Page 62 of Off the Grid
“Some sort of cake. I’m not entirely sure yet. Maybe some éclairs or macarons too.”
“Wow. I made macarons once. They were awesome. All my sorority sisters loved them.”I’m sure they did, and I’m sure you now consider yourself a pastry chef.“I’m sure I could make them again.”
“That’s okay—”
“What about cupcakes? Alice loves cupcakes, especially those mini ones from that famous bakery in the city. What’s it called?”
“Baked by Melissa,” McKenzie supplied.And they’re freaking delicious!
“Yes! You could make those. You could call themBaked by McKenzie.”
Except that would be intellectual property theft.She bit back the retort. Really, she should be used to this by now. That was the thing with jobs people idealized—they always had opinions. Strangers and even friends were constantly telling her what she should cook, what she should call her bakery, what would be the next big thing, as if it were oh so easy. But it wasn’t. Her job was hard work. “I’m more of a French-trained chef.”
“Ooh, that sounds fancy. Can you make soufflé?”
Not for a hundred people without notice.“I think I’ll stick with a cake.”
“I can make frosting.”
McKenzie slammed the mixing bowl onto the table and they all jumped. “Really, I’ve got it covered. Thanks for the offer, but I’m sure there’s someone else who needs more help than I do.”
All three girls shared a look, and her hackles rose. She recognized that look. She’d seen it many times before from the girls who’d once pretended to be her best friends then wroteslutacross her locker, from the ladies at the country club who’d kicked her mother out of the gardening league. It was a look that whispered,Outsider. Bitch. You don’t belong here with us.
“Look,” McKenzie snapped.If you want me to be a jerk, I can be.“I’m not trying to be rude”—Except, yes. Yes, I am.—“but I know what I’m doing and I’ve been doing it for a long time. If you want your friend to have any sort of wedding cake by the time the party starts tonight, I need to get moving, and the three of you will only slow me down. I’m sure there’s somewhere else where you can be of better use than in here.”Or, in other words, get the F out.But her mother had taught her to be more of a lady than that, so she finished it with a simple, yet snide, “Okay?”
The three of them shared that look again.
“Okay.”
Their lips wobbled as they quickly snatched their glasses from the counter and took another bottle of champagne. As soon as the door slammed closed behind them, laughter echoed across the sterile hall, obvious and uncontrolled.
“Oh my God.”
“Could you believe that—”
The voices died out before McKenzie caught the rest of that statement, but she could imagine. She’d heard it all before. She’d heard worse, but that didn’t necessarily mean it had stopped hurting. Curling her fingers into fists, McKenzie took a deep breath and forced the familiar ache back down.
What’s the recipe for red velvet cake?
Focus on that. Focus on your food.
How much flour do I need? How much sugar? How much dye?
She ran through the numbers in her head, multiplying them to fit the size of the guest list. The cake would have to be three tiers at least, and no fondant. McKenzie couldn’t stand the stuff—it tasted like crap. She’d have to make enough frosting to cover the entire structure. Her piping was passable at best, but it would have to do, and a little sugar work could provide the ooh-and-ahh a wedding cake needed. She’d need to come up with some sort of unique filling so the whole thing didn’t become a ball of cream-cheese icing in the mouth.
Oh, how I wish Addy were here with me…McKenzie mused, sighing.She could pull a romantic, lovey-dovey, flower-draped cake out of her ass, and keep a smile on her face while she did it!
Even though McKenzie didn’t know what her friend looked like, she could picture her so easily. Addy would be in some frilly pink dress, most likely, with one of those ’50s-style aprons tied around her waist, something with polka dots. She’d flounce around, stirring and chatting, voice as sweet as the sugar she whipped into a frosting. Jo would be there too, though she’d be isolated to the opposite end of the room where she’d be free to make a complete mess. McKenzie pictured her sitting on the counter with dough and flour splotched all over her clothes, a mad scientist at work. They’d speak in shorthand because they all knew what the others were thinking. They wouldn’t have to explain their recipes or what they were doing. They’d just know. She’d offer tips for better technique. Jo would entertain with her crazy antics. Addy would keep the peace. It would be fun.
Fun?
McKenzie paused, blinking the visions away. Nothing had changed in the past few seconds, but the kitchen felt emptier than it had before.
When’s the last time I thought of baking as fun? Not a job or a competition or a race to the top, but fun?
She didn’t remember. Before culinary school? Back in high school? When her dad was still home? When Yolanda taught her recipes over the stove? Looking around the empty room, McKenzie couldn’t help but wonder when her haven had turned into a hideout. The kitchen would always be her safe place—as soon as she stepped inside, everything that was wrong in the world disappeared—but it wasn’t warm and inviting anymore, not in the way it once was. There was no joy here, just focus, just perfection and precision. She used to run to the kitchen when things got tough, but now she was the tough thing people ran away from.
Her gaze slid toward the door as though pulled by invisible string. Catty laughter echoed in her ear, a ghostly noise pulled from any number of instances in her past. She looked away, back toward her ingredients and her mixers and her bowls that had no choice but to stay with her.
