Wedding Girl (31 page)

Mark is standing at the stove. Something smells delicious.

“What are you making?” I ask, as I grab a beer out of the fridge, open it, and take a long pull at the cold, bitter brew.

“Dinner. We need to replenish what we lost,” he says. And I don't blame him; all we ate for six hours were protein bars, which are great for speed, but don't really sustain for long.

I go over to the stove and peer into the pot, where a thick, creamy mixture of rice is forming. “Are you making risotto?” I ask, as he pours chicken stock from the box at his side into the pot, never stopping stirring.

“Yes, a quick and somewhat bastardized version, but you had the rice and an onion and stock, and I saw some rotisserie chicken in the fridge, and a package of baby spinach, so I figured we could make do.”

“I think this is more than just making do. What can I do?”

“You want to shred the chicken? Maybe grate some of that chunk of Parm I spotted in the cheese drawer? Chop some of that parsley you have over there?”

“You got it.” I pull the chicken out of the fridge, only missing one breast from my dinner last night, and remove the rest of the meat from the carcass, shredding it into bite-sized pieces as Mark
continues to stir. Without even thinking, when I remove the first oyster from the back, I reach over and offer it to him, and he eats it from my fingers as if it is the most natural thing in the world, which shoots tingles right up my arm and into my loins. I'm glad he can't see me flush. Suddenly I wonder why I was always so annoyed by the whole cooking with someone thing. It's kind of nice.

I put the shredded meat into a bowl and hand it to him, and he adds it to the pot with more stock, while I attack the wedge of Parmesan with a Microplane, creating a huge mound of fluffy cheese snow. I rip off a fistful of parsley from the bunch I have in a glass of water on the counter and give it a rough chop. Mark tastes the rice, and then throws a couple of handfuls of baby spinach in, with the last of the stock, giving it another good stir. He drops the stock box into the garbage, pulls the butter out of the fridge, cuts a large knob off the stick, and drops it into the pan, stirring with one hand and beginning to add fistfuls of grated cheese with the other. The smell is intoxicating. He drains the last of his beer, and without a word, I go to the fridge and open him another. He winks his thanks at me, pulls two large bowls from the cabinet, and spoons up a generous helping into each one, sprinkling more cheese over the top and adding a quick swirl of olive oil for garnish. He hesitates, then takes a lemon from the bowl on the counter, and my discarded Microplane, and showers a light bit of zest over each one. I give both bowls a hefty scattering of parsley, and we each grab our bowls and a fork from the drawer and head to the kitchen table with our beers.

The risotto may not be fancy, might not have the homemade stock or delicate saffron or special ingredients, but it is fucking delicious. Hot, savory, salty, cheesy, with the pop of acid from the lemon zest and the bright greenness of the parsley and spinach, and despite the fact that he made enough for what looked like six people, we devour our first helpings, and refill both bowls even more full than the first time and demolish those as well.

“I think we'll do fine,” he says after dumping the empty bowls in the sink and getting us each a third beer.

“I agree. I think we should be in good shape to not make a laughingstock of ourselves.” I grab the beer he proffers and take a deep swig as he walks around to join me on the couch.

He does the same, letting out a huge, resonant belch.

“Really?” I say.

“To-tal-ly.” He belches out.

What the hell. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
“Bbbbrrrrraaaaaap.”
I let the full force of the built-up pressure explode out of my face with unapologetic vigor.

Mark starts to laugh, and then so do I, and pretty soon we are both wiping tears and making dolphin noises. There is something to be said for that punch-drunk laughter that only happens in strange situations. When we get control over ourselves, Mark says, “You're a heck of a talent, Sophie Bernstein. What are you going to do when all this ends?” He waves a hand around the building.

“I have no idea,” I say, not bothering to argue with him. I've seen the books. Our little uptick with the relaunch and social media blitz would have been enough to give me hope for the future, but not with Cake Goddess opening her doors in less than six weeks. We have not increased revenue nearly enough to withstand the kind of hit we are going to take, and even if some miracle happened and we win this contest on Saturday, there is not enough time for newfound event-cake business to kick in and save our bacon.

“What do you want to do?”

