The Bake-Off (14 page)

“Discipline is overrated. Especially when there's cream cheese involved. Come on.” Amy sawed a bagel in half with a plastic knife. “How can you resist?”

Linnie curled up in her chair and tucked her knees under the hem of her sweatshirt. “I'm just not that into food, that's all. If there were a pill I could take once a day that would supply all the necessary vitamins and minerals and meet my calorie requirements, I'd gladly take it.”

Amy hesitated, weighing her words. “Let me ask you something, in total seriousness. Do you enjoy
anything
?”

Linnie studied the menu. “Of course.”

“What?” Amy folded her arms. “Be specific.”

“Well.” Linnie had to rack her brain for a moment. “I enjoy being right.”

Amy bit into her bagel, then mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs, “I've died and gone to carb heaven. You have to taste this, Linnie. At least have a bite before you commit yourself to a breakfast of bland and blander. Come on.”

“Amy—”

“Come on!”

So Linnie leaned in and took a tiny nibble. She chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. “It's fine.”

Amy shook her head as she started slathering up a second bagel. “I feel sorry for you. You're, like, dead inside.”

“You're just realizing this now?” Linnie sipped from her bottle of water and dialed room service. “Hello? Yes, I'd like to place an order, please. I'll have the oatmeal. Plain. No raisins, no sugar, no cream.” She hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom in her shapeless men's plaid pajamas.

“Nice jammies.” Amy catcalled after her. “Did you mug a lumberjack?”

Linnie turned around and regarded her sister with a sudden grim intensity that jarred Amy out of her cream-cheese reverie. “The time for mocking is at an end. Finish your bagel and let's get focused. We're about to enter the arena.”

T
he second she set foot on the hotel's mezzanine level, Linnie was mobbed by her fellow bakers. They grabbed her, they invaded her personal space, and they all had one thing on their minds: Amy.

“Are you Amy Nichols's teammate?” asked a breathless blonde in an argyle sweater.

“You are sooo lucky,” gushed a gorgeous black woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a Southern accent.

“That sister of yours is a real firecracker! I've never laughed so hard in my life!”

“I'm hoarse today, and hungover like I haven't been since college. But it was worth it. What's she got planned for tonight?”

They looked at Linnie expectantly, waiting for her to crack a joke and chime in with anecdotes of her wild sisterly exploits, but of course she disappointed on all counts.

“Um, great,” she muttered. “I have to go.”

She moved to the periphery and tried to avoid any further interactions, but a wan, wired-looking fellow contestant sidled up to her and cleared her throat. “Excuse me? Um, hi, this is my first year to the semifinals, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about how everything works with the runners and the dry-goods supply pantry?”

Linnie shrugged one shoulder. “You can ask, but I probably won't be much help. It's my first time, too.”

“Really?” The woman looked surprised. “But you seem to know everyone already; I thought you were part of the in crowd.”

“What in crowd?” Linnie said. “You mean like high school? We're adults here; there's no in crowd.”

The brunette leveled her gaze. “There's always an in crowd. I heard that the cool clique here calls themselves the Confectionistas. They're very exclusive, too; they don't usually bother with newbies like us.”

“The Confectionistas,” Linnie echoed, her eyebrows inching higher. “You jest.”

“So what's your secret?” the woman persisted, gazing at Linnie with a mixture of pleading and envy.

Linnie turned up her palms and told the truth. “I guess you could say I know someone who knows the secret handshake.”

Even as a teenager, Amy had wielded her considerable social power with benevolence. She was friends with
everyone
and she'd try anything once—that went double when it came to dating. Over the years, she'd dabbled with muscle-bound athletes, sensitive poets, and tattooed motorcycle enthusiasts. Linnie had always envisioned Amy marrying a rock star or an international art dealer; it came as a shock to the whole family when she announced she was settling down with a dentist. But once Grammy Syl declared Brandon to be “a fine young man” worthy of her darling granddaughter, everyone else welcomed him with open arms. Brandon was the kind of guy—sweet, successful, and slavishly devoted—that Linnie secretly wanted for herself, though she would die before admitting it.

