The Bake-Off (28 page)

Amy opened her mouth to argue, but Grammy Syl shut her down before she could get out a single syllable.

“Must I remind you that I already missed my last chance for an Alaskan cruise? Please don't ruin this trip to New York, as well.”

“Wow.” Amy was awestruck. “You just earned your black belt in guilt trips.”

Grammy looked flattered. “It's a skill that takes a lifetime to master, darling. Keep practicing and you'll have it down before the twins learn to drive.” She sat back and sighed. “I know you're upset; believe me, so am I. And I know I should try to be wise and peaceful about this. A better grandmother would probably jot down her memories and reflections in a journal and comfort you with platitudes about the circle of life. But I don't feel old and wise; I still feel like I'm about twenty-two.”

“That's why you're the envy of grandmothers everywhere,” Linnie said.

“But.” Grammy made them wait through a dramatic pause. “I do have one last request. Two last requests, really.”

“Anything,” Amy said.

“Name it and it's done,” vowed Linnie.

“Number one: I want you two to be each other's family after I'm gone. Real sisters who stay in touch and take care of each other.”

“So that's why you plotted to bring us together and make us bond.” Amy said to Linnie, “It all starts to make sense.”

Linnie nodded. “I knew that apple pie smelled like treachery.”

Grammy squeezed both of their hands. “It's not treachery if it comes from a place of love.”

“Your plan's going to backfire,” Linnie threatened. “If you die on us, Amy and I are never going to speak to each other again. We'll be bitter enemies. Way worse than before.”

“Crips and Bloods,” Amy agreed.

“So you'd better stick around to referee.”

Grammy hung on to their hands. “Oh, my darling girls, I wish I could.”

Just as Amy was about to reach for the Kleenex again, Grammy brightened. “But that brings us to my second request: I want you to win the championship tomorrow. The whole kit and caboodle. Get one for the Gipper!”

Amy and Linnie stared at her.

“The Gipper,” Grammy prompted. “Notre Dame? Knute Rockne?”

Linnie furrowed her brow. “Is that a sports reference of some kind?”

“Oh, never mind. Just bake your hearts out and make me proud.”

“We will.” Amy rested her hand on top of her grandmother's.

“We'll annihilate the competition.” Linnie added her hand to the stack. “I promise you, Grammy. Come tomorrow morning, there will be blood on the blenders.”

Grammy beamed. “That's my lamb.”

“
I
t's almost midnight,” Amy whispered. “Are you asleep?” I Linnie flipped over to face her sister. They'd been lying back-to-back in the huge bed for hours, each staring out into the darkness. “No.”

“What are you thinking about?” Amy asked.

“Nothing, really. Just reciting the periodic table in my mind.” Anything to keep her mind off apple pie and aneurysms. “What are you thinking about?”

Amy threw one arm above her head. “Everything. Grammy Syl's sleeping in my guest room right now. Brandon said she insisted on making a huge dinner for everyone in the house, including his mother. She's an octogenarian with a bunch of brain aneurysms who spent the afternoon in the emergency room, and she comes home and whips up a pot roast, mashed potatoes, and gravy from scratch, all because Ben mentioned he likes ‘taters.' Who does that?”

“We come from a long line of difficult women,” Linnie said. “And getting more difficult with each generation. Try to get some sleep. The finals start at eight, and we have to go over our prep checklist at six thirty sharp.”

“You and your checklists. It's not a shuttle launch.” Amy shifted position again. “Hey, shouldn't you be slipping out right about now for your late-night rendezvous with your partner in plaid?”

“Are you kidding me? I've never felt less like rendezvousing than I do right now.” Her whole body felt as though she'd spent the afternoon boxing and the bruises were just now starting to set in.

“Then don't. Just give him a kiss and say good-bye.”

Linnie plucked at the duvet. “What exactly am I supposed to say, though? ‘Thanks for the cheap thrills on the chessboard'? ‘Whenever I see your name in a celebrity gossip column, I'll reflect fondly on our time together'?”

