Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, I met a customer at a café and traded baked goods for cash.
From there, I carried my iced coffee on a long walk down Main Street, enjoying the view.
I ambled along a low brick wall, high above the flowing river.
Couples placed locks on a section of fencing to represent their love.
Others held hands, carried babies, and walked their dogs.
I admired the blue sky and vibrant flowers, felt the sun on my face, and the peace in my heart. This new life had tough spots, but I would never willingly return to how things were. I was proud of what I’d done so far to change my life and felt hopeful as I looked ahead.
I just had to figure out what to do about money.
The income I made from baking helped, and I loved the work, but it was a feast-or-famine situation.
Five orders one day, none for the next week.
Social media posts were raising awareness, and the engagement was great, but the newly raised prices weren’t enough to make up for the inconsistent orders.
I barely cleared minimum wage when I considered how much I had to spend on high-quality supplies.
These days, it was significantly easier to understand my mother’s decision to stay with my father.
I didn’t agree with the way she’d lived, but I kicked myself internally for the harsh way I’d judged her.
I’d previously assumed she could’ve just gotten a job to support herself and me, instead of marrying Dad or staying with him for so long.
Nothing was that simple. Not now, and absolutely not then.
Circumstances made things much easier for me than for her.
I only had to make enough money to feed myself and keep the lights on at a home I’d inherited.
I should’ve had more compassion for my mother. The weight of my newly expanding emotions grew as I walked and thought of all the things I’d tell her today if I had the chance.
Now I was the one who needed a job. I had no idea where to begin. The only monetizable skill I had was baking. And maybe childcare, but I didn’t particularly like other people’s children, so nannying would be a last resort.
I supposed there were plenty of cluttered garages, basements, and closets in the area I could clean and organize for a fee.
Could I complete enough projects every month to stay afloat?
How did I find people willing to pay? I still hadn’t finished all the closets at Mom’s house. Some, I willfully ignored.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked the universe, turning a palm and my gaze upward in a soft, exasperated plea.
The honk of a horn pulled my attention to the road, where a sedan narrowly missed a cyclist crossing the intersection.
On the corner, beside the frazzled biker, stood Chez Margot. In its window a small white sign held three neatly printed words.
Pastry Chef Needed
I crossed the street, drawn to the sign as if the universe put it there just for me. It certainly felt that way, and why not? I needed a job, and the restaurant needed a baker.
What would Lucas think if I appeared and applied? Would he remember me? Was it better or worse if he did?
I gave the sign a closer look when I reached the window. No further explanation was available. No small print suggesting I inquire within, or one of those QR codes that seemed to facilitate everything these days. Apparently, I had to ask for more information.
I squared my shoulders, pictured my emptying bank account and inherited money pit. Then I opened the door.
A dozen possible interview questions immediately flooded my head, and I wondered why I didn’t take five minutes to prepare before entering.
I added overexcitable to a growing list of things I was learning about myself.
If only I knew my five greatest strengths and weaknesses, I’d have a far better chance at passing this interview.
Did everyone who walked in get an interview?
I stepped inside and my chaotic mind quieted as I inhaled the delicious scents and tuned in to a soft accordion melody.
Hopefully no one asked where I saw myself in five years. “On the street, without this job” seemed like the wrong answer.
My gaze traveled the dining room. Was this a fair representation of restaurants in France? Had my mother eaten somewhere like this during the summer she met my father? Did he visit a place like this today?
An avalanche of more questions crowded my head. Where was Sébastien Allard? How could I find him? Would he want to meet me? Better yet, was I sure that was what I wanted?
An equally poignant thought presented itself unbidden. What if Sébastien was as big of a mess as my mother had been? Did I really want to know that?
“Ah! She returns!” a male voice bellowed.
I spun in search of the vaguely familiar sound and smiled when I met Lucas’s eye. “You remember me.”
“Of course I remember.” He frowned. “I’m not as old as you think I am.”
“I’m forty-six,” I blurted, though he did not ask. “You can’t be older than that.”
