Chapter Twelve

 

My cottage's kitchen space was tight for Dinah to work in, as proven in the past, but Cliffs House's kitchen was one of those old-fashioned kind built for the days of formal dinners and full staff. Since Michael's prep for the fete had concluded with bakes in the freezer, Dinah had plenty of room to mix as many sponges as she pleased ... now that Mrs. Norris had taken the hint and did not descend to suggest that more tidiness was required with kitchen privileges.

Dinah dished three different sponges from the plates which contained finished bakes, and lined them before me and Kitty at the kitchen table, sticking a spoon in each portion. "Coconut with cherry almond cream, chocolate with spiced hazelnut fig toffee, and lemon with lime vanilla bean custard," she announced.

"Bit exotic," said Kitty, raising one eyebrow.

"Exotic's expected at this point," said Dinah, stoutly. "We're moving into deeper waters." She nudged the cherry almond forward. "This one seems like a good wedding sponge — light, not too sweet in itself, the sweetness of the cherry is the main flavor." She gestured for us to dig in. "Go on now, you two are my laboratory mice. Dig a fork in, please."

I dug mine into the cherry sponge and tasted it. "It's good," I said. "Very summery."

"It's not too heavy on the almond flavoring in the cream, is it?" she asked. She had a pencil at the ready to take notes on three messy recipes that looked more like physics equations at this point in time.

"No, I taste cherry and a hint of something like toasted nuts," I said.

"Hmm." Dinah slipped into thought momentarily.

"This chocolate one's different," said Kitty, who took a second forkful. "A bit more like dark chocolate, Belgian maybe. The filling's decent, too." A third forkful followed.

"It's the dates giving that one extra moisture, that's why it's so rich," explained Dinah. "It's a bit heavy, though, so I hesitate to put it on the short list. I can almost imagine Pierre's face for the cinnamon-spice toffee."

"I think he'd like it," I said, tasting it before Kitty could finish, since it was disappearing at an alarmingly fast rate. "He's not a complete stickler for tradition, he just has to be surprised in the right way."

"Do you want some of this?" Kitty asked me, now that it was down to three bites at most.

"Don't eat simply one," said Dinah, taking it away from her. "Try the others. I don't want your husband finding out I asked you to a taste test and fed you six slices of sponge instead."

"Nathan actually wouldn't mind at this point," I said. "He's just glad to get her to stop moving long enough to eat." Most of his healthful meals grew cold while Kitty focused on a project for the upcoming wedding.

"That's because he doesn't know about the late-night munchies," muttered Kitty. "I'll have a baby with Saul's appetite, probably, the way this one wants crisps with pickle at one in the morning."

I made a slight face. "I thought you were craving shortbread and hazelnut spread."

"That's what I tell Nathan. Seeing someone eat pickled eggs with mustard nauseates him," she said. "Only room for one of us to feel that way right now, unless nobody wants to wash dishes or sort laundry until after the baby's born."

Her fork reached for the remaining chocolate cake, which Dinah held out of reach. With a shrug, Kitty tried the lemon instead.

"The lemon filling in this is really good — really tart," I said. "I think this one is my favorite."

"A bit of white chocolate would be nice with it," commented Kitty. "Maybe white chocolate and lime truffles."

"That sounds delicious," I said.

Dinah was scribbling on the recipe. "Hmmm," she said.

"What's the rumored theme for number three?" I asked, as I tasted the last of the chocolate, Kitty looking irked — I grinned and swallowed.

"Celebration days were suggested, but the seasons would make it seem rather pointless," said Dinah, pulling another cake from the oven and cooling it on the rack. "Flowers, someone else suggested. But the judges are mum, and the bakes are open to last-minute switches, per the producers' feelings on things being spoiled."

She measured cream into a saucepan and added a vanilla bean, scraping the knife against the pot's rim. "I'm of a mind that it will be something a bit more regal, due to the ballroom setting, so I'm looking for richer, luxurious flavors. Posh in a cake." She checked the flavor as she stirred.

"Will you require anything before I leave, Ma'am?" The sound of Mrs. Norris's voice sent startled waves through all of us, as she appeared in our midst, wearing a sensible boiled wool coat over her black uniform, and a cranberry-colored tam that was a rare nod to color by the housekeeper.

Dinah laid a hand over her heart. "Goodness, you scared the life from me," she answered. "You needn't bother asking if you do."

