Tasty (11 page)

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject line: We should meet . . .
 

 

Things
are getting a little too real for me. Are they feeling real for you,
too? I don’t know if you’re ever in Florida. I can’t
tell you the last time I went to New York. But I’d love to find
a way to meet you. We’re like two cookies made from the same
dough . . . 

I
wince at my own metaphor. Too cheesy. I cut out that line, and,
cringing, try again.
We’re
two sourdoughs from the same starter
,
or
We’re
two cupcakes from the same batter
,
but that’s not right either. Maybe it’s a sign, I think,
staring at the unsent email. If I can’t even find a way to
explain the way that I’m feeling, maybe it’s not worth
saying. Maybe this is a mistake. After all, cupcakecasanova is a
stranger. He could be someone’s grandmother, for all I know.
I’ve never even seen his picture. He doesn’t even know my
name.

I
delete the email without sending it, stand, empty bottle in hand, and
head back toward my apartment.

I
wake up late, the sun already coming in golden-yellow through my
shabby curtains. And though the day’s heat is already rising, I
feel refreshed. Cupcakecasanova is right. No matter what happens with
the store, no matter what happens with Cal McKenzie and Mecca Cakes,
I’ll always have the magic of cooking. It hasn’t left me,
even if my business is struggling.

I
rise from bed and send Summer a text:

Closing the shop for the day. Won’t need you
again today. Hopefully soon. xo.

Then
I go to my kitchen. I boil water for the Chemex and start paging
through my grandmother’s cookbooks. Of course, I don’t
really
need
them to cook. I have thousands of recipes stored in my head. But with
the pages under my fingers, it’s almost like I’m with her
again. I can remember what it felt like to be a little girl, standing
on a backwards chair in her kitchen, her papery skin feeling thin and
delicate next to my cheek. We usually made something simple:
chocolate chip cookies, a pie for Grandpa. Or cupcakes, which were
always my favorite. I find the recipe for the ones we always made
together, sour-cream vanilla with a white sugar frosting and a cherry
on top. Over the recipe text, there are ancient splashes of
maraschino syrup. Funny, how that outlasted even Grandma. I gather up
the ingredients and start baking.

An
hour later, two dozen cupcakes are stacked carefully on a rack. While
they’re cooling, I dress quickly, in a simple sundress and a
pair of comfy flats. Then I frost and box up the cakes. I know
exactly where I need to go today to reconnect with the magical,
alchemical side of myself. I take the box and grab my keys, leaving
my apartment sweetly perfumed by vanilla and sugar and cream as I
head for Miami.

#

Miami’s
only three hours north of Key West, but sometimes it feels like it’s
on a different planet. For one thing, the people are all aliens.
Tanned, tattooed, beautiful, with overbleached highlights in their
hair and too much make-up. The beaches are packed with sculpted hunks
and women in teeny weenie bikinis. Back when I was in culinary
school, I had a bit of a complex about it. And I don’t even
look that bad in a two-piece! But my tits are small and real, my
thighs just a tiny bit fleshy, and it was enough to make me want to
run back to Pelican Key Cove sometimes, where my biggest insecurity
was whether I might run into some guy I’d made out with during
Seven Minutes in Heaven in middle school.

I
spent three grueling, exhausting years here in culinary school, and
then two more as I trained in various kitchens around the city. I
never quite adapted to the speed of life or the perfect line of
everybody’s teeth. But not everyone in Key West is a Malibu
Barbie. I could always count on one person being real.

I
make it to the Cuban deli a little after noon, and my stomach is
already growling. The space inside is just as I left it: cramped
booths, packed with customers; busy counter with a bored teenager
behind it. I hesitate for a moment near the door. Back when I lived
here, I used to spend hours at the counter, chowing down on ropa
viejas and trying to press the owner for her pastelitos recipe. But
she’s nowhere in sight right now. Hmm, maybe I should have
called first. I clutch the box of cupcakes to my chest, shuffling
forward in line. It’s not until I get to the front and order
one guava pastry, one pineapple, one coconut, and an espresso that I
hear a familiar voice come booming from the back kitchen.

“Juliette
Rockwell? I’d know your order anywhere! You get back here right
now, girl!”

