Chiaroscuro (37 page)

"I've got it. Thanks." He saw them all out and shut the door, and lay down on the bed again. He rolled onto his side and picked up the phone, and then put it down. There was no point in calling Jamie, even to tell him about the lights and the interview and the flight and how nervous he felt right now.

He could call Dune, he could call his mother, he could even call Tristan--but the only person he wanted to talk to was on his way to England.

***

The other chefs were friendly enough when they met before the competition got started, though Ben supposed it had a lot to do with the cameras. Two of them Ben had seen on other cooking shows, and one of them said she'd seen his website and loved his work.

The producers gathered them together in the ballroom where they would be baking the next day. One of the producers made a speech about their talent and the number of years the competition had been going on; she made allusions to the prize money and the creativity achieved in years past, and then one of the associate producers handed her an envelope and she ripped it open.

"The theme for this year's Wedding Cake Bake-Off," she paused dramatically, "is works of art!"

One of the chefs groaned and two of them looked confused, and Ben smiled to himself. He'd been getting a pretty good education in art lately, thanks to Jamie.

The producers told them they had the rest of the night to plan, and the chefs and their assistants left the ballroom to return to their rooms. Heather, dragging a crew behind her, ran over to Ben before he could get back onto the elevator. "You looked very pleased," she said eagerly. "Is this a subject you're familiar with? Do you know what your subject is already?"

"Not exactly, but I've got a few ideas." He heard the elevator door open behind him. "I should go get started."

"Good luck," she said, waving to him as the elevator doors closed.

He got down to business at once, sketching out his favorites of the paintings and sculptures he remembered from Jamie's art books. None of them seemed quite right, though, no matter how abstract the cake translation could be: not "Christina's World," not Klimt's Kiss, not the Rodins or the Manets or the Moores. He tapped his pencil on the notebook, nibbling his lip.

"I could do the angel painting," he said out loud, and laughed and shook his head.

And then thought, Well, why not? It's art. It's not famous--not yet--but it's still art.

He rolled onto his back and held up the notebook so he could draw. He sketched out the painting as best he could: the angel, the shaft of light, the tattoo.

The cake itself, the producer had explained, only needed to be an interpretation, not a reproduction. So he could interpret the painting with black and white and gold, with angel's wings as a motif and perhaps a dark bottom layer building up to a perfect white top layer.

Yes, he thought as he scribbled down his notes. He could do this. He could do this and it would be beautiful.

He wrote down the ingredients and supplies he would need on a fresh piece of paper, and called Heather; assistant producers would gather everything before the competition started in the morning. She was at his door in minutes, beaming for him. "You're the first one."

"It came pretty easily, once it came." He grinned down at her.

Impulsively she hugged him. "I'm so excited for you. Good luck! Oh, I said that already. Well, get a good night's sleep--it'll be a long day tomorrow." She hurried off with his list.

***

Ben hardly slept; he was so nervous and excited. He was already awake and dressed when his wake-up call rang, and went down to one of the hotel restaurants to have breakfast. He was the first in the ballroom, where the cooking channel and hotel crews were setting up chairs, cameras, and kitchen stations. Heather, who he decided must run on caffeine and endorphins, bounced over to him.

"You're up early!"

"So are you, and you had to have been on your feet half the night."

"Oh, pfft!" she said, dismissing it with a gesture. "Sleep is for the weak. Do you need anything before madness descends?"

"Can I have a look at the kitchens?"

"Absolutely."

"Cool. I'll keep myself occupied, then."

She patted his arm. "You'll be fine. Just have fun. I can't wait to see what you make." She scurried off, a five-foot-two hurricane in six-inch heels.

Ben watched her go, shook his head a little and went to the kitchen marked with his name. He ran his fingertips over the stove, the refrigerator, the mixer, the tray of measuring cups and spoons.

He was a last-minute substitution, he knew, and nobody who'd be in this audience today would know who he was. Maybe that would change by the end of the day. Maybe not.

