Chapter 15
Emma
Idon’t know if I’m depressed, angry, or simply numb. I left the diner shortly after Alex left. I’m thankful that Maggie was understanding enough, even though she, along with everyone else, wanted to comfort me. But I needed to be alone. My phone’s been ringing, and looking at it, it’s been Rhonda calling me. But I haven’t answered. I don’t want to talk to anyone. She and Philip are out of town, so I know I’ll have at least the rest of the day to be alone and gather my thoughts.
I’m sitting on my couch, hugging my knees, watching some old sitcom I can’t quite get into. My mind’s buzzing in all different directions. Just when I think things are going in a storybook direction for me, I get the rug pulled out from under me, and I’m reminded of the reality I’m living. I wish my grandmother was here to tell me what to do. She’d know the right things to say. She always did. But my life right now feels so empty without her presence. I haven’t felt this since the day of her funeral, when I was surrounded by my family and friends.
I honestly considered calling the Great American Broadcasting Network. I’d gotten the phone number off the internet. Then I considered calling the magazine Alex works at. There were so many times where I’d typed in the numbers, but deleted them. Then there was one time when I actually went through it and called the magazine. But as soon as the electronic voice came onto the line, I lost my nerve and hung up.
It’s not worth it.
Yes, I’m angry, and yes, I’m hurt.
I feel once again betrayed by Alex. He played with my feelings for him and planned to judge me unfairly at the bake-off from the get go.
But did all of that mean I should try to destroy his life? His career?
No.
I’d be no better than him if I did that.
And what if everyone’s wrong? What if it were all just a misunderstanding? Rumors have a way of circulating out of control. But I have to remember to consider my source.
Madison was the one who called and told me everything. She saw Alex with the girl with the state name. She overheard him in the lobby talking to her. Madison has no reason to make things up.
But what if what she saw and heard weren’t actually true?
I close my eyes, feeling a tear escape from the corner of my eye.
It’s all the what-ifs I have a problem with. I don’t know which account I should listen to. The people I’ve known my entire life or a stranger that waltzed into town one day criticizing every eatery we have.
I guess it’s safe to say that we were all fooled one way or another.
Alex Carter had that impact. Handsome, charming, devious. Who would have known?
I’ve had enough of trying to focus on this sitcom. One episode of Lucy Ricardo wailing to Ricky is one episode too much.
I get up from the couch, pull flour and other ingredients from the pantry, then slip into my apron.
No, I won’t call Alex out publicly anymore than I already have. I’m just going to try to move forward. Whatever happens will happen anyway. But the best chance at winning the bake-off competition will be if I work hard. Really hard. Honestly, I’m not sure if I can work any harder than I already have been. I feel ready. I feel like if it was happening tomorrow, then I’d be set. The constant practicing is merely a formality. The more I bake, the better I’ll be. So I grabbed the kitchen timer.
“Okay, Grandma,” I say to the empty kitchen. I pull in a sharp breath. “Let’s do this.”
I set the timer for sixty minutes, the time I’ll be given during the competition. Once the timer starts the countdown, I go to work.
I reach for the flour, measuring it out precisely. The rhythm of baking, a dance I’ve come to know by heart, begins to take over, easing the tightness in my chest, the anger and depression slowly receding to the back of my mind.
I measure out the yeast, warm water, and a pinch of sugar, watching the yeast come alive, bubbling and frothing.
The dough soon comes together, sticky and elastic under my palms as I knead it on the floured surface. The push and pull, the fold and turn, become a meditative process, my frustrations channeling into the energy needed to develop the gluten, making the dough smooth and pliable.
Once the dough rests, I begin the delicate task of butter layering. I slice the butter thinly, ensuring each piece is almost translucent. Laying these thin slices across the dough, I”m meticulous not to overlap them too much, aiming for an even distribution that will promise the flakiest layers.
The background of I Love Lucy is still playing, and I chuckle every once in a while at the plight Lucy and Ethel get themselves into.
Rolling out the dough, I encase the butter within, sealing it. The folding begins—roll, fold, turn.
With each pass of the rolling pin, I feel lighter, the anger and sadness fading into the background, replaced by the satisfaction of the work. As the dough chills, resting between folds, I’m finding myself dreaming of that building—the one that’s been on the market. The one that I’m desperate to buy. The one that I will buy.
Finally, the dough is ready, its surface speckled with the evidence of hard work—tiny dots of butter promising flaky layers. I cut the dough, shaping the croissants.
The croissants rise, plump and proud under the warmth of the kitchen, and as I slide the tray into the oven, I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Now, it’s time for the oven to do its work.
My reverie is shaken when I hear the knock at the door. I quickly wash my hands and dry them before I go to answer it.
When I open the door, I’m surprised to see Alex on the other side.
“Hey,” he says. I see him take a deep breath, then his lips curve into a ghost of a smile. It was so brief, I’m not even sure if I’ve imagined it. “I’m sorry to interrupt your baking. Smells quite good, I might add.”
“What are you doing here?” I force out.
His eyes lock onto mine, and I can’t read his thoughts.
“I owe you an apology,” he says.