“Can’t I?” He clasped his hands and grinned. “Back for more crepes?”
My cheeks heated for reasons I couldn’t imagine. “No, but thank you,” I said. “For lunch that day, and the take-home crepes. They were perfection.”
He tipped his head, interest brewing in his warm brown eyes. “What can I do for you today?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m here about the sign in the window.”
His brows rose. “You know a French pastry chef?”
“I know an excellent baker,” I said. “She’s really good, a quick study, and probably wouldn’t break your bank.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, bumping into the welcome desk between us. “Is she looking for work? How can I get in touch?”
I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, again.”
“No.” He dragged the word out for several amused syllables. “You?”
I nodded.
“You said you don’t cook,” he accused. He certainly had a good memory.
“I don’t, at least, not well.” I lifted one shoulder toward my ear. “I bake.”
Lucas dropped forward, pressing both palms to the stand. “Tell me more.”
I searched my brain for things I wanted him to know, and those I didn’t. Then I told my overexcitable tongue not to say more than absolutely necessary. This job might be mine to lose.
“My mom was a novice baker. I grew up watching her. When I became a mother, I found joy in baking too.”
He straightened and crossed his arms. “What do you know about French pastries?”
I smiled. “A little.”
“Do you think you can manage the dessert list on our menu?”
“I’d love to try,” I said, having no recollection of the desserts offered here.
Still, there were never more than four or five desserts on a menu. If I wasn’t familiar with the processes, I could practice at home until I mastered them.
Lucas narrowed his eyes, considering me. “We talked about so many things. Your passion for baking never came up. Why?”
“It’s not something I think about,” I said. “It’s become such a part of me it never occurs to mention it. It would be like telling someone my hair is brown.”
He nodded. “All right. If you have a little time, why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
“What about the interview?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we set a time for me to come back and answer questions?”
“This is the interview,” he said. “I’m in a hurry to find a good pastry chef. I just hung the sign this morning, and here you are. I think that’s fate. Don’t you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Great. Come.” He waved his big hands, urging me to follow him.
We rounded the desk and crossed into the busy kitchen where everything was stainless steel and white, save the cement floor with its rough gray texture.
“This is where the magic happens,” he said, hooking an apron over his head and passing another into my hands.
I chastised myself for the inappropriate thoughts his wording conjured, though Alicia would wholly approve.
Around us, men and women in matching aprons glanced curiously in our direction.
Chefs turned strips of meat on a grill and checked the contents of their ovens.
Others tossed salads and ladled soup into bowls.
Waitstaff hurried through a swinging door to collect plated meals or place new orders with the kitchen.
“What do you know about soufflés?” Lucas asked, pulling my attention back to him.
“They’re a staple on every French restaurant’s menu in this country.
I try to switch up the options seasonally, but soufflés are always popular, as are sweet crepes, and crème br?lée.
Paris-Brest, tarte tatin, and mille-feuille are regularly on rotation. ”
I focused on his words, pushing thoughts of his watching staff from my mind. I had only made soufflés in classes at the country club. My crème br?lée was decent, but I hadn’t tried making either of the other desserts he mentioned.
“Ah, and chouquette,” Lucas added. He looked heavenward and performed a chef’s kiss. “Mémé made the best chouquette I’ve ever tasted. If you can touch her talents on that one, I’ll be on your doorstep for dessert every night.”
I laughed, and he clutched his heart, clearly still thinking fondly of his grandma’s baking.
Lucas returned to business by pointing to a workstation with something already in progress.
“The oven is preheated. The chocolate is melted and cooled. Now, I’ll add the yolks here.
You handle the egg whites there.” He lifted a bowl into his arms and nodded toward a grand mixer.
“Stiff peaks, then add the sugar and beat.” He began his portion of the work.
When I didn’t move, he said, “Accélère!”
I didn’t speak French, but the meaning was loud and clear. I turned to the mixer and got busy.
When I finished, he upturned a palm in the direction of the chocolate. “You know what comes next.”
“I fold in the egg whites.”
Lucas passed me a spatula, then stepped away, allowing me room to work.