RHETT
I stand on the dock, staring out over the ocean. There aren’t many places in the world prettier than the Bahamas. The temperature is perfect today, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.
I’ve spent all morning doing what I love most in the world—creating visually stunning and delicious-tasting desserts for people who may or may not appreciate all the work that went into them.
This is my life. At thirty-one years old, I shouldn’t care what my family thinks about it, but I can admit to myself that sometimes I do. I’m a grown man, but I can’t help that it matters—deep down—that I don’t have the support most people take for granted.
Even surrounded by all this beauty, it’s hard to live with the knowledge that your parents don’t accept you. They don’t think what you do is anything special. They don’t like that a son of theirs has “given up” on being successful by cooking fancy desserts for rich people.
Mom is a respected cardiologist in Boston, and Dad is one of the top entertainment attorneys in the country. He splits his time between Boston and Los Angeles, where most of his clients are. I’m sure that’s where he also keeps his mistresses, although no one in our family would ever bring up that topic.
They’ve been married for almost forty years, and I can’t remember ever seeing them hold hands or kiss. They are more of a partnership, I guess. Their marriage is one reason why I will never get married. Sharing your whole life with someone you don’t love seems pointless.
Then there are my two brothers—Ben and Liam, the stars in my parents’ eyes. Ben is the oldest at thirty-seven. He works with my dad and travels from Los Angeles to New York City on a weekly basis. Liam lives in Boston and is thirty-five. He’s a noted plastic surgeon and keeps my mother looking twenty years younger. She thinks no one notices that her hands are sixty-five years old, but her face is forty-five.
“You on break?”
I look up and see my co-worker, Eric, standing before me, smoking a cigarette. Nasty habit. He smells like an ashtray, but the beach winds thankfully keep the smoke away from me. I’m highly allergic.
“Yeah. I scarfed down some tacos, and now I’m regretting it,” I say, putting my hand on my midsection.
“It’s been a long day, huh?”
“Every day is a long day,” I complain. I’m what a lot of people might call grumpy. I call it realistic. I picked the wrong profession for someone who isn’t a morning person. Pastry chefs have to get up early, and it’s the only part of the job I detest.
“You should take some time off,” he says, leaning against a wooden post adjoining the dock.
“Why? I have no family. No wife. No kids. Might as well make money and sock it away so one day I don’t have to work at all.”
“You’re a workaholic, man. You’re always going to work,” he says in his thick British accent. Eric is covered in tattoos. Both arms are sleeves, and he even has some on his hands. I want to ask what they are sometimes, but then I’m afraid it will cause a long conversation. I’m not built for long conversations.
I shrug my shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll have a good reason to take time off. For now, it’s pointless.”
“You’ve got those big dreams,” Eric says, taking a long drag off his cigarette and then tossing the butt into the ocean. I want to push him in after it every time I see him do that.
“Stop littering.”
“Mate, it’s basically paper. It disappears down there.”
“Have you watched the videos about trash in the ocean? Stop throwing your butts in there.”
He puts up his hands like he does every time we have this conversation. It’s the one good thing about being built like a linebacker. People tend to listen to you.
“Fine. Anyway, I thought your dream was to work in a Michelin-star restaurant?”
I eye him carefully. “A three-star Michelin-rated restaurant.”
“Right, right. Only the best for Rhett Jennings.”
“Don’t you have some fruit to prep for dinner?” I say, trying to get him out of my hair. Eric is inherently lazy, but he knew someone who knew someone that got him this job. I expect him to get fired at every port, but here he still is, looking disheveled and smelling of stale ashes.
“You’re becoming an old coot right before my eyes,” he says, chuckling as he heads back toward the kitchen we share. I pick up my water bottle from the ground, ready to follow him back inside, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Being out on the water most of the time, I rarely use the thing. I forget it’s even there until I want to look at social media and check my email.
“Hello?”
“Rhett? Oh good. I’m glad I caught you. Where are you this time?” There’s a hint of disdain in her voice, as always.
“The Bahamas. And where are you?”
My mother sighs. “At the hospital.”
“Well, that’s a good place for a cardiologist, I suppose.”
She pauses for a long moment. “I’m not here for work, Rhett.”
My pulse quickens. I rarely see my family, so I’m always out of the loop, but this is the first time I’ve been worried. I love them all, of course, but it’s just easier this way. Being picked apart for all your life choices can get a bit taxing.
“Why are you there then?”
“Your father took a fall.” She says it like she’s telling me the most boring piece of information she’s ever uttered. Like she’s reading a lunch menu.
“Is he okay?”
“He will be. He was off work for a few days—we know how rare that is—and he decided not to call our handyman, Pete. Instead, he climbed up on the ladder to clean the gutters, and bam! Down he went onto the sidewalk. Broke his leg in two places. He’ll be home for a very long time now. I might lose my mind.”
I wanted to laugh at that last comment. It isn’t as if she spends much time with my father. She doesn’t clean the house. She never cooks meals. Even as kids, we had a nanny who took us everywhere, cooked meals, and put us to bed. “Mother” was more of an official title and reason to deduct us from their yearly taxes.
