The Second Chance Year(53)
I can’t really make the cream puffs in advance, they’ll go soggy and limp, so if I say yes, I’ll have to come in on Saturday. I do some quick calculations in my head, cutting several hours from my birthday prep time line. If I finish all my baking for Owen’s party on Friday, I’ll have time to run over here to make the cream puffs on Saturday morning before I go back to help set up the furniture and change into my party clothes. It will probably mean an all-nighter on Friday, and I’ll be exhausted for the party.
But if I say no, it could erase all the goodwill I’m building up with Xavier. I’ll look like I’m not willing to be a team player, and that could be the end of the executive pastry chef job for me. I can’t risk it, especially now that it’s so close.
“Sure,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “I’d love to help out.”
Xavier gives me a long look across the prep table. “Thanks, Sadie. I appreciate it.”
Friday morning, I arrive at Higher Grounds before dawn, and I’ve never been so thankful to work in a coffee shop in my life. Zoe greets me with a double latte, and I practically chug it while I run into the kitchen to organize my workspace and start the assembly line of mini pastries I’ve planned to cover the ten-foot dessert table.
The list is impressive: bite-sized lemon cheesecakes, chocolate cream puffs, and strawberry basil tarts. Orange Creamsicle macarons, rosemary shortbread, and salted caramel cookie sandwiches with espresso cream filling, just to name a few.
It’s a monumental amount of work, but I’m determined to pull it off. Not just for my brother’s birthday, but to help Zoe to keep the café afloat. At some point in the past few months, Higher Grounds became more than just a place where I work a part-time gig. It’s a community.
My community, I realize as I slip out into the main room to find that Mrs. Kaminski has turned into a full-on drill sergeant, barking orders at Jacob and José Luis as they attempt to hang a HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign over the coffee counter.
It’s a bit early for decorations—the café is still open for regular customers today and tomorrow—but Mrs. Kaminski insisted. I think she’s secretly thrilled to be included in our big project. I’m reminded again of the impression I had of her during my Very Bad Year, how I thought she was just a grumpy old bat. Now I know that she lives alone, her husband died years ago, and she’s not allowed to have pets. Higher Grounds is where she found connection, the same way I did.
“Move that to the right. Over there.” Mrs. Kaminski flicks a crooked finger in the general direction of José Luis’s right hand.
“Here?” José Luis tugs at his end of the sign.
“No. That’s all wonky.” She waves to the left of Jacob. “It needs to go that way. Pull it to the left.”
Narrowing his eyes in concentration, Jacob carefully slides the sign an inch to the left, and then looks to Mrs. Kaminski for confirmation. “How’s this?”
“Too far now. Go right,” Mrs. Kaminski snaps. But I notice a glint in her eye, and I swear now she’s just messing with them. Jacob and José Luis play tug-of-war with the sign for a few more minutes until Mrs. Kaminski decides she’s tortured them enough and orders them to climb down. In a graceful movement, Jacob braces his hand on his chair back and hops off, landing right in front of me. He shoots me a wink, showing he knows what Mrs. Kaminski is up to, and damn it, my heart slides sideways like layer cake on a hot day.
I quickly tear my gaze away from the man in front of me and take stock of how the rest of the setup is going. “Love the decorations, Mrs. Kaminski.” Though she only growls a response, I can tell by the way the corners of her lips twitch for just a second that she’s pleased with the compliment.
We’ve all been working on this party for weeks, and I can’t believe everything is finally coming together for the big event tomorrow. José Luis practiced a dozen different cocktail recipes until we settled on our favorites, Zoe handled the food and special events liquor license, Mrs. Kaminski took charge of furniture arrangements and decorations, and Jacob pretty much did whatever I told him to do, including Ubering all over the city to pick up supplies and putting together a killer playlist to pipe through the café’s speakers.
“How’s it going with the desserts, Sadie?” Jacob asks, his gaze skimming over my chef’s coat.
Suddenly, I remember that the ingredients for hundreds of mini pastries are covering the prep tables in back. “Oh my God. I have so much to do. I have to go.” I spin on my heel and run for the kitchen where thankfully, I’m in time to pull two dozen gluten-free almond cookies out of the oven.
I fly around the kitchen setting the mixer to whip egg whites into stiff peaks and stirring choux pastry dough in a pan on the stove. I’m just starting to spread icing on an endless row of miniature dark chocolate cakes when someone slips through the door behind me. Immersed in my multitude of tasks, I only vaguely register that the person is at the sink washing their hands. I don’t have even a second to look up and see who it is until suddenly, a strong male hand gently reaches over and slides the icing spatula from my grasp. Startled, I spin around to find myself staring up into Jacob’s dark chocolate eyes, only inches from mine. I blush brighter than a red velvet cake.
“I’ll ice them, you decorate,” he says. “Does that sound okay?”