Chapter Eighteen

 

I snuggled underneath a knit blanket, pretending to check my email one last time before bed. In reality, I had searched online again for Kimmie's boyfriend. His bio was sparse on credits, longer on photos of him being spotted at nightclubs with various actresses or singers. The son of a London-born comedy club manager and a former maid, Larry Moring studied acting at an elite theatrical academy. Best known for playing the TV detective, although there were rumors he might have a minor part in the new film adaptation of The Brothers Karamazov.

This was in mild contrast to Kimmie, whose bio didn't have much information except to say she grew up in Colchester with her English and Pakistani parents, and fell in love with acting during her secondary school years. Previous relationship rumored to be with a comedy sketch writer with whom she was good friends during the early days of Pet and Kimmie's primetime series.

That would-be boyfriend didn't seem much like the Larry Moring 'bad boy' type in looks or lifestyle in the one picture from behind the scenes in Pet and Kimmie's writer's room. But maybe Kimmie was the kind whose type was defined inwardly and not outwardly?

"What are you reading?" Matt asked me. He sat down on his side of the bed to set his backup alarm clock. I could smell the mint of his toothpaste, and the gentle spice of his last cup of herbal tea before bed, now dregs in the mug on his bedside table, next to an unfinished garden sketch he had been making.

"Just one of those celebrity bio pages," I answered.

"Does Dinah have one?" he joked, as he did the nice thing and folded his knit pullover instead of leaving it draped over the chair by the closet.

"No," I retorted. "I'm looking up one for an actor. Larry Moring — he plays a detective in some television show."

"He's Gerry from Stone Squad, isn't he?" said Matt.

"You've seen it, I'm guessing."

"A few times," he answered. He folded his trousers. "His band sings the program's theme song."

"He has a band?" It didn't mention that in the internet bio.

"I think so. The sort that only cuts one album, mostly to promote other careers, I suspect," smiled Matt, as he closed the drawer. "Why are you reading about him? You've never watched the show, have you?"

"He's Kimmie's boyfriend," I said. "Pet, the other presenter, mentioned it once in the tea tent, so I was curious."

"About what?" Matt's inquisitiveness had no end tonight, it seemed. I wished he would have this level of personal interest whenever I commented that I still hadn't thought of Christmas presents for my parents or Michelle, or that I simply couldn't think of any quick meals to stock our freezer.

"Who knows? I guess whether their on-again, off-again relationship will last," I answered. The photo scroll on my phone had reached one of Larry with Kimmie at some television awards banquet. I thought he looked a bit smug — but maybe that was just his expression for all his professional photos.

Matt crawled in beside me, pulling the quilt and the blanket around himself. "She seems like a lovely person," he said. "But celebrity breakups and weddings are pretty much the fodder of the press, so I would imagine Kimmie's in store for both in her career."

"Do you think she's a good match with this Larry Moring guy?" I asked.

"I don't know very much about him, other than his part on the television drama." He slipped off his wristwatch and laid it on his bedside table. "You seem very concerned about it, so I am assuming you don't."

"I don't know. I don't know anything about him either." I closed the app on my phone and put it aside. I sighed. "Like I said, I was just curious."

There was no good explanation for that feeling, except for the fact I liked Kimmie personally. Matt probably sensed that much, and thought I was concerned that her heart was going to be broken by the television detective. That was as good an explanation as any.

He switched off the lamp. "Does Kimmie talk about him?" he asked, rolling on his side and tucking his pillow comfortably beneath his head.

"What?" I asked.

"Did she tell you about him? What he's like, what she likes about him," clarified Matt.

"No," I said. "She hasn't mentioned him, actually." Only Pet had brought up the relationship with Larry.

"Hm." Matt's reply was more of a noise than a response, of surprise, vague curiosity, or possible comment on Kimmie's discretion — maybe either or all. He rolled back over briefly to kiss me goodnight, then tugged the blanket around his shoulder as he settled in for sleep.

Hmm indeed. I was thinking of Kimmie's feelings in a different light as I slid beneath the covers, trying to think of less perplexing ideas before tomorrow.

 

___________________

 

"It's cake day for our presenters," announced Harriet Hardy to the camera. "Time for them to test their own sponge skills as our real-life contestants face the same challenge in our final round, using the same theme of romantic love. Can they produce a cake that not only looks the part properly, but also tastes delicious? Let's find out."

