Chapter Five

 

"Tell me about what you're doing for the first challenge," I coaxed Dinah, as I curled up in one of my dining chairs with a cup of coffee. "Winter's a beautiful season. It should be an easy one." I tried to sound as encouraging as possible.

She sighed. "Possibilities abound. Almost too many — I have a few sketches, including one I like best, but I'm afraid that white will feel too cliche."

"Why? Winter's all about white," I said. "And ice blue. Unless it's Christmas." Although, come to think of it, trendy Christmas colors were now silver, white, and ice blue, probably thanks to a Disney movie.

"But are they expecting it? That's my trouble," said Dinah, pushing away her cup of tea to spread out her sketches. "Straying too far from traditional, on the other hand, brings its own troubles."

"Such as?"

"Oh, you know the sort of thing I mean. Cozy fire flames and logs that are far too cocoa-and-baked apples by the fire instead of bonfire in the snow — or the woodland bit that can be mistaken for early spring, with frost and pinecones and so on."

"But you're more afraid of cliche," I clarified, taking a sip of coffee and squinting out my kitchen window, thinking. What was the worst cliche? Snowflakes and snowmen? Anything from Frozen?

"I've made dozens of white cakes. The last one I made bespoke for a wedding was all white," said Dinah. "But the judges always expect something out of the ordinary, even if they don't want you to stray too far from the customary."

She laid out the sketches. "That first one is nice," I said, sitting forward to study them with full attention. "Pinecones and fir branches — are those chocolate twigs?"

"Exactly. Forest floor sort of thing," said Dinah. "You reminding me of that forest log cake inspired me. Those are rosemary sprigs of fir, cream-filled pinecone sponges with chocolate-covered almond slivers. Sort of a wreath around each layer, with chocolate mushrooms and winter Christmas roses made of marzipan at the top under the dusting of edible glitter."

She moved the second one to the top, showing me the alternative design. "This one is a bit different," she admitted. "I thought perhaps a sort of winter alternative. White driftwood chocolate work, bit of sugar white sand like the beaches in the States where people go for winter —"

"I've been there," I said. "It does remind me of snow." Spring break one year in college, me and my friend Aimee had driven the exhausting distance from Washington to Florida and back, giving us exactly two and a half days and three hundred dollars with which to have a good time at a beachfront resort.

"The mother of pearl candies decorate the sides instead of beads, and there's a bit of white chocolate work here with the shells at the top in a sort of spiky design ... it's a bold move, admittedly, because how many winter beach weddings does one see in the U.K.? I can answer with a zero, of course," said Dinah.

"And the third one?"

"Traditional. White with a touch of frost and ice, and some snowflakes here and there," she said. "I thought of a spiral effect around the layers, ending with something dramatic at the top, possibly a little castle." She paused. "And here's where inspiration left me."

"It's pretty," I said. "It just needs an extra touch or two to make it special."

"It needs reworked," she said, shoving it to the bottom of the stack. "I wish now I had drawn autumn. I had some lovely ideas for multicolored leaves made from chocolate, in all those Vermont colors that people love in films."

"Those are pretty, but so are these," I said. "Look, I understand why you're hesitating," I said, leaning in closer. "I know this competition feels different from the others. They changed the show, which can't make it easy for anybody involved in the actual baking or judging." Not for Pierre, if I gathered anything from his remarks to Harriet Hardy, at any rate. "It's thrown everyone's game a bit off." I stumbled here, since sports terminology wasn't my strong point.

Dinah uttered a short laugh. "It's completely different, isn't it?" she answered. "All the 'pop-up surprises' and gimmicks — not to mention the cutthroat lineup. I suppose it's their way of challenging past winners instead of the old conventional reunion of champions — but I think they don't realize it's quite stressful to begin with, even in contests with a friendlier atmosphere. And the timeline is always tight between bakes — but giving us so little time to design a bespoke cake? It's mad."

"But you can do it, I'm sure," I said. "I remember your nerves the first time, and you were always stronger than those worries. After the first couple of events, it will feel easy. I'll bet Ewan and Lana and all the rest are feeling intimidated, too." After all, the last winner for the Christmas challenge had breezed through off a much less complicated showstopper.

