Chapter Four
Roman
I arrived at Sugarplums two hours before the technical round began, needing time to center myself. Ten years of critiquing the finest restaurants in the country hadn't prepared me for this—judging a competition in the very kitchen where my love of food writing had begun, where Kandi and I had spent countless hours dreaming about our futures.
The morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the newly renovated teaching kitchen. Granny Mae had expanded the space, but the heart of it remained unchanged: the warm brick walls, the huge windows, the subtle scent of vanilla that seemed baked into the very foundations. Even the ancient copper pots still hung in their familiar places, polished to a soft gleam.
I ran my hand along the marble counter where I used to write my first restaurant reviews while watching Kandi practice tempering chocolate. The stone was worn smooth from years of use, holding memories of spilled ganache and stolen kisses and dreams that seemed possible only in the quiet hours before dawn.
"Everything's set up for the contestants," Meredith said, breaking into my reverie as she checked items off her clipboard. "Individual workstations, shared tempering machines, basic ingredients provided. They bring their own specialty items and tools."
I nodded, studying the layout. Six stations, six contestants, but my eyes kept drifting to the one in the corner by the window—Kandi's assigned spot. She'd always loved working in natural light, claimed it helped her see the chocolate's true colors better. Even in culinary school, she'd fight for the stations near windows. Some habits never changed.
The judging forms felt heavy in my hands as I reviewed them one last time. Each contestant would be evaluated on specific technical criteria: shell thickness, temper quality, ganache consistency, finishing work. Everything had to be correct, measurable, objective. I'd designed the scoring system myself, breaking down each element into clear metrics that left no room for personal bias.
"The judging criteria are clear?" Granny Mae asked, appearing at my elbow. She looked exactly as I remembered, though maybe a few more silver strands in her hair. Her eyes still held that knowing twinkle that had always made me feel like she could read my thoughts.
"Crystal clear." I held up my forms. "Technical skills only for this round. Tempering technique, shell formation, ganache consistency, finishing work. No points for creativity yet—that comes in round two."
"Hmm." She studied me for a moment. "And you're sure you can be objective?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "I'm a professional food critic. I've judged dozens of competitions."
"But none featuring the girl you left behind," she said softly. "The one who used to practice tempering chocolate in my kitchen while you wrote your first restaurant reviews at that very counter. The one who still uses the marble slab you gave her for graduation."
I swallowed hard. I hadn't known Kandi had kept that. It had taken three months of summer jobs to afford it—Belgian marble, professionally cut and polished. She'd cried when I gave it to her, and said it was perfect. Just like us.
Except we hadn't been perfect. We'd been eighteen and scared and too stubborn to compromise. Or maybe I had been the stubborn one. The one who thought success only looked one way—the way that led out of Kings Valley.
The morning sun climbed higher as contestants began arriving, each carrying their personal tools and specialty ingredients. James Chen from Burlington, known for his fusion flavors, carefully unpacked a set of Japanese knives passed down through generations. Maria Santos from Stowe arranged her station with methodical precision, her six-month waiting list for custom orders a testament to her skill. Thomas Green, representing the old guard of traditional techniques, nodded to me as he set up, his reputation for classical perfection preceding him.
Then Kandi walked in.
She wore her professional whites, her long hair neatly tucked under a chef's cap, but it was her expression that caught me—focused, confident, ready. This wasn't the girl who'd practiced techniques while I wrote reviews. This was a master chocolatier who'd trained in Europe, who'd built her own successful business, who knew exactly what she was capable of.
I watched as she purposefully set up her station. Her tools spoke of years of dedication: specialty spatulas from Brussels, worn smooth from use. Piping bags arranged by size, a mathematician's attention to detail. And there, placed carefully on her bench—that Belgian marble slab, its surface bearing the gentle scars of countless hours of practice.
"Good morning, everyone," I said, forcing myself into professional mode. "Welcome to the technical round of the tenth annual Kings Valley Valentine's Chocolate Competition. Today's challenge will test your fundamental skills—the backbone of chocolate craft."
I explained the rules, timing, and judging criteria. Three hours to create a dozen identical bonbons, demonstrating mastery of basic techniques. Each piece would need a tempered shell, ganache filling, and decorative finish. No unusual flavors or creative flourishes—this round was purely about execution.
