Whisk Me Away

Chapter One

Love is baking made visible.

That’s what Regan Callahan’s grandmother always told her when they’d bake together. Regan would stand up on one of her grandma’s kitchen chairs so she could reach the counter, her own little pink apron with the ruffles tied around her waist. She’d help Grandma frost cupcakes or ice cookies or sprinkle powdered sugar onto lemon bars. They were always baking something. From the time Regan was old enough to help, they were always baking something.

What had made her think about that now?

She searched her memory banks and realized quickly it was the last step in the rustic cherry tarts she’d made: the gentle sprinkle of powdered sugar. She tipped some into the small mesh strainer, then tapped the side of it softly against her hand over each of the tarts. Just a little. Too much would get sticky and clumpy and make things too sweet. Too little and, well, why even bother, what would be the point? It needed to be just right. Enough to show up and give the tarts a little extra zhuzh, as her roommate Kiki would say.

“Those are beautiful. My God, you’re an artist.” Billy Jergenson, owner of Sweet Temptations Bakery and Regan’s boss for the past four years, spoke softly, just above a whisper. It was as if he was afraid of breaking some spell Regan had cast, some magical cherry tart wizardry floating around in a sparkly, sugary haze in the kitchen.

“You always say that,” she said and glanced up at him with a grin.

Billy was tall and lean like a runner, and at sixty-three, he was still very attractive. He often joked about how he used to turn all the heads at the men’s bars in the eighties, but Regan knew he probably still would. He had a dancer’s body, a full head of silvery hair, and only recently had a tiny bit of a bulge start to appear around his middle. Less gym time, a slowing metabolism, and more sampling of the goods in his shop, Regan surmised, but happily. If the owner loved your stuff, you were in good shape, right?

“I say it because it’s true,” Billy went on. “Those are gorgeous. You went with the rustic. Good call. They have so much more personality than the traditional tarts.” He picked up one of the two trays and took it out to the front display case where the tarts would live until sold.

So…where they’ll live until about five o’clock tonight , Regan thought with a tiny burst of ego.

She surveyed the remaining tray. Billy was right. Her rustic tarts didn’t sit in a simple round dish like traditional ones. They didn’t have simple crimped crust edges and cherry pie filling inside. No, sir. Hers had fresh cherries that she’d cooked down with a little brandy until they were thick and sweet and syrupy and had a lovely, shiny gloss to them. Her crust was wraparound, flaky and buttery, and it had taken her almost a year to get the method of folding just right. And when they came out of the oven, all bubbly and hot, they were irresistible.

Serves one, gone in about five bites.

Her mouth was watering now, so she slid one off the tray as Billy returned for it, and he gave her a knowing smile. “Save me a bite,” he tossed over his shoulder as he bumped through the swinging door.

“I make no promises,” she called back and dug a fork into the tart, wishing she had warmed it up first. They had to cool completely before the dusting of sugar or it would melt and run and look messy, but they really were best when hot from the oven. But still…she made a humming sound of approval as she chewed the bite. Oh, yeah. They were fabulous.

Billy came back into the kitchen, and she held up a fork for him. “Sold two already,” he said, cutting into the tart and then making very similar sounds as he chewed. He pointed at her with the fork. “I’m telling you. Artiste.” Then he made a chef’s kiss gesture and headed into the back where his office was, leaving Regan with her fork and the rest of the tart. Which she finished easily, happily, and with pride.

It was after two in the afternoon, and she’d been there since before five, so she was ready to punch out. She tossed her flour/egg white/batter-covered apron into the laundry bag in the back and got her stuff out of her locker. Then she changed from her ratty flour/egg white/batter-covered Nikes into her newer ones and, not for the first time—or the last—wondered at the hot pink Crocs her coworker Kiley wore. Regan had been very vocal about never being caught dead in a pair of Crocs, let alone hot pink ones, but her aching arches put thoughts in her head, visions of a fun white pair. Or maybe red. With—what were those little decorations called? Giblets? Goblins?—shaped like a rolling pin or a whisk or a layer cake. And then reality set back in because if she ever gave in, she would never, ever hear the end of it from Kiki. Her roommate was a nurse and lived in her Crocs, and the harassment Regan would have to endure would be the endless kind. Probably funny, but also endless.

