Wedding Girl (32 page)

“I'm relieved to hear it. When we didn't see you after the announcements . . .”

“Strategy, silly man. A bit of psychology. Once I heard, I thought I could use it to my advantage, slip away and come home to prepare and rest up while my competition stayed to wine and dine and think that I'm going to be nervous and no competition at all tomorrow!”

Sebastien laughs. “A smart thing, to be both underestimated and well rested. Brava. Well then I leave you to it, and I will see you tomorrow morning.
Bonne nuit.
”

“Thanks for calling, Sebastien. If I had actually been upset, it would have been a relief to hear that you would have had my back.”

“We do try to take care of our alums when we can. Good luck tomorrow. I for one cannot wait to see what you do.”

I hang up and Mark comes out of the kitchen, handing me a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and putting a platter of grilled cheese sandwiches, cut in neat triangles, on the coffee table. He returns to the kitchen to get his own soup, and I grab a sandwich and dunk it in my bowl, devouring it.

“Who was that?”

“One of the contest organizers, the dean of my old school. Apologizing for the Dexter and Cookie thing, they didn't know I was even involved in the contest.”

“That was nice of him. You handled him like a champ. I like the spin of psyching out the competition.”

I reach for a second sandwich. “Fake it till I make it.”

“You're a lot of things, Sophie, but fake is not one of them.”

We finish our soup and all of the sandwiches, as well as a pile of cookies that Mark slips downstairs into the bakery to fetch us, and talk through our game plan. Just before ten, he checks his watch and gets up.

“We're going to kill it,” he says.

“Of course we are.”

“We have to be there at ten, so I'll pick you up at eight thirty. We'll hit Tempo for breakfast to power up?”

“Sounds good. And, Mark . . .”

He puts a hand up to stop my gratitude from spilling out. “It's what friends are for.”

“Are we friends?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His face goes serious. “I certainly hope so, Sophie. I certainly hope so.”

It takes all of my strength not to ask him to stay.

Despite the inner turmoil in my head, I manage to get a good night's sleep, thanks to a hot bath and an Ambien. Mark picks me up promptly, and after massive breakfasts of omelets and pancakes, we head over to the hotel. Our station is fully set up, and we do one last check of materials and equipment, setting up our separate tables with what we will need once the clock starts. The room is buzzing with people who have come to watch, as well as organizers, press, and across the room, the judges, in a huddle with Sebastien and Jacquy, presumably getting final instructions.

When the buzzer sounds, we know we'll have a full hour to work before judges are allowed to come pester us, and my plan is to use that hour to get so in the groove that when they begin to come around, I'll be head-down and focused and can just answer questions while I keep working. And in six hours, it will all be over.

Once we are set up, we head for the stew room, where we will
take our allotted breaks, and wait for judging to be over. We greet the rest of the teams, grab bottles of water, snag protein bars for our pockets. Mark and I have agreed to limit our breaks to just quick runs to the bathroom if needed, and to eat the bars on the fly if we are feeling hungry. We are going to need every minute if we are going to be a contender in this thing.

Sebastien comes to the room and gives us the nod, and we follow him out, into the competition space, to the sound of applause. Mark reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze and we are off.

The day flies. Mark is as on it as he has ever been, getting the tiers layered and chilled in no time, and prepping the architectural elements like a champ. I get the windows and doors baked off and the sugar work done with no issues. We're working like a well-oiled machine, the pieces coming together smoothly, and when we lay the top tier on the cake, we get a bit of applause. The judges begin to come over around the hour and a half mark, one at a time. Mindy tastes everything, and is really kind. Greg is effusive about our basic premise, and cautions us that the devil is in the details and not to skimp on the little bits and pieces, they'll make all the difference.

MarySue comes by full of praise, and says that while she can't guarantee anything, her heart is on my side, us being neighbors and all. I'm awfully proud of myself for not stabbing her in the eye with my long-handled tweezers.

Mark and I have just finished putting the primary fondant layer over the building when Dexter and Cookie, attached at the hip, come over.

“Hello, Sophie,” he says.

“Hey, Dex, good to see you. You too Cookie. Congrats on the place, the buzz is tremendous, sorry I haven't been able to get
there yet.” I smile like my life depends on it, and keep assembling the Weber Grill.

“That's very kind,” Cookie says, sounding a little shocked.

“You'd be welcome anytime, as our guest, just let us know,” Dexter says in a pained way.

“That's sweet, thanks.”

“So, we didn't know you'd be competing today, actually didn't know if you were still even baking,” Cookie says pointedly, with that faux concern that always smacks of condescension and pity.

