by Nina Lane
Polly stopped reading and sat back in her chair. Exhilaration flared inside her, and before she did something silly, like run around the bakery screaming with disbelief and excitement, she grabbed her laptop and hurried over to Hannah.
“Come here,” she whispered, tugging at her sister’s arm. “I need to talk to you.”
Hannah gave her a puzzled look, but followed her back to the kitchen. Polly turned, her heart hammering so hard she could hear it inside her head.
“Remember when I told you I’d applied to that Art of French Pastry course?” she asked. “I just got an email that they accepted me.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Jittery with elation, her nerves fizzing like champagne bubbles, Polly set the laptop on the table and turned the screen toward her sister. “I had to submit an original recipe, so I first sent in Mom’s éclair recipe. Then I felt bad for passing it off as my own, so when I came up with the Declair, I sent that in instead. And they accepted me.”
They accepted me.
“Polly, that’s incredible! Congratulations.” Hannah threw her arms around Polly in a hard embrace. “You’ll love Paris. I have some friends there I can contact so you won’t feel like you’re alone. And Pierre Lacroix . . . Mom would be thrilled.”
Polly nodded, a rush of emotion tightening her throat as she looked back at the email.
Mom.
“What about Wild Child?” she asked, some of her excitement ebbing. “I can’t leave the bakery. Not right when I’m getting everything back on track.”
“Well, you can’t let the bakery stop you from an opportunity like this,” Hannah said. “If I were you, I’d close the place down. But since I know you won’t, you can turn Wild Child over to Clementine.”
“Clementine is leaving soon,” Polly said. “She’s going up to Humbolt County to live with her daughter and her family.”
“So hire a new manager.”
“What about all the products? The doughnuts and éclairs? The Declairs?”
“It’s not rocket science,” Hannah said. “Hire new bakers and train them how to make stuff. September is over two months away. You have time to get things organized.”
Polly tried to picture it . . . and couldn’t. She couldn’t picture herself standing in a shiny, industrial kitchen with students from other countries, learning about the proper way to make puff pastry dough, icings, baguettes, and viennoiseries. She couldn’t imagine actually talking to Pierre Lacroix, much less taking instruction from him.
She couldn’t see herself sitting in French language classes, walking down the Place de la Madeleine and stopping at Fauchon to sample their macaroons and truffles. Nor could she see herself making friends with not only people from other parts of France, but from Spain, Italy, England, and Japan. She couldn’t imagine seeing a lost hope become a reality unlike any she could have dreamed on her own.
Except that maybe she could.
She turned her attention back to the acceptance letter and read the attached documents detailing the program and requirements. If her mother were still here—happy, healthy, alive—Polly wouldn’t hesitate to send in her acceptance.
But Jessie wasn’t here. And not only could Polly not leave Wild Child, there was also the matter of Luke Stone, the hot rich candyman who had eased his way right into her heart.
She pressed a hand to her chest, staring at the laptop screen through tear-blurred eyes. She’d made a promise to her mother that she was still trying to fulfill. But she knew very well that Jessie would be overjoyed at the idea of her going off to study the art of pastry-making in Paris.
Polly had no idea if it was possible to keep a promise and follow a lost dream at the same time. But it appeared the universe was telling her to find out.
THE POSTERS OF PARIS THAT lined Polly’s apartment walls, the French novels on her bookshelves, and especially her copy of The Art of French Pastry all took on a sudden heightened significance. She had until the end of the month to either accept or reject the course offer, and it wasn’t an opportunity that would come around again. She also would never forgive herself for abandoning Wild Child after all the work she—and Luke—had done to make it solvent again.
For the next few days, a combination of exhilaration and anxiety sizzled through her. She tried to focus on the bakery and her classes, and she spent evenings writing up lists of things she would need to do if she went to Paris. Everything about the possibility was both exciting and scary at the same time.
On the one hand, she would have a life-changing experience. On the other, she couldn’t shake the sense of insecurity that she might never measure up. Yes, she’d invented the Declair, but that had been a mistake. What if she wasn’t able to create another pastry like that again? What if she couldn’t display the kind of innovation and creativity that chefs of Pierre Lacroix’s caliber would demand?
Then there was the overwhelming matter of Luke Stone. What would her moving to Paris for nine months mean for them? Hannah was still the only one who knew about the acceptance letter, though her sister seemed to think the decision was a no-brainer. But considering Hannah had made a job out of traveling, Polly wasn’t surprised. Just as she wasn’t surprised by her own practical, methodical approach.
As she wrestled with what to do and how to do it, Pendergrass and Peabody Designs took on the boho chic remodeling of Wild Child with gusto.
Eleanor came by every day for a week with color samples, light fixtures, and various types of drawer handles and doorknobs for Polly to choose from. When Polly mentioned she liked this one, Eleanor would sigh, shake her head, and assure her that one was a much better choice.
Polly was always relieved when Hannah happened to be around, since it was easier to turn the decision-making over to her sister. Hannah seemed to have a knack for knowing the difference between “light cream” and “beige,” and which one would work better with the rest of the décor.