“Linnie. I'm not going to write you a script every time you interact with this guy. You slept with him; you can speak to him. Figure it out.” Two seconds later, Amy relented. “Okay, one tiny scrap of advice and that's it: I know you hate emotional scenes, but sarcasm is not the way to go here. Try sincerity.”

Linnie murmured her agreement, but made no move to get out of bed.

“You like this guy, right?” Amy persisted.

“Yes. Very much.”
A little too much.

“Then go.”

“I'm not having sex with him.”

“Who said you had to? Just be a decent human being and say a proper good-bye.”

Linnie swung her bare feet onto the carpet. She stayed that way, half in and half out of bed, for a full minute. “I'm really scared,” she admitted. “About the finals and everything after.”

“I know.” Amy lifted her head and propped herself up on her elbows. “What if we lose? What if we
win
? I don't know which would be more stressful at this point.”

“Losing,” Linnie said. “Grammy needs her brooch back. We're winning tomorrow. End of story.”

“Yeah, but then we'll have to do all the publicity, all those interviews. Do you really want to go on the
Today
show and, like, lie under oath to Meredith Vieira about how we came up with the recipe?”

“If you can handle Grammy Syl, you can handle Meredith Vieira,” Linnie assured her. “All right, I'm going. I'll be back in a few minutes. Do you want me to bring you some warm milk to help you sleep?”

“Why don't you recite a line or two of the periodic table? That should put me right out.”

 

T
his time, Linnie didn't loiter in front of Cam's door before announcing her presence with three quick, businesslike raps. She didn't pinch her cheeks or worry about how pallid and disheveled she looked. And she didn't worry about how to convey her intentions—she figured her outfit would do the talking.

Cam opened the door in a matter of seconds, as if he'd been waiting for her in the foyer. He looked like he had just come from a regatta in his starched white shirt, dark trousers, and polished black shoes and belt.

“Whew.” He removed his silver cuff links and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Beat you here by five minutes.”

“You just got off work?” Linnie tried to remember what time he'd been on the phone with Grammy that morning. “You worked, what? Fifteen hours? At least?”

“Kind of a long day. But I was highly motivated to get everything done before midnight.” He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

She held out her arms to give him a better look at the saggy, baggy lumberjack pajamas underneath her bathrobe. “Here's the deal: I'm not wearing plaid underwear tonight.”

His expression darkened with concern. “Everything all right?”

“No, actually. This afternoon I found out that my grandmother is . . . She's not doing well. And I've lost something very important to her and I'm not sure I can get it back.”

He stepped back and held open his door. “Come in.”

“I can't. But I'll be leaving tomorrow, and I wanted to say good-bye.” She finally summoned up a smile. “I had fun.”

“Come in,” he ordered. “You look like hell.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “That's not very gallant.”

“Gallantry doesn't work with you.” He reeled her in by her bathrobe belt and locked the door behind her. “How about something to eat?”

“I am a bit peckish, now that you mention it.” Actually, she was ravenous. Her stomach felt like it was sucking up against her spine. How had she not noticed?

“Sit down.” He guided her into a small but highly stylized kitchen, all done up in polished concrete and gleaming white subway tiles, and pulled out a chair from the table. After a quick inventory of the refrigerator, he reported, “I've got cheese, butter, bread, and beer. And milk that expired two days ago. So unless you're in the mood for grilled cheese, we'll have to order something from downstairs.”

“Grilled cheese will be fine.”

“Great.” He assembled the bread, butter, and cheese along with a knife and a cast-iron frying pan. “Will this work?”

“I guess so.” Linnie lifted the heavy pan onto the stove burner and turned on the flame. “Aren't we supposed to toast the bread before we get started?”

“I have no idea. You've never made grilled cheese before?”

“No,” she confessed. “You?”

