Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

"So?" he says, crossing his arms. "Who's it from?"

I chuckle.

"The guy who made me late this morning."

Michel calls me into his office. I've spent the last three days doing nothing but mixing and rolling croissant dough while Marta glances over my shoulder every ten minutes to tell me what I'm doing wrong. My arms are as stiff as old-fashioned hard candy. The reality is that I'm doing nothing wrong. My croissants are just as flaky and buttery as Jean Pierre's. But still, my kitchen assignment hasn't changed. Maybe I'm being hazed, and this is Chef Gautier's way of feeling out my boiling point?

"Sit down," Michel instructs me. My feet welcome the break. I show up to the bakery before the sun rises and get back to my bite-sized apartment after the sun has already gone to bed. Destin and Dandre taught me how to order the house special at the pizzeria next to my building. The apartment has a kitchenette, no oven, but I haven't had the chance to use it yet. I've had eggplant and ricotta on a crispy crust along with day old chocolate croissants for dinner two nights in a row. My only moments I've had to really enjoy Paris are the frequent coffee breaks I take in the garden. Dandre makes me a steamy cup of café au lait, and through the locked iron gate on the side of the brick building I can see Parisians passing by on the street.

"I hope you're about to graduate me from dough-roller to tart-maker," I respond. Michel keeps a straight face.

"I want to talk to you about this weekend." He is sitting stiffly at his desk, and his posture matches mine—solid and proper. It's hard remembering to keep my shoulders straight when I'm repeatedly hunching over to roll croissant dough to Marta's exact specifications.

"Right," I answer. "The special assignment." I tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear. I've been keeping it up in a tight bun underneath a thin beanie most of the day.

"Yes." Michel takes a deep breath. "Jean Pierre had planned on taking you with him to England this weekend for a special event he's catering. It's a very important wedding at Dovington Manor. Lord Dovington himself requested Chef Jean Pierre Gautier in person to make his wedding cake."

"England?"

"Yes, England." Michel shakes his head. "But I'm afraid plans have changed. He does not require your assistance anymore."

"Okay." I'm not sure how to take his comment. Jean Pierre hasn't said much to me all week. So far everything I've imagined about my internship in Paris hasn't come true. I'm not learning top-secret pastry tips from the best of the best. I'm not hanging around posh French cafés where mysterious businessmen offer to pick up my tab, and I'm not guiltily eating my way through the city.

"So, your weekend is free." Michel smiles at me, but it seems forced. "Go enjoy Paris."

With whom?

I nod. I should be beaming inside. This is half the reason I came here in the first place. To see the Eiffel Tower, eat my weight in French macarons, and shop for something with the word
Paris
written all over it to remind Georgina where I spent my time off. All those touristy things.

But something won't stop gnawing at my confidence. If Chef Gautier doesn't think much of me then maybe I'm not progressing in pastry the way I thought I was?
Say something, Poppy.
I stand up to leave but hastily change my mind and sit back down. Michel looks startled when I lean forward, invading his personal bubble. His eyes dart from me to the open door.

"Is this about my macarons?" I ask.

"
Excusez-moi
?"

"The French macarons I made for Chef Gautier on my first day," I remind him. "Does this have something to do with that?"

"Oh I—"

"Because if it does," I continue. "You can tell Jean Pierre not to do me any favors. I can keep up with him at Dovington Manor. Actually, I can do
more
than that. I can whisk custard and knead fondant just as good as Marta can. All I need is the chance."

Michel's eyes are wide. He scrunches his nose and tilts his head.

"Oh," he responds.

"I spoke too fast, didn't I?"

"No, I think I understand." He still looks puzzled. "You
do
want to spend your first weekend in Paris…in England?"

"Yes," I say firmly.

"Okay, I will inform the chef of your request."

I return to my croissant station, satisfied with my choice to work instead of sleep. I have to show Jean Pierre that I'm nothing like the last intern, and I won't be going home early. If anything, I'll make Chef Gautier sweat when he realizes I'm nothing like the woman he thinks I am. Grandma Liz wouldn't take his attitude lying down. She would march right up to Jean Pierre and dare him to make a pistachio and blackberry jam macaron that tastes even better. I don't have the guts to do that. I don't get as spicy as my grandma was unless I'm fiery mad.

I finish out the rest of my day like all the others—cleaning and sampling leftover goods. Before Michel leaves for the night he informs me that my request has been approved and that I'll be leaving for England tomorrow by train. I take my time and give my legs a good stretch on my walk back to my studio apartment. I think about sleep, and it makes my eyelids droopy like they're being pressed down with heavy cream puffs.
Extra
heavy cream.

I enter my apartment just as the cell phone in my bag buzzes loudly. I shelled out the extra cash for temporary international service with my phone carrier. My heart leaps. Because of the time difference and the hours I've been working, I've only been able to talk to anyone back in the states in bits and pieces. I grab the phone before it stops ringing.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" a familiar voice says.

"Bree?"

"Yes, I finally caught you." Bree chuckles. "I've been trying all morning."

"What time is it over there?"

"Break time," she replies. "I'm back to working at the cupcake shop until classes start up again. Yeah, you owe me a bag of Jean Pierre's best goodies for stealing my Paris spot. I don't care if you have to hold them on your lap the entire plane ride home."

"I'll do you one better. I'll give you his croissant recipe."

"That's not the same as tasting a croissant made by the master pâtissier himself," Bree argues. "So come on, what's he like? Is he brilliant?" I hear a timer beep and a soft banging that I can only assume is the oven door.

"Bree, are you cooking something?" I ask. "I thought you said you were on your break? Okay, what happened? Who's the jerk?" Most girls turn to a gallon of cookie dough ice cream or a double fudge brownie when they have guy troubles. Bree turns to her whisk.