Per Eleanor’s instructions, Polly took down all the decorations and prints in preparation for painting. She spent one morning clearing out the rainbow streamers and mandala tapestries from the front windows to make room for a lighted, garden-themed display.
The following Saturday night, she and Luke were scheduled to attend the Fine Arts Museum exhibition opening and fundraiser dinner. Though they talked often, she hadn’t seen much of him this week—they texted and exchanged emails about the business, but he was immersed in work and a new Sugar Rush project in Switzerland.
With all his experience, he would be able to give her excellent advice and insights into the Paris opportunity, so Polly wanted to talk with him at a time when they could be alone and focused.
As the weekend drew closer, she became increasingly nervous about the museum event. It was the first time she would be in Luke’s arena, and she had no idea what to expect or what would be expected of her, despite Mia’s assurance that all she had to do was “be yourself, but God in heaven, please don’t do any shots.”
Well, as long as she was with Luke, it would be fine. Probably all she’d have to do was smile and make small talk and hope no one asked her about mergers or stock options.
She climbed back into the window display and unpinned a tapestry from a clothesline. A movement outside caught her eye. She glanced out the window just as a tall, blond woman crossed the street from a parked Mercedes.
Polly’s hackles, dander, and guard all shot up at the same time. She dropped the tapestry as she steeled her spine and got ready for a throwdown. This time, she wasn’t going to call Luke for help either.
Julia Bennett strode into the bakery as if she owned the place, dressed to perfection in a (admittedly gorgeous) camelhair wrap, a beige sheath dress that looked as if it had been made for her, and matching suede pumps.
Polly clambered out of the window display and stepped in her path.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said icily.
Julia held up a perfectly manicured hand. “I come in peace.”
Julia’s cool gaze swept over the rather bare interior. “I understand you’re getting a facelift.”
“I hope it turns out as well as yours.”
Julia gave a little sniff that might have been either offense or amusement. She walked past, her heels clicking on the worn wooden floor.
“What do you want?” Polly asked.
“My brother-in-law told me that somehow you managed to convince Luke to take a weekend off.”
It was such an out-of-left-field comment that Polly was caught off-guard. “So?”
“And apparently it was a short but real vacation,” Julia continued, swiveling on her heel to look at Polly again, “because for at least forty-eight hours, Luke didn’t answer any phone calls or emails.”
“How did you know that?”
“Luke told Warren he was going off the grid, as he put it, and not to call. Warren tested him several times by calling and asked other Sugar Rush execs to do the same. No one heard back from Luke until Monday morning. Some people even got a bit worried.”
Monday morning? Polly’s assumption that Luke would jump right on his computer and phone late Sunday night had been wrong.
“We had a good time,” she said warily. “And why are you bringing this up anyway?”
“Because not once in eleven years has Luke taken a vacation and been unreachable,” Julia replied. “In fact, he’s never really taken a vacation at all. If he has, he’s still always called and directed things from afar. It’s insane.”
“His hard work has paid off,” Polly said. “If it weren’t for him, Sugar Rush wouldn’t be such a success.”
“I realize that. However, Sugar Rush also started as a family-run business, and Luke hasn’t forgotten that either. In fact, he feels so responsible for his siblings that Sugar Rush is even the reason he’s not married. He doesn’t have time. Warren and I have never been able to convince him to slow down, and he’s only gotten worse over the past year.”
After the paternity suit. That was the final lock slamming into the wall Luke had built around his family and his heart. Though Polly had discovered a few weak spots in that wall.
“So what does this have to do with me?” she asked.
Julia’s gaze slid over her from head to toe, taking in her flour-dusted apron and messy hair.
“Clearly you’re a good influence on him,” Julia remarked, “despite this ‘penniless Victorian orphan and the wealthy duke’ romance you’ve got going on.”
Polly looked her up and down in a return assessment.
“You’re a Scorpio, aren’t you?” she asked.
Julia blinked.
“Mercury in Scorpio, I’ll bet,” Polly continued. “Moon too. It’s why you’re naturally suspicious. Expecting the worst in people. That’s how you form your strategies . . . you think all your suspicions are right and then plot accordingly. Mercury in Scorpio is also why you’re fearless. Except when engaged in a showdown with a bakery girl, in which case you turn tail and run.”
A very faint smile cracked Julia’s perfect face.
“And you,” she said, “are a Sagittarius. Moon in Scorpio. You possess an excess of emotional energy. And though you’re quick and self-reliant, you’re overly sensitive and defensive. Which is why you took me on, even though you know I can crush you like a bug.”
“Fixed sign.” Polly narrowed her eyes. “You think you’re always right.”
“Mutable sign,” Julia replied. “You have trouble finishing what you start.”
They locked gazes. A weird feeling rippled in the air between them—mutual irritation and grudging admiration. Julia scrutinized Polly again from head to toe.
“You’re scrappy,” she allowed. “I’ll give you that.”
“You’re snooty. I’ll give you that.”
Julia’s smile glinted again, sharp and white. She folded her arms and tapped her painted fingernails against her sleeves.