“Nope. Can't say I'm much of a cook.” He arranged two slices of bread on the counter and started hacking away at the Havarti. “But it's just a sandwich with cheese, butter, and bread. I'm sure we can figure it out.”

Five minutes later the frying pan was smoking, the windows and balcony doors had been opened to prevent the fire alarm from sounding, and the blackened grilled cheese sat in the center of a porcelain plate like a jagged chunk of coal.

“Wow.” Linnie poked at the smoldering squiggles of melted cheese that had permanently bonded to the metal. “I guess we should have buttered the pan first.”

“Live and learn.” Cam grabbed a dish towel and carried the ruined skillet out to the balcony. “Room service it is. Can I interest you in a dessert? I hear our pastry chef makes a mean apple pie.”

“No, thank you,” she murmured. “I'm not really one for sweets.”

He called down to the kitchen and ordered replacement grilled cheese, along with tomato-basil soup.

“I'm surprised this place doesn't come with a full-time chef,” she said, only half joking.

“It does, if you're a guest of the hotel. But as a member of the McMillan family . . . well, let's just say I don't need any extra help maintaining a reputation as an Ivy League prince with no practical skills.”

“Skills like making grilled cheese?” Linnie teased.

“Exactly.” He grinned. “People can be so prejudiced.”

“But you work fifteen-hour days and personally fix leaky faucets for your guests.”

“I'm still trying to redeem myself after getting kicked out of college and then joining the Peace Corps when I finally did graduate. I was supposed to go on to business school; instead, I spent two years in Turkmenistan. My brother, on the other hand, has an MBA from Harvard and a flawless résumé.”

“The golden child,” she said, remembering Amy's words. “Every family has one.”

When their food arrived, they ate by candlelight in the little kitchen, Cam still in his shirtsleeves and Linnie in her pajamas.

He kept stealing sidelong glances at her, until Linnie couldn't stand it any longer. “What?” she demanded, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Do I have something in my teeth? Is my hair on fire?”

“No.” He put down his cutlery. “But I have a confession: I know your secret.”

Linnie started to ask,
Which one?
Then managed to change her reply to a noncommittal, “Hmm?”

“Your grandmother told me what you're really doing here.”

Linnie froze in midchew. “She did?”

“When I called your hotel room this morning, she told me about the photo shoot.” He waited for her to jump in and elaborate, and when she didn't, he prompted, “Why didn't you just tell me you were a model?”

“Oh.” Words started tumbling out of her. “Well, when you're a model, people assume certain things about you: You're vain, you're vapid, you can't do calculus.”

“You can be honest with me,” he said. “I'm not going to judge you.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you always seem so defensive.”

She ran her finger along the tines of her fork. “Anyway, I'm not a
real
model.”

“Define ‘real' model.”

“The kind of model you typically date.”

“I see.” He folded up his napkin and sat back in his chair. “And how would you know what sort of woman I date, model or otherwise?”

She realized too late that she had tipped her hand. “From the gossip blogs.”

“You don't seem like the gossip-blog type.”

“Oh, I am. Absolutely. It's my guilty pleasure.”

He inclined his head. “Are you sure those bloggers are referencing me and not my older brother?”

“Um.” Damn Amy and her gossip-skimming ways. “No.”

“My brother, Mac, is the one who likes to show up at highprofile events with A-list arm candy.”

Linnie held up one hand. “Your brother's named Mac McMillan? You're Cam, and he's Mac?”

“His birth certificate says Pertinax, but you only call him that if you want a bloody nose. As I was saying, he likes playing the field. A lot. To the point that it can be a problem, even for the golden child. That's why I'm in charge of the New York properties now. I'm cleaning up a series of messes he made last year.” He tapped his index finger on the tabletop. “But now we're veering back into gossip-blog territory, so let's return to the subject at hand. You know what kind of woman I want? I want a fake model who can do calculus. I want a bad cook in flannel pajamas.”