Game day for Kimmie, and my nerves were wound a little tighter than I expected, although it hardly mattered at this point. There was almost no chance Kimmie could actually fail — produce an inedible sponge, or one so ugly that Pierre would refuse to come near it on camera — because Michael's lessons were sticking in Kimmie's head with surprising firmness.

Michael had come to watch, and I spotted him early on during the setup, on the other side of the two little baking stalls used for the presenters' mock competition. He was in his chef's togs, so he had slipped away from Cliffs House's kitchen to be here. The smell of cardamom and ginger surrounded his clothes like the scent aura of a Christmas festival stall, which hit my nostrils as I joined him on the sidelines.

"Nervous?" I asked. He scoffed.

"She'll be fine," he said. "The roses were the hard part. She remembers how to mix the sponge, so she'll turn out one that's light enough."

"You have a lot of confidence in her after one lesson," I teased him.

"She's a good learner," he answered, bluntly. He tucked his hands in his pockets as Harriet concluded her little speech, and I wondered if that gesture was to cover for slightly sweaty palms or a little tremor of anxious response.

For the camera, Kimmie had her Clint Eastwood baker's squint, while Pet was doing her 'sweet and smug' routine that reminded me a little of the contestant Prue. As Harriet pushed the digital clock's 'start' button, they both sprang into action, sifting together flour and sugar, and cracking eggs into mixing bowls.

I didn't bite my nails, although I curled my fingers tight against my palms as I watched Kimmie beat her sponge, then pour it into her prepared mini cake tin. She began measuring her confectioner's sugar for frosting, while Pet was opening cans of pre-made chocolate and pink icing. Her ornaments were the pre-packaged kind, fancy chocolate Valentine hearts from the grocery shop in the village. But they were ornate, and I suddenly worried that the edible paper flowers would look plain by comparison. From the synthetic mold Kimmie told us about, Pet popped a half-dozen pink white chocolate roses.

The sponges emerged from the ovens and sat in front of cooling fans while the two presenters readied their decorations. Kimmie stretched a length of dental floss, catching Michael's eye before she used it to cut her sponge into two halves, using an old household trick the chef had taught her. In between, she layered strawberry jam, then shaved chocolate over it before putting the two halves together. She added a pinch of cinnamon to her vanilla buttercream frosting as she gave it one last stir, then began spreading it over the cake.

Pet was icing hers with a complicated pink-and-chocolate stripe pattern, leaving a circle in the middle on top, which she frosted in plain chocolate, so the pink chocolate roses would show up better, presumably. On each pink stripe on the side, she pressed a chocolate heart from the shops.

Kimmie had sprinkled edible pink confetti over her cake's white frosting, now decorating the top center with her edible roses. She had deconstructed one and turned it into petals, sticking it along the sides at random points to create the same effect Lana had used on her cake earlier in the program.

It was looking impressive — I glanced at Michael to see if he approved, but he didn't turn away from the action. The timer had almost reached its end, ticking off five more seconds to emit a loud buzz just as Pet had added her last chocolate.

"Time's up," said Harriet. "Now it will be our job to decide which presenter's cake is the best. Pierre, if you would do the honors?"

Kimmie's cake was first. The judges studied it for a moment — it was the closest thing Kimmie had made to a 'shop quality' bake so far, and it showed just how much Michael's lessons had helped. The sponge was mostly even, and the profesional-style rough frosting traveled in smooth lines over the sides, with a gentle swirling technique on top that Michael had taught her.

"How very old-fashioned," said Harriet. "It looks like a tea cake my grandmother would have made, except for the confetti bits. What kind?" she asked Kimmie.

"Vanilla butter," said Kimmie. "With jam filling."

Pierre studied it in silence. Then: "The decoration is edible?" he said.

"Completely," said Kimmie. "But ... not exactly delicious, unless you like fortune cookies."

The French judge's nose twitched slightly. "Shall we taste?" he asked Harriet, as he cut a slice.

They both dove a fork into it. "Very moist," commented Harriet. "It's been baked to a turn this time, however. And the jam is very nice for shop jam."

Pierre nodded. He tried one of the roses next, breaking off a petal. He chewed it, expressionless the whole time. "It is the flavor of a fortune cookie," he said. "But it is edible, as you say."

Pet's cake was next, and the striped frosting looked pretty and semi-professional, making Kimmie's chances of a win much slimmer than I had hoped. I watched Pierre slice it, laying a petite slab on a plate.

