jewelry cases and pulled out a chair to sit down. “The resulting smell was not appealing. I wanted to clear out negative energy, not potential customers.”
Mia placed a fresh cup of matcha tea in front of Polly and sat down with an éclair. The soft strains of music drifted from a corner
of the café, where Jessie’s friend Tom sat loosely strumming his guitar.
“You want to have another series of music nights?” he asked. “I know some guys who’d play for free.”
“Thanks, Tom, but I can’t guarantee any sort of crowd at all, and I’d hate to have people playing to an empty house.”
“Polly, your aura is quite damaged.” Ramona studied her narrowly.
More like pickled. Polly pressed her fingers to her throbbing temple. She supposed she shouldn’t have tried to go from Brian to a man like Mr. Hottie in one fell swoop. Instead she should have tried to find an interim guy, like an organic farmer or an environmentalist.
“What you need,” Ramona lifted her tattooed finger in Polly’s direction, “is a big thing.”
“That’s exactly what she was looking for last night,” Mia remarked.
“About time,” Clementine said.
“Clem!” A flush heated Polly’s face as the women all grinned.
“Nothing against big things,” Ramona said. “But I was talking about something viral. Like a video or sob story to get on one of those ‘rescue the restaurant’ programs on the Food Network.”
“Speaking of sob stories.” Mia reached into a bag at her feet and took out a rectangular package wrapped in bright blue paper and tied with a red ribbon. She handed it to Polly with a flourish. “Happy birthday.”
“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Pleased, Polly accepted the present. “Actually, considering you’re the reason my head is about to split open, you totally should have.”
She tore the paper off the package to reveal a shiny, hardcover cookbook embellished with a photograph of a handsome, silver-haired man wearing a white chef’s jacket. On the table in front of him was a gorgeous array of French desserts—pastel pink macaroons, glossy strawberry tarts, and a chocolate religieuses piled with thick, rich cream. The title read The Art of French Pastry by Pierre Lacroix.
“Pierre!” Delighted, Polly reached across the table to hug Mia. “Thank you so much.”
Mia gave her a self-satisfied smile. “I knew you’d like it.”
“I love it.” Polly leafed through the thick pages, her mouth almost watering at the sight of all the pastries—flaky croissants, golden-brown brioches, silky chocolate tarts.
Pierre Lacroix had been her pastry chef hero for years, ever since she and her mother had religiously watched his weekly program on PBS. The Art of French Pastry was his latest book, released only a couple of weeks ago. If she’d had the money, Polly would have run out and bought it on release day, and she had another intense pull of gratitude toward Mia for knowing exactly what she’d love.
“This is incredible.” She turned the book toward Mia and Ramona. “Look! It’s his personal recipe for madeleines. He guarded that like a state secret for years.”
“I saw an interview with him where he talked about his career,” Clementine said. “He’s part of an exclusive, one-time course being held this fall at the Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
“Really?” Polly ran her hand over a glossy photograph of a mille-feuille. “That sounds amazing.”
“There should be something about it in the book.”
Polly turned back to the cover and read the sticker near the title: Apply for the Art of French Pastry Course.
“Look it up,” Mia suggested.
Polly set the book aside. She pulled Pierre’s website up on the laptop and clicked on the pastry course link, which provided the details of the six-month course taught by several renowned chefs. After the course was over, the students would be placed at internships in various patisseries and restaurants throughout Paris, including Pierre Lacroix’s Pain du Sucre on the left bank.
“You should apply,” Clementine said. “You’d wanted to do a year abroad in Paris when you were in college, right?”
That was true. But Polly had dropped out in her sophomore year when her mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Jessie Lockhart had been far more important than any trip anywhere would have been, though her mother had also been upset at the thought that Polly had given up her own dreams to come home.
Polly hadn’t seen it that way, wanting nothing more than to help Jessie however she could. And she had. But while she would never regret the three years she spent with her mother, difficult as they’d often been, she certainly hadn’t expected Wild Child to end up on the verge of bankruptcy.
Her problems ran to the very foundation of the business. She’d lost credibility with her suppliers because of her overdue payments, and as a result, the quality of all her baked goods was dropping. That fact would have horrified Jessie, who prided herself on using only top-level ingredients.
Integrity and quality were also part of Pierre Lacroix’s professional philosophy.
