Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster (5 page)

On the car ride back, neither Cole nor I have the guts to talk about what happened. It is like it
didn't
happen at all. I can't think of the right words, and Cole can't either. Judging by the way he starts talking about the newspaper article and quickly jumps to the weather, I'd say he doesn't know what to make of it.

Me neither.

I walk into my apartment and let Susu up on the sofa. Bree is scrubbing pans in the kitchen. She looks up when I enter the room and shakes her head. She's going to be mad at me for leaving without her, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe it wasn't.

"Thanks for leaving me here alone with Jeff." Bree pauses to take a deep breath. "Well, how did it go? Did you figure out where Gino was staying?"

"Yes."

"And?" She places a hand on her hip, flicking a strand of strawberry blonde hair out of her face.

"We went there and…" Like Bree, I'm at a loss for words. All I can think about is Cole and the kiss. "We found binoculars, a date book, and then Detective Reid showed up."

"Ouch." She continues scrubbing dishes, and I jump in to help. It might force her to be less mad at me. "I bet he didn't like that."

"No, he didn't." I stare at the bowl she's rinsing. She scrubs it with soap and rinses it again. She repeats this same process a couple of times before deciding to move on. "Is something wrong?"

Bree comes to a halt—her cheeks turning rosy.

"No."

The way she blurts it out tells me otherwise.

"Sure," I respond.

"What about you?" she asks, noticing that I've also been scrubbing an already-clean pan for the same amount of time. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I blurt out the same way she did.

"Sure."

The two of us step away from the sink and retreat to the living room. Bree rubs at the water stains on her apron, and I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. The heat, while easier to handle indoors, is something I'm still fighting to get used to. Susu puts her head in my lap.

"I should take her back to Otto's," I say. "He might be home by now."

"Want company?" Bree waits for my response. I want to tell her all about Cole and what happened in Gino's apartment, but I'm not sure how to spit it out. Besides, saying it out loud means it really happened. I don't want things to change between the three of us.

You should've thought of that before you kissed the guy.

"Absolutely," I answer.

*   *   *

Bree looks shocked when we pull up to Chef Otto's rental house. I hop out of the car with Susu and punch in the garage code only to find that Otto's bright red Ferrari is still absent. I take a deep breath.

"Come on, girl. Let's get you some food."

"Did you see all this?" Bree pulls my arm. She jogs back toward the yard where there are piles of fallen pecans. Some that look whole and appetizing and some that have been torn to shreds by squirrels.
Crazy things
. "I can't believe, out of all people, Chef Otto would let all these go to waste."

"It wouldn't surprise me if he hasn't even noticed," I respond. "He spends too much time taking selfies and signing fan mail."

"I'm taking them," Bree replies. She starts loading handfuls into the car while I take Susu inside the house and refill her bowls with dog food and fresh water. She takes a few bites and then looks up at me. I contemplate keeping her for a little while longer. After all, Otto spends most of his weekdays on campus and apparently his weekends in Atlanta. Susu must be lonely. I sigh.

"Fine," I say out loud. "Finish eating, and I'll bring you back home with me."

Susu does what I ask. As soon as she's finished, I grab her dog bed and head back outside where Bree is still collecting fallen pecans. I start the car, looking in awe at the whole pecans piled on the passenger's seat. I put Susu in back and help Bree with her remaining pecan piles.

On our way home, Bree talks non-stop about them. We have enough nuts to make pecan pie, pecan sandies, pecan tassies, pecan and caramel cheesecake, turtles, pralines, and even German chocolate cake. She's so distracted that she hasn't mentioned her supposed allergy to Susu at all.

"I haven't even made it to the savories," Bree says as we head back inside our apartment.

"I don't think I can stomach it."

Bree excitedly retrieves her collection from the car, pulls out a nutcracker, and begins popping open shells. I read a chapter about the history of sugar pulling, Susu resting at my feet, while Bree begins experimenting with recipes. It's not long before our place is overloaded with the smell of cookies and piecrusts. I wait a while to see if she'll slow down, or at least take a water break. The clock is ticking closer and closer to midnight, and she still hasn't left the kitchen. I put my book down, my eyes feeling heavy, and join her.