"The crumb is much the same as before," he commented. "But somewhat closer than a mix."

"That's because of the pudding," said Pet. Pierre stared at her. "It's an old trick from the internet," she explained. "Add a package of instant pudding mix to make the sponge richer — a bit more cakey. I thought a chocolate cake for one's love should be extra moist and scrummy, shouldn't it?"

He didn't comment, merely taking a bite. He nodded, saying nothing else as Harriet tried a bite. "It is nice and moist," she said. "A very decent chocolate sponge mix, better than many a shop cake I've eaten. But it's the icing where you've really made a statement."

"The lines are very straight. You are to be commended for the work," said Pierre. "The candy?"

"I made those myself," said Pet. "One of those little molds from the shop."

"I taste almond bark, I think," said Harriet, trying one. "As a whole, it came together very nicely," she commented. "Very festive."

She and Pierre withdrew to confer, as everyone waited. I could feel my legs growing tired of standing in one spot, but the only relief would come with the verdict that would probably name Pet's very impressive icing job as the winner. Beside me, Michael seemed to be concentrating very hard on the marquee for no good reason ... unless he was trying to hide his anxious state.

The judges conferred with the producer and the director, then the new film shot was set up in front of the contestants' booths. Harriet spoke. "It has been an extremely close decision, because both of our presenters tried very hard to meet the competition's standards," she said. "They shared some extremely splendid icing work, and a very unique effort in edible decorations as well."

"But there can be only one winner," said Pierre. "And the baker whose creativity and effort were most impressive receives the honor."

"The winner of best cake — Kimmie," said Harriet. "For a beautifully-flavored sponge and her very unique and lovely roses."

"Yes!" Kimmie punched both fists in the air like a prize fighter. "Finally!" Across from her, Pet pretended momentarily to pout as her comic partner jumped up and down in celebration.

"Let's hope that our real contestants are half as surprising," said Harriet to the camera, with a knowing little smile.

"Aaand cut! Excellent take," said the director. "Let's move the lights and get a few close shots of the finished bakes post-judging for the editor's booth," he said to his assistant, as the crew began the next setup.

Kimmie threw her arms around Michael in a bear hug. "Thank you," she said, beaming up at him. "I'm so excited. I can't believe it."

"You're welcome," he answered, smiling down — but not sarcastically. "But it was your effort. You baked the cake and made the flowers. You don't have to thank me."

"Yeah, but only because you actually helped me," she answered. "I'm so, so excited. Thank you both." Here, she threw her arms around me in a hug, too. "I can't wait until tonight, then we can celebrate. We'll open a bottle of wine if I can find a good one in the inn's creaky old kitchen cupboards, and I'll —"

Kimmie was interrupted by the sound of commotion just outside the marquee. We all turned in its direction at the same time, seeing a youthful figure come crashing through the bushes, trying to cut across the rocks of the sea-facing bluff behind the tent. Crashing out right behind him was Charlie, who lost his checkered-band hat on the low branch of a tree just above the bushes.

The youthful miscreant disappeared behind the supports and drawn fabric between the open panels momentarily, but came into full view as he dodged a couple of members of the program's electrical crew, heading for the field's open ground and the next patch of woodland, where I knew he would probably disappear completely — most local kids knew the wood around the manor's land pretty well, with all sorts of tryst and smoking spots in the wooded glen and marshier spots.

He looked over his shoulder, panicking, because Charlie was gaining ground. Most of the crew members had given up the chase or simply didn't connect it with the pranks and the onset spies, but they weren't the local police sergeant, whose long legs were picking up speed without the uncertain footing of the bluff rocks to slow him.

His quarry's legs pumped furiously as he neared the wood's threshold and escape — but he didn't make it. Charlie's torso hit him like a sack of flour, barreling him to the grass stubble ground. We heard a howl of disappointment — then some muffled oaths as Charlie cuffed his trespasser with the aid of some of the program's security, who were trotting up from the direction of the equipment trucks.

"What's all that about?" asked someone.

"Did they catch the kids silly stringing the locks?" asked another.

"Looks like the sergeant caught them red-handed with something or other in the bushes."

Charlie had temporarily disappeared, along with the handcuffed trespasser, then reappeared a short time later. I spotted him near the equipment tent, chatting with the security team. I could see a smear of dirt across his nose and cheekbone, much like the dirt and grass stains streaking his police uniform knit pullover. He still hadn't retrieved his hat.