"You may begin," I announced, starting the timer.
The kitchen came alive with activity. The hum of tempering machines, the soft scrape of spatulas, the occasional murmur of concentration. I moved between stations, making notes on technique and timing. James's tempering was exact but rushed, his movements betraying a city chef's ingrained sense of urgency. Maria worked with careful attention to detail, her shells elegantly thin. Thomas relied on classical methods, every motion textbook perfect if somewhat uninspired.
But it was Kandi's station that drew me back again and again.
She worked with a grace that made it look effortless, though I knew the skill involved. The way she tested the chocolate's temperature without a thermometer, judging by sight and touch alone. The unambiguous angle of her scraper as she worked the chocolate on marble—my marble. The fluid motion as she filled molds, each movement economical and sure.
"Beautiful technique," I said quietly, watching her pipe ganache into perfectly formed shells.
"I had a good teacher in Brussels," she replied without looking up. "Jean-Marc was a stickler for proper form."
"I remember the day you got your acceptance letter to his program." The words slipped out before I could stop them. "You were so excited you nearly burned a batch of caramel."
Her hands stilled for just a moment. "That was a lifetime ago."
"Not so long." I made a note on my clipboard, buying time. "Your technique has improved since then."
"Everything has improved since then." She began painting delicate designs on her shells with tinted cocoa butter. "That's what happens when you commit to something. When you stay."
The emphasis on that last word was subtle but clear. I forced myself to move on to the next station, but I could feel her presence behind me, as warm and distracting as the summer day I'd first kissed her in this very kitchen. We'd been practicing for her culinary school applications, and she'd gotten so excited about a perfect temper that she'd grabbed my shirt, pulled me close, and kissed me right there between the copper pots and cooling racks. She'd tasted like sweet cocoa and dreams that day.
The three hours passed in a blur of technical evaluation and rising tension. I kept my comments professional, my observations focused purely on technique, but it was impossible not to notice how the other contestants kept glancing at Kandi's station. Her reputation preceded her—the local girl who'd trained with Europe's best, who'd chosen to bring those skills home to Kings Valley.
"Time," I called finally. "Please step away from your stations."
The judging would be blind—each contestant's work marked only with a number. But I knew I'd recognize Kandi's pieces instantly. There was something distinctive about her style, a precision that bordered on artistry even in the most technical tasks.
I wasn't wrong. Her bonbons were flawless—perfectly set candy shells with just the right snap, ganache smooth as silk, decoration elegant but not flashy. Classic technique elevated by expert execution. Even Jean-Marc would have approved.
As I tasted each entry, making careful notes, I found myself thinking about choices. About paths taken and not taken. About the way some skills—like tempering chocolate, like first love—never quite leave your muscle memory.
"Excellent work, everyone," I announced after the judging. "Results will be posted tomorrow morning. The innovation round begins next week, giving you time to prepare your creative entries."
As the contestants packed up their tools, I caught Kandi's eye. She was cleaning her station with the same deliberate care she'd shown in her confectionary work.
"A moment of your time?" I asked quietly.
She nodded, though her expression remained guarded. "Professional feedback only, I assume?"
"Of course." I waited until the others left, aware of Granny Mae watching us from her office. "Your technical skills are impressive. Jean-Marc taught you well."
"But?" She raised an eyebrow, challenging.
"No but...Just an observation," I hesitated, then added, "Though I am curious about your choice for the innovation round. Any hints?"
A smile played at her lips. "You'll have to wait and see, Mr. Archer. Though I suggest having water handy during the tasting."
Before I could respond, she'd gathered her tools and slipped out, leaving behind only the faint scent of chocolate and the sweetness of good memories.
I stood in the quiet kitchen, surrounded by the ghosts of our shared past. Tomorrow, I'd post the scores that would surprise no one—Kandi's technical perfection putting her firmly in the lead. Next week would bring the innovation round, where she'd undoubtedly challenge everything I thought I knew about chocolate and spice and second chances.
But tonight, I had reviews to write. Professional, objective reviews that couldn't possibly capture the way my hands shook when I'd tasted her work or how seeing her use that old marble slab had made my heart twist with a decade of regret.
Some things, it seemed, didn't need spice to burn.