I think about this. “I wish I knew. I'm in limbo, a bit. I think I've changed too much to want to go back to what I had before, the pressure of that fine-dining tasting-menu place, chasing stars. But I also know that this”—I repeat his gesture—“this isn't really enough, not for the long haul. I thought what I wanted
was a restaurant, something in the middle, serious food, but unfussy atmosphere, less pressure, but still challenging creatively.”

“But not now.”

I think of my dream, currently being fully realized and lauded without me. “Not now.”

“You'll figure it out.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.

“Yeah. I will. Thank you.” And then, not being able to stop myself, I lean forward and kiss him gently on the mouth.

He kisses me back for a moment, and then buries his hands in my hair, pulling my face away from his.

“Um, I sort of haven't full finished that whole, um, housekeeping issue.”

What an ass. This one sentence sends the fluttery excitement that was building in my girl parts right into remission. “Seriously?”

He blushes. “It's, um . . .”

“Yeah, complicated.”

“And you've got your guy . . .”

I think about poor Jake, and wonder if “my guy” will ever be anything more than theoretical. And if he wasn't, if I would even be remotely interested in pursuing something purposeful with Mark. I think back to my brief thought of them being the same person, and wonder if I'm just trying to mentally Frankenstein the perfect guy. Mark's looks and skills in bed, Jake's intelligence and sense of humor and kindness. Or worse, if I just kind of wish it were Mark emailing me instead of Jake, and what would that mean? Really don't even want to think about this right now. “Exactly. No worries, I'm just overtired and a little buzzed, and as impulses go, it was probably a spectacularly bad idea.”

“I should go,” he says, not disagreeing with me.

“Yeah, you should.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, you will.”

“Okay, then.”

“Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for dinner. For what it's worth, when you do find the sack to break it off with the wrong girl, you will make the right girl a really good wife.” I grin at him.

He smiles and belches one more time for good measure, and bows, taking his leave. I shake my head, glad that he has saved us both from making a second, more serious mistake, and head back inside to run a hot bath, and hopefully fall into a dreamless sleep.

(1936)

Gosh, all the fighting and worrying people do, it always seems to be about one thing. They don't seem to trust each other. Well, I've found this out. Don't look for trouble where there isn't any, because if you don't find it, you'll make it. Just believe in someone.

•
JAMES STEWART AS DAVE
•

Friday morning, Jason and Annabel help me load up the van with all of our prepped materials. We have all of the cake layers, the dacquoise, sheets of Rice Krispies treats. The pre-molded chocolate columns, a whole bucket of gray fondant, and a rainbow of other pre-colored fondants and gum pastes. All of the fillings and ingredients, as well as our structural supports, templates, and preapproved specialty equipment. I check everything off my list, while Jason does the same, and before we lock the van, we compare lists to be sure they match. Mark has some work stuff to deal with today, so he is just going to meet me at the hotel for the reception tonight. Annabel is going to hold down the fort while Jason helps me make the delivery and get our station set up for tomorrow before heading back to the bakery. The two of them have been an absolute godsend, and I have to figure out the proper way to thank them when this is all over.

“Have fun storming the castle!” Annabel says, waving at us,
in a fairly good Carol Kane impersonation as Jason and I get into the van.

“I'll have him back as soon as I can,” I say out the window of the passenger seat, as Jason pulls away and we head downtown.

The Astor Place is nestled on a fairly quiet street in the Gold Coast neighborhood, but still walking distance to all of the hustle and bustle of the Magnificent Mile. Just eight stories tall, but taking up nearly a full block, the Italianate architecture is stately, and the new deep navy blue awnings and shutters really look terrific. Jason pulls down the alley, and into the loading dock, where another van is already parked.

“Well, well, my other sister Sophie,” I hear as I get out of the van. I turn to see Sophie Goodman, owner of Bakehouse, behind me. “I thought you were dead, woman.” She walks over and grabs me in a hug. Sophie is a few years younger than me, but we met when I was doing a workshop at the French Pastry School while she was studying there, and for a week we were “Sophie Squared” or “The Sophies,” and we kept threatening to start a band. She took over at Bakehouse a few years ago, and has been knocking it out of the park with her impeccable takes on French classic pastry work.