When the newly crowned princess of the Confectionistas finally came down from the hotel room (three minutes late, but Linnie decided to let it go), Linnie asked her, “What did you
do
to those women last night?”

Amy rubbed on some Chap Stick and popped a breath mint. “What do you mean?”

“They're all wringing their hands and babbling about you like you're Jon Hamm in boxer shorts.”

“Huh.” Amy shrugged. “I just took everyone to a karaoke bar in the Village. It was kind of a tame night, to tell you the truth. But two points to you for knowing who Jon Hamm is.”

Before they could check in for oven orientation, they had to wend their way through a series of security checkpoints that put airport protocol to shame.

“Please have your contestant badge ready, along with a photo ID,” called a green-blazered woman with a headset and clipboard. “And remember that the use of cameras and recording devices is strictly prohibited inside the baking area.”

After submitting to having their purses pawed through and their cell phones temporarily confiscated, they were ushered into the official Delicious Duet baking suite. A long expanse of hotel carpeting had been divided into orderly rows of prep stations, each equipped with an oven, a small refrigerator, and a tall, sturdy worktable. All around them, Linnie could hear the whir of stand mixers in motion.

Her heart rate kicked up a notch and her nostrils flared at the scent of vanilla extract. This was it—the culinary Colosseum. They would have today to practice and perfect their technique before the semifinal competition tomorrow, which hopefully would lead to earning one of the twenty-five spots in the final round on Friday.

“Let's see.” Amy flipped through the sheaf of papers they'd been handed by the organizers. “We're assigned to station number thirteen. That figures. Remind me to pick up some four-leaf clovers and rabbits' feet.”

“Superstition is ‘the siren song of unreason,' ” Linnie quoted.

“Don't tell me.” Amy pretended to rack her brains. “Dr. Seuss? They Might Be Giants?”

“Carl Sagan.”

When they arrived at station thirteen, Amy's newfound friends from the cocktail reception were waiting for them.

“You missed a good time last night,” Joan told Linnie. “I did my trademark version of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.' Not a dry eye in the house.”

Susan stood next to her stepmother, nibbling her lower lip.

“I have to tell you something, Amy.” Her expression grew even more troubled. “You two got assigned to the worst oven on the floor.”

Linnie immediately flew into a panic. “What's wrong with it? Is it broken? Is the door latch faulty?” She glanced up toward the ceiling. “Are we under an air vent?”

“Worse.” Susan motioned them in, then whispered, “You're right next to Ty and Tai's station.”

“And here it's only your first competition.” Joan shook her head at the injustice of it all. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Ty and Tai Tottenham?” Amy asked. “That married couple from Ohio?”

Joan nodded. “So you've heard of them?”

“Yeah, we met them yesterday afternoon in the lobby.” Amy shot a sidelong look over at Linnie.

Susan and Joan exchanged a sidelong look of their own, and then Susan cleared her throat. “You might want to keep your guard up around those two.”

“Aha. I knew it.” Linnie turned to Amy. “Told you so.”

Amy waited for Susan or Joan to elaborate, but when neither did, she prompted, “Well, don't leave us hanging with all these cryptic warnings. Tell us what we're in for.”

Joan readjusted the floral-patterned silk scarf draped around her neck. “I hate to say a bad word about anyone, especially anyone on the cooking circuit . . . but they can get a bit overcompetitive.”

“Conniving,” Susan added, arching one eyebrow for emphasis. “And they're always gunning for the newbies, trying to rattle them so they crumble under pressure. The first year I made it to the semifinals here, they prank-called my hotel room every half hour, all night long. I finally took the phone off the hook, but my nerves were shot and I was a wreck during competition the next morning.”

Amy's eyes got huge. “You're sure it was them?”

“I never had any physical proof.” Susan glowered. “But I know what I know.”