"Impressive collar today, sergeant," I said to him, flashing a congratulatory smile. Charlie blushed.

"All in a day's work," he answered. "I knew they'd be getting a bit desperate to make their mark with time drawing to a close — caught them trying to fire a bottle rocket directly into the little cake contest just before the end," he said. "They were so busy worrying about the aim and the timing they never head me sneaking up — good thing, too, because when I stepped on that dry twig by the old fallen log, I expected the jig to be up."

"Do you think any of them will try it again?" I asked. There was only one more try that would be worth having, of course — interrupting the big finale, which we all knew the pranksters had probably been looking forward to doing.

"I'm in this to the bitter end," answered Charlie, shaking his head. "They won't have a chance with me patrolling the wood that night." He rubbed some of the dirt from his face, smudging it across his cheek now. "Good to know there will be one fewer to get into mischief on that night, though."

"Where's your hat?" I asked.

"Oh, blast. Still in the wood," he said, realizing it was gone now. "I'll have to grab it before I go back to the station. Thanks," he said to me, then trotted off towards the wood.

 

___________________

 

For Kimmie's dinner, I came to the Dumnonian's kitchen door, an entrance I had never before used since I was usually here for receptions in the local inn's front rooms, not its back ones. Kimmie let me in when I knocked, into a still slightly-antiquated kitchen that smelled of Dovie's heavy potpourris and spices, mixing with the smell of wild mushrooms in a skillet.

"I brought some cheese and crackers for the first course," I said, as she closed the door behind me. "Just some mozzarella and gorgonzola with some wheat biscuits." I had raided our pantry at home and this was the best I could find, tucked away from a visit to a country dairy and a gift basket of Italian treats that Dinah had sent during one of her holidays, and which I had stashed in our freezer like a Philistine.

"Lovely," said Kimmie. "I'm almost ready to make the sauce. Please make yourself at home in my 'not home'. The woman who runs this place, Dovie, said I could have as many people as I liked and be as messy as I wished in this room and the little parlor, so long as I tidied it all by morning. She even let me have run of her refrigerator — told me to help myself to anything I needed. Wasn't that lovely of her?"

I had a feeling Dovie was still a little starstruck by the two comedians staying under her roof. "Dovie has a knack for hospitality," I answered. I set my shopping bag on the counter.

"By the way, was asking you to dinner too much an imposition?" she asked me. "I didn't even think — your husband and kids might have been expecting you to eat with them tonight. If you can't stay, I understand."

"Don't worry, my tribe can fend for themselves for an evening," I answered. "They're used to me working late nights, so they eat whatever we've thrown in the slow cooker or rustled from the cabinets, although I think an 'all breakfast cereal' dinnertime policy would make my kids perfectly happy."

"As a kid, I could have lived off cocoa puff cereal, if my mum had let me," said Kimmie, stirring some herbs and milk in a saucepan, giving it a tiny taste.

"Can I help?" I asked. "I'd love to, if you'd let me." In my opinion, it always felt awkward at dinner parties to watch another person cook while just sitting there.

"Sure. Umm... there's an apron in the drawer under the bread box, if you want," she answered. "Having someone do the slicing, butter, and arranging of things is always nice."

Another knock at the door came, which must be Michael, who entered with a bottle of wine in hand. "Something extra for the table," he said, setting it on the counter. "And one trifle, as requested."

"Aren't you the perfect party guest?" said Kimmie, as she shut the door.

This was one of those rare occasions with Michael outside his chef's togs and in his casual clothes, shrugging off his leather jacket to reveal a death metal t-shirt to go with his torn jeans and hiking boots. He had put in the earring that he never wore at work, a metal braid loop that was spiky in style, like his haircut which was usually underneath that little checkered cap in the kitchen.

"Look at those tats!" exclaimed Kimmie. "They're fantastic. Hold it up, let me get the full effect," she said, stretching his arm out to see the extended half sleeve of gothic symbols and vines and scrolls that looked straight out of an old Gregorian monk's copy book to me.

"I love it," she said. "Did you get all of these in Paris?"

"No, I added some later. I have a mate with a parlor in London, and there's an artist in Newquay who did the part below the elbow."

"It still surprises me," I said. "I guess because I always think of your interests in pots and pans first."