“Not dead, just laying low,” I say. “I was very happy to see you on the list for this thing, it's one thing to come to probably lose, but at least I can lose to someone I like.”

She smacks me on the arm playfully. “Whatever, you'll kick my ass for sure. I'm just glad we're both here, it's a freaking sausage fest in there. But I had no idea you were competing, you weren't on the list. I thought I was the only girl.”

I laugh. “I know, right? You'd think with all the girls killing it these days that we would have had all five slots. But the lead on this was supposed to be my boss, he owns the bakery, but he got sick so I'm taking the lead.” I never contacted the organizers about the change. I figured Mark's real name is still technically
Herman Langer, there wasn't a need to make any changes. Chicago pastry, especially for fine dining, is heavily weighted with women, and they are absolutely moving the industry in exciting directions. But the other three teams are all men; Thomas Beckman is a pastry instructor at Le Cordon Bleu Chicago, and the other two, Dimitri Fayard and Scott Gerken, are hotel guys, Dimitri at the Peninsula and Scott at the Four Seasons. Just some of the most amazing and talented pastry chefs we're lucky to have in Chicago.

“Hey, Soph, I know I probably should have called or, or something . . . you know, when it all went down . . .” She looks a little sheepish.

“Why? It was a shit show, and totally not remotely up to you to reach out. The phone dials two ways, and I didn't call you either.”

“Well, you could have. You still can. If you want to, I mean, after I kick your ass tomorrow.” She winks at me, that bubbly personality shining through.

“Sounds like a plan. I will call you to take you for a consolation cocktail after I wipe the floor with you.”

She gives me another hug and whispers, “Fuck it, let's tie. The Sophies, together again.”

“Deal.”

“You broads want to start a book club or have a mani-pedi over there, or should we unload these vans?” Jason says, walking up behind me and greeting Sophie with a hug.

“You gonna let him talk to the boss like that?” Sophie asks, laughing.

“It makes him feel important, which gets his man-juices all riled up, and then he does more of the heavy lifting.” I shrug, like it's all part of my master plan.

She laughs, and we all head to our vans to carefully unload our wares.

“You look beautiful, Sophie,” Mark says, handing me a glass of champagne.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting it gratefully. I'm standing in the corner of the beautiful ballroom at the Astor, having a small panic attack. The room is full of my former colleagues and peers. A good fifty people here were actually in attendance at the wedding that wasn't. I was feeling okay when I left the house, almost happy. It had been a good day, setting up, reconnecting with Sophie. The other contestants I only ever knew peripherally, so there was a formal respectful friendliness there, but I didn't feel awkward with them, and all of their team partners were younger sous chefs and assistants who I didn't know at all. Jason and I got everything set up and did another full checklist and everything was in good shape. I went home, visited with Herman and Bubbles, and had a sweet email from Jake, who said he was going camping with some work friends for the weekend, but would write Monday night. I got into my new outfit, a simple black pencil skirt with a drapey charcoal gray top that hides my multitudes of flaws, and even got my hair to behave. I was sort of happy.

And then I got here, looked around the room, and my stomach turned over. I found a dark corner and kept my head down, my hair hiding my face in shadows, until Mark found me.

“You okay?” he asks. “You look a little pale.”

“Yeah. Just not really my crowd.”

“I get it. Don't worry, we won't stay a minute longer than we have to.”

I know he knows most of my secret shame, so when he says this, I believe him. We stay where we are, a few people stop by to say hello, a couple of journalists find me and ask some
questions, it's mostly a blur. We eat some passed hors d'oeuvres, all of which are excellent.

“Hey, Mark, good to see you.” A guy in a very smart suit comes over and claps Mark on the back. “Very excited for tomorrow, man, good luck. Is this the famous Sophie?”

“That it is. Sophie Bernstein, David Francisco. Dave is the GM, and part owner here at the hotel.”

“Very nice to meet you, the place is just beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Dave says. “It's a labor of love.”

The two of them talk companionably, and Dave asks me tons of questions about our cake and my connection to Langer's, and the two of them put me very much at ease. I have a second glass of champagne, and some more nibbles, and my shoulders start to unclench. And then Jacquy gets up to the podium.