“And it's not just the contestants they terrorize,” Joan added. “There have been a lot of rumors over the years about improper contact with the judges. Nothing substantiated, but last year, well, there was quite a kerfuffle.”

Linnie wished she had a handy decoder ring so she could translate a soft-spoken ladyism like
kerfuffle
into her native tongue of ruthless virago. “Because they blackmailed some judges?”

Susan coughed. “That's the rumor going around.”

“But wait,” Amy said. “Nobody even knows who the judges are. So how could Ty and Tai blackmail them?”

“The anonymous-judge rule is brand-new this year,” Joan said. “The whole tone of the contest has changed. I've never been warned about getting disqualified at the welcome reception before.”

Susan crossed her arms. “Those two give pastry a bad name.”

“Shhh! Here they come.” Joan and Susan scattered like pigeons in Central Park, leaving Amy and Linnie to fend for themselves.

“Don't worry; just follow my lead. I
invented
overcompetitive,” Linnie said. She stood up straighter and slapped on a smile.

“Hey! Great to see you again!” She gave a jaunty wave. “Ty and Tai, right?”

“Right you are.” Ty was looking particularly woodsy today in chestnut suede loafers and a chunky knit sweater vest. “Our names are hard to forget, huh?”

“It's so nice to see some familiar faces.” Linnie had learned early on in her years at piano recitals and chess tournaments how to handle this brand of cutthroat competitors. “We're new to all this, and it's kind of overwhelming.”

Tai, resplendent in a men's white shirt knotted above tight jeans that showcased her glutes of steel, flashed a girlish grin. “Well, if you need any help, just holler. We'd be happy to give you a hand.”

“Will do,” Linnie said, then murmured to Amy, “Just act clueless while I get down to business.”

“Hey,” Amy said loudly, fumbling with the mixer. “How do you turn this thing on?”

Linnie had to stifle a laugh. “Let's not overdo it.”

She shut out the rest of the world while she got up close and personal with her new best friend for the next few days: her oven.

“Here we go.” She ran her fingers along the smooth stainlesssteel casing. “Moment of truth.”

“What are we hoping for, gas or electric?” Amy asked.

“I can deal with either, really. The bigger issue is going to be achieving and maintaining a true four hundred degrees.” Linnie opened the oven door, crouched down, and pulled a tape measure out of her pocket. “All right, first things first. I have to check the internal dimensions. Your job is to record them in this notebook. And don't give me that look—the size of the oven makes a huge difference. Air-circulation issues can drastically affect cooking times.”

“Linnie. This is embarassing.” Amy sounded like she was back in seventh grade, trying to ditch her kid sister at the mall. “Can't we just break out some butter and start baking? You're the only one in this entire ballroom sticking your head in the oven.”

“So all the other contestants are slipshod slackers. What's your point?”

Amy surrendered. “My point is, here's your oven thermometer and hurry up.”

“Thanks, partner.” Linnie took her time measuring and remeasuring, then positioned the steel-and-glass thermometer in the middle of the oven's center rack and commenced preheating. She brushed her hands together and took inventory of the compact but wellstocked shelves beneath the countertop. “Let's see, we've got bowls, spatulas, whisks, mixing spoons, plastic wrap—and I brought my own rolling pin, naturally.” She hefted the fifteen-inch maple dowel that she had bought at a lumber liquidator and custom-engineered for optimum heft, weight, and comfort.

“We should name our oven,” Amy said. “She's our sidekick, our trusty companion.”

“ ‘She' is an inanimate object.”

“Yeah, but she's a lot less likely to turn on us if we treat her right.” Amy rubbed the stovetop as if she were petting a Labrador. “How about Beulah?”

“Sounds great. Whatever you say. I'll get started with the crust. You're on apple-peeling duty.” When Linnie reemerged from the cabinet, she saw Amy walking away. “Hey, where are you going?”

“I have to run to the ladies' room before we get started.”

“Again? Didn't you go before we left the suite?”

“Yeah, but I had, like, a gallon of coffee with my bagels, and my bladder is not the steel drum it was prebabies.”