Chapter 32
Exactly fifty-nine minutes later, I push through the revolving door into the lobby of the big corporate hotel in downtown Vancouver and race to the entry table outside the conference room.
I’m red-faced, sweaty, and gasping for air, but I am not too late.
I have made it just in time. The woman sitting behind the registration table with her hair in a sleek bun looks alarmed by my disheveled appearance, but I simply set the ominously warm and still-wet containers on the table and wheeze out my name.
I have one minute to spare. I didn’t even stop to check the chocolates when I got here.
There was no time. I hope they’re okay. It would be the miracle I desperately need today.
She thumbs through a list. “Ah yes, Ms. Wynne. Here you are. And I see you have three different entries today?”
I nod. “That’s correct.” I’m trying to catch my breath.
“Excellent. Fill out these forms for me and then you can go on in. They’ll start the judging in just a few minutes.”
I hastily scribble down the necessary information on the forms for each entry, feeling weak with relief. I made it! I really have to pee and I’m a sweaty mess, but I made it in the nick of time.
I hand the completed forms back to the woman. “Can I go to the ladies’ room?” I inquire hopefully. “Before I go in?”
She glances at the clock and frowns. “I’m afraid not. They’re starting the judging in a minute or two. You need to go find your table now.”
With a resigned sigh, I head into the large conference room.
Just before I go in, I place a few sprinkles on my tongue, then square my shoulders and head inside.
Around the room, long tables are set up with all the entries displayed.
Standing behind their entries are my competitors, about two dozen of them.
I smooth my crumpled dress and wish I’d had a moment to freshen up somehow.
And pee. I really need to pee. I’ll just have to hold it.
I’m convinced that one of the superpowers moms develop is the ability to hold our bladders for long periods of time.
It’s not comfortable, but I’ll be okay. I made it. I still have a chance.
I find my spot in the middle of a table near the center of the room and set out my Tupperware containers.
I’m flanked by two competitors, an intense-looking young man dressed in an immaculate pastry chef uniform, including the double-breasted white jacket and poofy chef’s hat, and a woman who looks to be in her fifties with a crew cut and a stern expression.
She’s wearing a plain flannel shirt and jeans and work boots.
“Hi, I’m Emmie,” I murmur to the woman, who nods curtly.
“Darla, from Racine, Wisconsin,” she tells me in a loud whisper. I turn to the young man, but he looks away.
The room is cavernous, windowless, and sterile, with industrial gray carpet, bright lighting, and air-conditioning that is making it very chilly. Suddenly the entire room hushes. The three judges have just walked in. Two men and a woman, all three professional-looking and unsmiling.
“Here we go,” Darla mutters. The judges start at the table next to ours.
The first contestant, a young woman with purple hair, places a chocolate on each of three small white plates on the table in front of her, and the judges sample the chocolate, then take a few minutes to write on clipboards they carry.
No one speaks except the contestant, who simply states the name of each entry.
She has two more entries, which they sample in turn, writing down comments on a separate piece of paper for each.
Then they nod to the contestant and move to the next competitor.
They proceed down the line slowly, taking their time.
No one speaks or even moves. It feels like the entire room is holding its breath.
I want to pry the lids off my containers and make sure they have fared okay, but everyone is standing completely still behind their tables.
It would be distracting if I made a move now.
I lick my dry lips and try not to fret. I’m dehydrated and hungry, and almost dizzy with relief that I actually made it in time.
The judges come to our table next. Darla snaps to attention. “Judges,” she says.
“What do you have for us today”—a judge with an Australian accent checks his list—“Darla?”
“I have a sweet mascarpone and almond truffle with a layer of amaretto,” Darla says proudly, setting her truffles on the three plates.
The judges try the truffle in silence. One makes a tiny frown as she sets the uneaten half of her truffle back on the plate.
They fill out the forms in silence. Darla sets out her second and then third entries—a Moroccan mint tea meltaway and a freeze-dried raspberry chocolate bar with a sweet cream layer. Then it’s my turn.
“Hello, Emmie,” the lone female judge takes the lead on this one. “What do you have for us today?” she asks crisply.
I try to look calm and in control, though my heart is pounding like I’ve just sprinted for my life. In a way, I have. I take a big gulp of air and taste the last faint trace of the gold sprinkles on my tongue. They strengthen me. I’m aware that all eyes in the conference room are on me.
“These are browned butter hazelnut toffee…” I stop as I pull the lid off the container.
My heart sinks in dismay. My beautiful browned butter hazelnut toffee truffles are a soggy, half-melted mess.
The caramelized hazelnut crumbles completely slid off the chocolate and are lying at the bottom of the container in a gooey clump.
The ice must have leaked into the container, and the heat finished off every one of the truffles. Nothing is worth salvaging.
“Oh no.” The female judge peers into the container and looks at me with sympathy. “Maybe the others fared better?”
They did not. I open the container of dark chocolate and salmonberry gelée bonbons to find them melted and unrecognizable, the bright orange swirls smeared across the container.