"I intended the gesture to be one of politeness," answered the housekeeper, stiffly.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"The maid Clemmie is late and, therefore, characteristically unreliable," answered Mrs. Norris. "Therefore, I am taking little Charles for the air while her Lady is at the fete's grounds."

She had the old-fashion pram with her, with the baby tucked underneath some quilted blankets, his dinosaur mobile hanging from its visor cover. Baby Charles made burbling noises and played with the yarn ties on his knit sock monkey cap. Mrs. Norris must have muscles of steel to carry down the baby carriage in total silence — but propriety wouldn't allow her to leave him in the hall.

"I have everything I need except peace and quiet, so feel free to come and go as you please," answered Dinah. "Give my regards to the village folk. Nigel is probably beside himself, finding enough biscuits to pass inspection with the French judge Pierre." She began shaving chocolate into a bowl.

Mrs. Norris turned to us now. "We're fine, thanks," said Kitty, dryly.

"Very well. I will return in an hour." She pushed the pram towards the kitchen's outside door, the baby gurgling happily. I was beginning to think his best mood was reserved for the dour housekeeper, making him a total exception to the rest of humanity.

Outside, she lifted the pram effortlessly to the garden's ground level, as if she was carrying a tray upstairs to William's office, then rolled it away through the garden, past the cheery sight of property manager Geoff assembling a cute little windmill birdhouse without stopping to notice. It wasn't quite Mary Poppins, I reflected.

"Now, this latest one is a bit daring," said Dinah, giving her pot another whisk before she paused to release her cake from its pan. "Chocolate, blueberry, and honey. Tell me if it's too daring. But the ballroom's challenge will be my make or break moment. It takes one win to have a chance at second place alone and Pr — some of the contestants obviously have the advantage at present."

Kitty and I weren't here to simply taste cakes, but to measure and brainstorm for any final ideas for the ballroom's decor for the big event. Even Dinah's version of lemon drizzle cake as a layered wedding sponge couldn't keep us from our purpose, which was finalizing the measurements for the centerpiece.

Kitty had been the first to suggest the ballroom was the best site for more of a 'tea and Victoria' style decoration job, so we steered away from the usual party pennant flags in chintz and chose the costlier show-stopping option of roses. Pink and white, two-toned rosy rose, burgundy English blosoms, and other bi-colored beauties mixed with small pink star lilies, white and pink glads, and baby pink delphiniums. Stalks of white lily-of-the-valley, like chains of tiny ceramic wedding bells, brought a subtle contrast to the showier varieties.

This large floral arrangement would decorate the 'pride of place' table for the winner, and garlands of matching blossoms would adorn the windows. Kitty had come up with the idea of using dried roses to decorate the contestants' tables, which I incorporated into glass candy jars with miniature faux crystal globes and light green succulents. Two of these in staggered sizes, with one tall, narrow vase behind them, containing a select number of roses and lilies, and a gladiola stalk with its bladed leaves still attached.

The room was elegant — marble floors, authentic wood paneling, period paint colors and damask drapes, making it the sort of space that event planners love. A few antique busts, the Victorian kind of gothic beauty, and furniture fit for Louis the Sixteenth, some of which needed to be removed to make room for the kitchenettes being set up, and for the film crew to maneuver.

"Did we order enough, do you think?" I asked Kitty — the question of the day during this event, it seemed. I sighed and tucked my hands in my back pockets.

"I'm more worried about the dried roses than I am the green ones," said Kitty, taking in the space around us, as if estimating the individual table spaces. "Marian's all right for bicolors and English blossoms, but she says she might run short of white glads — there's a big wedding at a hotel up the coast. She wants to swap some light green ones if the order is short."

"Those would look fine," I said. "Pink hearts?"

"I'm not a gardener. I couldn't say," said Kitty. "Ask Matthew." She measured the span of the fireplace. "The garland for this one needs to be shorter than I reckoned," she remarked, making a note on her pad. "The bouquet for the mantel had better be the size of the one on the table. Or bigger."

"I have another big crystal vase reserved for that," I said. "No worries." I noticed some tape already marking the outlets, courtesy of the program's set designers. "Good thing the wiring had a thorough check during the Wendy Alistair concert's preparations." I looked at Kitty. "Hard to believe that was our first event together, isn't it?" The days of younger, perkier Julianne's adventures, when Kitty was just north of her reputation as a village juvenile delinquent.

