by Patti Larsen
Blue eyes sparked, full lips lifted in a smile. I was having a conversation with Crew and it wasn’t sucking and I wasn’t making a fool of myself. He got my jokes, he got me. Was this what heaven was supposed to feel like? Yes. Yes, I think so.
“I wouldn’t bother,” he said, deep voice a bit rough before he cleared his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.” He hesitated before leaning closer, smile fading. “I was hoping I could talk to you later. About something.” He cleared his throat again. Was he getting a cold? “Private?”
Gulp. “Sure. You can come by Petunia’s?” How could I sound so relaxed and calm when my little heart leaped so hard and high I was sure it would burst from me and land at his feet. Private? Did that mean he was finally going to ask me out? No way, it couldn’t be. The conversation we’d had in my back yard last April was so far gone it was like it never happened. And yet when his smile came back, kind and a little nervous, I leaped to the conclusion without proof and didn’t care to argue about it.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll pop by. Maybe tomorrow night?” Was that hope in his voice?
Squeal. My phone hummed, caught my hissing attention and I silenced it in anticipation of being yelled at for the faint sound without answering Crew’s question. When I checked the screen it was a text from Dad, that he was held up. I frowned at the message while I tucked it in my pocket, wondering what could be keeping him from Mom’s big day.
If he was late, I’d kill him. Made me think about Malcolm, though, and before I could consider what I was about to do, I firmly squashed the rapport I’d been building with the handsome man beside me by asking an inappropriate question instead of answering his more enticing one.
“What do you know about my dad and Malcolm Murray?”
I might as well have told him I found another dead body. Crew’s gaze flattened out, but he didn’t overreact. Instead, he looked away, face composed, our lovely connected moment over. “I think they’re getting started,” he said. Which was about all I was going to get from him, I guess.
Fiona Fleming, could you be more of an idiot?
I sat there in my private misery, wishing I could take my question back, as the real drama of the day unfolded before me.
***
Chapter Seven
I don’t know what I was expecting. A lot more excitement, that’s for certain. Instead, I caught myself yawning more and more frequently in the next several hours as the tedium of filming unfolded before me. The process had zero resemblance to the final product, the introductions of the judges and the contestants done in a multitude of takes that seemed to wind out into infinity before any baking actually happened.
If I had to sit there much longer I’d be asleep.
Crew didn’t seem to be faring much better, blue eyes glazing over, the occasional sigh of unhappy boredom making me yawn harder. Still, it was at least initially interesting to see how a show was made, if only for my own curiosity’s satisfaction. And to distract us both from the fact I’d nipped whatever shining thing had been sparking between us when I doused its young flame with stupidity.
Focus on the show and not your self-inflicted single womanhood, Fee.
I was already familiar with the cast, at least, so there weren’t any surprises there, when a young woman in a headset like Dale’s stepped out, tablet in hand.
“Quiet on set!”
The judges were already seated, Olivia between Ron and the testy looking Vivian, though when the camera rolled the bakery maven’s face settled into a more pleasing, if fake, expression of marginal happiness. Like Vivian knew what the word even meant. I chose to ignore her while the host, Patrice York, introduced her, Olivia and then, with gushing enthusiasm, Ron Williams, to the camera.
“We’re so delighted to present this special edition of Cake or Break in the lovely town of Reading, Vermont,” she said, perky tone making my teeth ache. She smiled her chicklet white grin into the hulking camera, portly operator standing behind it with an expression about as bored as mine. “But being on location doesn’t mean we take things easy on our contestants, does it, judges?”
Murmurs of agreement followed Clara’s sharp, “Cut!” To which Patrice tsked her irritation, her beaming smile vanished to a nasty scowl.
“What was wrong with that?” Her annoyance showed on the crew’s faces, too, and I wondered about Clara’s management style. Or maybe this was just the business? “We agreed on that script, Clara.”
“You’re leaning into it too much,” the showrunner snapped. “Stop trying to act and just deliver the lines, Patrice.”
