The Bake-Off (25 page)

After all this talk about the past, Linnie had no interest in planning for the future. She just wanted to jump him and not have to map out eighteen thousand contingency plans.

In one fast, fluid move, she flipped over and straddled him. “Let's just enjoy the moment, shall we? You in your plaid underwear, me in mine.”

He grabbed her hips and pressed up against her. “You know what's even better than wearing plaid underwear?”

“What's that?”

“Not wearing plaid underwear.”

“
D
id you get any sleep last night?” Amy asked Linnie as they sat in a pair of canvas folding chairs, trying not to move while the makeup artist worked her magic.

“About an hour.” Linnie stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.

“That would explain these dark circles.” Ori, the shoot's makeup artist and wardrobe stylist, dabbed on concealer beneath Linnie's eyes. In an effort to help both sisters appear fresh faced and natural, she'd stuck to neutral tones like brown and bronze, with only a light dusting of blush and a bit of lip gloss. “Close your eyes for a second—I'm going to glue on a few false eyelashes.”

“Getting glam takes forever,” Linnie said.

The alarm had gone off at seven, which to Amy had felt like the equivalent of sleeping in till noon. Her sister, however, had refused to stir until Amy flicked some cold water onto her toes.

Amy dug her phone out of her bag and snapped a photo of their reflections in the mirror. They both had pink Velcro rollers in their hair and voluminous black smocks draped across their shoulders.

“Brandon and the kids will love this. We look like Grammy Syl before she ‘puts her face on.' ”

“Don't knock the old-school rollers,” Ori said. “They give your hair just the right amount of volume.” She stepped back to assess her work, gave Linnie's forehead one more swipe with the powder brush, and nodded in satisfaction. “If you need to go to the restroom, go now. Once you put on your outfit for the shoot, you can't sit down or lean against anything. The clothes photograph best without creases or stains.”

“Got it.” Amy got to her feet. “Any other tips?”

“Just relax and be yourself. No one expects you to act like a professional model.”

“Yeah, but I still want to
look
like one.” If only she'd had time to watch all those seasons of
America's Next Top Model
that her TiVo had recorded and deleted over the years. “Give me some hints. ‘Smile with your eyes' and all that.”

Ori started packing up her supplies. “I always tell people to stick out their chin a little bit. The camera doesn't register depth, so that helps your jawline look more defined and your neck look smoother. Also, try to look down before each photograph, and then look up just in time for the shot. That makes your eyes look fresher.”

“Ooh, thanks. I'm totally going to do that for our next family portrait.” She nudged Linnie. “Are you getting all this?”

No answer. Linnie had slumped down in her chair, her artfully bronzed eyelids at half-mast.

“Linnie! Wake up.”

“Huh?” Linnie's head snapped up. “I'm awake, I'm awake.”

“I'll go ask the photographer's assistant to make some fresh coffee,” Ori said. “Any other questions before we get started?”

“Yeah, what do we get to wear?” Amy asked, with visions of Gucci and Hermès dancing in her head.

“Button-down shirts and A-line skirts.” The stylist laughed at Amy's evident disappointment. “You're supposed to look wholesome. I do have some fashion-forward jewelry, though.”

“Sign me up.”

“We'll get started as soon as the food stylist arrives to make sure the baked goods look as beautiful as you two.”

Amy waited until the makeup artist was out of earshot, then resumed the interrogation of Linnie she had started in the cab on the way from the hotel to the photographer's studio.

“So what exactly did you and Moneybags end up doing last night?”

“Don't call him that. He has a name.” Linnie paused. “Claudius.”

“Shut up. I thought his name was Cam?”

“C. A. M. are his initials. So he goes by Cam because his full name is—”

“Wow. Claudius and Vasylina. You two are quite the couple.”

“We're not a couple,” Linnie corrected her. “We're, um, fellow chess enthusiasts. And by the way, I'll have you know that some people consider plaid lingerie the height of provocative sophistication.”

“Are you sure you're not a couple? Because you sound like a perfect match.”