He went back up to his room to fetch his tunic and a bandana, and when he came back people were starting to file into the chairs to watch the competition. He'd cooked in front of audiences before--well, classes at the culinary institute--but never in the triple digits.

Ben took a deep breath. Think zen thoughts, he told himself. He buttoned up his tunic, kissed his St. Nicholas medal, and knotted the bandana around his neck.

It was show time.

***

The audience wasn't so bad, really: they weren't noisy or intrusive. The camera crews were well-trained; Ben forgot they were there most of the time. The judges wandering up and down the cooking areas were only a little distracting: they asked him about his methods, his training, and why he didn't have his assistant with him.

The cake came together pretty simply. While the tiers baked he carefully formed the lace-like wings from royal icing, and while they set he made the icing for the cake itself, the whitest white he could create, soft creamy yellow, dark gold. He had edible gold dust which he brushed gently over the drying wings.

As he was icing the bottommost tier, one of the judges ambled over to look at his work. "I don't get what painting you're referencing."

"It's called 'Promise.'"

"Who's the artist?"

"My sunshine," Ben murmured. "Er. A friend. His name is James Makepeace."

"Oh," the judge said. "Well, a painting called 'Promise' certainly suits a wedding theme…but the angel?"

"It's a painting of an angel. Well. Someone dressed as an angel." The camera crew was focusing on him again, and he swallowed with a dry mouth. Damn it, he would never get used to having that light in his face. "Angels are a promise, you see, of better things to come."

"So your friend painted someone dressed as angel and named the painting 'Promise' because that's what angels stand for."

"Pretty much."

"Interesting," the judge said and wandered down the row to the next chef.

Ben continued working on the cake, his mind far from this ballroom. Something had clicked--or was in the process of clicking, he wasn't sure. Jamie had initially drawn him because something about the pose and the colors had struck him--but why that title? He'd never thought about it before but it suddenly seemed terribly important: a promise, a promise of better things, Ben as a symbol...

A promise, he thought.

Of better things, he thought.

I'd much rather take care of you.

He put down the flat knife and leaned his hands on the table, suddenly overwhelmed by his own stupidity, his own blindness. Ben-the-angel wasn't the promise--the painting was, Jamie's promise, Jamie was promising to look after him, protect him, shine on him like the light on the angel.

He wouldn't have to be in the dark anymore, if he had Jamie.

Heather hurried over. "Ben? Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He looked up at her and tried to smile in his most reassuring way possible. "I just. Um. Realized I've made a mistake."

"Anything you need, name it and we'll send someone for it," she said, clipboard at the ready to scribble down his request.

Ben shook his head. "No, it's okay--it's not about the cake. I just have to make a phone call later."

"Are you sure? I can find you a phone and you can do it now--"

"No, it's okay. I can wait. I want to finish this. I'm fine," he assured her. "I'm just fine." He picked up the flat knife again and resumed spreading the icing.

Heather watched him a moment more, concerned, and then hurried off to help another chef. But Ben was fine--Ben felt better than he had all day, and was humming "Good Day, Sunshine," as he worked. If he won or lost, it didn't matter--as soon as this was over he was calling Dune to get Stuart's information, and then he'd be on the way to London, to somehow convince Jamie to come home.

***

The last step of the competition was to carry the cake from the kitchen to the display table in front of it. On shows Ben had watched there were often disasters, a cake toppling or being dropped at the last moment, and he had no one to help him carry it.

But the truth was he usually didn't, and it wasn't just for the admiring looks he got that he spent an hour every day at the gym. He lifted the cake easily, and the entire ballroom went silent as he carried it the few feet to the display table. The room erupted in cheers when he set it down.

Ben smiled and waved to the audience, feeling a bit ridiculous, and thought, Wow, cooking fans sure are strange. He was neither the first to finish nor the last--one other chef was still frantically applying decorations to her cake--and Heather led Ben out of the cooking area and to a small room off the ballroom to wait. "How are you doing?"