"It was your event only," Kitty snorted. "Me, I was grunt labor. I only contributed anything worthwhile to Pippa's wedding in those days."

"You worked the entire concert's evening as my assistant," I reminded her. "And I know you didn't dress up in those clothes and put on a smile back then for Nathan, since you could barely stand him at first."

She smiled. "My tastes changed a bit afterwards," she answered.

Nathan had been many things which the typical 'bad boy' suitor of Kitty's dating past hadn't been — thoughtful, hardworking, persistent, and willing to sacrifice. In his case, it was his return to the U.S. and his own family, traded for a life in Kitty's Cornish village chaos. Her cousins alone were enough to drive anyone crazy with their illegal schemes, but it was Bets who was clearly the biggest thorn in this marriage's bed of roses.

"Is your mum getting excited about the baby?" I asked. Kitty's 'bump' was prominent as she stretched to take one more measurement. "It's her first grandchild." Just last year, Bets had been moaning about Kitty's lack of kids despite four or so years of marriage.

Kitty snorted. "It's mum," she said. "Before I was pregnant, you'd think she was ready to throw a party if I announced I was expecting. Now she thinks we've been reckless, with me working so much and Nathan away more."

"The world does want concerts and festivals again," I said. Nathan's work as an event promoter had picked up as of late, with some of his work requiring travel to far-flung sites — I knew St. Petersburg was on the list for next summer. "Just think of the future geography your kid will know about by proxy."

"Tell that to mum. She thinks Nathan will start living in foreign hotels and probably be seduced by some fresh young thing in a sleazy public house — I'll let the baby be scalded in the kitchen while I'm playing about with my little laces and flowers, as she puts it."

"None of which sounds like an accurate picture of the future," I answered.

"Solved all the decorating problems, my lovelies?" Lady Amanda breezed in, clearly on her way out, purse slung across her shoulder and an embroidered cashmere scarf disguising shoulders she claimed were too 'fleshy' as a result of her last pregnancy.

"Almost," I said. "Is today the final meeting?" If so I was going to miss it. I hoped that no last-minute woes for the fete would plague Nigel and company in the final stages of setup.

"Practically. All the food is set, as far as we're aware, once Michael assembles all the sandwiches, and the tables are all in place. Ray is going to test the sound mic in the morning before the speeches — the children are tuning their instruments to make us all regret classical training," she joked. "I'm meeting Cherish and Elena to confirm the order of events one last time."

"Who's the speaker?" I asked. "Pierre or Harriet?"

"Harriet, of course," said Amanda. "Although one of the producers will have a word, the one who met us at the Dumnonian." She checked her appearance in one of the ballroom's mirrors — which the show would have hidden with folding screens to keep from reflecting the crew or unsightly lights and sound equipment.

"Then there's the security check," said Kitty.

"That's Charlie's department, of course," said Amanda, spritzing on a quick dash of perfume. "I'm meeting with him also. He's keen on seeing to it that the pranksters aren't setting up some planned-for disaster on the set while we're all at the party. I expect the program will be bringing along a few personal security agents for the sake of the judges. I heard Charlie almost nabbed someone the other day," she added, looking at us.

"Some journalist. They ran like a rabbit," said Kitty. "At least that's the rumor I've been told."

"I saw it happen, so that's pretty much true," I answered. "But not for lack of Charlie trying."

"He is persistent, isn't he?" Amanda said. "I wish him joy. A plucky young sergeant like that deserves a promotion." She tucked the perfume back in her bag. "See you both tomorrow. Kitty, you're bringing the mandarin cake — Juli, biscuits, isn't it?"

"Yup." I hoped that when I applied the icing tonight they didn't look too shabby. So long as I disguised those crumbled chimneys, I thought they would be passable — so long as Pierre didn't try one, that is. If only Michael had offered his lessons in petit fours three weeks ago, maybe it would be a different story from me and my typically-flawed bake.

 

___________________

 

"I know what petit fours are. Little cakes in edible covers, right?" Kimmie located a picture on her phone, of a typical little petit four covered in a marzipan glaze with a candied cherry flower on top. "They look simple enough. Iced squares with a bit of candy, anything could be underneath. But I'm rubbish at icing things, so maybe we should start with the hard part?"

I laughed, knowing that the decoration was sometimes the easiest part — Michael shot me a glance that killed my humor. "Let's start with the sponge and worry about the decoration later," he said.