“My fault, I'm afraid,” Mark says, coming up behind me and putting an arm around my shoulder. “Her grandmother and my dad are close friends. I knew her ambitions went beyond the restaurant industry, and convinced her to leave Salé et Sucré to consult with my dad in hopes of rebranding the family business. Made her promise to work with us on the down low, since I knew she'd be in such demand if people knew what she was doing that I'd lose her for sure.” He is smooth and confident, and it comes out so naturally that I almost believe him.

“How lucky for you that she was willing,” Dexter says.

“And available,” Cookie says.

“Yes, indeed. She wasn't supposed to be here. I was going to assist my dad for the competition, but he had a small health crisis, and you know Sophie, she's best in a crisis, and immediately jumped in to take the lead and make sure that we were going to be able to execute my dad's vision on his behalf. She's a goddamned saint, this one.” He leans over and kisses my temple. “Sorry to cut it short folks, but I need Sophie to help me get the balcony attached to this baby if we're going to stay on track.” And before they can say a word, he gently pulls me over to his station, where the columns are all set up.

“You know you don't need my help for this,” I say. “It's made out of Rice Krispies treats for lord's sake.”

“I'm feeling weak,” he says, gesturing for me to take one end of the balcony to help move it to the top of the support columns. “There's too much asshole in the air, it's affecting my oxygen levels.” I giggle a bit, and we put on a good show for the audience, slowly lifting the piece, and getting it settled into place, and then high-fiving like we've done something important.

“Go Langer's!” we hear, and look out into the crowd, where we see that there is a whole row of supporters there for us. Herman and Bubbles, my parents, Amelia and Brian, Ruth and Jean.

“Looks great, baby!” says a blonde with killer cheekbones, who is sitting on the other side of Herman. Mark blanches, but waves. She blows him a kiss.

“How's that housekeeping coming?” I ask, brushing my hands on my pants.

He shakes his head. “Not in a way that is making me proud. I told her we needed to have a face-to-face, I think she misunderstood.” He grits his teeth.

I look him in the eye. “Head down, do the work. Doughs before hoes.”

He snorts with laughter, and we both get back to work, ignoring the various and sundry people in the room with whom we have complicated history, and just focus on making something beautiful.

“You guys, that thing is
insane
,” Dimitri says when we are all in the stew room, waiting for the points to be tallied.

“Seriously, amazing. I want to rent a unit in that building,” Sophie G. says.

“Yeah, well, you guys didn't exactly bring your B games,” I say. And they didn't. Sophie's cake is a full-on representation of the Bean sculpture with Taste of Chicago happening all around
it. The sheer volume of little food stands with tiny people eating is shocking, I have no idea how she did it. Dimitri did an abstraction of the skyline, with tons of sugar and chocolate work that is a true piece of art. Scott's got the Picasso, all dolled up in a Walter Payton jersey and Bears helmet. And Thomas did a winter version of the old Marshall Field's at Christmas, the windows full of holiday scenes, and the trees outside ablaze with tiny lights. Truly, it's anyone's game, and will come down to tiny margins, especially since I know all of these people will have brought it with the flavors.

The door opens. “They're ready for you,” says Jacquy's assistant, who leads us all out and back into the ballroom, and up onstage.

“We are so proud of all of these teams, who have done such amazing work today,” Jacquy says.

“We could not have asked for a better showing, and you are all setting the bar very high for next year's competitors,” Sebastien says.

“But there can only be one winner,” Jacquy continues.

“So, without further ado . . . a tie for fourth place, with Thomas Beckman and Scott Gerken!” Everyone applauds, and Mark elbows me. We both had said that as long as we weren't last, we would be happy.

“In third place, Dimitri Fayard.”

I can't believe it; his was spectacular. Sophie winks at me, and mouths the word “tie.” And grins.

“It should be no surprise to anyone that these two talented women are standing here. And we want you to know that the margin was less than three points.”

My blood pressure is through the roof. We could actually win this thing.

“And finally, the winner of the first annual Chicago Cake Competition is . . . Sophie . . .” I hold my breath. “Goodman!”
And I exhale. Sophie takes her trophy, and then comes over to me and we hug deeply.

“I'm so glad it was you!” I say in her ear as she is whispering, “It should have been you,” in my ear.

“It's all good,” I say. And it is. We came in a close second, and beat out three of the best pastry chefs in the city. Not bad for the team from a little neighborhood bakery on the decline.

“I'm really proud of you,” Mark says, hugging me hard.

“I'm proud of us,” I say, just as I'm being elbowed aside by the blonde.

“You did great, baby, really great,” she says, snuggling at him with her razor-sharp cheekbones.

“Thanks, Ella, didn't know you'd be here.”

“My meeting got cancelled, so I came to support you.”

Mark looks equal parts annoyed and resigned. “This is Sophie. Sophie, this is Ella.”

“His girlfriend,” she says pointedly, narrowing her eyes at me, and extending a hand with impossibly long fingers.