50. Alexandra
fifty
Christopher leaves for Boston the next day without saying goodbye, and I feel suspended.
Surely, this can’t be the end.
Surely, he just needs to focus on the competition.
He needs time for himself.
I play back what he said to me.
That I blindsided him.
Didn’t trust him.
That relationships can’t be based on lies.
What he didn’t say, though, is what he thinks about me being Rita Douglas’s granddaughter.
Apart from the jab about her teaching me deception.
Does he think less of me because of the family I was born into? Or because of what I hid from him?
Does he actually think less of me?
That thought is unbearable, and I tuck it away.
“Thanks for not saying ‘Told you so,’ I tell Sarah the next day. We’re sitting in the hotel’s small dining room. They serve a breakfast buffet that looks delicious, but I have no appetite.
But since I decided I’m staying here, in Emerald Creek, and I won’t be even remotely associated with Red Barn Baking, I whip out my phone and take photos of their homemade granola and muffins, the cute china and silverware, the little bouquets on the round tables. I need to think about my next career.
“Whatcha doin’.”
“Warming a cold target,” I tell Sarah. I show her the touched-up photos of the inn I’ve already posted, and those of the breakfast, all with #emeraldcreekvt.
“You’re really doing it?”
“Yup.”
“M’kay. Maybe still take the exam. Just in case you change your mind down the road? This way, you could still go to the meeting and claim your shares.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“That sounds a little impulsive to me. I mean, give him a moment to chill out. You two will talk it through after the show. Once he calms down, he’ll get over it. And you can still have Red Barn. If you don’t take that exam in a couple of days, you’re giving it up forever. Think of all the good you could do with that money.”
“Okay. I was impulsive. As I can sometimes be. But I can’t go back on my word. That would be the worst thing possible, after he broke up with me for lying.” I mean, seriously, does she not get it?
“You painted yourself in a corner.”
Yes, I did, I get that. “What else was I supposed to do?”
Sarah drops her spoon with a loud clank and throws her hands in the air. “Gee, I dunno! Tell him it was a shit move to start the discussion in front of what’s her face? Tell him he needs to cool off before making any decision? Ask him if this is his idea of a couple, breaking things off at the slightest misunderstanding? Tell him you’re actually going to need him a shit ton now that you’re supposed to run a baking empire and you have no clue what you’re doing but he does? And more importantly: Ask him if money is a turn off to him? Ask him if powerful women scare him?”
Her face is red when she finally stops to take a breath.
“Where were you when I needed you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer that non-question.
“You do see my point about the exam, though, don’t you? Now that I told him I wouldn’t go.”
“Yeah, you messed up. If you really want Christopher, I have to say, as much as it pains me, after everything you’ve been through, if you want to save your relationship, that’s probably your last chance.”
I’m at peace with giving up Red Barn Baking, if that means I keep Christopher. It might be reckless, and impulsive, but that’s who I am.
The competition takes place over three days, and the show is live-streamed. Every home and every business in Emerald Creek is tuned into it. The movie theater suspended its regular projections, showing only the baking competition.
The first day, I take a first-row seat early in the morning next to Grace with Skye nudged between us. The whole bakery team is at the front, and the energy coming from them is electric. They whisper technical comments on which contestant is doing what right. When the camera zooms in on Christopher, you can almost feel the front row holding its breath while the back of the room claps and shouts encouragement.
Someone adds closed captioning after Kiara shouts to the back to Shut the fuck up. I silently thank her.
I want to hear his voice, hear his breathing, know how he’s doing.
It’s a real marathon for the contestants, who only get three to four hours of sleep every night.
At midnight each day, they’re given their assignments, and they have the whole day to realize them.
They present to the judges at six.
At five, the streets of Emerald Creek go silent, the shops shut down, and everyone gathers at the theater. Even Sarah, who’s decided to stick around for a few days, joins after a day spent hiking the area. The tasting and debating will go on until about ten at night, at which point the judges will announce the winners before handing out the assignments for the next day. Of the ten contestants from the first day, only four will remain for the second.
The third day, it’ll be down to two.
To say that I feel guilty for our fight the night before the competition is an understatement. I remember what he told me once, at the very beginning of my apprenticeship—that the dough feels the baker’s state of mind and behaves accordingly.
If Christopher doesn’t win, it will be my fault. I’ve inflicted too much hurt upon him by letting him falsely believe I betrayed his trust, and I’m concerned that his head is not in the right place now.
I look for signs that he might be out of sorts, distracted, angry.
I don’t see any.
The first day goes well for him, and I sleep better that night. Sure, he looks tense and tired, black circles marking his eyes, but his gestures are assured, and his answers clipped and to the point when the cameras approach him mid-work. He’s the Christopher I know in the bakery. And, while no one is surprised, you can sense the relief in the room when the results are in, and Christopher is selected for the second day.
Although a part of me is scared that means he’s already moved on from me, I’m relieved for him. He deserves to win, and the world deserves to know what a great baker he is.