"Now we're getting to the part where I have no skills," I remarked, as he opened a cookbook to a page featuring traditional little tea cakes for the fairies — it was a children's cookbook, I noticed.

"We start with the flour," he said. "Always read the ingredients a few times before you begin. Walk through the steps in your head a few times. It helps you feel more comfortable with what you are doing."

Kimmie and I nodded, as if we understood what he was talking about, as we sifted and measured the ingredients listed on the page. Michael walked us through the process in between mixing his own. He corrected Kimmie's slapdash method of measuring vanilla into her sponge, and stopped me from dumping all of mine together at once.

"Do it like this," he said, pouring my flour in installments. "No flour clouds in the air, just a steady motion to incorporate it with the other ingredients."

"What about my wet ones?" I asked, holding the bottle of vanilla.

"Gently but briskly," said Michael, handing me back my spoon. "Sponge batter should be smooth, and all of its elements should be mixed together evenly, so you have to be gentle as well as strong. Don't overwork the sponge by stirring too much, because you'll deflate it." This was to Kimmie, who had all of her ingredients enfolded now and was vigorously stirring the mixture.

"Like a balloon?" Kimmie asked, eyebrows lifting in perplexed surprise.

"Here." Michael moved, his hand on her elbow now. "Do it lightly for a batter like this one. Evenly. No, you don't need to beat it like eggs for scrambling, just — relax your arm and let me show you —"

He stepped in closer, and used his arm as hers, joined at the hand holding the plastic spatula, showing her the right way to do it. Kimmie glanced up at him with a quirky smile, which Michael's lips reflected with a brief twitch.

"Okay." He released his hold and let her finish stirring a few strokes, to prove she could do it correctly on her own. "Now we grease the pans — Julianne, don't pour it yet. Do you not grease the baking sheets at home?"

"Um, I thought they were nonstick?" I answered.

"What are they made out of?" he asked. "Are they coated with anti-stick substances?"

"I think they're stainless steel. Matt bought them."

Michael's head slumped down, dangling in a way that conveyed disappointment. I tried apologizing for my ignorance with a smile. "I guess that might be why the bottom peels off my cakes sometimes."

"Okay," he sighed. "Don't assume this time. And don't use the spray sort for this recipe. We butter and grease, like in the old cookbooks."

He showed us how to grease the inside of a pan, and to sprinkle a spoonful of flour to cover it next, to keep the cake from sticking in the manner of some of my ruined bakes.

"Pat the side," he said to Kimmie. She pretended she was playing a tambourine, picking up a rhythm with her feet to go with it. Since it didn't earn a smirk from Michael, she stopped.

"Always on," she reminded him. "Sorry." She tapped it more seriously, turning it until the flour coated the adhesive, while I did the same — sans dance steps, that is.

"You said you didn't want comedy in your bakes," said Michael, in what came close to being a joke.

"True. But I'm still the comedian behind the bakes," said Kimmie. "It's not like I can turn pro with this, is it? Or am I that good?"

Michael laughed this time. "See what comes out of the oven, first."

He set the temperature and we slid our cakes into the oven, watching them slowly turn golden via the oven light. Kimmie crouched there like a focused stare would cook hers faster.

"How long?" she asked Michael as he set the timer.

"Longer than last time, not as long as a sponge on the bakeoff," he answered.

"How long is that?" she asked. "I'm the presenter for fan's laughs, not Harriet Hardy."

I settled down on the kitchen barstool near the oven. "Just be patient," I said. "Besides, the timer isn't the indicator, remember?"

"I know, I know, test it in the middle with a skewer —" said Kimmie.

"— and look at the texture of the crumb," said Michael. "It's a process. You want the middle just done and the edges lightly brown, but not dark."

Kimmie sighed, and propped her face between both hands. "Do you think simple vanilla is good enough to win?" she asked. "Maybe I should have put something posh in it."

"You need the basics right now and that's all, trust me," said Michael. "Come on. While we're waiting, we'll have a lesson in the next step."

"Marzipan glaze?" I asked. I had made it once with Dinah — the decorating step is always my better skill — but I was fairly certain she didn't make hers this early in the process.

"We're pouring that liquid stuff over the cakes?" Kimmie turned the book to a page where the soft candy liquid was poured over the cakes, as illustrated by tiny child hands holding a rose saucepan.

