The Bake-Off Page 7

  Brandon gave up trying to reason with her. “Tip the bellhop well, ’cause you’re probably going to give him permanent back problems.”

  Amy caught Ben under his arms just as he climbed into the largest suitcase. “No, no, no, Mommy just ironed all these clothes. Go put your slippers on, both of you, and Daddy will make you breakfast.” The twins skedaddled, the dog dashing down the hall after them.

  Amy crouched down and started to zip up the luggage.

  “I still can’t believe I got suckered into this with Linnie,” she said. “We’ll be lucky if we both survive the week. She’s such a . . . She just makes me—Ugh.” She exhaled loudly and shook out her hair. “Sorry, honey. I’m being such a whiny little bitch about this that I’m starting to annoy even myself.”

  “Hey, don’t talk about my wife that way.” Brandon wrapped his arms around her, and she rested her head against his chest.

  “This is the problem with me and Linnie,” she mumbled into his shirt. “I don’t like the person I am when I’m around her. I get all petty and negative.”

  He rubbed her back. “You could still bag the whole trip and stay here.”

  “I’d bail right now if I thought I could withstand the lifetime of guilt trips from Grammy Syl. She’s made it her mission in life to force me and Linnie to become BFFs, and yes, she actually used the term BFF.” Amy’s amusement faded. “The sad thing is, I know she’s right—sisters are supposed to share a special bond that transcends time and distance and whatever. But I honestly can’t imagine ever having anything like that with Linnie. This is terrible to admit, but my relationship with her was why I always said I’d have an only child.”

  “But aren’t you glad we ended up with a twofer on that score?”

  “Definitely.” Amy pulled out of his embrace and resumed packing. “I miss them already. Give them extra hugs for me while I’m gone.”

  “Will do. And you know how my mom spoils them when she comes to babysit. They’ll probably be in sugar comas by the time you get back next week.”

  “La, la, la, I can’t hear you.”

  “Don’t worry about any of that while you’re gone. Enjoy your break and bake your way to riches. How much do you get if you win this thing, anyway?”

  “A hundred grand. If I win, we can put my share of the money toward opening your own dental practice.”

  “It’ll be our dental practice,” Brandon corrected.

  “You’re sweet, honey, but let’s be real. You’re Dr. Nichols; I’m just your assistant. No one comes to a dental practice because of the hygienist.”

  “Don’t give me that; all the patients love you, and you know it. I couldn’t do this without you.” He opened his arms to encompass their house, their family, their lives. “Any of it.”

  “That’s true.” Amy brightened. “I am the linchpin, baby. I keep the trains running on time!”

  “Yes, you do, and we’re all lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you. Now go toss those blankie-crazed urchins a bagel before I have to crack the whip.”

  Brandon headed down the stairs, and Amy took a deep breath as she conducted a quick rundown of her mental checklist. Two hours before she was due to leave for New York, and she still had to shower, get everyone dressed, make sure they had enough dog food, do a frenzied surface cleaning in both bathrooms in anticipation of her mother-in-law’s arrival, double-check that all the online bills were paid for the month, drive the twins to day care . . .

  Brandon reappeared in the bedroom doorway. “I just gave them the carrot muffins on the breakfast bar and turned on Sesame Street. Want to lock the door and, you know, crack the whip?”

  “But . . .” But my shower is my ten minutes of sweet, sane solitude. Then she looked at her husband, his kind, tired face, and realized that as much as she craved time alone, he craved time together.

  She loved that he still looked at her like that, as if she were still the smoldering sex kitten she’d been in her early twenties, rather than an overscheduled mommy in her thirties who sometimes regarded sex as one more item to be checked off the list. He would miss her, she knew, while she was in New York. She would miss him. This knowledge, however, did nothing to shift her mind-set from brisk efficiency into seduction mode.

  But Brandon didn’t need to know that.

  She summoned a saucy grin, grabbed his hand, and tugged him into the bathroom with her. “Grab the soap and let’s multitask.”

