“So are you.” I wrinkle my forehead. “You’re the dean of the whole department. So why do you have to risk losing a limb to frostbite while Dad gets to stay home?”
“Oh.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Men always get away with things like that.” My mom gives a resigned shrug, and my memory snaps to Xavier insisting Doug could finish making my cakes despite his lack of experience. To the executive pastry chef taking credit for my lemon tarts when his tasted like hand soap.
“You’re dealing with sexism, even at your level?”
“I’ve dealt with sexism at every level. I don’t know any woman in my field who hasn’t.”
I don’t know any woman in my field who hasn’t either. But for some reason I thought it would be different for someone who’d made it all the way to the top of a “respectable” field like hers. Someone with so much power. “But you’re in charge of everyone. Why don’t you stand up and demand that things change? Refuse to go to the conference in the North Pole and tell one of those dudes in your department that they have to go instead.”
My mom sits up straight. “Because going to that conference is exactly how I ended up in charge of everyone. I publish papers and rack up presentations for the most prestigious professional organizations. I play the game and work twice as hard as any man in my program. And now, I’m one of the few women in the entire country at the head of a university literature department.”
I sink back against the couch cushions. “Wow, I had no idea.”
She gives me a pointed look. “You end up at the top of your field by working within the system, not making a scene every time you feel you’ve been wronged.”
Gazing around her big, fancy office with its wall of diplomas and shiny mahogany desk in the middle, I have to admit, nobody could argue that my mom’s not a success. “But don’t you ever feel uncomfortable about it? I mean, you know the system is messed up. You know it’s not fair that dad can do what he wants, and you can’t. Aren’t you making it harder for the next woman by smiling and going along with it? Shouldn’t you use your power to speak up?”
My mom sighs. “What good would that do? I’d be branded as hysterical, and the department would be wary of hiring the next woman. Is that really any better for anyone?”
I let my mom’s words sink in. Are her actions any different from how I’ve spent my second chance year? I’ve gone out of my way to be agreeable at work, to go along with Xavier’s demands, and to deliberately bite my tongue. It’s not like I don’t know that if I were a man, Xavier would treat me differently. And it’s not like I don’t know it’s wrong. But I’ve tried speaking up and look how well that worked out for me. Was I really better off getting fired? Losing my apartment? Getting blackballed from the entire industry? Or am I better off grabbing that executive pastry chef job and running with it? Maybe making a space for the next woman?
“I’m up for a big promotion at Xavier’s.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself. “He’ll be announcing it any day now. Executive pastry chef. It’s kind of a big deal.”
I’m not supposed to say anything, it’s not even official yet. But when my mom’s eyebrows raise, and she says, “Really?” in a voice that sounds maybe a teeny-tiny bit interested, I don’t regret a thing.
I nod, leaning into my story. “You know Xavier is a frequent guest judge on Top Chef, and he’s written several best-selling cookbooks.”
“I remember you mentioned he’s a TV personality. I didn’t realize he’s also an author.”
“This job—it’s not just about baking cupcakes. I’ll be Xavier’s right-hand person, in charge of design and execution of all the desserts at the restaurant. I’ll really make a name for myself. Maybe even end up with a publishing deal for my own cookbook, too.” Now I’m really getting ahead of myself, but I can’t seem to stop talking. Especially when my mom cocks her head and not only looks in my direction, but for the first time, it’s like she actually sees me.
“It does sound like a very promising opportunity.”
I grab her hand, seizing the moment. Now that she’s offered a tiny slice of approval, I want the whole damn pie. “Mom, come into the city and have dinner at Xavier’s. I’d love for you to see what it’s really like there. I think you’d be impressed.”
She nods slowly. “Maybe I will. Let me wrap up this semester first, and we can look at our calendars over winter break.”
“Okay! That would be great. Anytime you can make it.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” She smiles.
The doorbell rings, announcing the first guest arriving for dinner. I jump up to answer it, glowing like a brioche bun browning in the oven.
Chapter 29
We always have at least three or four of my parents’ wayward graduate students and the literature department’s visiting professors at our holiday gatherings. When I was a kid, there was nothing more boring than sitting at the Thanksgiving table through two hours of conversation about the social commentary in Austen compared to Bront?. Don’t ask me which Bront?. Apparently, there were several.
Let’s be honest, I still find it really boring, but at least now there’s alcohol. Plus, I’m still feeling cautiously warm and fuzzy after my conversation with my mom earlier, so I’m willing to nod along.
When we’ve exhausted the Janes—both Eyre and Bennett—the conversation moves to Owen’s new job, but there’s only so much the literature crowd can say about self-driving vehicles. Across the dining table, a gray-haired Shakespearean scholar named Angela is starting to look a little cross-eyed. When she leans across the table toward me, I brace myself, hoping she won’t ask my thoughts on Macbeth.
“Sadie,” she says. “I don’t believe I know what you do for work.”
I reflexively glance at my mom, waiting for her to interrupt before I admit to her academic friend that I’m just a baker. But as my mom makes her way around the table pouring coffee, she gives me a little pat on the arm. “Sadie is a pastry chef at a restaurant called Xavier’s in the city.”
My eyes widen at her tone. Maybe there isn’t quite pride in her voice, but there’s not disapproval either.
“I admit,” Angela confides with a smile, “the Food Network is a bit of a guilty pleasure. I’m very familiar with Xavier’s reputation. Fran, why didn’t you tell me your daughter is in charge of desserts at a famous restaurant?”
I hesitate. Technically, I’m not in charge yet. And I don’t want to lie. “Well, I’m really an assistant. But a lot of the recipes are mine, and I do most of the work of executing them.”
“Sadie’s up for a big promotion,” my mom says. “So, she’ll be in charge soon.”
My mouth drops open because this might be the first time in decades of Thanksgiving dinners that my mom has volunteered anything about my baking to her friends and colleagues.
“You are?” Owen calls from the other end of the table. “Nice work, Sadie.”