“Please. We barely know each other.”

“Yeah, but if you took the time to
get
to know each other—”

“Everything would be messy and complicated,” Linnie finished. “I need to keep things simple and self-contained. My libido may be in the freight elevator, but my focus is one hundred percent on this competition.”

Marc, the photographer, strode into the dressing area, distributed cups of coffee to all, and announced, “Well, ladies, I just got a call from our food stylist. She's stuck in traffic in the tunnel, and it sounds like it's gonna be a while, so we're going to go ahead and get started without her.”

“It'll be fine,” Ori said. “This shoot's mostly with fruit and the premade pies, and you can always Photoshop later.”

“What about the next duo, though?” Marc rubbed his chin. “With those sticky caramel tart thingies? That's going to be a mess.”

“Amy can do it,” Linnie piped up. “She's got a gift for the presentation aspect of baking. She went to art school, you know.”

Amy was so shocked to hear Linnie describe her as gifted that she started stammering. “Oh, well, I'll do my best, but I'm not a food stylist by any means.”

Ori dismissed this with a shrug. “You're not a model, either, but here you are.”

“Yeah. Don't be so negative,” Linnie said in a pitch-perfect imitation of Amy.

Amy's mental wheels started whirring again and she turned to the photographer. “Wait a second. You said the duo you're shooting after us is making caramel tarts?”

The photographer nodded and squinted down at his light meter. “Mm-hmm. Some husband-and-wife team. They have the same name. Chris and Kris?”

“Ty and Tai,” Amy told them.

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Ori said. “You know them?”

“You could say that.” Amy froze with her coffee cup halfway to her lips, suddenly paranoid about eyedrops and slow death. “They're not here already, are they?”

“Nope. Why?”

“No reason.” She took a tiny sip of the dark roast and glanced over at Linnie. “I just like to keep up with our competition.”

 

“
T
his is so uncomfortable.” Linnie squirmed and fidgeted in her black-white-and-green floral-patterned skirt. “It doesn't fit.”

“Yes, it does.” Amy emerged from behind her dressing screen decked out in white jeans and a ruffled pink blazer. “You're just not used to wearing anything other than XXL sweatshirts or skintight corsets.” She had done a double take when Linnie returned from the changing room. Gone was the surly, slouchy fashion victim. In addition to the skirt, Ori had outfitted her in kitten-heel mules, a fitted green blouse, and dangly purple sapphire earrings. “You look like a Talbots catalog.”

Linnie made a face. “I look like you, and it's freaking me out.”

“Just go with it,” Amy advised. “Pretend you
are
me. Smile. Be friendly.”

Linnie summoned up a pained, stiff-lipped grin.

“Okay, now you look like a serial killer.”

Ori arrived to retouch their hair and makeup, then sent them out for test shots in front of the white screen.

“We're going to do a few warm-up shots first,” said Marc. “Adjust the lighting and angles. Just try to look natural.”

Amy did her best to utilize Ori's tips, but while she was blinking her eyes and jutting out her chin, Linnie started to look even more psychotic.

“Hey. Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Linnie gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Marc beckoned to Ori, then pointed to Linnie's shirt collar. “Can we do something for her neck?”

Linnie's hands flew to her throat. “What's wrong with my neck?”

Amy winced at the sight of the angry red splotches. “It looks like you got attacked by a swarm of hornets.”

“Do you have sensitivities to skin-care products?” Ori asked. “Maybe you're having a reaction to the foundation I used.”

“No, no, don't worry,” Amy said. “I've got this under control.” She put her hand on Linnie's forearm.
“Relax
.
”

“You know what might help?” Ori suggested. “Close your eyes for second and think about the happiest moment of your life.”

Amy knew this was directed at Linnie, but she closed her eyes, too, and did a quick flip through her memory's greatest hits: holding Ben and Chloe for the first time, backpacking through Europe with her friends the summer she turned twenty, kissing Brandon in the dental school parking garage until his car windows fogged up, watching a black-and-white movie marathon with Grammy Syl when she was bedridden with mono in high school. . . .