"Can't go to cookery trade shows every holiday," said Michael, dryly. He stirred Kimmie's sauce, because she was busy trying to pry open the trifle's container. "Can I taste?" he asked.

"Help yourself. Just remember that I'm a home cook and a one-dish wonder," said Kimmie. She gave a little groaning cry as the carrier's lid lifted off. "Oh, Michael ... this is amazing. It looks like an angel's cloud made a baby with a berry jam cupboard."

"Don't say it until you taste it," he said. "It's cloudberries and cranberry compote and the sponge is a variation on a pound cake made with sour cream. The berry part was Norwegian-inspired and the sponge is from an American recipe I picked up along the way." In a glass dish, the buttery-looking sponge layers reminded me a little of the fried sour cream cake doughnuts I used to love back in the States, and the cream did look like fluffy white clouds turning to a soft pink mist wherever it was touching that rich ruby compote.

At the stove, Michael sipped Kimmie's sauce. "Good," he said.

"Flattery?" asked Kimmie, as she covered the trifle again.

"No, sincerely," he said. "It needs salt, though. Do you mind?"

"Pinch away," she answered. "Taste my mushrooms while you're at it. But don't put any pinches of things in them — I have a very special secret ingredient for when they go in the sauce and the risotto."

"All I want to add is a touch of salt," Michael promised, before he sprinkled a little salt over the milk and herbs. "But if you want a hand." He left it hanging there, looking at Kimmie.

"Apron's in drawer, salad's in basket, unwashed and uncut," she answered. Michael rinsed the lettuce and the bundle of winter greens and herbs beside one of Dovie's greenhouse cucumbers, and began chopping on the cutting board next to the one with my cheese slices.

"It smells delicious," I said to Kimmie, as she stirred the risotto in its pot, sending up a light cloud of steam.

"Thanks," she said. "It's an old family recipe of a friend, something her granddad picked up in Italy. I promise that it's as good as I claim. Michael won't have to make an emergency dinner out of Dovie's cupboards."

"You think I would?" Michael laughed. "I'm off duty. I'll fetch takeout from Charlotte's shop if you like."

"Is that the best you can do?" Kimmie answered.

"It's me being a gentleman," he answered, flashing me a smile as the person who could see the joke in this for certain.

"You know, you look so tough outside your chef's clothes, but you act so much tougher in them," remarked Kimmie. "It's like some weird anomaly of nature."

Michael blushed a little. "You like pretending things are complicated," he answered, tossing the greens into a bowl.

Kimmie's risotto looked delicious on the table's platter, trimmed with a little sprig of parsley. I had buttered a loaf of bread and laid out the cheeses and savory biscuits, while Michael had made a little white wine vinaigrette for the salad.

I tasted the risotto first — the savory white sauce reminded me a little of Alfredo, only milkier, with a little bit of herbal freshness that reminded me of a mild pesto. The roasted mushrooms were firm and meaty, and I liked it instantly.

"Kimmie, it's delicious," I said, taking a second bite. "Better than my tomato one that is the only dish my kids actually ask me to cook." That said a lot, if you knew my kids.

"Thank you," said Kimmie, with a modest little bow. "I make this on weekends sometimes, on the rare night I don't have scripts to read or sketches to think about."

Michael tasted it slowly, and I could tell Kimmie was waiting for his verdict. He pretended to look serious like Pierre, and she slapped down her napkin. "Are you going to leave me in suspense forever?" she demanded.

"It's delicious," he said, grinning at her.

Kimmie pretended to be annoyed, then dropped the act. "I'm done fooling you, because you know it made me happy to hear the compliment," she said. "I can't even be silly about it, otherwise I'd do a little routine, pretending that I'm aspiring to open my all-risotto restaurant. With a cookbook," she added, sipping her wine.

"I would buy it," I said. "Did you ever secretly aspire to be a cook when you were a kid, or is the all-risotto restaurant a new inspiration?" I joked.

"Never," said Kimmy. "I told you the little oven was a total disaster. But I did once dream about being a fabulous costume mistress, because I actually thought they got to keep the clothes. Turns out it was totally untrue."

"When did you fall into comedy?" Michael asked.

"Long story," said Kimmie. "I suppose it begins with the theater. I was twelve or so when the acting bug bit me. I liked serious roles, but I was so nervous — I was a bit of the class clown, as they say. Turns out I was quite good at making people laugh, so always ended up with parts like the old nurse in Romeo and Juliet and not the heroine."