With a sigh, she swung her backpack over her shoulder, waved goodbye to the staff that remained to man the bakery until it closed at nine, then peeked in Billy’s office. He was on the phone and glanced up at her as he spoke.

She waved and stage-whispered, “Good night, sweet prince.”

He grinned and waved her on.

She was going to miss the 2:34 subway, so she waited for the next one, plugging her wired headphones in since she hadn’t been able to find her AirPods and hadn’t wanted to wake up her roommates by rifling noisily through the apartment at three in the morning. Once in her seat, she settled in for the hour-long ride that would get her to within a handful of blocks of her tiny Brooklyn apartment. Luckily, the April weather was free of rain and not freezing, so the walk was no big.

She was the first one home, which was often the case. Both her roommates were nurses at New York Presbyterian, and currently, Kiki was on the day shift and Brian was working some funky shift with a surgeon, so they were both gone. Kiki would be back around dinnertime, and Brian would follow an hour or two later. And while Regan had grown to love her roomies—they were the best friends she had here in the city—she also loved whenever she got their tiny place to herself.

Arms full of three days of mail, because Regan was the only one who ever thought to empty the mailbox, she climbed up to their third-floor apartment. Her legs chose that moment to let her know just how tired they were, and once inside, she collapsed onto the worn couch before she even set anything down, mail and her backpack taking seats with her. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

She heard King Arthur’s purring before she felt his featherlight steps on the back of the couch, and she turned her head to meet his clear green eyes. “Hi, Artie. Tell me about your day. How were things at the office?”

He bumped his head against hers, and she let go of the mail to reach up and give him a scratch. It slid to the floor where she left it. Artie’s purring changed to a little chirp. “Oh, yeah? Did you have to fire anybody today?” He climbed gently down onto her shoulder, then chest, and settled his petite gray and white form into her lap. “Oh, buddy, I haven’t even set my stuff down yet.” The cat looked up at her with those eyes—the eyes that had won her over when she’d found him near the dumpster behind the bakery—and she just didn’t have the heart to move him. Plus, he was warm and soft and his purr was so relaxing…

The next time she opened her eyes, Kiki’s nose was practically touching hers, and she jumped in surprise, making a startled little gasping noise and sending Artie flying off her lap to hide under a chair.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought you were dead!” Kiki’s big blue eyes were wide, and that was saying something, considering she had the biggest eyes of anybody Regan knew.

Regan pressed a hand to her chest and gaped at her roommate. “Why the hell would you think that?”

Kiki straightened up and folded her arms across her tall frame. She still wore her blue scrubs and light gray Crocs, her blond hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail, and she arched an eyebrow as she gave Regan a poignant scan.

Regan looked down at herself, still wearing a jacket, backpack on the couch next to her still with one strap looped over her arm, shoes still on her feet, mail scattered on the floor around them. She shot Kiki a sheepish, crooked grin. “Ah. I see. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

Kiki snorted and blew out what was likely a relieved breath. “You think? I was ready to start CPR, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m sorry,” Regan said, as Kiki bent to pick up the mail. “I haven’t been sleeping great, and work has been so busy and…” Her words stopped because Kiki had stopped moving. “What?”

The wide blue eyes were back as Kiki met Regan’s gaze and held up a manila envelope. They stared at each other in silence for a full five seconds before Kiki whispered, “I think this is it.”

Regan swallowed so hard, anybody standing in the room would’ve heard it. As if she was moving in slow motion, she reached out and took the envelope, then glanced down at the return address.

Whisk Me Away.

“Holy shit.” It was a whisper that matched Kiki’s, like they were afraid the room was bugged and they didn’t want to give away the details of the mail. She rolled her lips in and wet them, then swallowed again, because the lump in her throat wouldn’t go down. Her heart pounded in her ears as she looked back up at Kiki and slowly handed the envelope to her. “I can’t look.”

“I got you.” Kiki took the envelope, stood up, and turned her back. Regan listened to the tearing of heavy manila, the shuffle of papers, then silence as Kiki must’ve been reading. But that only lasted a few moments before she turned around with a squeal and huge smile. “Baby, you’re in. You’re in!”