“Hermosa!”
I cry, relieved that my trip wasn’t for nothing. I slip past
the cashier, ignoring the dirty looks the customers waiting on line
shoot me, and head into the kitchen. There’s my old friend,
Hermosa Ramos, standing in back with a dirty apron on. She gives me a
quick squeeze.

“Jules,
you are a sight for sore eyes!”

“Hermosa,
it’s been too long!” I reply appreciatively. Then I hand
over the box. “These are for you. Thought it might make a
little dent in the debt I owe you.”

“Debt?”
Hermosa frowns, but takes the cupcake box anyway. “What debt?
You know I don’t lend money to anybody, Jules. Not even you!”

“I
know, and that’s a good policy. I meant they’re payback
for all the free pastries you gave me in culinary school.”

Hermosa’s
skeptical, but she pops open the box anyway. When she sees it
contains cupcakes, her eyes light up. “Oh, you know me way too
well, Juliette. These look delicious.”

I
blush. “It’s nothing compared to your baked goods. You
know, your cooking taught me more than almost any professor in
culinary school.”

“You
flatter me! You should tell that to the boys at Le Cordon Bleu. Maybe
they can put me on the payroll,” she says, giving me a wink.
She takes my hand in hers, leaving an employee to finish up the
orders for the lunch rush. “Come, sit with me. You’ll eat
my pastelitos, I’ll eat your cupcakes. We’ll have a
little cross cultural exchange and catch up.”

“I’d
like that,” I say, laughing as she leads me to a booth.

Soon,
I’ve drained my espresso and told Hermosa the whole story about
my new Key West rival. She dismisses it with a wave of her hand.

“I’ve
owned this place for thirty years, Jules,” she begins. I lift
my eyebrows.

“You
don’t look a day over forty.”

“Puh-lease.
I’m fifty-seven. But I was once a young, hot woman like you.
Full of life, tits out to here before I had my babies. Now they’re
down to my ankles.”

I
roll my eyes. They’re not. Hermosa is as fit as any Miami mami.
But she just laughs at my expression and goes on.

“You
have to work it while you got it, Jules. Have fun. With men, and
food, and dancing, and wine. Don’t worry about this—what
did you call it?”

“Pop-up
shop.”

“Pshaw.”
Hermosa flashes a hand through the air. “Pop-up shit is more
like it. You know the restaurant next door used to be a Cuban bakery.
Then a laundrette. Then a pawn shop. Can you imagine if I’d
buckled as soon as they opened, if I peed in my pants and cried into
my boots? You just gotta be strong and not let any of this get you
down.”

“Okay,
okay,” I concede, plucking a crumb from Hermosa’s plate.
She’s inhaled almost half the cupcakes. “I’ll do my
best.”

“You
better. Because you know, the other guy won’t be just ‘good
enough.’ You have to let yourself be really, genuinely great. I
know you have it in you.”

“Thanks,
Hermosa,” I say, and she puts her hand on top of mine to
squeeze.

“Anytime,
mama.”

I
go to bus our table for Hermosa, making room for the customers who
continue to trail through the door. Lunch hour is almost over, but
business hasn’t slowed at all. I guess that’s
perseverance for you.

I’m
feeling pretty good about our talk. I might not have a plan, not yet,
but after chatting with Hermosa and cupcakecasanova, I feel like I
have the attitude. And that’s half the battle to taking out
Mecca Cakes—and Cal with it.

But
then I drop off my tray and turn from the garbage can, and I run
smack dab into a man’s enormous, white-cotton clad chest. When
I look up, I almost choke in surprise. There in front of me is Cal
McKenzie, looking even better than he does in my fantasies.

“What
are you doing here?” I demand. He smiles, smoothly, serenely.

“I
could ask you the same thing,” he says.

#

It
turns out that Cal is here for the same reason I am: because Hermosa
makes the best damn pastelitos this side of Havana. He tells me he
fell in love with them while touring for his TV show. His excuses
don’t stop me from eying him suspiciously. But then Hermosa
rushes from her table and envelops him in a hug. It looks a little
bit like a small child hugging a St. Bernard. He even ruffles her
hair fondly when the embrace is over.

“Jules!”
she says happily, “do you know Callum McKenzie? He’s on
television
.”