  Chapter 6

  Linnie hit the snooze button for the third time, then rolled over on her back and stared up at the revolving blades of the ceiling fan. The relentless desert sunlight cast a silhouette of the vertical blinds across the carpet. At this hour of the afternoon, most of her neighbors were at work and the apartment complex was shrouded in total silence. No phones ringing, no TVs blaring, no splashing in the community pool in the courtyard. She could hear the faint, dull thud of her pulse against the pillow.

  If I died right now, how long would it be before anyone found the body?

  Kyle had packed up his belongings and decamped to his buddy Matt’s futon, leaving behind the pawn ticket that Derek had sent. Although Linnie had tried to suppress her anxiety and resentment, their friendship had permanently fractured. She’d asked the landlord to take his name off the lease and change the locks, and now she had the solitude she’d craved. No obligations, no expectations, no friends, and no real purpose in life beyond flipping cards for oversexed men on corporate expense accounts.

  As soon as she got out of bed, before she got dressed or even used the bathroom, she picked up the phone and made the call that had become a daily ritual:

  “Hi, I’m calling about the antique platinum-and-diamond brooch? Yes, again. Do you still have it?”

  Every day she would hold her breath until the pawnshop employee replied, a tad impatiently, that yes, the brooch was still safely in the display case, and if she wanted it she’d better come reclaim it, because they weren’t allowed to hold items after the redemption period expired.

  “I’ll be there,” she always said. “Very soon.”

  But the moment she hung up the phone, her anxiety would return in anticipation of tomorrow’s call. What would she do if the stoned-sounding male clerk (or his gum-snapping female counterpart) informed her that “we just sold that piece, actually, but could we interest you in an antique firearm or some collectible crystal stemware?”

  She padded into the tiny kitchenette, peeled a banana, and glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. She should leave for work in thirty minutes, and after her shift at the casino, she’d head straight to the airport. No more procrastinating—she had to pack.

  She dragged a battered old Samsonite out of the closet and tossed in jeans and T-shirts and wadded-up sweatshirts she’d had for years. Belatedly, she remembered Grammy Syl saying something about cocktail receptions, so she crammed in a dress and a pair of scuffed black sandals.

  Cosmetics and jewelry had never held much appeal for her, so she collected the containers of eye shadow, lipstick, and foundation she wore for work, sealed them up in a plastic sandwich bag, and tossed that on top of the pile. Looking into that carry-on was like gazing into a dying planetary nebula: a murky jumble of black and gray. This was the wardrobe of someone who had completely given up.

  But somehow, losing Grammy’s brooch had swept her back into the world of cutthroat competition, first at the poker table and now at a national baking competition. For the first time in years, she would actually have to try.

  And odds were, she would fail.

  The mere thought of public failure made her throat close up. She couldn’t stand to be criticized. She couldn’t stand to be judged. Most of all, she couldn’t stand to face Amy and, in doing so, face the parts of herself that she least wanted to acknowledge.

  But for the next eight hours, all she had to do was tug up her fishnets, wriggle into her corset, and act like the kind of woman who enjoyed wearing leopard-print satin and meeting new people. She
had to pretend to be normal. That, she could do.

  As she headed out of the employee locker room toward the casino floor, Linnie rolled her shoulders and wedged the knuckles of one hand between the fingers of the other in a warm-up exercise she’d learned years ago from her piano teacher. Dealing cards for hours at a time required just as much dexterity and endurance as mastering scales and arpeggios.

  A voice called out as she passed the door of her supervisor’s office: “Hey, Linnie, would you step in here for a second? We need a word with you.”

  Linnie glanced down to ascertain that everything was in place. “What’s wrong? Am I late?”

  “No, no, you’re right on time.” Janice, a longtime floor worker with a face like an ex-model’s and a voice like a cement mixer, ushered her into the small office filled with cheap corporate furniture and shiny fake plants. Chip, Janice’s boss, was squeezed into a Naugahyde armchair behind a laminate desk. He had a clipboard and a somber expression on his face. Uh-oh.

  “Come on in.” Chip beckoned with both hands. “Close the door.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Linnie did so. The metallic snick of the door latch echoed through the office.