“No way.”

“Yes way. All the ways. You did it. I told you. I told you! ”

Regan finally pushed herself to her feet, taking a moment to shake her now-tangled arm out of her backpack strap. With a shaking hand, she pointed at Kiki. “Read it.” As Kiki spoke, Regan paced.

“‘Dear Ms. Callahan, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as one of six attendees to the Whisk Me Away eight-week retreat sponsored by renowned pastry chef Liza Bennett-Schmidt.’”

“Oh my God,” Regan whispered as Kiki went on.

“‘The retreat will begin on May twenty-first and run through July sixteenth. The location is Chef Bennett-Schmidt’s residence in upstate New York, where you and your fellow attendees will be housed for the duration. This is also where all pastry creation and apprenticing will take place. Chef Bennett-Schmidt was impressed with your résumé, your credentials, and your creations. Please bring your knowledge, your creativity, and your willingness to learn. Any details you’ll need to know are contained in this package. Chef looks forward to meeting you for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’ Then there’s a bunch of other papers and forms, what looks like a nondisclosure agreement, and a pamphlet.” There was a beat where the apartment was silent, and then Kiki added, “Holy crap, Regs, you did it. You’re going on a retreat at freaking Liza Bennett-Schmidt’s house!”

Regan stood and stared, and a part of her felt like she would stay there forever, simply frozen in permanent disbelief. This was—at the risk of sounding incredibly clichéd—a dream come true. Liza Bennett-Schmidt had been an idol of hers, a mentor of sorts, despite having never met her, and now? Now she was about to spend eight solid weeks learning from her, listening to her, gleaning everything she could about her craft from the very person she’d been following and listening to for literal years .

Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity didn’t even begin to cover it.

* * *

She was in.

Ava Prescott sat at the foot of her neatly made bed in her tiny studio apartment and stared at the letter in her hand. The corner trembled slightly as she read for the fourth—fifth?—time.

We are pleased to inform you…eight-week retreat sponsored by renowned pastry chef Liza Bennett-Schmidt…where you and your fellow attendees will be housed…Chef looks forward to meeting you for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity…

Jiminy Cricket pawed at her leg, gently, as if he didn’t want to disturb whatever it was that Ava was doing. She glanced up at the clock next to the bed. It was almost one in the morning, and she’d been sitting there staring for nearly twenty minutes.

Giving herself a mental shake, she pushed to her feet. “Sorry, Jims. Mommy got a little caught up. Are you starving?” Jiminy meowed his exuberant response and followed her to the kitchenette. Yes, one in the morning was a pretty unconventional time for a cat to have dinner, but that’s how Ava’s schedule worked. She went in midafternoon and was rarely home before midnight. The joys of working in the kitchen of a high-end restaurant.

She set the glass bowl on the floor and stroked Jiminy’s back as he chowed down on his wet food. “I got in, Jimzy,” she said quietly, knowing if she said it out loud, it was closer to being a reality and less likely to be a dream she would pop awake from at any moment. “I got into the Bennett-Schmidt retreat. Can you believe it?”

Jiminy paused in his eating long enough to look her in the eye, and she smiled at him.

“That’s right. Your mommy’s a rock star. Pretty cool, huh?”

She really needed to sleep, but her brain was buzzing. She felt slightly electrified, like she’d had about four too many Red Bulls, the way she felt when she came up with a fantastic new dessert idea. Excited. Wired.

She really wanted to call her mother, but it was still one in the morning, and while her mom didn’t sleep nearly as much as she once did, she generally wasn’t awake at that hour. She briefly entertained texting, but if her mom hadn’t remembered to put her phone on its night setting, it would definitely wake her up. The only people she knew who were most likely still up were those she’d left work with, but she hadn’t told any of them that she’d applied for the retreat.

With an irritated sigh, she peeled off her work clothes, dropped them in the hamper in the corner so the entire apartment didn’t end up smelling like onions and fried food, and walked naked to her teeny bathroom to shower off the day’s work.

