Chapter 20 #2
“No, I’ve got it. By the time you get here, it’ll be past midnight. You rest up, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Is that Rose and Carter?” Connor’s voice comes faintly through the speaker, muffled by background noise.
“Yes,” Netti answers, clearly half-covering the mic. “There was a little… incident with the macarons. I’m just walking them through how to fix it.”
“My brother, baking macarons?” Connor snorts, the sound sharp enough to make me press a hand to my mouth, stifling a laugh. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
Before I can retort, his voice comes through clearer as if Netti handed him the phone. “Anyway, I’ve actually got good news. Rose?”
“I’m here,” I say quickly.
“Netti mentioned your band canceled. If you’re still looking, an old friend of mine’s in town. His band said they’d love to fill the spot. I’ll text you their info and a link to their page.”
Relief washes over me. “That would be perfect! I’ve been calling around all day, and everyone else is booked out for weeks—sometimes months.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Alright, give me that back—Rose doesn’t have all night to yap,” Netti cuts in, and there’s a playful scuffle on the other end.
I smile into the phone. “You’ll have to give Connor an extra big hug for me. I’d already given up hope on finding another band. Now I just have to figure out how to whip up dozens of macarons before tomorrow.”
“You’ve got this. Just don’t overmix the batter, as tempting as it is,” Netti warns.
“I know, I know. You’ve already told me.” I tap my fingers anxiously on the counter.
“And call me if you run into any trouble.”
I glance over at the man in my kitchen, popping blueberries into his mouth while dangling one of Ginger’s toys above him. Trouble had walked through my door, but I wasn’t in any hurry for it to leave.
“I promise I will. Sleep well, and drive safe in the morning,” I say before hanging up and turning to Carter. “Are you ready for this?”
“I’m at your command,” he replies with a mock bow, picking up a bowl and whisk. “As long as I get to lick the whisk at the end—and any frosting you splatter on yourself. Or that I splatter on you.”
Laughing, I shake my head and snatch the bowl and whisk from him.
“While I don’t doubt your strength, we’re going to need more than a handheld whisk.”
I bend down and search the cupboard, finally unearthing my grandmother’s old stand mixer and setting it on the counter. A fine layer of dust clings to the surface, but otherwise it looks in good order.
“That thing’s got to be a hundred years old. Does it even work?” Carter swipes a finger through the dust before inspecting the cord.
“Let’s hope so. Otherwise, we’re either skipping arm day for a week or heading to the department store for a new one.” I chuckle, tossing the bowl and whisk head into the sink of soapy water before scrubbing down the machine.
“Where’d you even get it?” He takes the bowl from me, rinses, and dries it with a dish towel.
“It was my grandma’s. She insisted I’d need it when I left for college. I’ve never taken it out except to move it—until now. I guess she was right.”
Once we piece it back together, I whisper a silent prayer, plug it in, and flip the switch. The machine hums to life, the whisk spinning with a comforting whir, and I let out a breath of relief. At least something is finally going my way—a small victory in a sea of setbacks.
“So it says first we have to separate the egg whites to make the meringue. Netti said if we use the Italian method it’ll create a more billowy meringue and make it less likely for the batter to deflate while baking.
” I dig through the bags until I find the egg separator and hand it to him along with three bowls.
“She also said to separate one egg at a time in case the yolk breaks, so none slips into the whites.”
Carter sets to the task while I read through the recipe for the dozenth time. I carefully measure the granulated sugar and water, bringing it to 245 degrees. When the egg whites reach soft peaks, I slowly drizzle in the bubbling syrup, adding a pinch of cream of tartar as the stand mixer whirs.
“I think this looks right.” I stop the mixer and peer at the silken mixture.
“See, you can do anything.” Carter beams as he comes up behind me, resting his hands on my hips and pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“Ha! This is just the halfway point. Pass me the almond flour, powder sugar, and blue coloring.” He steps away, and I feel the sudden absence of his warmth.
I fold in the sifted dry ingredients and coloring, gently mixing until the batter ribbons off my spatula in a slow, wide stream.
“Here goes nothing.” I load the mixture into piping bags and begin filling the little circles on the baking liner, the bright blue batter a bold contrast against the silver sheet. At least they’ll be uniform.
“Those look delicious.,” Carter murmurs, reaching out to touch one of the mounds—but I swat his hand away.
“They aren’t ready yet!” I grab the tray and lift it a few inches before dropping it back onto the counter. The metal clatters sharply against the stone surface.
“What did you do that for? I thought they needed to be fluffy,” he says, brow furrowing.
“Netti said we need to do that to let the bubbles out before they form a skin.”
Making macarons has been the strangest experiment—not that I’ve done much baking in my life. Outside of standard staples, I was always more than content to support small shops. Now, I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for them.
“She knows better than me,” he says with a shrug, turning to wash the bowls in the sink.
“Let’s just hope she’s right.” My gut twists as I stare at the trays lined with two dozen blue circles of cookie batter. At least they weren’t green. “One dozen down, nine more to go.”
“As long as I’m with you, I don’t care what we’re doing.” Carter cups my cheek and brushes a gentle kiss across my lips.
I nearly melt right there with the way he looks at me, like I’m the moon to his sky.
“It’ll be midnight before we finish these.” I drop my gaze, toeing the floor.
“Then we’ll eat midnight macarons. I won’t fail you, Rosemary.” His arms wrap around me, warm and sure, and I feel the truth in his words.