"No." Michael's laugh barked short in reply. "We're using fondant sheets. Less messy and more reliable. But we're making marzipan decorations for the top, so let's start." He pulled back the cling film around a lump of soft, light brown almond candy.

"What's marzipan?" Kimmie asked, taking a seat at the table.

"It's a soft candy," I said. "A thick paste made from sugar and almonds. I know this because I've actually made it before." I accepted a piece of the lump from Michael's hand.

"And burnt it to the bottom of the pan?" he asked, omitting the mean grin as he asked.

"No, I'm much better at this part than the baking part," I said. "One of the first things I ever decorated at Cliffs House was petit fours — fairy tea cakes for a wedding, basically." Those lovely little cakes of Dinah's had been destined for a party for my first-ever wedding client in Cornwall — the gorgeous semi-celebrity model who, unbeknownst to me at the time, had once broken the heart of the man I was destined to marry.

"Wow, it's like play dough, only as food," said Kimmie, as she molded her ball back and forth between her hands — which Michael stopped her from doing.

"Don't overwork it," he said.

"It gets hard?"

"It gets grubby," he answered, in a short tone.

"Oh." Kimmie looked contrite.

I gave her a reassuring glance. "It is a lot like modeling clay," I answered. "We make shapes that will be dried, painted, glazed — basically they look like gorgeous little cake ornaments."

"Cool," said Kimmie. She looked from me to Michael. "So ... what do I make? Does it have to be roses, like in the book, or can I make anything?"

"Like something comic?" Michael lifted one eyebrow, barely.

"No," said Kimmie, defensively. "I just mean, can I get creative? Comic people are extremely creative. We think of things all the time, all kinds of characters and ideas, and notice tons of detail — not all of it is funny, even if that's what people think we're thinking." She gave him a knowing look, and I thought Michael actually looked a little contrite.

"You're right," he said. "Show me. What do you want to make?"

"Okay. I have this idea — the fondant can be colored, right? So what if I make it pink, and I make these to go on top?"

She broke off a piece of it and molded it a little bit — after checking with Michael to see if it was okay — and made a tiny little shape that looked like a multi-pleated gift bow. "See?" she said. "Tiny gift boxes."

Michael's expression had softened as he watched. "Good," he said, nodding.

"You think so?" she asked, sounding surprised.

"I said so," he answered. "Just don't get too ambitious the first time. And I don't have any colored fondant, but you can buy some."

"Can I make some?" she asked, making another little pointy gift bow.

"Not if you want to win," answered Michael, pointedly.

Marzipan was easy to shape, and I had even made tiny little cars and a semi-recognizable fire truck once for Heath's birthday cake. Today I made tiny little sunflowers like the ones Matthew had grown in our kitchen garden last autumn to impress the kids, and painted them with the edible color kit Michael provided. Kimmie painted her bows an audacious pink that matched the apron she was wearing, which had frills and embroidered daisies.

When the timer beeped, she sprang up. "Is it ready?" she popped the oven door open.

"Remember —" began Michael.

"I remember. Poke it in the middle and see if it has crumbs. Does it matter how many holes are in the middle?" she asked over her shoulder as she checked the skewer.

"Don't poke too many," said Michael. "In this case, it doesn't matter, but it would for some bakes," he said. "At some point, you might actually be good enough you can tell just by the look of the sponge — then you won't have to do damage to your cakes."

"When will that be?" Kimmie asked.

"That depends. In my case, never," I responded, instead of Michael. Kimmie's face fell, but perked again when she examined the skewer.

"Crumbs," she said. "Those are crumbs, aren't they?" She showed it to Michael. "And the edges are golden, so —?"

"It's ready, yes. Take it out, it has to cool before we can cut it," he said. He glanced at his pan and mine, then pulled them out as well, putting them on racks beside Kimmie's.

"I'm so excited," she said. "Pet won't believe it. The only thing she can actually bake is sponge, and she ate one of mine once, but it was sort of soupy in the middle so I pretended it was a souffle gone horribly wrong."

Michael's face filled with disgust, as if he could picture — and taste — this mangled bake. Kimmie rolled her eyes. "Unless you try and make mistakes, you never live," she said. "At least I'm living — do you ever try new things? Walk on the wild side? Play with something besides fondant and frosting? I'm going to guess ... bagpipes," she said, after squinting off in the distance, thinking. "No, wait, you're French, it'll be oil paints."