"I'm glad it's over," he said, dropping into a chair. He unknotted the bandana and rubbed it over his face.

"And that phone call you need to make?"

"Oh! Yes. As soon as this is over."

Heather handed him her cell phone. "I have a great long-distance plan."

He took it with a laugh. "You're the best."

"That's my job." She moved away to give him some privacy.

Ben dialed Dune's home number, surprised when he got only the machine. "You were right. You can gloat later. But I'm going to go to London from here and find him and--and--you were right. I'll try you again later." He hung up and called Leo.

Leo, at least was home. "Benjie! How's the contest going?"

"I'm waiting on the results. Leo, I--I need your help. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and I have to make it right."

"What did you do?" Leo said.

"I told Jamie to go with Stuart. But he doesn't want to be with Stuart, he wants to be with me, but I told him to go and I have to tell him I was wrong."

Leo was quiet a moment, then said, "Jamie isn't with Stuart."

"What?"

"He didn't go with Stuart. Stuart left yesterday for England, but Dune and Jamie went to Vegas. They drove down to watch you bake."

For a moment Ben couldn't breathe. "They're here?"

"They're there," Leo confirmed gently.

Ben went to the doorway to look out at the ballroom, and then walked out to pace up and down the last row of the audience, trying to spot a familiar blond head. "I don't see them."

"Dune has his cell phone, do you need his number?"

"Yes," Ben said, and repeated it back to Leo when he read it off. "Thank you--I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay. Take care, Benjie." He hung up.

But before Ben could dial Dune's cell one of the assistant producers found him, to tell him he was needed with the other chefs. He gave her Heather's phone. "Will you see that Heather gets this back?" and went to wait for the results.

There were more short interviews--How did he think he did? What did he think of his first national competition?--but Ben was so distracted he hardly knew what he answered. He wanted Jamie--he wanted to at least see Jamie--but couldn't see him anywhere for the people and the bright lights. The producer spoke again, how lovely the cakes were, how exciting it was to watch experts create, and then had the five chefs stand in a row in front of the audience.

Ben just wanted this to get over with and barely listened as the producer read the first name: "Third place, in the fifth annual Wedding Cake Surprise Theme challenge, is Benjamin Gallagher!"

He started. "Oh," he murmured, and one of the more experienced chefs squeezed his hand. There were judges' hands to shake and an oversized check to collect, and he stood beside the judges with a big grin and wondered where Jamie was.

Then it was all over. Audience members began filing past the tables to see the cakes. Judges shook his hand. A producer wanted Ben's business card. People asked for his autograph and to have their picture taken with him.

All he wanted was Jamie. There were so many people--how would he ever find him in this enormous ballroom?

"Hey," someone said and touched his back.

Ben whirled to see Jamie beaming at him. He dropped the oversized check and wrapped his arms around Jamie's shoulders, pressing his cheek to Jamie's hair. "Hey," he said softly. "Hey."

Chapter Eighteen

"I feel like I should be furious with you," said Ben as they waited for their orders in the Rio's coffee shop.

"And why is that? Because I came or because I didn't let you know I was coming?" Jamie sipped his water, unperturbed by any threats of fury.

"Both. You should be with Stuart, you know. If you had any sense. Which we all know you don't."

"Perfectly nonsensical, me," Jamie agreed with a nod. "I am a complete and utter fool. However, I'd like to point out that on the scale of foolish things done for love, this rates about a two."

Ben straightened his cutlery. "I was going to fly to London tonight. Straight from here. Fly to London, find you and bring you home."

Jamie beamed at him. He couldn't help it. "That rates about a seven, I think."

"And what rates a ten?"

"The Trojan war."

"Of course," Ben said and laid his head on his arms. "Yes. I wouldn't go to war for you. I have my limits."

Jamie reached over the table and rubbed his fingertips into Ben's scalp. "Long day. If you need to sleep we can ask for the food to go."

"Not yet." He lifted his head and rested his chin on his crossed arms. "I think we need to be vertical for a while longer."

"Just a little while, I hope."