"This was long before Pet," I guessed.

"We did a comedy revue together at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. We started working gigs together at a few comedy clubs to help each other get more exposure — then, before you knew it, we were partners," said Kimmie. "Total opposites in personality, but the same taste when it comes to parodies and sketches."

"You're funny together," I said. "I watched some of your videos online — I mean, there's parts that fly over my head historically and politically, but all the comic street bits are really hilarious."

"Do you watch?" Kimmie teased Michael.

"Some," he answered. He sipped his wine. "I saw one of you when you were on your own."

"Ah, from the old days when I was still doing some of the comedy programs on telly solo," said Kimmie. "My agent would say that's not my better stuff."

"Your agent is in it for the money. That part's probably the truth of the matter."

"True — I'm worth more as part of Pet and Kimmie," she said. "Anyway, maybe it's silly, but I like being a comedian. Making people laugh seems noble if you look at it in the right light."

"Don't brush off your talent," said Michael.

"It's my talent, so can't I abuse it how I like?" she joked.

"Don't brush it off," he repeated. "We all do it to ourselves, like we don't have enough to contend with in life. We all get criticism we don't deserve with the real stuff, so we should take the compliments when they come our way. Nobody gets as far as they do on their own unless they have real talent."

This was the closest Michael's brusqueness came to being gentle, and I was impressed. This wasn't a side of him that emerged on the average day.

Kimmie softened. "Okay, fine," she said. "I'll say I'm talented and clever from now on. Truthfully, I'm vain enough on the surface that I probably secretly believe it, you know. I'm a very complex person with a lot of layers."

"That's what you said about me," said Michael, helping himself to a second serving of risotto.

"When was this?" I asked. I couldn't remember that conversation.

"Something silly I said to him in the tent between takes," said Kimmie, dismissively. "I say silly things all the time, that's the problem. I tease him too much. I'm so awful." She slapped her own wrist, disciplinary style.

"Yeah, right," said Michael, with a laugh. "You say that about everybody."

"I don't, just about the people who really are. Julianne here is probably not a weird person, in my book. She probably was in the past, but she has her life on course and her priorities straight. She probably figured out her quirks long ago," said Kimmie.

"Matthew would beg to differ, but I think I can agree with that statement," I answered. "A lot of youthful water is under the bridge for me at this stage, which took my most complicated emotional uncertainties with it. But simple to one person is complicated to another."

"That is so true," said Kimmie, who seemed to be mellowing suddenly. "Why can't we always figure that out on our own? We just try to make everything else either simple or complicated to match up."

"That's deep," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

"Total accident, then, because I'm never deep," answered Kimmie. "I am, however, still on cloud nine for winning. Pierre not only ate my bake, but actually thought it was the best. Unbelievable."

"Not really. Pierre can be a very fair judge," I said. "Yours was made by hand, and no matter how he pretended, you could tell he didn't like the mixes being used for a baking contest."

"He told me that he was impressed by my flavors. Impressed," said Kimmie. "Really, he said that to me afterwards. And that my edible paper roses were 'a unique homage to natural beauty.'"

"Don't be so surprised," said Michael, dishing the tiny serving of leftover risotto onto my plate, chivalrously. "Your cake was very good. I tried it. The crew in the tea tent ate it and enjoyed it, or they would've tossed it and eaten the molten chocolate biscuits that were disappearing so quick."

"Now there's a bluntly-delivered compliment, so you know it's honest," I said. "I liked the chocolate and the jam for the filling," I said, polishing off the risotto. "They were a great marriage between those vanilla sponge halves."

"All this talk of cake makes me want to eat sugar," said Kimmie. "I didn't fill up on risotto because it was for you two. I expect compensation."

"Is that a hint for dessert to be served?" I asked, collecting the empty plates from dinner to stack onto my own now-empty one.

"Dessert? Don't mind if I do," said Kimmie. "First serving of trifle is mine." She scrambled up from the table. Michael shook his head.

Michael's trifle was every bit as sumptuous as dinner, and had us licking cream and berries from our fingers. Kimmie told us some stories about what goes on behind the scenes of a comedy show, and coaxed more details from Michael about his days as a chef in Nice, particularly regarding crazy coworkers and eccentric customers. Chatting about crazy work situations led us to my zaniest-ever events, particularly weddings that were a bit beyond normal — Kimmie found the stories about Percy's wedding plans hilarious.