I scoff. “That’s an understatement of the century.”
When he frowns, I wonder if I went too far, but then again, I’m still feeling betrayed by him.
“I want you to know, Georgia and I are not a couple,” he says. “She’s a friend. I mean, yes, we did use to date. When I accepted the assignment to come here, it was to avoid officially ending things. I’m not good at goodbyes. And I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“So, in other words, you ran away from your responsibilities,” I tell him.
He pauses for several more minutes. “Yes. I guess you can say that.”
I scoff. “And you’re trying to salvage your good character by admitting you’re a runner?”
“I’m being honest, Emma,” Alex says.
“Well, I guess as far as she goes, it’s none of my business. Or anyone’s. It’s not like you came here for romance. So, I’m sorry I got upset over that. I’m not anymore, whether she’s with you or not. As far as the bake-off competition goes, I told you before that I intend on winning. I don’t believe one man’s enough to sabotage me.”
“Why would I want to sabotage you, Emma?” he asks. “I’ve told you before I planned to judge you fairly and accurately. I told you that, just like I’ve told you that you have talent.”
“But you think I can be better.” I study him carefully, but he gives me no sign of his thoughts.
The timer dings, causing both of us to look into the kitchen. I make no move toward the oven, so he invites himself inside, takes the oven mitt from the counter, and removes the croissants.
In my opinion, they are perfectly shaped, perfectly brown, perfectly scented. My grandmother would be proud.
He says nothing as I watch him choose a croissant. He sniffs at it, and I’m pretty sure I see him letting out a contented sigh. My heart’s beating fast in my chest. I don’t know anymore how I feel for him, but I can’t help but hope beyond hope that Alex likes it. It’s not the bake-off time yet, but I feel like this moment has everything riding on it.
He takes a bite and slowly chews, as if savoring the taste. His eyes are on me the entire time. I want to walk closer to him, but I’m so nervous to hear his thoughts, I can’t move.
“Well?” I croak. Why does his opinion matter so much to me?
He takes another bite, and I’m beginning to feel like he’s teasing me. The more the minutes tick by, the more anxious I am.
“Emma, I think—”
My cell phone’s ringing interrupts him. I groan inwardly.
“Are you going to get that?”
Why? I’ve successfully avoided all calls today. Why should I answer now? But I say nothing as I go to my phone. My heart skips a beat. It’s the realtor.
“Hello?”
“Emma, darling, how are you?”
The voice on the other end of the line’s cheery, but I’m suddenly feeling a tightness in my chest. I know what she’s calling to say. I turn my back to Alex because I don’t want him to see the tears on my cheeks.
“Hey, Belinda,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
She pauses.
“Someone’s bought the building, didn’t they?”
“Well…not yet.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Someone is looking at it. And darling, as you know, the building’s been sitting on the market for quite a while. The price recently went down, and someone’s interested.”
I push out a frustrated breath. At this moment, I’m watching all my dreams fade away.
“Now, of course, the owners know you’ve been interested in it. So they’re willing to give you a chance to jump at it. So, how about it?”
I feel like screaming. I don’t have the cash on hand. Part of me wants to call Rhonda and borrow the money from her. But then, what if I don’t win the competition, and I can’t pay her back?
“Can they wait until the bake-off competition?” I ask. “If I can win, I’ll have the money then.”
“I’m afraid not, darling,” Belina says. “The building’s costing money and they’re wanting to sell.”
“Well, I don’t have the money right now,” I say sadly. “I don’t even have a job.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, darling. Well, don’t you worry. This might not be the building for you, but we’ll find one somewhere. I know we will.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure, darling. We’ll talk soon.”
I drop the phone to the couch next to me, hanging my head. The apartment’s closing in on me, and I’ve forgotten Alex was there until I notice him standing next to me.
“Bad news?” he asks.
“My building’s about to be bought,” I tell him quietly. “I was so close.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex says.
“Thanks,” I manage to say.
He pauses before he walks to the door. “Well, I’ll leave you alone. Unless…” He turns to me. “Unless you’d like company?”
“Right, because what every girl dreams of is a shoulder to cry on attached to the guy who came into town, blowing up her life.”
The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
I cover my mouth, mentally kicking myself. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
He smiles gently at me. “It’s okay. I deserved that. And I know you’re upset.”
“You don’t deserve that, Alex,” I tell him. “I appreciate your offer, but I’d rather be alone. I’m going to call Rhonda.”
“Okay,” he says. “You know where to find me if you’d like to talk.”
I smile wanly at him. “Thanks, Alex.”
“Of course, Emma.”
He nods once at me, and when he leaves, shutting the door behind me, I lean back against the couch. Once again, I’m handed another setback.
And I don’t even know what he thinks about my croissants. You’d think he’d throw me a bone and gush over them to make me feel better. I roll my eyes at myself, stand and walk to the kitchen. I look at the croissants, immediately noticing three of them are missing—not including the one I watched him gnaw on.
It makes me chuckle softly. Maybe I finally impressed him after all.
I pick one up and bite into them. Yes, not bad.
Well, at least if I end up homeless, I’ll have mastered the art of French pastry. That’s a life skill, right?