She spends most of her days at her office or the hospital. As harsh as she can be, my mother is a terrific cardiologist. She’s known around the country for her innovative treatments and approach to heart disease. She specializes in women’s hearts, which is funny because she doesn’t have one herself. Okay, that might’ve been too far. I get it. But it was funny.
“Is there anything I can do?” I don’t even know why I asked the question. What can I do? I’m in the Bahamas. They’re in Boston. And I’m not a doctor, as my mother likes to remind me on a perpetual schedule throughout the year. It’s like she sets an alarm on her watch to remind me of that fact as often as possible.
“Well, dear, you’re not exactly a doctor…” Ah, there it is. Now I can set my timer for three months from now when she says it again.
“No, Mother, I’m not.”
I’ve noticed other people call their mothers’ names like “Mom” or “Ma.” My friend Hal, who is from Tennessee, calls his “Momma”. My brothers and I have always called ours “Mother” like something out of a horror movie.
“Mother is killing a goose in the backyard.”
“Mother is holding a knife to Father’s throat.”
“Mother drove the getaway car for a gang of human organ thieves.”
“Mother needs a sponge bath.”
There’s a lack of affection in the word, at least how I say it.
“So, what are you up to these days?”
“Well, still preparing desserts for rich celebrities on their fancy yachts.” I leave the details out of what I tell her because I’ve learned that more details equals more questions. And more questions equals more criticism. And more criticism equals more self-loathing. It’s not a fun cycle, and I’d rather avoid it.
“I’ll never understand you, Rhett.”
“What don’t you understand?” I use my thumb and index finger to rub the bridge of my nose. It’s my “thing” that I do when I’m stressed. I’m surprised I even have a bridge anymore.
“You had everything laid out in front of you after prep school. A full ride to multiple universities, a job waiting for you at the hospital. And now you’re traversing the world on someone else’s yacht, making them cupcakes.”
I roll my eyes so hard I think I can see behind me. “I don’t make cupcakes, Mother. I’m a trained pastry chef with skills that are in demand with wealthy people.”
“We’re wealthy people!” She shrieks so loud that I swear I can hear someone’s heart monitor going off in the background.
“I’m not doing this with you again,” I say in a low growl, hoping she gets my message. My mother never gets social cues. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
“Dear, it’s just that we all love you and want to see you do well. If you’d gone to medical or law school, you could have your own yacht and hire a baker.”
“A pastry chef.”
“Whatever,” she mutters. She says it like even the words “pastry chef” taste terrible on her tongue. Oh, the irony.
“Why can’t you just be happy that I’m happy?” Am I happy, though? I don’t let the question linger long before shaking it off.
“Happiness is overrated.”
If that isn’t the best way to sum up my mother’s life, I don’t know what is. She’s a brilliant cardiologist. I’ll give her that. She helps people daily, and she saves lives. But she does so with a lack of emotion that would make a serial killer proud.
“Look, I’m not going to keep having this circular conversation with you, okay? I love my job, and I have big plans.”
“Oh, really? What kind of big plans can a pastry chef have?”
“Well, for starters, I want to be the pastry chef at a top restaurant. Michelin star rated. I want to be in magazines, maybe on TV. When people think of desserts, I want them to think of me.”
“Oh, good Lord,” she groans. “Honey, there’s no way a person can make a good living as a baker. Maybe just a few people in the whole world. But, if you went through with medical school and became a neurologist, as we talked about…”
“Mother, stop! I don’t want to be a doctor. I’m not going to medical school.”
“Law school then. It’s not as good—don’t tell your father I said that—but it’s a decent career if you’re good at it.”
“I’m not going to law school either. I already went to school.”
“Rhett, you went to night school. That’s not real college, you know. Nobody in our circle has a child that went to night school.”
“That was because I was working at your office to make rent, remember? I could only go to school at night.”
She pauses for a long moment. “I have to go check on your father, but I need to prepare you for something.”
“What?”
“We’ve been reviewing our will.”
Oh, here it comes. The threats. This isn’t new. My mother and father have threatened to remove me from the will if I don’t do what they want several times.
“Here we go again,” I mutter.
“It’s just not fair that your brothers are contributing members of society, and you’re doing… well… whatever it is that you’re doing. You can’t expect to just wait until your father and I kick the bucket to cash in, sweetie.”
She adds “sweetie” to soften the blow. It doesn’t. My mother uses terms like “dear” and “sweetie” and “honey”, but they aren’t terms of endearment.
I pause for a long moment and consider ending the call before I finally speak. “Most parents let their kids pursue their own dreams. Live their own lives. They just want them to be happy.”
“Darling, you should know by now that we’re not most parents.”
Oh, I know better than anyone.
* * *
SAVANNAH
I’m standing in the bakery section of the grocery store, staring at a birthday cake I’m making for a little girl’s fifth birthday. She picked this princess cake from the laminated book we give customers when they want to order something. Of course, some of them order online, which is great because I hate interacting with customers.