Generously, Michael washed the dishes, and pots and pans as well, using his strong forearms to scrub the crusty residue off the saucepan. Kimmie offered to help, but he turned her down.

"I'm right here, ready to take over," she suggested, sipping the last of her second glass of wine.

"You can dry, then," he answered, giving it a final rinse. "I have to go, because I have some things to finish tomorrow morning before the final bake."

"Are you still working on catering stuff?" I asked. "I thought you were going to have spare time after you finished the rustic artisan bread sandwiches for the welcoming fete."

"I told Lady A I would help with the business and tourism committee's annual autumn meeting," he answered, putting on his jacket. "A few dozen cinnamon buns and enough mincemeat for three dozen pies."

"Where are you going? You didn't wash the wine glasses yet," said Kimmie, demandingly. "I told my hostess I would have everything put back in the cupboard by dawn."

He tossed the dish towel to her. "I think you can handle the rest," he answered. "See you tomorrow." He collected the dessert carrier. "Rest of the trifle's in the fridge, by the way."

"Bless you," Kimmie called after him. "You know how to make a girl happy."

Michael gave her a grin and a shake of his head, then closed the kitchen door behind him. Kimmie finished the last sip of wine, then dipped the glass into the sudsy water. "I'll have to do my duty now," she said. "No abusing kitchen privileges."

"I'll dry," I said. My kids would be in bed by now, and Matt would probably be relaxing with a book. I didn't need to rush back tonight, since Matt had volunteered for two nights of pajama and bedtime story duty.

Between the two of us, we finished putting the dishes away. We chatted a little more about the show, and Kimmie did marvelous impressions of both judges. She found the stories about the first time they visited the village interesting, especially the ones about the village's fondness for the program.

"I've had a lovely time," she said. "I think I'll miss it when I leave. Everyone's been very quirky and kind. I haven't had this much flattering attention since the beginnings of Pet and Kimmie, when we were new stuff in London's talent pool."

She folded the dish cloth. "I will miss some parts of it, though — seriously," she added. "Especially people. I enjoyed the way you defended my dream of beating Pet's processed bakes."

"Dovie for one will be sorry to see you go," I said. "You've seen her wall of celebrity guests? Your picture will be in a place of honor on it shortly."

Kimmie laughed. "I'll miss her a bit," she said. "Most of all, I'll miss Michael."

"I thought so," I said, quietly. My look made the point better than my words, and I could tell Kimmie figured out the meaning of it. She turned to face the sink again, washing the last wine glass.

"He's just such an interesting person," she said. "It's not often you meet someone like him. I feel like I can be myself. A bit real, a bit quirky and mixed-up and silly, hiding it under the comedy."

"He did make fun of your comedy, although he didn't mean it," I pointed out. "But he's probably not one of the devoted weekly viewers of Pet and Kimmie either."

"I know, but I kind of like that," she said. "He doesn't laugh because I'm Kimmie the famous comedian, he only laughs if it's actually funny." She smiled. "I don't feel like I have to try hard to seem like anything different with him. That's what I like. Do you know what I mean?"

I nodded. "I do," I answered. It wouldn't be a good idea to ask Kimmie if how she felt was more complicated than this. It was already obvious that something had changed for the comedian, which she probably hadn't completely figured out.

I stepped outside, wrapping my coat and scarf around me, against the nighttime cold. "See you tomorrow afternoon at the finale," I said. "It'll be exciting. It's still anyone's contest." Anyone's, including Dinah's, and I couldn't wait to see what her final cake looked like. Rumor had it that the contestants would be drawing on some of the elaborate designs we had already seen, having been told in the dossier to incorporate their previous inspirations into the design, creating a 'best of' signature cake. Lorrie told me that Janet had glimpsed the baker Ewan's notes at the fish and chips, and that he was paying homage to his period piece and his water-themed cake.

"It won't be dull, we can be certain of that," said Kimmie. "Who knows? Maybe there's a bigger surprise yet to come. The producers and judges never tell me and Pet what they're going to do. They could have confettti cannons planned, like the ones you were talking about earlier. They could have a surprise winner. Maybe they'll give the win to Pierre for being brave enough to taste mine and Pet's bakes."

I laughed. "I think that kind of surprise is beyond them," I said. "But I know I'm not the only one who can't wait to see how it ends."

No hints, then, just our imaginations. One more sleep and the question would become an answer at long last.