Once he wins, people will get to know him better, and hopefully his win will give him a platform to promote his ideas about food, and community, and local production. He has so much to offer the world. So much passion. So much generosity.
I want the world to know him the way I do.
Well, for the most part.
The second day, the four contestants left are up to his level. There’s a woman from Boston, another one from Maine, a baker from Burlington, and Christopher. They all have to make the same confections, and there’s little left to their creativity. It’s all about execution. Creativity will be for the two finalists on the last day.
Today’s four contestants are lined up in immaculate and freshly pressed uniforms, their hands behind their backs, their feet slightly apart. Christopher looks more tired than yesterday, understandably, but he’s shaved, and his hair looks slightly damp, tamed back. He’s fresh out of the shower.
I texted him after our argument, but he never answered. Is he reading his messages when he goes back to his hotel? Is he ignoring me or simply trying to stay focused?
What’s important to him now is this competition, and that’s how it should be.
The judges start their comments, and my palms become sweaty.
While Christopher’s shepherd’s pie is clearly the winner, seeing how the judges literally lick their fingers and scoop up the crumbs from their plate, they give the woman from Boston top grade for her rye miche, and immediately, the whole room calls the judges partial. My heartbeat picks up.
But her croissants disappoint.
Each dish gets a score, and the tally starts. It’s unbearable to watch. At least for me.
Everyone in the front row is displaying some form of stress. Kiara bites her nails. Isaac shakes his leg. Willow pulls hairs from the top of her head.
We’re a disaster.
At nine, Skye is fast asleep, and Grace takes her back to her place, where she’s been staying since Christopher left for Boston. “I’ll watch from home,” she says as she slips out during yet another commercial break.
By the end of the evening, it’s set: it will be between the baker from Burlington and Christopher. The Burlington guy got a slightly higher score, and the mood is morose as everyone files out of the theater well after ten that night.
There are a couple of cameras on the sidewalk, and a TV van on The Green. Noah, as head of the Chamber of Commerce, is already miked up and defending Christopher and Emerald Creek. A group of people are gathered behind him, and it’s a miracle they don’t demand on live TV that Christopher get the title already.
I love that about them. That unconditional support and belief in their baker. In their village. The way they stick together.
Kiara catches up with me as I’m leaving. “So, whether Christopher wins or not tomorrow, we want to throw him a party.”
“Of course, yeah.”
“Can you help? You’re good with all the social media and online shit.”
Wow, look at that. Kiara is paying me a compliment. I stop in my tracks, and I probably blush. “I’d love to. Who’s our target?”
She cocks her head, not understanding my question.
“Who do you want coming to the party?”
She thinks about it. “The party should be just for the townspeople, but if we could broadcast the party and make some noise about us, that’d be great.” She glances toward the reporters.
“You want to use the competition and the party as a way to showcase the businesses and the village in general, to attract visitors.”
“Exactly.”
“Especially if the asshole from Burlington wins the competition. We can still turn that into a win for Emerald Creek, if we play our cards right.”
She smiles at my use of profanity. “That’s it. I hope we don’t lose, though. I don’t want to be the one picking up the pieces of Christopher if that happens.”
“What do you think his chances are?”
“You heard the theme. It’ll be entirely subjective.” She shrugs. “It’s bullshit.”
Tomorrow, it’s freestyle. They must create a whole meal celebrating a single bread-based confection and will be judged on their “creative interpretation of baking tradition.” Whatever that means.
I don’t sleep much that night. I try to send good vibes to Christopher.
I start planning the party, hoping I don’t jinx his chances.
The next day, Christopher looks like shit. He’s not shaved, his uniform is wrinkled. I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep at all, just went straight from day two to day three without any sort of break. It’s seven in the morning when I log into the show from my phone, and my guess is he’s been twenty-seven hours without sleep already. And he has about sixteen more hours to go.
This isn’t going to end well.
The good news is, the other guy doesn’t look any better.
When I get to the theater, the news is that Justin came back from Boston, where he’d driven Christopher, to pick up a list of ingredients Christopher needed for today. Justin and Colton made the rounds of Emerald Creek’s producers and drove back down to Boston.
Christopher asked for smoked trout from the Henderson’s smokehouse, garlic scapes from Cassandra’s plot at the community gardens, cheddar and ice cream from the Kings’ Farm, flowers from Miss Angela’s patch, and god knows what else.
We’re not clear what Christopher is making, and he hasn’t given anyone on the show any clue.
I glance at Kiara, and she gives me an I-have-no-idea shrug.
Finally, at seven fifty-nine, the countdown starts, and at eight, Christopher and the guy from Burlington pull back from their masterpieces.
Burlington goes first, and he’s good.
Like, really good.
The stuff he made is impressive, all ornate and beautiful. They’re real pieces of art. Carved breads with mini sandwiches nested inside. Soufflés and other elaborate things that look positively delicious.
It’ll be tough to beat, but if someone can, it’s Christopher.
But after Christopher makes his masterpiece statement—a short presentation explaining his choice—the crowd around me is stunned silent.
And my heart sinks.
We’re going to lose.