The table is filled with pans and an assortment of cookies hot out of the oven. Bree pushes back a strand of frizzed hair and begins mixing cream and sugar and a pinch of salt in a heavy saucepan. She stirs until the mixture turns into a caramel color. She moves it from the heat and adds butter, vanilla, and a pile of chopped pecans.

"For some melt-in-your-mouth sweetness," she says, spooning the candy onto a sheet of parchment paper.

"Uh…" I eye the mountain of dishes piling up in the sink and the dozens of baked goods that she'll likely give away tomorrow morning. There's no way we could or
should
eat all this. "Why don't you power down and head to bed?"

"But there's still some left," Bree insists. She gestures toward a pile of raw pecans in a bowl near the sink. "I was going to make pie next."

"Pie?" I raise my eyebrows. If it's possible to bake yourself into a sugar coma, Bree just might do it. "Okay, that's it." I take the handle of the saucepan and force her to let go of it.

"Hey, my pralines," she whines.

"Bree, you've gone pecan crazy." I grab her by the shoulders and wait for her to take a breath and look around the kitchen at everything she has made in the past couple of hours.

"I have
not
gone pecan crazy," she argues. I can see the worry on her face. She won't make eye contact, and the vein that pops sometimes on her forehead when she's anxious is bulging.

"Sit down before you have a pecan heart attack." I pull her to the living room where Susu is standing at attention. She sniffs Bree's leg.

"Fine."

When Bree finally has the chance to slow down, her thoughts catch up with her. She buries her head in hands, rubbing her eyes. She smears what little makeup is left on her face. She's definitely not telling me something, which is funny because I've been keeping something from her too.

"What is it?" I ask. "You've been weird all evening."

"Before we get any further," Bree responds. She extends an arm toward the kitchen. "Try one of my pecan sandies—"

I cut her off by forcing her arm back down.

"I'm afraid I'm already
pecan-ed
out."

"You haven't even sampled my pralines." She steers us back to the subject of candy.

"I promise I will once you tell me what's going on," I answer.

"Ugh." Bree shakes her head. "I wish I could forget it."

"Is it Jeff?"

"That man drives me up the wall." She frowns, sticking out her bottom lip like she's tasted something sour. "Or should I say
boy
. Do you know how hard it was to get him to put his plate in the sink?"

"He probably did it on purpose just to make you mad."

"Yeah, well…no, I can't. It's too embarrassing. You go first."

"Me?" I place a hand on my chest.

"Yes,
you
. You've been hiding something too. Normally you'd be in and out of the kitchen grazing. You're avoiding me." She lifts her chin and looks down on me. "You tell me, and I'll tell you."

"Fine," I agree. "On three."

"Fine." Bree composes herself, sitting up straight with her legs crossed. "If you want to be all
sorority girl
about it. On the count of three."

"One," I count. "Two." I take a deep breath. "Three."

Time to spill.

"I kissed Cole," I admit.

"I kissed Jeff," Bree spits out at the same time.

My stomach leaps.
It's the heat. It's got to be the heat.

"What do you mean you kissed Jeff?" I ask, shocked.

"What do you mean you kissed Cole?" Bree responds.

I stare up at the ceiling. This semester keeps getting weirder and weirder.

"I think I'll take one of those pralines now."

Chef Otto stands in front of our class like he does every morning—bright-eyed with a practiced camera smile. His cinnamon brown hair is parted to the side, and he has an afternoon shadow on his neck. I lean away from Georgina as she smiles and raises her hand, volunteering to cover a wedding cake with fondant. Life in the front row hasn't given me the opportunity to sit back and observe. Georgina volunteers us for just about everything.

"Thank you, Georgina," Chef Otto responds. He steps aside, passing the reigns on to her. Georgina has no problem rolling her fondant thin enough to shape yet thick enough to avoid tearing. She lifts the dough onto a round dummy cake made of Styrofoam. She uses her fondant smoother to make the edges flawless, leaving crisp corners around the top. "Perfect and in record time."

Georgina nods, her dark blonde bun shining in the light, and proudly returns to her seat. Chef Otto moves on to his main demonstration for the day—a more advanced piping technique called Australian stringwork. The basics of frosting crumb coats, piping borders, and florals from marzipan and gum paste are all behind us.

"Once you've got your royal icing at the correct consistency, you add the pins." Chef Otto places evenly spaced pins at an upward angle along a quarter of the cake. "Remember, this is all about creating a three-dimensional piece. I want this cake to look like she's wearing a garter."