“Luke told me you haven’t taken any money from him,” she said.
Polly’s guard went up again. “I’m not a gold digger. And frankly, even if I were, do you really think Luke would be stupid enough not to see it?”
“So why are you with him?”
For a second, all the breath escaped Polly’s lungs. She couldn’t speak. It was a question she thought she’d known the answer to, but the more time she spent with Luke, the more she realized it wasn’t just about her having a new, exciting experience and fulfilling lost years. Every minute of every day, the answer revolved more and more around him.
“We . . . have a good time together,” she managed to get out. “That’s it.”
Julia studied her with a stare as penetrating as a laser. “Are you going to the opening of the Manet exhibit with him this Saturday night?”
“He invited me, yes.”
“Good.” Julia paused and cleared her throat. “I can help you get ready for it.”
“Get ready how?”
“With your clothes, makeup, and hair.” She reached into her Prada handbag and removed a slim leather case. “I’m a personal stylist and consultant. And I’m very good at what I do.”
She opened the case and pushed a business card across the counter toward Polly.
“You’re a pretty girl,” Julia continued, “but the way you dress, and with your freckles and that mop-top hair, you’ve got a real Raggedy Ann vibe. I’d consider it a personal challenge to help you look presentable to Luke’s circle.”
“That is hardly a flattering offer.”
“No charge.” Julia turned and strode toward the door, her heels clicking sharply. “Call me for an appointment. You know you want to.”
“Are you this bitchy with all your clients?”
“You’re not my client,” Julia replied. “And this is me being nice.”
“Compared to who?” Polly asked. “The Wicked Witch of the West?”
“Please. Flying monkeys and a terrible sense of fashion?” Julia flicked a smile over her shoulder. “That witch was an amateur.”
IT TOOK ONE SLEEPLESS NIGHT for Polly to come to the conclusion that if she was revamping Wild Child, she shouldn’t be afraid of revamping herself. Especially for a high-society museum gala.
And though the thought of being at the mercy of Julia Bennett was rather terrifying, there was no question Julia knew how to rock “personal style,” whatever that was, and high-class fashion. Polly, on the other hand, was happy when she found a shirt in her drawer that didn’t have chocolate stains.
And she was pretty sure that Pierre Lacroix maintained an impeccable appearance, even when he was making religieuse au chocolat and champagne truffles.
So Polly called Julia (grudgingly) and told her (pointedly) that she wasn’t about to pay for any of her pricy consulting or hairstyles or whatever else Julia had planned.
“That’s what no charge means, dear,” Julia replied coolly over the phone. “What time is Luke picking you up?”
“He’s not. He has a business call with China or whatever, so I’m meeting him at the museum.”
“God forbid he should put China on hold,” Julia muttered. “However, this will give us more time to work on you. The opening starts at eight, so you’d better be here at four. On second thought, make it three. We’ll need that extra hour.”
“For your voodoo curses, right?”
“Art takes time, Polly.”
“I’m not art.”
“You will be, as long as you wear what I tell you to wear and look how I want you to look. And for God’s sake, lay off the doughnuts and muffins. Bloat is never stylish.”
Polly didn’t tell Luke she was letting his aunt style her up, just in case she ended up on the lam for melting Julia with a bucket of water, but she showed up at the studio at three sharp on Saturday afternoon. A hair salon, boutique, and spa comprised the entire first floor of a private, refurbished building near downtown Indigo Bay
.
Polly was greeted not only by Julia but by a team of male assistants whose names all ended in O—Marco, Antonio, Stefano—and women whose names ended in A—Anisa, Dawna, Isabella. First the women made her strip down to her skivvies before coming at her with enough tools and products to fill a warehouse.
Polly was waxed all over, including places where she didn’t even know she had hair, then her skin was exfoliated, conditioned, moisturized, massaged, and plucked. Julia walked around issuing orders like a general, commanding her to try on at least a dozen gowns—“The latest,” she informed Polly—and designer shoes.
Polly modeled clothes that were probably more expensive than her debt and savings combined, while Julia and the assistants circled her with comments and critiques.
“The mermaid style doesn’t flatter her hips.” “Nice around the bust.” “Orange isn’t her color.” “With her figure, she needs an A line.”
They decided on a black-and-gray gown that hugged her breasts and torso before flaring around her hips into a soft waterfall of silk and lace. Polly had barely had time to admire herself in the mirror before Julia sent the gown off to be altered to her figure.
Then Julia led her over to a chair in front of a lighted mirror, where another small army of stylists waited. Julia and a hairstylist named Enzo walked around her, flicking at her hair and discussing the “split ends,” “frizz,” and “heavy length” of her locks while a cosmetologist recommended certain color choices for eye shadow and blush.
Polly silently congratulated herself for not saying a word as she read a Martha Stewart magazine and let Julia and her cohorts have their way with her.
And when she finally stood in front of the full-length mirror, polished to a shine, she couldn’t believe she was looking at herself.
“So.” Julia stood behind her, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed as she raked a final, critical eye over Polly’s figure. “I told you I was good.”