The young woman with the tablet called them to order with a sharp, “Frame!” and Patrice’s face instantly transformed from petulant pissed off into her perky delight all over again.
Crew snorted next to me while I shook my head. “Ridiculous,” he whispered.
“Tell me about it.” I was just grateful for the chance to change the subject and maybe not make him mad all over again.
“I should have sent Jill. This is a waste of time.” His jaw jumped a bit while Dale’s head whipped around, halfway across the room, and he raised one finger to his lips in the universal sign we should shut up already.
Whoops. That gesture did nothing for Crew’s mood and when he fell silent again it was with a steady, burning glare right at Olivia.
Well, at least he was blaming someone else for his unhappiness for a change. I glanced down as he leaned around me to rest one hand on the rack, his sleeve pulling up to expose the off-center compass tattooed on the inside of his wrist. The sight of it made me shiver just a little, a reminder I’d failed to pursue the hints and leads my grandmother left me about the Reading treasure hoard. I was fairly certain it was all bunk and any kind of open investigation would just make everyone think I was more of a crackpot than they already did, not to mention the solid debunking of the myth of the gold and jewels being hidden somewhere in town. Still, I loved a good mystery and the prodding reminders made goosebumps rise. Enough I grinned to myself like a little kid with a secret.
Wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of digging, right? Starting with why Crew Turner, a guy from the other side of the country, had a tattoo that seemed to resemble the compass on the map piece I owned? Then again, it was a fairly familiar symbol and the coincidence was likely nothing more than that. And yet, I had never discovered what led Crew here in the first place, so far from California. Yes, he moved here after the loss of his beloved wife to cancer. But why Reading? Another coincidence?
Questions for later. If and when—heavy on the if—he actually came to see me after all. Crap, I’d forgotten to confirm that tomorrow night was okay and it was totally too late for that without looking like an idiot. I squirmed over how to handle reopening the topic without arriving at a suitable solution. Too late anyway. With the introductions and the preliminary bits filmed, the crew moved on to the good part—the baking.
This time, at least, the filming went straight through, though it was hard to see past the multiple cameras, as operators in a strange looking harness with bulky equipment strapped to them hurried about, one for each kitchen, catching different angles as the larger cameras slid across the floor on silent wheels. A long, thick pole bobbed slowly down into the center of the set, another camera mounted on the end, swinging with a ballet performance-like precision, avoiding taking out the crowd on the ground in a smooth dance that wowed more than the baking. It was fascinating to watch the interweave of the three perspectives and I realized only then just how complicated the whole show actually was to put together. Fake or not, they had my admiration for the sheer logistical nightmare managed.
Mom seemed collected enough, her response to the introductions to the judges professional and calm, though she smiled a great deal and I was sure she was still quivering on the inside. When Patrice called for the first challenge to begin, some kind of cupcake thing I missed the details on thanks to my thoughts about the Reading treasure, she hurried to her kitchen with the precision and expressio
n of a woman determined to win.
I caught myself holding my breath for the next hour, heart in my throat, hands fisted in my lap while I pleaded with anything and anyone out there to watch over Mom. I needn’t have worried.
She moved through the challenge like a pro, not a single misstep slowing her down, even when Patrice approached her at the fifteen minute mark to ask her questions.
I missed most of the conversation since I was at the edge of the set, but I caught a few words, mostly from my mother’s perspective. She sounded awesome, smile brilliant but confident, as she finished her mix and slipped her cupcakes into the oven, spinning with a flare of her hem and apron to begin her icing.
By the time the last few minutes were counting down, Mom’s force cooled cupcakes were out of the fridge and almost complete, wrapped up her confections with a spiral of curved icing topped with tiny roses she’d constructed from some kind of edible gold leaf and sugar. I shook my head to myself, grinning. She’d done a fantastic job from what I could see, frustrating as it was to miss most of what was happening from this distance. Funny that I was sitting right here and yet I wouldn’t get the full experience until I got to watch the episode.