"I've already combed my recipe books for the right flavor combinations, but I need to worry about the aesthetics first," said Dinah. "I'll rework the sketches as soon as I drive to my sister's place — I'll have to start practicing tonight. It'll make a terrific mess. I expect I'll work most of the night."

I didn't envy her. My last all-night adventure had been rocking an unhappy Heath through an ear infection's ache — I hadn't been juggling actual brainwork on top of it. "Will you sleep at any point?" I joked.

"After I've gotten it right," answered Dinah, firmly. That grim line flattened her lips again. "If I can make a good showing in the first round that won't shame my reputation, that's all I'll ask. Not that it wouldn't be nice to win — or at least give as good as some." She didn't have to say the 'some' contestant was the most perfect of the other four bakers. I had my suspicions, however.

She put her sketches back in her folder, which I couldn't help but see was full of lots of other rejected ideas, some of which had been crossed through multiple times. I caught a glimpse of the blackberry petit fours mentioned earlier, which looked delicious even on paper. I was sorry they probably wouldn't find a way into this contest.

"Before it slips my mind, I brought something for your bairns," she said, taking out a bakery box and leaving it on my table. "Just a few experimental blueberry shortbread biscuits I was playing with a bit in case the tea tray becomes an important point. Better to be eaten than be crumbled by accident among other bakes as I'm working."

"Thank you," I said. "They'll be excited. They keep asking me when you're going to make more desserts for us."

"I'll leave a bit of something before I go home at the end of the taping," she promised, yet again.

"A slice of the winning cake?" I teased her. "Your chances are as good as anybody's."

"Never mind about that," said Dinah, brushing off this suggestion. "I'll make a nice chocolate sponge, since both you and your lovely hubby are fond of it. I'll be in your kitchen before this is over, I expect."

I opened the box and sneaked out a biscuit, then two, after Dinah was gone and I was alone with the sampler of shortbread. What my children didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

 

___________________

 

Tonight's council meeting at the village brought up the topic of the village fete as the first item of business, with Lady Amanda explaining the current arrangements for stalls, marquees, and sending out the request for more bakes for the tea tent with her usual enthusiasm.

Slipping out afterwards was tempting, but I stayed for the rest of the meeting the way I usually did whenever I attended one of these, no matter how boring the rest of the subject matter. Right now, the topic at hand was atrocious grammar on local signs, clearly unimportant and clearly a thorn in the side of merely the member of the council holding the floor.

"Slide please." Noreen Prowse waited until the volunteer clicked to the next powerpoint image. "Here is the perfect example of our village's crass descent into modern ignorance. Note this poster on the window of the seafood market — 'Kitchen Katch of the Day, five quid per fish.' Who could possibly believe this is an acceptable form of advertising? Look at this atrocious use of so-called 'playful' language, which is anything but, given the state of modern education ..."

On the platform, Amanda's eyes were glazing over, much like the rest of the council, as I struggled mightily to smother a yawn. Someone was sneaking into the meeting late in the row behind me, a chair squeaking as they sat down. "Have I missed the discussion about the fete?" Cherish asked, leaning over my shoulder.

"Fifteen minutes ago," I whispered back.

I heard her sigh with disappointment. "My meeting with the client ran so late. I wanted to be here in time to hear if the village agreed to ask the judges to speak before the tambala drawing."

"They agreed, but only if Amanda asks," I said. "A couple of village representatives think we should stick to the tradition of asking someone important locally to do the honors of the main address."

"Which ones?" asked Cherish, sarcastically.

"Do you need names?" The two most traditional members, Noreen and Nigel, were the obvious answer. Neither of them were fond of change, and Noreen had opposed the welcome fete on the grounds that the village's only winter fete was traditionally held in December, and we would be breaking the six-month gap between events.

Cherish sighed again. "I thought everyone would be excited by the baking contest," she said. "How could they not be? It's such a perfect opportunity for us all."

"Maybe they felt changing the traditions of the local fete was a little too much," I said, still trying to keep my voice low. "If it was someone from here, even technically, the vote probably would have been unanimous."

"Perhaps if we asked the newest member of village life?" suggested Cherish.