She felt her lips curve slightly in a peaceful smile, then opened her eyes and glanced at her sister, who remained wide eyed and strained.

“I can't think of anything,” Linnie said, her voice pinched with desperation.

And when Amy opened her mouth to suggest sublimely joyful moments in Linnie's life, she came up blank. Though her sister's formative years had been bursting with accolades and accomplishments, Linnie had never seemed very
happy
about any of them. Everything she did had been considered merely another step on the way to something greater. “Think about . . . think about, uh . . . naked chess games in the freight elevator?”

Linnie's whole face lit up.

“Perfect!” The photographer started snapping away. “Stay exactly where you are.”

“That's it, baby.” Amy started to growl like a tiger, clawing with her hands. “Work it! Own it! You're so money and you don't even know it!”

Linnie started to laugh. “Can I please have her escorted off the premises?”

The camera kept clicking; then the assistants brought out a sturdy wooden table laden with pies and produce.

“Okay, one of you grab the green apple, and one of you take the red one, and—”

“Hold on.” Amy plucked the apple from Linnie's hand. “The Red Delicious isn't quite right.”

“Oh, is that the wrong kind to use in baking?” Marc asked.

“Beats me,” Amy admitted before she remembered she was supposed to be the expert. “But it's kind of discolored.” She held it up to display the yellow spots on the skin.

“Can you turn it to show the other side?”

But the other side was also pale and splotchy.

Amy dashed over to Ori. “Do you have any dark red lipsticks?” She selected a glossy maroon shade and applied it liberally to the apple. “There. That looks better.”

“That really does look better.” The photographer seemed impressed; Ori, mourning the loss of a perfectly good lipstick, was less so.

“I told you,” Linnie said. “She's an artist. It's not easy always being right, but it's my cross to bear.”

After an hour of posing and smiling, the photographer declared the shoot at an end. “I've got what I need. Thanks, guys, you did great.”

Linnie started back toward the dressing area, and Amy noticed how differently her sister carried herself in the cute, colorful clothes. She looked almost cheerful.

“Hey.” Marc waved her over. “Thanks for all your help today. That thing with the apple and the lipstick was great.”

“Thanks. I'm a former wannabe artist who never passes up the chance to multitask with my makeup. I never really thought about table food as art until I started baking, but it's fun to tart up tarts, so to speak.”

“Well, if you're interested, I team up pretty frequently with a few food stylists, and they're always looking for reliable assistants. The pay's pitiful, and you'd have to come into the city for shoots, but you'd be learning from the best. We've done everything from print ads for potato chips to a Thanksgiving buffet for a feature film scene.” He handed her his business card, and Amy pressed it between both palms, feeling like she'd just been given the key to another restricted-access suite in the sky.

 

B
y the time Amy returned to the dressing area, Linnie had already changed back into her uniform of dull and drab, but her confident demeanor remained.

She sat down on one of the wobbly wooden stools behind the bamboo screen and indicated that Amy should do the same. “I have to tell you something.”

“Oh no.” Amy covered her head, bracing for impact. “What now?”

“No, it's nothing bad; it's just . . . I've never properly apologized. About the art thing. From high school.”

“Ah.” Amy paused, very reluctant to start poking and prodding this particular scar. “Well, that was a long time ago. I'm over it.”

Linnie shook her head. Under the glaring overhead lights, Amy could see the faint, tense lines around her sister's mouth and eyes. “No, you're not.”

“Of course I am.” Amy forced a little laugh. “I mean, it's not like I was going to be the next Damian White or anything.” After she'd found out what Linnie had done, she'd moved on with surprising ease, as if she'd never had any rights to her own work in the first place. She'd accepted that the Bialek family had been allotted a finite amount of talent and intelligence, and Linnie had dibs on the entire supply. “I had a little rage at the time; I'm not going to lie. Okay, a lot of rage. But I didn't have the pressure you did. And I didn't have your potential. Seriously, we don't need to rehash everything right now.”