Always a little bit keyed up when she got home, Ava never went to bed right away, despite the hour. She’d shower, make herself something to eat if she hadn’t eaten at the restaurant (she hadn’t tonight), watch a show or two. But tonight, she felt keyed up and then some. Still buzzing, even after a hot shower that was meant to relax her, she padded to the counter in blue and white striped pajama pants and a blue tank top, her hair piled on top of her head, got out a couple pots, and set to making herself some midnight spaghetti. Having something to do with her hands would help calm her nerves.

One of her professors in culinary school had taught her midnight spaghetti, named because it was a common dish chefs made at the end of their shift, often midnight or later. She boiled salted water and tossed in some spaghetti, then sliced fresh garlic and got it sautéing in olive oil. While those things were cooking, she pulled a bag of fresh parsley out of her tiny fridge and chopped some up, and added a bit of chicken broth to the garlic. Before long, she’d drained the pasta, added some of the water to the frying pan, and was transferring it to the garlic sauce so it could absorb it. She added a healthy helping of parmesan, salt and pepper, then the parsley, tossed it all together, and put it in a bowl. She carried it over to her bed, where Jiminy had already made himself a spot on one of the pillows, as if waiting for her to start their show.

She got comfortable. She did have a chair and a love seat in the small studio, but she rarely used them at night after work. She preferred to set her laptop up on her breakfast-in-bed tray and eat her dinner while watching. Which her mother would be mortified by. Dinner in bed? Spaghetti? Horrifying.

She smiled thinking about it, then hit the keys on her laptop and navigated to YouTube, where she searched episodes of Whisk Me Away . It had been a while—well, it had been a good six months, when she’d watched as she filled out the application to the retreat—since she’d watched, and she found herself immediately caught up. Liza Bennett-Schmidt was attractive, yes, but it went beyond that. Ava always thought this must be what they meant when they said somebody had “camera presence.” The camera loved her. And she was a natural. Smiling at the camera made it feel like she was smiling right at you, the viewer. And in addition to that great camera presence, she knew what she was doing as a pastry chef. Her show was always twofold. First, she’d make something gorgeously complicated, something no home baker would have any reason to try other than curiosity. But after that, she’d take an element of that dessert and craft something simpler from it, something her viewers could make in their own kitchens without struggle. She made home bakers feel like pastry chefs in Paris, and that was how she’d become such a success. Her following was enormous. She had her own line of bakeware. She’d published something like eight cookbooks so far. She did commercials for mixers and ovens and utensils and a brand of flour and had her own clothing line of chef apparel. The woman was a world-famous gazillionaire. A household name akin to Martha Stewart.

And Ava was going to be learning from her in less than six weeks.

She swallowed the mouthful of spaghetti and sat still, letting that sink in.

Holy shit.

She slept fitfully because her mind wouldn’t stop racing, and when she opened her eyes at seven thirty—a full two and a half hours earlier than normal—that was it. There was no more sleeping. She reached for her phone and texted her mom.

You up?

Of course she was up. She’d likely been up for a few hours now, and Ava could picture her on the little screen porch of her modest modular home in the retirement community in Florida where she lived for half the year, sipping her tea and watching the birds flit around her feeders. She spent as much money on bird food as she did on food for herself, but it made her happy, so Ava tried not to give her too much of a hard time about it.

The phone rang in her hand, and Ava grinned. “Hey, Mom.”

“Am I up? What a stupid question. I’m always up.”

“Listen, my mama raised me to have manners. I needed to check first.” Ava pushed out of bed and headed to the kitchen counter to turn on her coffee maker. “How are the birds this morning?”

“Lots of warblers today,” her mom said. “I think the two from last year told their friends. And the cardinal couple is back.”

Ava smiled as she put a tea bag into her mug and waited for the water to boil. “Warblers. They have yellow tummies?”

“Yup. And I think I finally have bluebirds in the birdhouse.”

Ava let her mom go on about the birds, simply reveling in the sound of her voice, her excitement clear, the way it always was when she talked about her birds. They hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays, and listening to her talk helped Ava not miss her quite so much.

“And what’s new with you, my girl?” her mom asked after an explanation of what was in the new suet she bought. “You don’t usually text this early. Everything okay?”