Polly scrolled through the application, which involved writing an essay and submitting a recipe for an original pastry. She’d never created an original pastry in her life—that had been her mother’s domain, as inventing new recipes had been one of Jessie’s greatest joys.
“It would be cool to send my mother’s éclair recipe to Pierre Lacroix, or at least to his people,” she mused. “Even if I’d never be accepted into the course.”
“Do not put that attitude out into the world,” Ramona said sternly, opening one of her plastic jewelry cases.
An array of colorful stone pendants sat inside the case. After some examination, Ramona removed a shiny, gray-green stone that flashed with iridescent colors of peacock blue and gold.
“Labradorite.” Ramona reached across the table and attached the chain around Polly’s neck. “It protects your aura from negative energy and enhances your intuitive powers.”
“Thanks, Ramona.” Polly admired the shiny stone resting against her skin.
Her intuitive powers could certainly use enhancement—especially if both Brian and her behavior with Mr. Hottie were examples of how badly those powers had failed her. And certainly her business intuition had proven to be nonexistent.
For her, at least, the air of Wild Child still echoed with the sound of folk music, conversation, laughter, and the rhythmic cadence of beat poetry. And her mother was still in the center of it all—bringing customers fresh pastries, refilling their coffee for free, listening to their stories, asking about their families.
Jessie Lockhart had always been so vibrant, so interested in everyone and everything. She was the reason Wild Child had thrived. Polly couldn’t be the reason it failed.
She wouldn’t be. And her mother would love the idea of her éclair recipe winging its way to France and Pierre Lacroix. With that thought in mind, she pulled up the application and typed in her name.
After a long day at the bakery, Polly spent the evening writing her essay for The Art of French Pastry course application. She contacted her Hartford Community College teachers to request letters of recommendation, ordered copies of her transcripts, and came up with a “personal philosophy” of how serving artfully crafted baked goods was an expression of love and friendship.
She finally managed to get a couple hours of sleep on her lumpy old mattress before hauling herself up at seven-thirty to get ready for a visit to the corporate headquarters of The Sugar Rush Candy Company.
The instructor of her Confectionary Technology course, which was part of the curriculum for her Culinary Arts certificate, had arranged a class tour of the company’s test kitchen and labs, and they were scheduled to meet in the lobby at nine sharp.
Polly dressed with care in a blue embroidered tunic and skirt, packed her satchel with a new notebook and pens, and drove half an hour to Indigo Bay, a wealthy, flourishing town south of the San Francisco Bay Area that prided itself on its coastal beauty and historic culture.
The downtown square and streets were lined with boutiques, art galleries, and cafés, with the residential neighborhoods stretching into the foothills and toward the rocky coastline. Ivy-covered cottages, cobblestones, and secret courtyards gave Indigo Bay a fairytale atmosphere, which was somewhat fitting g
iven that the town was ruled over by the family who owned a candy company.
But Polly wasn’t fooled by the charming quaintness of Indigo Bay—this was an expensive town where the rich, computer-tech crowd came to eat at gourmet restaurants and taste fancy wines before going to the theater and actually buying paintings at the numerous art galleries.
The sprawling campus of The Sugar Rush Candy Company was on the outskirts of town, a collection of brick buildings perched on a grassy expanse of land overlooking the coastline. The test kitchens and laboratory were housed in a stately warehouse with towers that made it look like a fortress.
Polly checked in at the gate and parked in the designated lot for visitors. She’d never been to the Sugar Rush campus before, but it had been featured in several architecture magazines as a stunning example of the ways in which corporate offices could blend into the environment, with the columned brick buildings also evoking the values and history of the company.
The Sugar Rush Candy Company—originally Stone Confectioners—was founded by Edward Stone in the mid-nineteenth century, and had been the domain of the Stone family for over a hundred and fifty years. Though the name had changed a decade ago, the company was still family-run. The six Stone brothers were a close-knit clan who zealously guarded their privacy and had a reputation for being tough but fair employers.
When the family had moved the Sugar Rush headquarters from San Francisco to Indigo Bay after WWII, the company’s presence had turned around the economy of an entire region of the coastline with investments in local businesses, steady employment, and a commitment to sustaining the coastal environment.
Not much had changed about Sugar Rush over the years, including the foundation of their well-loved products like Honeybee Toffee and Swirl Pops, which had been among Polly’s favorites as a child.