“I’ve
heard,” I say dryly.

“You
two should talk,” she says, putting a hand on each of our backs
and shoving us together. “You’d make cute babies.”

With
that, she disappears behind the kitchen door. Damn that Hermosa. Not
subtle at all, but I guess when you’ve lived through the shit
that she has, you lose your tolerance for social niceties. Now I’m
all alone with Cal, and standing so close to him that I can
practically feel his chest rising and falling besides mine. I take a
careful step backwards.

God,
I hate that his very presence makes me feel this way—hot and
bothered, full of goosebumps. It was easier when he was only my
rival. But the way he touched me in that alleyway unmoored me,
knocked me off center. I never knew I could enjoy hate-fucking so
much. Or hate-non-fucking. There’s a big part of me that still
wants to take him up on that rain check. But is that a good idea? I
need time to reflect on what exactly I want from Cal, if anything.
Hard to do that when he’s staring intently at me.

“She’s
got a way with words,” I mutter to Cal. He lets out a laugh.

“No
argument here. Hermosa’s brilliant.”

“She
is. Don’t you love this place? It’s small, but it’s
so cozy. I’ve never seen it less than completely packed.”

“Nice
use of space,” he says with a shrug, and it makes me hate him
all over again. Because he doesn’t really seem that impressed,
and why should he be? His store is like twelve times the size of this
one.

“It’s
important to have gathering places like this,” I go on, the
passion rising in my voice. “It’s what I always dreamed
for Rock N Roll Cakes, that it would become a place where people come
together. Hot pastries, cold drinks, good conversation.”

“You
don’t have to sell me on it,” he says, leaning in even
closer. It doesn’t seem to bother him that we’re
practically touching, not one bit. It seems like heat is rising up
off his body, or maybe I’m only imagining it. “I could
see that working well for your store.”

“You
can?” I say with surprise. It doesn’t sound like an
insult. He seems to mean it genuinely.

But
I’m not sure I can trust him. I suck in my cheeks, trying my
best not to smile. He’s a chef. A creep. And he hasn’t
shown himself to be exactly trustworthy in the past.

“Anyway,”
I say quickly, before he can answer, “I’m sure it’s
no big deal to
you
.
Your managers determine the way your shop looks, right? You probably
have nothing to do with it, Cake Master.”

There’s
fire in my voice, and anger, too. Cal winches. He reaches up with a
broad hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You
know, Jules, I
like
you,” he begins. “I know you’re upset about the
store, but things will calm down soon enough. I promise.”

“You
can’t promise me that. I hardly know you. Why do you think I
should believe you?”

He
looks at me for a long time. Something hidden behind those burning
green eyes seems to tremble.

“I
get it,” he says. “You’ve been hurt before. I have,
too. But I would never do that to you.”

The
way his lips part softly while he waits for my response goes straight
to my heart and cracks it in two. Damn. I’m a sucker for a guy
who is strong, but vulnerable. I hate the way I can feel myself
opening to him.

But
I kind of love it, too.

Cal’s
still waiting for my answer. At last, his expression lightens. He
claps his hand against my shoulder with the kind of reassuring
strength that can only come from a man.

“You
and I, we didn’t get off on the right foot, Jules. How about we
call a truce and start fresh?”

I
exhale, hard. He’s really selling it. And honestly? I’m
buying every word.

“Fiiine,”
I say, “a truce. But I don’t have to like it.”

“Fair
enough. I’m Cal McKenzie.”

He
sticks his hand out, offering it to me. He looks so damned confident,
like he owns the place. Like he owns me. I take it, sighing, and
weakly shake. My fingers are so delicate, almost dainty next to his.
He’s smiling as our palms connect. I can’t really blame
him.

“Juliette
Rockwell,” I say.

Hermosa
gets us lunch on the house, Cuban sandwiches steaming hot and fatty
and rich. Cal and I eat in near-silence together, our gazes meeting
now and then. He has such a cute smile, curling and slightly cocky. I
honestly feel relieved about our truce. It was getting exhausting,
holding two conflicting ideas of Callum McKenzie in my head: on the
one hand, the douche bag who was ruining my business; on the other,
an incredibly sexy bastard who frosts my cupcake like nobody’s
business.