  Chip cleared his throat and launched into a speech that had obviously been prepared ahead of time. “We’ve been noticing a few things over the past few weeks. Both of us.”

  Linnie’s gaze fell on the pile of legal pads, manila envelopes, and pens stacked on the table between her supervisors. Oh God. They were documenting and corroborating the details of this conversation.

  “You’re firing me,” she said, bracing one hand against the doorjamb.

  “No!” Chip shook his head so vehemently, his glasses fell off. “Absolutely not. We’re just making a few minor staffing changes.”

  Janice pushed back her mountainous blond bangs, opened one of the file folders, and got down to business. “Here’s the deal. When we first opened the Kitty Korner two months ago, we thought you’d be a perfect fit. You’re a great dealer and a total knockout.”

  “Ten plus,” Chip added helpfully.

  “But we both feel that there’s room for improvement with the way you interact with our VIP guests.”

  Linnie stiffened. “I’m unfailingly polite.”

  “I know you are.” Janice nodded. “That’s part of the problem. The whole point of the Kitty Korner is that it’s a little bit secluded; it’s a little bit naughty.”

  “It’s a hideaway,” Chip threw in.

  “Exactly. And when guys come in here, they want a whole fantasy to go along with their gaming. They want you to flirt with them, joke with them.”

  “I don’t flirt.” Linnie delivered this pronouncement as though flirting were beneath her, but the truth was that she couldn’t flirt, even if she wanted to. Giggling and eyelash batting were simply not in her repertoire.

  “And nobody’s asking you to,” Janice said. She and Chip exchanged a glance. “Your comfort and well-being are our first priority. That’s why we think you might be happier moving back to the main floor. You can wear your old uniform of black slacks and a white shirt.”

  Given that Linnie had always felt discomfited flaunting her figure in the Kitty Korner costume, she was surprised at how much this suggestion stung. “So you’re saying, in essence, that I’m not hoochie enough for the hoochie room?”

  “Oh, hon, no one’s saying that.” Janice squeezed her hand, looking genuinely distressed. “We just feel that, personality-wise, you may not be the ideal fit here. Since we first opened the area, we’ve been tracking our customer demographic and behavior. And the guys don’t spend as much time at your table as they do at the other girls’. They don’t tip you as much.”

  “But I’m good at my job.” Linnie tried not to plead. “I don’t make mistakes.”

  “When it comes to shuffling and dealing, you are absolutely on point,” Chip agreed. “But the girls who do well in this room tend to have a little swagger.”

  “I’ll try harder,” Linnie vowed. “I’ll swagger.”

  Janice gave her another fortifying hand squeeze. “Swagger’s not something you can force. And I don’t want you to take any of this the wrong way. You’re a good employee, and you’re a classic beauty. You just come off as a tiny little bit, uh—”

  “Cold,” Chip muttered.

  “Intimidating.” Janice frowned at him. “I know you’re scheduled to start a week’s vacation tomorrow. Tell you what. Just take tonight off, too.”

  “Take as long as you need,” Chip offered. “There’s no rush, no rush at all.”

  This is where I’m supposed to quit gracefully so they don’t have to fire me for being a socially stunted ice queen. But Linnie couldn’t do it. She needed this job. This was her only source of income, and now she was in debt.

  So she clenched her molars together and thanked them for demoting her with a smile on her face.

  “Linnie?” Janice looked alarmed. “You okay?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “That’s all,” Chip said, turning his attention back to his paperwork. “You can go home now.”

  So she did. She drove her crappy little car back to her crappy little apartment, unlaced her polyester corset and changed into one of her shapeless gray outfits. Then she went to the grocery store, spent the remaining cash in her wallet on butter, sugar, flour, and eggs, and devoted the rest of the night to making piecrusts.

  Since she didn’t own a food processor, she did it old-school: using a fork to score the cold butter into pea-size spheres. She considered experimenting by adding a few drops of chilled lemon juice, buttermilk, or even vinegar along with the sour cream to help break down the gluten proteins and enhance the buttery flavor, but ultimately she was too afraid and overwhelmed to deviate from Grammy’s original recipe. So instead she focused on finetuning her rolling technique. She baked the crusts empty, without the apple filling. They turned out even better than she had hoped: flaky, light, rich, and golden brown.