"Michael drives a motorcycle," I remarked, offering him a defense. "He's a guy with diverse tastes and interests."

"Are you?" Kimmie challenged, as Michael tossed aside the oven mitts.

With the faint twitch of a smile, he hiked up the sleeve of his chef's coat, enough that part of the tattoo on his arm became visible. "Sometimes," he said, being cryptic.

"What is that?" Kimmie seized his arm and pushed up his sleeve. "Do you have tattoos under there? How could I not notice that?" she asked. She exposed the partial sleeve on Michael's arm, which was a work of art with an Asian motif. "You are a serious bad boy," she said to him, looking impressed.

He blushed for the second time in Kimmie's presence. "It's ink by an artist in Paris, not a prison scar," he said, pulling his sleeve back down. "Most of the time it's covered up at work. You never see me without this on," he said, referring to his chef's coat. "It's what I'm wearing most of the hours of the day."

"How could you not tell me you had a wild side?" she demanded. "It would have made me feel more comfortable becoming the weird hybrid of Rebel Wilson and Julia Child."

"You know now. So?" he said. "Feel better?"

"Maybe." She was being coy now. "Never mind. I'm being silly again. Show me the full tattoo sometime though, okay?" Another hint of a smile appeared on Michael's lips in reply.

"So what do we do next?" Kimmie asked.

"After this cools, we cut it." He produced a long bread knife. "Perfect squares. But because this sponge is thin, we're building a square of two halves, putting them together with filling, which we'll make now."

"Is it something decadent or posh?" asked Kimmie.

"It's buttercream," he answered. "Basic, but good." He scraped softened butter into a mixing bowl. "See the recipe in the open book? Read the ingredients, because that's what you're going to add to this."

Kimmie dutifully read them and carefully measured out the right ingredients to make a fluffy, creamy frosting which Michael then flavored with strawberry extract. He added a drop or two of red food coloring, too. He caught my eye, and I saw a little gleam that proved this selection was just for Kimmie.

We cut the sponge the way Michael dictated, and put together our tiny little cakes. I had made petit fours using Dinah's more complex recipes — that is, I had helped decorate said elaborate mini cakes — so I knew how much he had adapted to make things easier. The result for Kimmie was a plate of tiny cakes somewhat messy around their seams, but mostly square and mostly the same height.

"Now we wrap them," he said.

"Like little gifts?" said Kimmie.

"You can try. But generally, this is the part where we cover the cakes smoothly on the top and sides, then trim away the excess at the bottom. No lumps and no wrinkles," he warned.

"I want to try just one wrapping-style," said Kimmie. "Please?"

"Fine. Suit yourself," he said. "Nice, Julianne," he said to me, as I smoothed the sides down on my first tiny cake, to be sure its edges were squared. I might not bake a terrific sponge — and this one was still a little dry — but I could make the decoration something to be proud of.

"Now, we make a little sugar adhesive and add the decoration," he said.

"The bows?" asked Kimmie.

"No, the roses." He uncovered a tray with a row of little rose blossoms on it, already painted pink and red and covered with an edible gloss.

"Why no bows?" asked Kimmie, confused.

"Because they're not finished," he said. "No paint, no drying time. Besides, you need those for the contest. These are just some extra ones I had made already — they're fine for the demonstration."

Kimmie looked mollified. "Oh. Right," she said. "I didn't realize."

"I didn't tell you," he answered, without seeming offended. "So, grab some of the roses and we'll do the last step."

His little roses were so perfect — I marveled that those strong, thick fingers could actually mold something that delicate and tiny.

"This is just a little sugar syrup, but you can use a little icing to do the same thing. Just don't be sloppy and let any of it show — like that." Michael was looking at Kimmie, whose brush had accidentally drooled a little syrup down the side of her first cake.

"Sorry," she said, meekly. For the next one, she was careful to use only a daub to secure her little rose to its top. "The folds came out a bit crooked, didn't they?" she said with chagrin, looking at the gift wrap design she had created.

"Use a paper folder to help," he said. "I learned the hard way in patisserie training — sometimes the dough is temperamental in hands like mine," he answered, holding them up to display the same contrast I had noticed a moment before.

"Really?" Kimmie arched her eyebrows.

"A chef's secret. Now you know that we're not as perfect as the ones on telly seem," he answered, with a grin — an actual one, unlike before.

Kimmie looked impressed again.