Heartbreak Cake (15 page)

“I see.” I say delicately, although what I really want to do is take the cream-covered apple taquito I’m holding and smear it on Josh’s face.

“Who is Noah?” Stephanie asks, finally sensing the current of tension between us. But Josh and I are too busy eyeing each other combatively to answer her. “Are we all okay here?”

“I couldn’t be more excited to be working with Indira and her tiny and charming Cake Pan. So cute it is.” Josh says pleasantly.

“Thanks Josh. I am happy to be the creative engine that Crystal Cove lacks.”

“Um wait a minute, you two, this doesn’t sound good…” Stephanie says slowly.

“Stephanie, don’t you worry, we have two weeks until your big day. Just relax and know we are all professionals.” I grab my purse from the patio table.

“I’ll have a messenger come pick up the cake stands tomorrow, but I better head back to the beach and help Pedro.” I turn to walk away, a smile frozen on my face while my heart beats rapidly. I cannot wait until I can drop this act and scream obscenities in the comfort of my compact car.

“This isn’t personal. It’s business. It’s still going to be great. Just know that,” Stephanie says worriedly as I brush past her and Josh.

“I know
to you
this isn’t personal,” I say with a backward glance toward Josh who is no longer smiling.

Chapter 13

“Pick up the phone, pick up the phone,” I plead as I slowly drive out of Stephanie’s epically long driveway, which seemed impressive a few hours ago, but now feels like the most obnoxious three-mile drive of shame I’ve ever experienced.

“Hello, you’ve reached Rebecca Potts. I am away through the week of September 12th…”

Ah yes.

I forgot about Rebecca and Richard’s Palm Springs baby-free getaway where they would indulge in pool lounging, wine spritzers, and dancing to anything by Kylie Minogue.

Gripping the steering wheel tightly I cringe, remembering Stephanie’s explanation just as stomped off. “It’s not personal. It’s business,” she said.

That is one of the great social lies out there, right next to, “It’s not you. It’s me.”

The truth is that it is you. All of you.

And guess what? It is absolutely personal. Because what’s more personal than having your married ex- boyfriend steal a job right out from under you because he has a hundred thousand dollars and you don’t? I’d say there’s nothing more personal than that.

One of Josh’s favorite mantras when he was in the middle of a sticky business deal was, “Business is a combination of war and sport.” I always thought it was something he said so he could deal with the politics of the job, which basically included having to crush the little guy when they were getting in the way.

I guess Cake Pan was being a persnickety little guy. What I need is a little help from someone with a cunning mind that can match Josh’s business savvy, Stephanie’s philanthropic aspirations, and Valentina’s art of manipulation. Someone who can help save my business and reputation without ever making it look like I’m worried.

Exiting the 22 Freeway, it dumps me onto Pacific Coast Highway, and I roll down my car window to breathe in the crisp ocean air. Moving to Long Beach was the best decision I ever made, next to opening Cake Pan with my best friend. Living by the beach changed me. Turned me from a high-heel-wearing urbanite to a flip flop and easy-living kinda gal, who loves the sound of squawking seagulls, playing beach volleyball, and smelling the salty ocean air.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I can still parallel park like a ninja when I head out to Los Angeles, and I do have my four-inch favorite heels that I will pull out when the occasion calls for it. But I am a beach girl.

I pull into Cake Pan’s parking lot and spot Pedro’s new minivan with a safety sign stuck on the back window that reads,
Baby on the Move
.

I don’t want to uproot myself and have to start over. Watching Pedro through the storefront window chat animatedly to a customer who is munching on a pumpkin muffin top, I know that I have to get things back on course. For him, but also for me. Pulling out my cell phone, I punch in the number and wait for the funny sounding ring tone of an international call. After a few rings, the sound of his sly cadence fills my car, and I lean my head back feeling comforted by the strength of his voice. He will know what to do. I just know it.

“Well, well, Chicken. It’s been a while.”

“Simon, try not to be a total son of a bitch about this…but I’m calling in a favor.”

***

For the first few months I worked at the Crystal Cove kitchen, I seethed quietly in my workstation, trying to figure out how anyone had been able to work with this man. Dramatic, moody, and prone to making scenes at the worst imaginable times, Simon Ford was a complicated man who was also unbelievably talented.

All of this came wrapped in a gorgeous British package that made me feel like I was in the middle of a Hugh Grant movie. Floppy hair and mumbling often confused me and made me wonder if I should slap him for insulting me or go have a tea and biscuit with the man. Our exchanges when I first started working for him often went something like this:

“Indira, what is this?”

“Chef, that’s the cinnamon buns for the breakfast table.”

“These are cinnamon buns? From scratch?” He’d take a bite and then make a gagging face. “Try again,” he’d say and then toss them in the trash.

“Young lady, I thought I told you to make a lemon cake?”

“I did.” I’d point at the gorgeous mile high layered cake sitting on the kitchen island, but Simon would be licking a spoon and shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Try again.”

Back then, every part of me cringed at how he treated my work. He tested every recipe I made, and wouldn’t allow anything to be served to the public. My confidence was taking a beating as I began to question whether I was cut out to work at a place as prestigious as Crystal Cove.