The rose, cardamom, and ruby chocolate truffle with the gold sprinkles is similarly ruined.
It’s a disaster. Every single one of my chocolates is ruined. I have nothing for the judges to taste.
“I got stuck at the border in the heat,” I explain. “I’m so sorry.” I try to swallow down a big knot of shame and disappointment lodged in my throat. It’s hard to take a full breath. I think I might burst into tears at any moment. I’m so devastated I feel sick.
All around me I hear the murmurs of surprise and speculation rippling through the other contestants. This is the most humiliating moment of my life.
The Australian judge reaches across the table and claps me on the shoulder.
“Better luck next year,” he says kindly.
I nod, face burning. I swallow hard and put the lids back on the containers.
The judges have moved on to the young man in the chef’s uniform.
There is nothing more for me here. I’ve been dismissed.
Quickly I grab my things and slip from the room as fast as possible.
Eyes burning with unshed tears, I empty the containers into the nearest trash can.
I feel sick with disappointment. There is nothing left to do but go home.
There’s no reason now to go to my hotel and put on my fancy dress for the awards dinner.
I am not in the running for an award anymore.
Better to just head back across the border. This day is a disaster.
I text Henry, Emergency with the chocolates. They all melted. I’m so sorry but I won’t be competing today.
Then I finally use the bathroom in the hotel lobby, splash water on my red, sweaty, disappointed face, and head to the parking garage.
I need to let Mom and Dani know. Mom has called twice and Dani has texted numerous times to check on me, but I can’t face them right now.
I’ll call them when I’m on the road. All I want to do is sit down and have a good cry.
I’m so disappointed. This was a golden opportunity and I blew it.
Unfortunately it only gets worse. When I reach the hotel parking garage, I find my car won’t start.
It just clicks, and then nothing. This is the final straw.
I put my head on the steering wheel and burst into tears.
It’s all too much. This entire day has been a parade of frustration and disappointment, and now I can’t even get home to put on my pajamas, eat ice cream to beat this heat in our un-air-conditioned house, and commiserate with those who love me. Now what do I do?
After I’ve sobbed out all my disappointment, I wipe my eyes and take a breath. I feel hollowed out with regret and dismay. How could this day have gone so wrong? I suck on a pinch of sprinkles, trying to regain my composure.
When I’m calm, I consider my predicament.
I’m stuck in a broken-down car in the sweltering parking garage of a hotel where I am not staying.
The room prices were too expensive at this hotel, so I booked myself a much cheaper room in a less savory part of town.
I need to figure out what to do about my car.
I need to find a way to get home. I try to think through the problem and come up with solutions, but instead I find myself feeling stymied and confused.
I’m Emmie Wynne. I solve everyone’s problems. I’m a fixer.
It’s what I do and who I am. But somehow, sitting sticky and sweaty in a parking garage in another country in a car that won’t start, I finally reach my limit.
I don’t know anything about cars or how to call for a tow truck or where to find a reputable garage.
I’m stuck in Canada, all alone and completely overwhelmed. I need help.
I pull out my phone. The obvious person to contact is Henry, as he’s somewhere in the hotel right now. But he’s busy in meetings, and he has the awards ceremony tonight. I don’t want to bother him, and I feel embarrassed by how terribly I’ve messed this up.
There’s only one person I want to turn to. Feeling guilty yet relieved, I punch in the number.
Jakob answers on the first ring. “Emmie?” His voice is deep and oddly reassuring.
“Jakob,” I manage to choke out. “I need you.”
“Where are you?” His tone is instantly alert. “Are you okay? Are you in danger?”
At the sound of his protective tone, I burst into tears again and tell him through hiccupping sobs what’s happened.
“I don’t know what to do…” I confess, feeling helpless and embarrassed by my helplessness. I want to be calm and cool and in control so Jakob is impressed by me. But somehow I just can’t muster the energy.
“Emmie, it’s going to be okay,” Jakob says calmly. “We can figure this out.”
The “we” is infinitely reassuring. “Where are you right now?” he asks.
“On the fifth floor of a parking garage in downtown Vancouver.” I sniffle.
“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to leave your car where it is.
Leave your keys at the front desk of the hotel and explain the situation.
Then get an Uber or a taxi to your hotel room and wait for me.
Take a nap, eat a sandwich, take a shower.
Whatever you need. I’ll take care of the car and then I’ll come get you. ”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I lean my head back against the headrest, close my eyes, and exhale with relief.
I’m still heartsick over the melted chocolates and my failure at the competition, and worried about my car and how I’ll pay for a repair.
It’s so freakishly hot. I feel like I’m sitting in an oven.
My stomach rumbles and I need to pee again.
But at least there’s a plan, and a helping hand. It feels more manageable now.
I text Jakob the name of the hotel where my car is stuck and the name of the hotel where I’m staying.
“Emmie,” Jakob assures me, “I’ll get there as soon as I can. Hang on. I’m on my way.”
No one has ever said sweeter words to me. In an instant everything feels like it’s going to be okay.