"Todd again." She pauses. All I know about Todd is that he's Bree's childhood crush, and he's always messing with her head. "I'm making cinnamon rolls with Nutella frosting.
Not
for sale. Don't judge."

"Just do me a favor and a space them out. Don't eat them all at once this time."

"I can't make any promises," she responds. "Ugh! He drove me to it, you know. Him and that fruitcake of a girl he's with. But I don't want to talk about that. Tell me all about the pastry chef extraordinaire. I want details."

"Oh, he's…" I hesitate with what to tell her. I can shatter her dreams and say that Jean Pierre turned his nose up at a batch of French macarons that I was forced to make in front of the entire kitchen brigade. And of course, that was right after his sous chef thought I didn't know the difference between a coconut macaroon and an almond shelled macaron. I can also lie and say that he's been a great teacher. But what's so great about rolling dough? "He's unlike any other chef I've ever met."

"So lucky," she mutters.

"And I get to go to England tomorrow," I add. "I'm helping him with a wedding at a place called Dovington Manor."

"You get to meet British royalty?"

"A Lord," I answer. "I'll try to take some pictures for you."

"You better."

I tug gently at the pendant around my neck. Sam didn't leave any kind of contact number, but he knows where to find me if he wants to see me again. I bite the side of my lip. I've been wearing his necklace all week, mostly because I know Marta hates it.

"Oh, I almost forgot," I say. "I met a guy…well, sort of. He ran into me on my first day."

"A French man already?"

"He was
British
and nothing happened," I reiterate. "He spilled his coffee on me."

"How romantic," she jokes.

"His apology was romantic." I look down at the sparkly diamond between my fingers. "He sent me a gift. I'll show it to you when I get back. You're going to die."

"I take it that it's not edible then?" I hear the sound of her mixer running at full speed. I wait for her to finish before I say anything else.

"By the way, have you by any chance talked to Cole at all?" I ask.

"Not really, but I know he was called back to work just like me."

"Oh." I sigh. "Well, I'll tell him all about Paris when I get home."

I think of the way Cole reclined back in his chair during class, quietly commenting on the airiness of Georgina's puff pastry. Back at Calle Pastry Academy, he always made me laugh when I needed it. I could use his sense of humor right about now. He would've eased the blow of failing miserably at making French macarons in front of a macaron master.

"I'll make French macarons for the occasion," Bree suggests. "Though I doubt I'll be able to make them as good as you." She giggles then chews loudly. "Mmm…I do feel better. Call me when you get back from England." I hear more chewing.

"I will."

*   *   *

My connecting train ride from London toward the Cornish coast, thankfully, didn't take as long as the train ride from Paris to London. Marta sat next to me and spent the entire time reading a romance novel. I mostly slept, grateful that I only had to share uncomfortable glances with Marta because Jean Pierre was taking a later train. When we arrived at our destination, a driver was waiting for us. The car took us into a small village neighboring the coastline. One with mostly row homes, a pub, and an inn.

After passing several acres of apple orchards, I step onto the gravel in front of Dovington Manor and smell seawater. The house sits on spacious grounds, and it looks more like a pristine country club than someone's home. I look up at the rows and rows of tall windows leading up to two towers on both ends of the stone residence. The windows on the main level have white trim that matches the front door. The surrounding lawn is a brilliant green and undeniably well kept. Not a leaf or pebble looks out of place. And in the distance I see waves crashing against the cliffside.

"We'll run over tomorrow's schedule during supper, I'll do prep work for the sweet table, and then bed." Marta grabs her suitcase and strides through the arched pillars over the front entrance like she has been here thousands of times. I follow her, not surprised to see that the inside of the house is just as breathtaking.

The front foyer is narrow and the hardwood floors look as if they're original to the estate. The walls are a light blue that reminds me of the ocean and hanging on them are various works of seaside art. A grand staircase swirls up to the second floor, and there are formal sitting rooms on both sides of me. The furniture is mostly white. It goes well with the mosaic tiles surrounding the main fireplace. I think it is meant to look like sea glass. Overall, the manor feels like a mix of English traditional and modern day. If I was the owner, I might never leave.

"Wow," I say quietly. Mostly to myself because I know Marta doesn't care much what I think about the mansion. "Can you imagine getting married in a place like this?"

"This way," Marta responds, tilting her head toward a staff member who has come to show us where we'll be cooking. A man wearing a suit takes our bags, except for Marta's case of culinary tools. We wind through a few hallways all with the same ocean blue paint and faded paintings of portraits and landscapes.

Off of the main drawing room, where a casual wedding reception will take place before dinner, is the kitchen. It is housed in its own private room, and it matches the size of the front sitting rooms. Appliances line the walls, and a specialty wood-fired oven sits next to the window. In the center of the room are two, long, butcher-block tables running parallel to each other. Near a private entrance to a miniature tea garden are rows of hooks and cubbies for everyone's things. I sneak a glimpse out the window, delighted that there are bistro tables outside facing the sea. I'm going to need a good escape if I'm going to be stuck working with Marta for an entire weekend.

Marta puts her case on the table and immediately gets to work. She pulls out a few containers of hand crafted fondant and sugar paste flowers —white orchids, tulips, and sweet peas —that she made yesterday. She designates a cool spot in the walk-in pantry for them to continue drying.

"So, have you been here before?" I ask, attempting to lighten the mood.

"No." Her answer is direct and brief.

"So you're not from this area of England then?"

"No," Marta says again.

"Maybe you've vacationed somewhere in Cornwall before? Or some beach somewhere?"