  As she broke off a piece of crust and let the delicate layers dissolve in her mouth, Linnie pressed her hands to her face and cried, her tears mingling with the sprinkling of flour dusted across her cheeks. Not because the pastry wasn’t perfect, but because it was. She had been speaking the truth when she told her supervisors that she didn’t make mistakes. But perfection paralyzed her. Perfection, or the illusion thereof, was what had derailed her life in the first place.

  Chapter 7

  “You’re late.” Linnie had an exasperated expression on her face and her watch prominently displayed when Amy pulled up to the airport curb.

  “And hello to you, too.” Amy tamped down her annoyance and leaned over to open the passenger-side door. “Is that all your luggage?”

  Linnie glanced down at the lone carry-on bag. “Yeah. We’re only going to be here for a week. Why? How much did you bring?”

  Amy jerked her chin toward the backseat. “I’m doing my part to keep the chiropractors of America in business.”

  While Linnie wedged her black suitcase in amid the pile of overstuffed red bags, Amy reflected that her sister looked and behaved like a 1940s pinup with a mood disorder. From a painter’s or photographer’s perspective, Linnie really didn’t have a bad side. She’d been born with thick, silky hair, perfect bone structure, and tilted coffee brown eyes that gleamed with foxlike cunning and intensity. When she and Linnie were children, strangers would stop the family on the street to ooh and aah over the angelic little blonde.

  “What a gorgeous child,” cashiers would gush, craning over the counter for a better look at Linnie. Then their gaze would flit over to Amy and their smile would soften. “And you’re cute, too, sweetie.”

  When Linnie climbed into the front seat, Amy opened up the car’s center console to display a veritable vending machine’s worth of snacks. “Care for some chips? Cookies? Trail mix?”

  Linnie refused the offer with a curt head shake. “You know, you were supposed to be here seventeen minutes ago.”
<
br />   “Given the traffic on I-95, seventeen minutes late is practically early.” Amy flipped on her turn signal and tore into a bag of Doritos.

  “I didn’t know what happened to you, if you decided to blow me off or died in a fiery wreck or what,” Linnie continued, her whole body tense. “I tried to call you.”

  “You did?” Amy grabbed her cell phone from the car’s cup holder and glanced at the screen, which read: 3 missed calls. “Oops. Sorry. I guess I didn’t hear it ring—I had the stereo on pretty loud.”

  “Well, being late is really disrespectful, not to mention passive-aggressive. You’re effectively conveying the message that your time is more important than mine.”

  Amy wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. “The only message I’m conveying is that road construction sucks and the Pretenders sound better cranked up to eleven. There’s no psychological power play here. Shit happens, and I’m not even that late. Let’s just move on and try to have a good time, okay?”

  “Okay.” Linnie buckled her seat belt and lapsed into silence for a moment. Then she drew a deep breath, as if she couldn’t help herself. “But punctuality is of utmost importance. This competition has a lot of time limits and—” Her lecture ended on a gasp as Amy floored the accelerator. The SUV leaped away from the curb, spun into a sudden, screeching U-turn across four lanes of traffic, and narrowly missed a collision with a rental car shuttle bus.

  Linnie clapped her hands over her mouth, then braced herself against the dashboard and cried, “What are you doing?”

  “Going home.” Amy gunned it for the airport exit. “I quit.”

  “You can’t quit!”

  “Sure I can. Watch me.” The car screeched to a halt as Amy braked for a yield sign. She turned to her sister with one eyebrow raised. “I’ll drop you at the hotel, and then you’re on your own. Smacznego, baby.”

  “Slow down!” Linnie cried as Amy merged into traffic. “You’re out of control.”

  “Oh, how I wish that were true,” Amy countered. “But actually, I have spent the last few years of my life being completely reasonable and responsible: ‘Put on sunscreen, send your mother a birthday card, eat your vegetables, don’t forget to floss.’ This week is my vacation, and I will not have you badgering me and giving me agita over seventeen stupid minutes.”