That was TV for you, I guess.
I felt myself unclench as the timer went off, the hour of intense work over, the three women stepping back from the tray of cupcakes they’d constructed. For the first time I checked out the other two and gasped softly to myself. Janet’s were gorgeous, even from this distance, with elaborate toppers in multi-hued gardens cascading over the side of the icing. But Molly’s were stunning, spun sugar spirals and leaves bursting from the centers of her shining white icing like crystalline towers of icy sweetness. I knew then Mom was out of her league, though I gave her kudos for the beautiful simplicity of her shining gold flowers.
She was first up, and though I knew she glanced at her competitors, she didn’t lose a scrap of her outer confidence. I was so proud of her in that moment I could have burst, while the assistants rushed forward and placed her cupcakes in front of the judges.
The cameras rolling again, Patrice smiled at Mom, gesturing at her offering. “Lucy, can you tell us about your cupcakes?”
I didn’t hear Mom’s explanation, though I strained to catch every word. Why didn’t Dale put me closer? So frustrating. From the way Mom talked, though, her soft hand gestures and the gentle smile on her face, she nailed her explanation. Even Vivian seemed grudgingly respectful of Mom’s cupcake and, as the judges dug in, I wanted to be there, next to Mom, hugging her in her triumph.
Win or lose, the whole world would know just how delicious my mother’s baking was.
They all took a bite at the same moment. Froze as they took their first chew. I knew something was wrong even before Olivia’s face twisted, Vivian’s whole body twitching. But it was Ron Williams spitting out the bite he took with a loud protest that clenched my stomach into a knot so tight I was sure I would never untie it.
Patrice’s face flinched but she soldiered on, the camera still rolling. Why was the camera still rolling? Something had to be wrong. From the way Mom’s confidence flickered, how her body tensed, this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
“Let’s start with Olivia.” Patrice looked desperate to get this over with. I caught sight of Clara gesturing in a circle to the camera operators, a clear signal to keep going.
Our mayor swallowed finally, forcing a smile past her obvious discomfort. “Ah, the cake is… moist. Very moist.”
Vivian snorted, spitting hers into a napkin, setting it aside. “That’s all it has going for it,” she said. “I believe you were meant to use sugar as the main ingredient, Lucy. Not salt.”
Wait, what? No. Mom would never make that mistake. That was the kind of switch I’d mess up. Besides, I saw Mom taste her batter. Didn’t I? Wait, no. She never did. I watched that realization cross her face as Ron Williams coughed out the last of her cupcake and, red-faced, drew the full attention of everyone as well as the active cameras.
“Horrific and an assault on the senses,” he rumbled, loud enough I heard him clearly from where I sat. Where I huddled, heart aching, watching Mom flinch from every single word delivered with cutting precision from a man she idolized. “I was expecting great things. Your form and design were mediocre at best, and the cake is a disaster. Honestly, whoever told you baking was your forte needs their head examined.” His judgmental scowl deepened as he leaned toward her, jabbing at her with an index finger. “Go back to serving tables, if you can even manage such a task without ruining that simple job. Because this,” he pointed aggressively down at the cupcake before him, “is why amateurs like you,” another jabbed finger at Mom who actually rocked in place, the palest I’d ever seen her, “need to stay out of the kitchen.”
Utter silence fell. Even I sat there, unable to move, gaping, unable to breathe, while my mother, my powerful and confident and amazing mother, burst into tears and ran from the set.
***
Chapter Eight
My first reaction after I watched my mother tear off the stage like she’d been handed her poor, shattered heart on a platter was the obvious. And before I could stop myself—who am I kidding? I had no desire to stop myself—I had stormed from my place on my stool at the fringe of the set and planted myself firmly in front of the three judges with, I’m positive, my rage showing on my face. Not aimed at Vivian, though she was a target later, nor at Olivia who fish lipped at me like I’d broken about a dozen rules just showing up here. No, all of my animosity was aimed directly at the smirk on Ron Williams’s face.