I’m an outgoing, positive person, but customers can be awful. They’re often rude and snarky, as if I don’t already hate my life getting up at the crack of dawn to make cakes that come in a bag.
Big Thelma isn’t here today. Said something about dental work, but I think she just wanted a day off. That’s fine with me. I love the quiet mornings in the bakery. I can dream of better days when I run my own bakery in some small town where everybody comes by for a morning bagel and a chat.
Instead, I’m standing in stark fluorescent lighting, smelling the seafood case the next department over. A lobster stares at me from the tank, and I’m overwhelmed with guilt. I’d free him if I had any idea where one would take a lobster on a Tuesday morning in the middle of Georgia.
I understand his plight in a way. We’re both trapped here. If I could figure out a way for us to run away together right now, I’d totally be up for it. Me and my lobster best friend, making a life for ourselves on the run.
I look back down at the cake. The little girl’s name is Leighton, so I write it out in fancy script, being sure it reads correctly. The colors are purple, hot pink, and white, with thick frosting around the edges. The frosting tastes like someone dumped sugar in a bag. I can’t eat it. It’s pretty disgusting. Customers would go nuts if they let me make my famous caramel buttercream icing. But no. Everything must be uniform and by the book. Literally.
As I carry the cake to the refrigerator, I feel my phone buzzing in my apron. I carefully set the cake down, not wanting to have to remake it, and then pull my phone out. I take off my thin plastic gloves and toss them in the trash, but not before leaving a dollop of pink icing on my phone screen.
“Sadie? Is everything okay?” She rarely calls this early, so I immediately assume the worst. Even though I’m not her actual mother, I feel like one.
“Everything’s fine. I wanted to tell you about something I just found out.”
“What?” I sit on a high stool behind the doughnut case.
“I was online checking Instagram, and there’s a new reality show.”
“Another reality show? Shocker. Isn’t everything on TV a reality show?” I say, brushing some stray flour on the metal counter onto the floor.
“No, sis, listen. This is a baking show.”
“A baking show? Like a competition show?”
I can hear her clicking around on her laptop. “Kind of. It’s a competition for both trained and self-taught bakers, but you’re also locked in a house with everyone.”
“Locked in a house? What is it? A horror show?”
“They have cameras on you 24/7, so there’s the drama between contestants mixed with baking competitions.”
“Why are you telling me this, Sadie?” I stand and walk over to today’s schedule to see what I need to work on next. Oh great. Another birthday cake. This one’s a train cake for Dalton, who’s turning three.
“Because I think you should apply.”
I let out a loud laugh that reverberates around the kitchen. “Me? Why?”
“Because of the prizes.”
“I have a job, sis. I can’t just leave my life behind for some reality show.”
“It’s only six weeks!”
“Almost two whole months? Are you kidding me?”
“I think you’ll change your tune when you hear what the prizes are.”
“Fine. What are they?”
“One prize is a publishing deal for a cookbook...”
“Okay. That’s cool, but not enough to leave for two months.” I pull the bag of cake mix off the shelf and look for the blue icing for the train.
“You also get to make the wedding cake for a celebrity wedding.”
“Which celebrities?”
“Keaton Mallory and Keira Donaldson!”
Okay, making the wedding cake for two of the most famous actors in the world doesn’t sound bad, but it still isn’t enough to get me to give up my job for almost two months and risk getting fired. We’d go under in a matter of weeks if I weren’t working.
“That’s cool, but still not enough to entice…”
“And two hundred thousand dollars.”
Sadie lets those words hang in the air like a carrot dangling above my financially broken head. I can barely form words. Two hundred thousand dollars? That would be a life-changing amount of money for us. Sadie could go to college, and I could open a bakery. Maybe. I think I could, though. If I bought used equipment and rented a space in a smaller town…
“Are you still there?” Sadie asks.
“I am,” I say, sitting back down on the stool.
“This is our chance, sis.” She says the words with such seriousness that I almost start to cry. This isn’t just about me. She knows this is her chance, too.
“But what are the odds I’d even get accepted onto the show? I’m sure hundreds of pastry chefs better than me will apply.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to be the positive one!” She’s right unless it’s about myself. I’m not at all positive about myself.
“And you’re supposed to be the realistic one,” I say. “What happens if I get accepted and leave for six weeks? How will you pay the bills? And I will surely lose this job.”
“I’ll work extra shifts. And Big Thelma isn’t going to fire you. Nobody else would work with her.”
I laugh. That’s probably true. More people have left the bakery section of this grocery store after working with Big Thelma. She’s not the easiest boss.
“It does sound intriguing, but what are the chances I’ll even get picked?”
“You won’t know until you apply,” Sadie says. I can hear the smile in her voice. I have a flashback of the begging I had to do at the orthodontist to let me make payments so she could have that dazzling smile. “Come on, sis! This could change our lives!”
I sigh, not wanting to get my hopes up. “Send me the link.”