He welcomes the group, reminds us all that this is for a good cause, for their scholarship program, and announces the five teams. We all get polite applause.

“And finally, it is my pleasure to announce the judges. You know that we have kept their identities a secret, so that there could be no sneaky bribing or influencing!” The crowd laughs. “But we are very delighted to have them here, and we know that they will have a very hard time making decisions tomorrow! Will you please join me in welcoming our panel of judges. First, she is one of our city's shining stars, the fabulous Mindy Segal!” The place goes wild, we love her, and I'm glad she is one of the judges. “She is new to our fair city, but we know she will be a welcome addition, you know her as the Cake Goddess, but she wants us all to just call her MarySue! MarySue Adams!” Oy. I hadn't even considered that as a possibility, but the PR angle makes sense. “The fabulous Greg Mosko!” Jacquy says, another solid choice. “And finally, a dynamic duo, whose new restaurant is already becoming a mainstay, Dexter and Cookie Kelley!”

Mark catches me as I start to swoon, and he and Dave each take an arm, and wind me through the crowd and out a door into the hall. Dave leads us through another door, and into a small anteroom, where they set me down on a couch, and Dave goes to get me some water.

“Well, that is shittier than we anticipated,” Mark says.

“I can't. I can't do it. I can't . . .”

Mark takes my shoulders firmly in his hands and looks into my eyes. “You can, and you will. Because you are smart and strong and amazing, and enormously talented. And you will not let that crapweasel and his bony wife take you down. You will be loose and funny and snarky tomorrow, and more important, you will win this whole thing. Because they are only two votes, and you'll get the other three because you deserve them. And when you win, you'll be gracious and clever and you'll ride off into the sunset in your white hat, and they will have to wake up every day of their lives and be
them
. Can you imagine anything worse than that?”

“Mark, that all sounds . . .”

“True. It sounds true.”

“But I . . .”

“Look at me, Sophie. I'm only going to say this once. You are spectacular and a shining star and you are finished hiding in my dad's store and your own shadow. You're too good, too talented, and too smart to let what that asshole did to you and what happened after be the defining elements of your life. So I'm going to sneak you out of here and take you home, and tomorrow morning I'm going to pick you up, and we are going to eat a huge breakfast, and then we are going to come here and wipe the floor with everyone.”

I nod, as much because I'm overwhelmed at what he has said as I am by finding out that tomorrow I'm going to be face-to-face with Dexter and Cookie. I drain the water bottle Dave brings
back to me, and let Mark lead me by the hand through a series of back hallways and out into the night air. Mark takes me to his car, tucks me into the passenger side, and drives me home. When we get there, he opens my door, and gently takes my hand and leads me to Herman's apartment.

“Can you eat something?” he asks after I've shimmied out of my fancy new outfit and into some seriously mangy loungewear.

“I'm okay, Mark, really.”

“That's not what I asked.”

I shrug.

“Grilled cheese and soup?” he asks, having foraged in my kitchen and found the makings.

“Probably,” I admit. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not one of those girls who loses her appetite when she gets sad. Just the opposite.

“Here.” He hands me an ice-cold Coke from the fridge. “Keep your blood sugar up.”

He makes a bunch of noise in the kitchen, and I return to my notes, going over everything for tomorrow, trying to ignore the new reality. My cell phone rings.

“Sophie? It's Sebastien.” Great, now I'm probably in trouble for leaving the party early.

“Hi.”

“Sophie, we are so sorry. Your name—it wasn't listed on the paperwork for Mr. Langer; we did not even know you were involved until Sophie and the other contestants told us. Please know that if we had known, we never would have offered the judging positions to the Kelleys.”

So, not in trouble, but totally outed. Then I think about what Mark said, and look over at him, making me soup and grilled cheese in his dad's little kitchen, and I can feel my shoulders pull back. “Oh, Sebastien, don't think twice, they're a great choice, and you know, that is such ancient history!” I put as
much ease and light into my voice as I can. “It's sweet of you to worry, but please don't. I've been consulting with Mr. Langer, and when he took ill his son asked me to continue to work on the contest as his partner. I didn't want to take his name off of the team; after all, it will be his vision we are executing in his absence. You couldn't have known, and I couldn't care less.”