Chapter 7
Emma
Rhonda and I spent the last few weeks getting our method down for baking the croissants for the bake-off. I’m impressed by Rhonda’s natural talent at baking, considering she usually refrains from cooking. She says it’s mostly my teaching that helps her learn, but I think she has a real talent. After all, Rhonda is an artist in the making, and baking is just another form of art.
I’ve been surprised lately that not only has Alex remained in town, but he’s stopped by the bakery several times throughout the day. Ironically, I’d catch him frowning at the free croissants basket I started to set out for my taste tests. With each passing day, the pastries I would make of Mrs. Marlow’s recipes slowly started to remain untouched.
Speaking of Mrs. Marlow, she’s called several times, hinting that she and her new husband were still traveling the world and they didn’t plan to come back anytime soon. She also seems to not have read the paper and Alex’s food column. For that, I’m eternally grateful. But I still worry that one day, she’ll pop up when I least expect her. I haven’t yet brought up the possibility of me bringing my baking expertise to her store again, but I’m working on a way to convince her. I really don’t like that I’m keeping this secret from her.
Tonight, though, my focus is solely on the bake-off. Rhonda and I have decided to utilize the bakery after hours for our timed practice sessions.
As we set up, I pull out a digital kitchen timer, its sleek design a stark contrast to the rustic charm of the bakery. “This is it, Rhonda. Our first real test under pressure,” I say, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. As the weeks move closer to July, I start to feel more nervous than ever before. My stomach is literally creating butterflies.
Rhonda nods, tying her apron with determined hands. “Let’s do this. I’m ready to roll…literally.”
I set the timer, its red digits casting a soft glow in the dim light of the bakery. “We’ve got this,” I reassure her, and perhaps myself. “Remember, it’s about precision and speed, but also about keeping the heart in what we do.”
We take our positions. As I press the start button, the timer begins its countdown.
“Okay, first up, rolling the dough,” I say, trying to focus amid the ticking.
Rhonda grabs her rolling pin like a knight wielding a sword. “Watch out, dough, here I come!” She starts rolling with an enthusiasm that’s more about energy than technique. Within seconds, her dough again resembles a misshapen continent rather than a neat rectangle.
I glance over, trying to hide my smirk. “Um, aiming for a croissant, not a map of Europe there, Rhonda.”
She looks at her dough and laughs. “Guess I got a bit carried away. How about yours?”
I lift my rolled dough, a perfect rectangle. “Just like Grandma taught me.”
“Show-off,” Rhonda says with a laugh. She starts to gently re-roll her dough.
Next is the butter layering, a task that requires a delicate touch. I carefully lay thin slices of butter across the dough. Rhonda follows suit, but her butter slices are more like thick slabs.
“Rhonda, those butter pieces could double as doorstops.”
She squints at my dough. “Yours are so thin, they’re practically invisible. Are you sure you added any?”
“Trust me, it’s there,” I reply, beginning the folding process.
As we fold and roll, the dough starts to take shape. Rhonda’s version is somewhat lopsided, but she’s beaming with pride. “Look at this beauty! It’s…unique.”
“Yeah, uniquely shaped,” I chuckle. “But it’s all about the taste, right?”
“Exactly!” she exclaims. “Ugly, but delicious. That’s my motto.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the judges will see it that way,” I tell her, though I’m amused.
“Don’t worry,” Rhonda says. “I’ll get it next time. It takes time, right?”
“Definitely.”
We place our trays in the oven, watching through the glass as the croissants begin to puff up. The aroma of baking butter fills the air, a comforting scent that always feels like home.
A soft knock sounds at the window, and I turn to see who it is. My brow raises with curiosity, and I nudge Rhonda.
“Looks like we’ve got company.”
She turns, then lets out a soft gasp. It’s Philip, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, holding a bouquet of roses. He waves and says something through the glass that’s muted.
“Well, go on,” I say. “Let the man in.”
Rhonda hesitates, then goes to unlock the door. “What are you doing here, Philip?”
“Hey, Rhonda,” Philip says softly. He looks my way. “How’re you doing, Em?”
“Great. How about you?”
“Not so good,” Philip says, his eyes finding Rhonda’s again. He passes over the flowers. “These are for you.”
“Thanks,” Rhonda says, taking the bouquet. “I’ll put them in some water.”
She turns to head for the counter when Philip speaks again.
“I miss you.” He pauses. “I’m…sorry. If you want to go to Paris and study art, well…I’ll support you.”
She turns to face him as the timer dings, signaling the end of our session.
I let them talk as I pull out the trays, Rhonda’s croissants looking like they’ve been on a wild adventure, mine more uniform but slightly less golden than I’d like.
“How are they?” Rhonda appears next to me, and I take a quick glance at Philip, who’s still waiting.
“Is everything okay?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” Rhonda says. “We’re going to go for a walk and talk about things. If that’s okay with you?”
“Of course,” I tell her. “Go. Talk. Make up already.”
Rhonda smiles at me. “Thanks. You’re a great friend, Em.” Before she walks away, she takes a bite of her creation, her face lighting up. “Okay, they might not win a beauty contest, but these are amazing.” She grabs another as she walks away. “Hey, Philip, you’ve got to taste this croissant I made.”
“That’s a croissant?” He eyes it before looking at me. “Is it safe to eat?”
I laugh. “Yes, Rhonda’s got a talent she hasn’t shared with us before.”
“Well, she says this is a croissant. But it doesn’t look like one. It looks like—”
“Watch it, pal,” Rhonda warns. “Just eat it.”
Philip shrugs and takes a bite. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“You really like it?” Rhonda clasps her hands together and hops.
“Yeah. Pretty good. You ready?”