Laughter on cue.

Otto proceeds to pipe bridges in between each pin. The idea is to pipe, polish, and embellish so that the cake looks like it has been wrapped in an actual piece of ruffled fabric or even sheer lace. Chef Otto pipes his strings and leaves them to dry on the pins. When he removes them, the design should stay in place, giving the cake a three-dimensional design.

"There are many different styles of stringwork, but all the concepts are the same." He finishes with ease and holds up his hands as if he's competing in a cake competition. "Not bad, huh? All it needs are some sugar berries and greenery, and you've got yourself a product with a hefty price tag."

"You make it look so easy." Georgina compliments him. I glance at her, knowing that no amount of dirty looks will prevent her from being such a suck-up.

"Years of practice," he replies. "Now it's your turn. Complete a cake with your partner, and once you've finished you can begin discussing the theme for your final buffets."

"Wait a second." I raise my hand but speak up anyway. "I thought our final buffets were going to be an individual assignment?" A grand buffet is our final culinary project before graduation. Each of us will be given a certain amount of time to design and create our own tablescape of desserts to be graded and eaten by invited guests. I've been thinking a lot about mine. I want my display cake to be a representation of my past meeting my present—a midnight dance. Plus, I think I'm the only one daring enough to present an all-black final cake. Traditional white wedding cakes are gorgeous. Why can't an all-black be just as breathtaking?

"There's no way one student could make all the required confections in the time allotted," he answers. "No, the final buffet will be done in pairs. The pairs I assigned at the beginning of the term. I think I've given you all plenty of time to learn to work together."

Fudge.

I turn to Georgina, who also has a sour look on her face. So far, we've agreed that we don't like working with each other. That's about it. I prepare fondant for our practice cake, and attempt to wrap my head around the fact that she's going to reject every single design I come up with.

"Don't worry," Georgina says as she mixes our royal icing. "I already have a concept for our cake centerpiece." I hold my breath.
Please, don't say roses. And don't say pink.
"An all-white wedding cake with Lambeth piping and pearls. I'm thinking royal wedding style."

"Lambeth piping?" I repeat. It's an overly lavish style of over-piping so that each icing design extends well beyond the actual cake.
It would be even more amazing in black.

"Yes." She purses her lips.
The duck lips
. "I assume you have a problem with that, like always?"

"No."

Georgina does a double take.

"No?" she repeats.

"I like the idea, but—"

"Oh, here it comes." She shakes her head.

"What if we made the cake black instead of white?" I suggest. Georgina's eyes go wide as she coughs to clear her throat. She laughs.

"You're kidding, right? Sometimes I don't get your sense of humor."

"No, I'm being serious," I say.

"You're delusional if you think that'll look good," she responds.
About the reaction I was expecting.
"Who wants to eat a cake that'll stain their teeth?"

"Most people don't eat the fondant anyway," I add.

"Our instructors will, and I for one don't plan on staying an extra semester." She holds her head high, testing the stiffness of her icing. "We're doing the royal wedding theme. Classy blues and golds."

"We're supposed to
agree
on our theme," I remind her. "I don't agree. Blue and gold? It's been done before. Many, many times might I add."

"So?" She shrugs as I prepare our dummy cake with pins. "If it makes you feel better, you can decide what complementing pastries we make." She begins piping bridges. "Except none of those truffle things you make."

"
Brigadeiro
?"

"Too exotic," she says. "We'll need to stick to traditional English desserts."

"The royal wedding theme is out," I say through my teeth. "I'm not making bonbons and crumpets for my final project. I want to be proud of my work, not embarrassed by it."

"Have you ever even tried a crumpet?" she asks. "It doesn't belong in an elegant dessert display."

"It was just an example." I ball my fists together.

"Anyway, I thought you of all people would want to lay low and let someone else take the driver's seat for a change."

"Meaning?" It takes all I have not to pull her pins out and let her stringwork fall flat.

"I've heard the rumors floating around campus, and all of a sudden the police are here." She raises her eyebrows. "You just
have
to be the center of attention, don't you?"

Relax. Breathe.

"
No
royal wedding," I say again. "End of story."

