I’ll never forget the day I had to pack up my entire apartment and ask Owen to haul it out to storage. I love that apartment, and I was so happy the day I signed the lease. So excited to decorate it with a quirky mix of affordable IKEA furniture and vintage flea-market finds. So proud to show my parents that even if I was just a baker without a college degree, I could make it on my own.
And I’ll never forget the mortification of ending up homeless, a charity case for my little brother’s best friend. The desperation of looking for a job—any job—and fearing I’d never find work as a pastry chef again. I’ve been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hold on to everything I lost in my Very Bad Year. I can do this.
Ignoring the pie weights sitting on my chest, I turn back to Kasumi. “Thank you for being such a good friend.”
“Do you want me to stay and help with the cakes?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s late, and you’ve helped so much already.” I give her one more hug. “Go home and get some sleep.”
At the door, Kasumi pauses. “You know I’m always here for you, right? You can always talk to me.”
“Thanks,” I say with a forced smile and then turn back to the ganache. There’s one thing I can’t talk to anyone about. And in this moment, it makes me feel very, very alone.
Chapter 10
Thanks to my best friend and the other sous chefs, my new cakes are done in record time. I consider taking Kasumi up on her suggestion to tie a cement block to Doug’s disasters and toss them in the river, Sopranos-style. But I can’t bring myself to waste perfectly good food. They may look like something you’d avoid stepping on in Central Park, but I baked the cakes beneath that chocolate ganache mess, and I know they’ll taste delicious. I find a couple of pastry boxes and pack them up in case I see any homeless people on my walk.
I’ve managed to unload three cakes by the time I’m nearing Higher Grounds. I slow my steps, noticing the light spilling from the window onto the sidewalk and music drifting out when someone opens the door. I forgot that on weekends they stay open late for singer-songwriters, open mics, and poetry events. On a whim, I go inside. My stomach is still uneasy from what happened at work earlier, and I don’t really want to go home to an empty apartment to think about it.
Zoe is working today, and as I approach the counter, she calls out, “Hey, it’s Sadie, the Cat Lady.”
I cringe a little. “Oh, uh, you can just call me Sadie if you want.”
“Okay, Sadie it is.” She cocks her head, looking me up and down. “How are you holding up? I know you’re missing little Zoe.”
Oh God. Will I ever live this down? The thing about Zoe （the human） is that I know she’s not making fun of me. She hardly even knows me, but if she thinks I’m devastated over my cat, then she’s going to check in with me about it.
I take in her ripped jeans and worn green hoodie thrown over her Higher Grounds T-shirt, and all of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by missing her, and this whole place. When I worked here, I was so depressed I definitely didn’t appreciate it enough. Zoe is only about ten years older than me, but she’s always been kind of a mom figure for everyone who comes into the café. She allows José Luis to do his schoolwork when business is slow and never cares if someone has to leave early for a doctor’s appointment or to pick up their kids. And she does a lot to support the community: giving to school fundraisers, feeding homeless people, and making a space for local artists and performers. When I worked here during my Very Bad Year, Zoe would never have treated someone the way Xavier treated me today.
I have the strangest urge say thank you and give her a hug. She’d probably just hug me right back, but I’ve already drawn enough attention to myself.
“Uh, thanks for checking,” I say. “But I’m really fine about… Zoe. The cat, I mean. I’ve definitely… moved on.”
“Good.” She gives me a smile. “So, can I get anything for you?”
I order a decaf cappuccino, dropping my remaining cake box on the counter so I can dig in my purse for my wallet.
“Ohhh, what’s this?” Zoe hitches her chin at the box while she steams the milk.
“I’m an assistant pastry chef at Xavier’s and this was, um… I guess you could call it leftovers.” I open the box to give her a peek.
She blinks at the contents. “Oh my. You know what that sort of looks like…？”
“Oh yes. I’m aware,” I say with a smile. I tell her the story about Doug taking over the cake decorating—leaving out the part about why I was unavailable—and soon, she’s leaning on the counter laughing.
“I made all the components, though, so even though it looks like something you’d shovel out of a horse stall, it should still taste pretty good. Here”—I push the box in her direction—“try it.”
“Yeah?” Zoe asks, grabbing a plate and a knife. I cut her a piece, and she takes a bite.
This is my favorite part of being a pastry chef. The moment when one of my creations hits someone’s taste buds and their eyes go wide and then close as they savor the sweet and tangy layers of flavor. “Oh my God,” Zoe says, shoveling another bite into her mouth. “This is amazing.”
“Thanks.” I grin with pleasure. I needed a little boost of appreciation today.
Zoe hands me my cappuccino, then closes up the box and slides it in my direction.
“Oh no,” I say. “Keep it.”
“Really? My wife is a total chocolate addict. She’s going to be so happy.”
In my Very Bad Year, I made Zoe’s wife about a hundred café mochas when she came into the shop, and I’m aware of her affinity for chocolate. But of course, I can’t admit this. Instead, I just smile and pick up my cappuccino.
“Hey,” Zoe says as I turn to go. “I know you already have a job at Xavier’s… but let me know if you’d be interested in a little side gig. The place that’s been supplying our pastries has seriously decreased in quality.” I can’t tell her I’ve noticed, so I simply nod. “We have a whole commercial kitchen in the back that hardly ever gets used. And after tasting that cake, I’d be cool with you using your creativity to make whatever you want for us.”
The suggestion shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. After all, I worked at Higher Grounds for months, and I was definitely aware that the pastries were subpar. Why didn’t I ever offer to come up with something better?
Probably because I quit baking entirely when Xavier fired me. And I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I wonder if maybe I thought crafting muffins for a coffee shop was a little beneath me after working in high-end restaurant kitchens for most of my career.
I like the idea of helping Zoe out, though, and of having an opportunity to try some new recipes. Still, I hesitate. There are rumors that the executive pastry chef at Xavier’s might be on his way out, in which case, I want that job. Should I be committing to a side project that will take up so much of my time?
“Just think about it,” Zoe says, and I agree that I will.
I’m turning to leave when out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar pair of glasses and a café Americano. The wearer of the glasses looks up at me.