Georgie’s argument comes quickly. “Bill didn’t make macarons.”
“But you do,” Cecily argues for me, raising an eyebrow at Georgie. “And if you want to convince this town and its questionable attorney that you are not a threat to their ecosystem, you need to prove that you trust this man enough to truly be his wife. AKA you have to trust him with something important to you. King is trusting you with his uncle’s bakery, Georgie, and I don’t think you realize how difficult this is for him.”
Georgie’s eyes meet mine, her eyebrows low, and while I would absolutely love to pretend Cecily is wrong, I can’t. Maybe it’s because it’s coming from her friend, or maybe it hasn’t been put in such clear terms before now, but Georgie seems to grasp my take on this for the first time.
“Okay,” she says with a sigh. “King, I’m sorry. I know you’re not getting a lot out of this deal.”
“No, I’m not,” I agree.
Cecily clears her throat. I don’t know how she knows I’m holding back, but I’m getting the sense that she is very good at her job.
I roll my eyes. “But Kingston’s was dying, and if you can save her, I have to let you do it. Even if I don’t want you to change it.”
“Georgie knows what she’s doing,” Cecily says and puts a hand on my arm.
I stare at it for a moment, but it’s kind of nice being touched by someone who isn’t flirting with me. That doesn’t happen often. Okay, wow, I should really get out more. I sound pathetic.
“She’s been dreaming up her own bakery for years,” Cecily continues, “and you should have seen her talking to that Beck guy earlier. She loves this place, and she’s going to make it shine.”
With a warm smile toward her friend that I wish she reserved only for me, Georgie grabs a couple of aprons and hands one to me. “Okay, well, if we want to get these done before midnight, we’d better get started.”
Cecily snatches the apron out of her hand before she can tie it. “You’re not touching anything, Georgiana, so you’re not going to need this. How about you take a seat?”
Georgie is clearly not happy about being forced into the office chair, but she doesn’t argue. Cecily grabs another chair from the lobby for herself, and then she motions for us to begin.
“Okay,” Georgie says with a bit of strain in her voice. “First, you’re going to need to whip up some egg whites…”
Forty-five minutes later, I’m covered in powdered sugar and ready to storm out of the bakery in frustration, Georgie is going hoarse from shouting at me, and Cecily is having way too much fun for someone who, as far as I’m aware, is on our side. I’m starting to doubt that part.
“You’re supposed to be tucking the kids in for bed, Kingston!” Georgie says. “Not drowning your enemies in a bathtub!”
“That analogy doesn’t even make sense,” I growl. I’m attempting to fold the almond flour mixture into the green-colored egg whites, but apparently I’m being too aggressive. If I was holding the spatula any lighter, I wouldn’t be touching it at all.
Georgie lasted in her chair for about five minutes, and she’s been hovering over me ever since. The only reason she hasn’t taken the bowl out of my hands is because Cecily tied her hands behind her back, but that hasn’t stopped her from leaning on my arm as if she might telepathically control my hands for me. “You’re doing it all wrong,” she complains.
“I know what ‘fold’ means,” I argue. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m not completely useless.” Though, Georgie’s doing a great job of making me feel that way. “I lived with Uncle Bill for almost a decade, so I did pick up a thing or two.”
“Yeah, well, Bill wasn’t exactly a trained pastry chef, was he?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Georgie winces. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I loved Bill. You know I did.”
My own words come out rough but quiet. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
She sighs. “I know. You just need to…” She nods toward the half-mixed bowl of batter in front of us. “If you don’t mix it gently, you’ll knock all the air out of the egg whites.”
“Oh.” I frown at the mixture. “I didn’t realize that was the reason for all of this ‘tucking into bed’ nonsense.”
Chuckling, Georgie nudges my arm, which I take as an invitation to keep mixing. “It was the best I could come up with. If I knew anything about surfing, I would have found a surf analogy.”
“Did you ever go surfing with King over the summers?” Cecily asks.
“No,” we both say together.
I tried so many times to convince her to at least try it, but Georgie’s fear of the ocean is strong. I don’t blame her, but it would have made those summers when we were young all that much better. I enjoyed doing the things she wanted to do, but surfing is in my soul. I would have loved to share that part of me with her.
“Hmm,” Cecily says and jots something down on the iPad she pulled out soon after we started this macaron business. Apparently she really meant it when she said she would do her job right, and I’m terrified of what Vanderman might end up reading at the end of these two weeks. If tonight is any proof, Georgie and I are both a little too hard-headed to play nicely with each other.
Georgie clears her throat, pulling my attention back to the macaron batter. “A couple more times, and I think you’ll be good. Through the middle and around the sides…”
I do as she tells me, though I honestly can’t say with certainty that it’s mixed all the way through. “This is ridiculously complicated for a little cookie.”
“Macaronage is something every pastry chef hates at first, but once you get the hang of it, it’s not that bad.”
“When did you learn all this? You didn’t go to school or anything.”
Georgie smiles, and it seems like she’s lost in memory. “I learned most things from Bill, and then I practiced other techniques during the rest of the year by watching videos online and reading recipe blogs. I got a job at a really good bakery not long after I met Cecily.”
We both glance at Cecily, who grins back at us before jotting down some more notes. A cheery chime fills the space a second later, and she looks down at her phone. “It’s Jet,” she says, lifting the phone to her ear and slipping out into the lobby with her iPad tucked under her arm.
“Her husband,” Georgie explains.
“Ah.”
For a moment, she and I stand here and look at each other, like neither of us is sure what we should do now that we’re no longer under the watchful gaze of our therapist. There’s no question Cecily will be back at some point and expecting us to continue, but what do we do in the meantime?
“You’ll need a piping bag next,” Georgie says after clearing her throat. When I open a drawer to grab one, only to find it full of towels instead, she bites her lip. “Sorry. I moved them to that one over there. It helps my flow by having that stuff closer to where I usually do the piping work.”
I ignore the flash of irritation that rushes through me. “Smart.” I mean that, even if the word came out a little rough. I can’t expect Georgie to operate exactly the same way Uncle Bill did, and swapping drawers isn’t the same as erasing someone’s memory.
With a piping bag in hand, I start loading up the batter and search for another topic of conversation. If I can keep her talking, she’s less likely to judge the mess I’m making as I try to get all the batter into the bag. “What about that fancy boyfriend of yours?” I ask. I regret it instantly but keep going. “Did you learn anything from him?”