“I have news.” And with those three words, Ava’s heart rate kicked up again. Her elation built again. Her disbelief surged in again. “Remember the Bennett-Schmidt retreat I was telling you about just after you left for Florida?”

“Of course I do. You said the application was going to take you hours to fill out, but you were practically coming out of your skin with excitement.”

“I got in.” Three more simple words. And maybe it was because it was daylight now rather than the wee hours. Maybe it was because several hours had passed since she’d read the acceptance letter. Ava didn’t know, but somehow, it felt even bigger, even more important. So she said it again. “I got in, Mom.”

The shriek of delight that came out of her mother right then made Ava pull the phone away from her ear. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Uh-oh, Connie’s looking out her window. Probably thinks I fell in my driveway again. I’m fine, Connie! I’m waving to her now. My daughter just gave me some great news! I’m okay!”

Ava couldn’t help laughing and shaking her head at the two separate conversations happening at once, both from her mother.

“Oh, baby, I am so, so proud of you! This is amazing. Give me all the details.”

“Well, I don’t know a ton,” Ava said, pulling out the package she’d received and looking it over for what felt like the hundredth time. “It starts in May and runs through mid-July. It’s on the grounds of Liza Bennett-Schmidt’s home upstate. There are five other attendees besides me. And we’re gonna learn directly from her.” She took a breath. “I’m going to learn from somebody who’s not only a master at what she does—at what I do—but I’m going to learn from somebody I’ve idolized for my entire career. Mom.” She swallowed a lump as unexpected tears welled up in her eyes. “I can’t even believe it. This is a dream.”

“Nobody deserves it more, my girl. Nobody.”

Once she hung up from her mom, she called up Courtney’s number and shot her a text.

Let me know when you’re up. Have some news.

She set her phone down and busied herself doctoring her cup of coffee. Tonight’s shift was gonna be rough because she was too wired to go back to sleep. Might as well start with the caffeine now. She was going to need it.

Her phone pinged and she turned to regard it with surprise, which only increased when she saw it was Courtney. As the head bartender at Pomp, her hours were nearly the same as Ava’s.

I’m up , the text said.

OMG, why? Ava sent back.

Courtney’s response was to send a GIF that featured a woman dressed in club attire, carrying her high heels and tiptoeing out of a room.

“Oh my God,” Ava said aloud, then sent a laughing emoji and typed, ARE YOU DOING A WALK OF SHAME? It was not at all unusual for Courtney to go home with—or take home—a customer she met at the bar during her shift. It always made Ava a little nervous, but Courtney was a badass and could take care of herself—which she’d mentioned to Ava more than once.

No shame in my game. Just don’t wanna do morning small talk. Don’t worry, I left a note. This was followed by a winking emoji. Why are you up? What news? Everything okay? Your mom?

Courtney was probably the closest thing to a sister Ava would ever have. They’d met at Pomp nearly eight years ago now and had hit it off immediately. They had the same taste in music and movies, and a healthy pride in their work. Courtney didn’t call herself a bartender. She was a mixologist, and she took that title just as seriously as Ava took hers of pastry chef. There was a love and respect between them that was hard to come by in a city like New York.

Her phone rang in her hand, and she answered.

“Okay, I’m in the lobby of this dude’s building. What’s up? You okay?”

“You paused your escape for me? I’m honored,” Ava said with a laugh. Then she told Courtney all about the retreat.

“Oh my God,” Courtney squealed, and Ava could picture the doorman of the building—assuming there was one, though Courtney only went home with the kind of guys who had doormen—widening his eyes at her volume. “Holy shit! That’s incredible! I thought you said it was a long shot.”

“It was, trust me. I still can’t believe it. I read somewhere that this year, they had nearly fifteen hundred applicants.”

“And they chose you? A. Seriously. This is amazing. I’m so fucking proud of you. When is it?”

They spent a few minutes going over the details, the whole time Courtney throwing in little comments about how proud she was. Ava couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

There was a moment where they stayed on the phone together in silence before Courtney spoke again. “So…how do you think Goldie will take it?”

Goldie was the restaurant manager of Pomp and Ava’s boss. There was only one answer to that question, and they both knew it, answered simultaneously.

“Badly.”