We finish our assignment in silence, and despite my frustration, I still manage to complete a row of stringwork that Chef Otto approves of. I begin cleaning my station as the rest of the class gradually leaves the kitchen. Cole and Jeff both leave at the same time, and Bree waits until Jeff is out of sight before she grabs her bag and heads for the door. Georgina takes my pastry bag and metal tips and carries them over to the sink.

"Nice work today," Chef Otto says over my shoulder.

"Are you paying me in compliments, Chef?" I tease. "It might take a few more than that if I get back to my apartment and find that Susu has ripped apart the couch cushions."

"Right," he says quietly. "I'm sorry about that. Business took longer than expected."

"No problem." I stand up to stretch my back. "Turns out she's a champ."

"I remember when she was a puppy." He stares off to the side as if reminiscing about far-off memories. "Of course, I wasn't on TV back then."

"Then you know she likes you for
you
," I conclude. I playfully nudge his shoulder as Georgina returns from washing our cake tools. Her eyes dash to the spot on Otto's arm that was just grazed with the side of my hand.

"You're funny, Poppy." Otto has no problem saying it in front of my lovestruck kitchenmate. "Stop by this evening, okay?"

"Sure," I agree.

As Chef Otto returns to his workspace up front, Georgina pulls me aside. She glances back at our instructor and waits until his attention is directed at the mess of royal icing that a pair of students left without cleaning up. He shakes his head and jots a few things down in his notebook.

"What was that about?" Georgina whispers. "Why did he invite you over?"

"It's nothing." I know the longer I ride this wave, the more anxious she'll get. Maybe I can even get her to agree to my midnight dance idea in exchange for Chef Otto's address?

"Like hell it's nothing." She stamps her foot, having trouble keeping her voice at a whisper. "Are you two…?" She wrinkles her forehead, her cheeks turning scarlet. "Don't tell me
that's
why you made it this far?"

"Are you calling me a whore?" I blurt out.

"If the shoe fits," she says through her teeth.

I imagine what it might feel like to claw at her face and tell her exactly where she can stick her royal wedding idea. My thoughts spin out of control as if swirling into one giant funnel cloud that could touch down at any moment. I don't know how to deal with Georgina. I tried the strong and silent approach. That hasn't done me much good. But will yelling back help me or make it worse?

I take a long breath before I say anything.

"Fine, come with me."
Actions speak louder than words
. "See what it is we really get up to."

It's not the answer she was hoping for.

"I will," she says, placing a hand on her hip.

"I hope you like dogs."

*   *   *

Chef Otto answers the door with a concerned look. Before he even greets us, he looks up and down the street like a swarm of fans might be waiting just behind the pecan trees. Susu rushes inside for a drink of water, and Georgina eagerly steps into the front foyer. Driving her here in my old Honda was torture.

"Such a beautiful home," she compliments him. "Turn of the century plantation? Crown molding. Arched doorways. And I bet this place has some gorgeous fireplaces?"

"Yeah, yeah." Otto gives his response in a hurry. "Close the door. Quickly." He rubs his damp forehead as I squeeze by Georgina with Susu's dog bed. I follow her toward the kitchen and help myself to an Italian angel wing. I savor the satisfyingly sweet crunch of the pastry and lie to myself for a few seconds—
Georgina
isn't here
. Susu barks abruptly when Georgina enters the room and bends down to pet her.

Good girl, Susu.

"She's usually very friendly," Chef Otto assures her. I take another bite of my pastry, and Georgina glares at me.

"I guess you were right," I say to her. "I am a whore." I lick a cluster of powdered sugar from my lips. "A
pastry
whore."

Georgina is speechless. She bites the corner of her lip as I smirk and look from Susu to the leash in my hand.

"What?" Otto comments.

"Oh, nothing." I chuckle at Georgina's expense.

Otto rushes to the back window and closes the blinds after doing a quick scan of the yard. Susu watches him carefully. I hand him the piece of paper with his alarm codes, and he shoves it in his pocket. I haven't seen him act this flighty. It's like he downed one too many espressos before answering the door. Or something else.

"Are you okay, Chef?" Even Georgina notices his odd behavior. She readjusts the neckline of her top, making sure it shows off her figure, and tries to comfort him. He's pacing too quickly from window to window for her to succeed.

"No," he answers. "I think I'm being followed."