I realized this suggestion was because of Charlie, who was sneaking in now to catch the last half of the meeting — a good civic gesture by our local policemen, I suspected. He had scanned the room for an empty seat, since the back row's chairs were filled with fete supplies tonight.

"What have I missed?" he whispered, as he squeezed into my row.

"We were nominating you to address the crowd before the tambala," said Cherish.

Charlie's face made me think of the surprise in my daughter's face when she found out the tooth fairy was going to sneak into her room and collect her lost tooth at night. "Me?" he echoed — louder than a whisper, so it drew a severe look and throat rumble from Noreen on the platform. "No — I'm not — I don't really —"

"Relax," I said to him. "She's joking. We're nominating the judges from the baking contest."

Relief flooded his gaze. "Good," he said. "Not that I wouldn't be honored," he added, quickly. "Just — I don't do well with public speaking."

"Only with parking tickets," Cherish teased. Charlie flamed red.

"It's part of the job," he said, glancing from her to me and back. "Honestly, if it wasn't for the rise in complaints, they wouldn't have me pushing so hard to find the offenders —"

Cherish caught my eye and smiled, which is when Charlie realized he was being teased again, and stopped explaining. "I should have sat with Old Ned at this meeting," he muttered. Cherish and I tried to smother our laughter, hearing another warning in the form of throat clearage from the current speaker.

"Sorry," I apologized in another whisper. "But we were only suggesting it would be a good way to honor newcomers to the village in the future. You could think of it as a 'get to know your friendly police sergeant' gesture."

"Probably I would be booed and hissed at by the litterers and the lot who park their trucks in two spaces in the harbor car park," he whispered back, with a short grin. "They'd like to tromp on my cap and give me a kick to the backside for bringing law and order to local traffic."

"That's, like, twelve people locally," I whispered. "Most people love having you around. Right, Cherish?"

"Absolutely," she answered. Her lips twitched into a smile. "Especially —"

"— the female ones," I concluded, with a wicked smile of my own. This triggered us laughing again as Charlie slumped back in his chair, caught in a second joke tonight at his expense. I choked mine back, the sound covered by a particularly loud statement from the podium on brands in the local shops with misspelled names.

"That's it. I'm getting away from you two and sitting with Ned," said Charlie.

"No, I apologize, truly," I said to him. "No more twitting you because the local ladies have noticed you're a very handsome man in uniform — scout's honor." I held up my fingers in salute. "Cherish promises, too."

"I didn't say it," said Cherish, holding up both hands. "All I'm guilty of is suggesting Charlie would have made a very appealing speaker — but from the perspective of a local businesswoman, I would prefer to see Pierre at the microphone. No offense." She smiled at Charlie.

"None taken. I'd rather hear the French chef than me any day," said Charlie, reassuringly.

"So why did you want to hear the fete's announcement?" I asked him, now that our whispers were quiet enough for meeting standards.

"I'm the security task force," he answered.

"What? You alone?" I said.

"It's not exactly a world trade initiative," he said. "They just need someone to chase off the local pranksters and trespassers on set, so division assigned me."

"There's been a bit of trouble lately with that," said Cherish, confidentially, her voice still lowered. "The usual local troublemakers — bored kids who like the idea of sneaking onto a telly program's set, maybe ruining a shot or two. They covered the keyholes to the trailer locks in silly string while the nighttime security guard was taking a leak."

"I hadn't heard about that," I whispered back.

"Well, they won't get away with it a second time," said Charlie, firmly. "I intend to catch whoever's behind it if they try it again." He crossed his arms, assuming the most imposing posture he was capable of while sitting down.

"See? We're in good hands," said Cherish.

Another person was squeezing into the row with Charlie, whispering loudly to me as they reached their chair. "I can't believe I'm late. It's the fault of your lovely husband, Juli, and the demonstration garden program, which is going swimmingly. I talked to him and the other trustees about its future for an hour." Lorrie dropped down in one of the squeaky wooden seats. "What did I miss?"

The shush from Noreen Prowse felt like a shout from the platform. She was glaring at us, and we shrank in our chairs, guiltily.

"Sorry," Lorrie whispered, loudly.

After a second or two of us squirming below, the chairwoman resumed her talk. "Next on our list of offenders, the 'Slo for a Mo' sign by the harbor ...." The slide clicked to the next photograph.