Rhonda bites into her croissant with a nod as she turns back to me. “I’ll help you tomorrow night, okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “Call me later.”
“You know I will.”
I watch them leave the bakery, hoping that they can work things out. Despite their knack for breaking things off, I know Philip and Rhonda care about each other.
After they leave, I taste one of my croissants. The flavor is spot-on, but the texture needs work. I have room for improvement.
I box the croissants that we made and start again, timing myself for another batch. I’m lost in my baking when I once again hear a soft tapping on the window. I look up, and my heart leaps to my throat. Standing there, with that half-curious, half-amused expression, is Alex. My elbow knocks the bowl I’m using to the tiled floor. It doesn’t break, but the contents splatter across the tiles. With Alex at the window, I turn from him, facing the oven, feebly using my flour-dusted fingers to wipe at my face. But it doesn’t do the trick, and only makes the problem worse.
I close my eyes, for a brief moment, desperately trying to steady my heart. I don’t know why I’m feeling so flustered. I’ve been alone with Alex before. I don’t even like him. After several breaths, I start to walk around the counter, ultimately tripping over the fallen bowl. I catch myself before falling.
“Smooth, Emma,” I mutter to myself. “Real smooth.”
I go to unlock the door.
“Are you all right?” Alex asks.
I force a smile. “I’m fine. You surprised me, that’s all.”
“You have a little bit of…” Instead of finishing the sentence, he reaches to my face, gently brushing away the flour. The blood in my veins seems to surge at his touch. “That’s a little better,” he says.
I have the urge to put my hands to my cheeks where he touched me, but I fight against it.
“Wh-what are you doing here, Alex?” I manage to say, clearing my throat to disguise the sudden shakiness in my voice. I turn away, busying myself with cleaning up the scattered ingredients. It’s a surprise when Alex grabs a towel and starts helping, moving with an ease that feels oddly intimate in the small space of the bakery.
“I was just walking by and saw the lights on,” he says casually, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he looks around the bakery. He tosses the towel into the dirty linen bin, then his gaze lands on the boxed croissants. “You often stay this late after closing?”
“Um, no, not usually,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
I watch, heart in throat, as he reaches for one of the boxes. In a panicked reflex, I try to intercept him, but I’m a moment too late. Alex lifts the lid, revealing Rhonda’s uniquely shaped croissants. He lets out a barely concealed scoff, then hastily clears his throat, as if to cover it up.
“What exactly are these supposed to be?” he asks, skepticism lacing his tone. “I trust they’re not intended to be croissants?”
“They are, actually,” I retort, snatching the box from his grasp. “I was…teaching Rhonda.” The last thing I want is to divulge the details about the baking competition to Alex. I’m not ready to hear his critique—not now.
His eyes meet mine, a flicker of amusement in them. “A teaching session, huh? That’s commendable.” There’s a teasing edge to his voice, but it’s softer.
My heart is thrashing against my chest with a wildness that catches me off guard. I’m not sure why it’s been reacting like this lately, especially during my interactions with him. It feels like I’m in a constant battle with my feelings. Part of me wants to tell him to leave, to get out of my space and my life. But then, there’s this other part, a part I’m not ready to acknowledge, that silently pleads for him to stay a little longer.
No, that’s ridiculous, right? Why would I want Alex Carter, of all people, to stay in town? He’s been nothing but a thorn in my side, challenging and mocking the very thing that means the world to me. And yet, every time he’s near, I feel an inexplicable pull, a curiosity, a desire to know more, to understand him better. It’s maddening.
“So, these are your handiwork?” he asks, nodding toward the other box.
“Yes,” I reply, bracing myself for his inevitable critique.
He opens the box, giving the croissants a critical once-over before picking one up. I watch him, my nerves tingling with anticipation and a dash of defiance.
He takes a bite, his analytical gaze not leaving the pastry. “There’s a certain je ne sais quoi about these,” he finally says. “The flavor is rich, exactly what you’d expect from a well-made croissant.”
I’m poised for more, unsure of where he’s going with this.
He continues, “But you know, while the flavor is spot on, the traditional approach you hide behind is still too safe, too predictable. You, Emma, strike me as someone who could take a risk, push the envelope a bit more.”
I feel irritation crawl through me. Of course, there’s no changing his thoughts about innovation versus tradition. “So you still think I should be less traditional.” It’s not a question, and I’m struggling to keep him from realizing how his critique’s affecting me. I really wish it didn’t. Why does his opinion matter so much to me? And why does it matter more than when he first criticized me?
“Not less, just…more,” Alex elaborates, setting down the croissant. “You have a knack for this, an undeniable talent. I’ll admit that, Emma. But imagine if you combined that with a dash of the unexpected.”
His words, though frustrating, spark a curiosity in me. It’s clear he respects the traditional aspect of my baking, but he’s challenging me to explore beyond it.
“So, you’re saying sticking to tradition is holding me back?” I ask, a bit defensively.
He shakes his head slightly. “Not holding back. More like…anchoring. There’s a whole sea of culinary possibilities out there, Emma. I’m just curious to see what happens when you set sail.”
Alex holds my gaze, and I find myself afraid to look away, his words echoing in my mind.
After a moment, he breaks the silence. “I should let you get back to your baking,” he says, but there’s a hesitation in his voice, as if he’s reluctant to end the conversation.
“Yeah,” I reply, still processing his critique.
He nods and starts to turn away, then pauses. “For what it’s worth, Emma, I think you’re on the brink of something great. Just don’t be afraid to explore new horizons.”
With that, he leaves, the gentle chime of the bakery door marking his departure. I’m left standing there, the warmth of the oven suddenly feeling more intense.