“How dare you.” Not a question, not even a little bit of a care what he actually thought, honestly. “You arrogant, over-blown, out of date—”
Dale appeared like magic at my elbow, hand on my arm, wincing. “This way, please.”
I jerked myself out of his grasp, in no way willing to be escorted off just yet. I still had a plethora of insults to throw at the old gasbag perched on the stool on the other side of the counter like he was the boss of me and the rest of the planet. But when I opened my mouth to ramble on in suitable Fiona Fleming fired up fashion, I was interrupted yet again, this time by the red-faced Clara Clark.
“I thought I told you to get off my set.” She spun on Crew of all people who’d joined me when I wasn’t looking, his own scowl surely a match for mine. “You, local cop person. Take this, this,” she stuttered a moment longer before finishing, “intruder off my sound stage!”
Well, I never. Instead of giving Crew the satisfaction of doing so, I spun and stormed off in the direction my mother had fled. Because I was so done with this farce of a ridiculous show.
The other side of the set led to a hallway, ending in an exit door. To the kitchen, I realized. Two more were visible, one an exit door at the far end and the other build into a box someone erected.
The green room Dale referenced perhaps? I barged through the door, ready to murder if I had to, if that was what it took to rescue my mother from this injustice.
The space stood empty, couches lining the walls, coffee pot burbling, a small fridge beside it. I spun, still on adrenaline and fury, marching to the end of the hall and into the kitchen.
And found myself, instead, in the corridor that led to the staff quarters. I knew this place, suffered a bit of a shiver from the memory. I’d been pushed out the exit doors not too far from where I stood and into a snowstorm almost a year ago. I still had nightmares from the event, though they’d faded somewhat. Being here again surely meant I’d be revisiting the experience when I fell asleep that night, however.
Rather than allow myself to be distracted by my own fears, I instead headed for the one place I figured Mom might hide out at a time like this. The women’s washroom door swung inward and I immediately caught the sound of someone smothering sobs in one of the stalls.
The instant I set foot on the tile floor my heart, pounding with the anger of my need to support my mother, fell to the pit of my still knotted stomac
h. I’d only ever seen Mom cry with this much intensity twice in my life. The day I’d left for college and the first time I woke from being hit on the head last April. She’d done her best to hide it from me the first time, and I’d been in a terrible state of mind at eighteen, so I’d hardened myself against caring. I barely remembered my own name when Carter Melnick gave me a concussion, so Mom’s tears weren’t something I held onto last April, either. But this was different. Because these tears weren’t about me. I knew how much she’d poured into this one giant effort and hearing her cry, knowing she was hiding from what happened, broke me.
I leaned against her door, forehead against the cool metal that protested softly from the pressure with a faint metallic hum. “Mom.” I whispered that, unable to speak at normal volume, apparently. At least, until I cleared my throat, noting the thickness of it, how my eyes stung with my own unshed tears. Damn it, where was my anger when I needed it? Washed away with my mother’s weeping. “Mom, are you okay?”
“Go away.” Such a tiny protest, though about as clear a message as it could get.
“I’m not leaving you here, Mom,” I said. That was better. Firm and decisive. “Open the door.”
She didn’t move, not a sound but her crying coming from the other side. I sighed, contemplated sliding under the door or trying to force the lock, when the main door slammed open and Dad burst in.
I spun on him, anger returned. But before I could ask him just where he’d been all this time, he brushed past me, rattling the door to Mom’s stall with a firm grip on the top.
“Lucy Fleming,” he said, deep voice cracking. “Open this door right now. I’m taking you home.”
I heard her move then, the faint click of her heels on the tile, the squeak of the lock turning. She pulled the door open, head down, refusing to look at either of us while the little shards of my heart shattered further into dust. I tried to hug her but she brushed me off, hurrying past Dad and out the door while he glared after her before scowling down at me.