Pedro eyed me curiously one afternoon after Simon sent me to the back of the kitchen to peel apples, a job for low ranking culinary students—not for a pastry cook hired to assist the chef.

“What are you staring at?” I snapped while bitterly peeling apples and flinging the skin against the table.

“Weren’t you the girl who walked out of your interview?” Pedro asked with a confused look on his face.

“Yep, that was me.”

“Seems to me that he thought you were going to stand up to him. But you’re letting him throw out all your work. He’s crushing you. You’ll never make it here if you can’t show him you trust yourself.”

My face flushed hotly with embarrassment. Pedro hadn’t said a peep to me for the last two months. A few grunts here and there, but nothing more. Suddenly he was giving me a speech that was out of the pages of one of my self-help books.

“I wish you would’ve given me a heads up sooner.” I grabbed the bowl of peeled apples and shot him a dirty look.

“It was fun to watch for a while. Then it just got sad.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, stormed off to Simon’s office, and banged on the door with a closed fist.

“Busy,” he yelled.

“Yes, Chef, just wanted to let you know that I am changing the dessert for the evening, so please reprint menus for tonight when you’re done with your, er, meeting.”

1, 2, 3…I counted in my head as I stood there tapping my clogged shoe against the linoleum. 4, 5…the door finally burst open and Simon walked out with messy hair, and there was a bleach blonde sitting on his desk not looking the least embarrassed.

“You don’t just change the dessert.” He tried to mimic my voice.

“We have an oversupply of apples that Josh picked up at the Farmer’s Market at cost. We must get rid of them before they go bad. And by the way, you have crème brulee on the menu again. Yes, I said again. I think it would be safe to change it up a bit. I’m making apple pie purses.”

“I don’t think I told you that you could do that,” he said loudly.

“You did, Chef,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t lose my nerve. “When you hired me, you gave me the okay to think for myself. And if you don’t agree, it’s best if you just fire me now because I can’t work like this.”

The kitchen went quiet.

“Are you playing chicken with me, Chicken?” Simon said as he stepped closer to me. I stayed put even though I wanted to take a fearful step back.

“Call it whatever you want, I’m just telling you that things need to change,” I said, wondering if I would be able to collect unemployment if I got fired.

“What the hell is a purse anyway?”

“It’s a pastry bundle. Almost like a dumpling, but you add walnuts, raisins. We can serve it with vanilla ice cream and a caramel compote. Everyone will love it. I promise.”

“Fine, but if they don’t, you’re fired.”

Simon huffed away from me and closed the door loudly behind him. I turned around to face Pedro, who showed no emotion on his face, and I thought I had just made a huge mistake.

“Finally!” Pedro started to clap and the rest of the kitchen staff followed until it grew to a loud applause with a few hoots thrown into the mix.

“Alright, alright cut it out. Thanks for watching me get humiliated the last few months, guys. Let’s all get back to work and prepare for dinner.” I waved everyone away but was bursting with pride.

“Welcome to the kitchen,” Pedro said and gave me the ever-appropriate man slap on the back.

I had finally found my place in that island of misfit cooks.

After the dinner shift was over, Simon had to admit my idea was a success.

“Your apple pie thingies sold out,” he said to me as I wiped my workstation meticulously clean with a wet towel. It was 1 a.m. and I had been at work since noon, and should’ve been exhausted. But I pulsated with energy.

“I know. We used every apple we had in the kitchen. I had to run upstairs and to steal some out of the room service department when that last table ordered an extra one.”

“Who the hell knew that something called a purse could create that kind of frenzy,” Simon said as he leaned against my clean counter, munching on a piece of toast and crumbing all over my hard work. “Congratulations, Chicken. You did it.”

“Is Chicken a nickname British people use? Like lovey or darling?”

“Who says ‘lovey’ besides Thurston Howell from Gilligan’s Island?” Simon snorted. “Chicken is something I call people when they’re acting scared, which you were. I had hopes that you would fight back, but you seemed to rather like it.”

“You sounded so charming doing it, I just thought you were being a pretentious Brit and giving me a nickname.”

“God, you’re such an ugly American.”

“Pompous ass. I have no idea how any of us can work for someone so obnox—”

“Sounds like you two are getting along as well as you did in your interview,” Josh’s voice interrupted. Simon rolled his eyes and made a kissy-face at me.

I mouthed,
real mature
, at Simon and gave Josh my full attention...

“Hi Josh, what are you still doing here?”

“I wanted to say congratulations. I heard you finally kicked crème brulee off Chef Simon’s favorites list.” Josh beamed at me, and I swooned.

“Well, I think it’s too soon to say that. His crème brulee does have a loyal following. I’d hate to throw off the balance of the dessert gods. But we’ll see.”

Simon exhaled loudly and put his piece of toast down on my counter. “This is getting a little too puppy tails and rainbows for me. You had a lucky night. Now let’s see if you can do it again tomorrow.”

Simon walked away without a word and Josh gave me a crooked smile. “Whoops, I forgot how much he hates warm and fuzzy talk. We should have hugged him. That would have really freaked him out,” he whispered.

We giggled and I wondered if it was just me who felt the attraction. Or if maybe he felt it, too.