Page 1 of Season's Schemings
1
MADDIE
July
“This isn’t working.”
A camera rolls closer to me, zooming in on my face as I wipe a smudge of flour from my cheek with the sleeve of my novelty Christmas sweater. I flip off the mixer and turn to look at my boyfriend, Adam, who’s standing next to me at the counter, stirring food coloring into a vat of royal icing.
“Maybe add another drop or two of color?” I advise as I pick up a spatula and start scraping batter off the edge of the mixing bowl. The camera looming ever closer to me is serving as a very clear reminder that there’s no time to waste—we only have two hours to produce 200 cookies for the judges, with no less than three different flavors and Christmassy designs on them. “If we want to do a Santa cookie, the color has got to be really rich and vivid.”
“I know how to make frosting, Maddie,” Adam retorts, pulling at the collar of his own itchy holiday sweater, and I hear it immediately: the thinly disguised contempt in his tone.
He’s been using that tone a lot with me lately.
Because he’s stressed,I reassure myself.
And he really does know how to make frosting… better than me, that’s for sure. We’re both bakers at heart, but I usually focus on healthy ingredient substitutes for traditional baked goods, whereas Adam’s the pastry chef at a high-end restaurant in metro Atlanta. He’s been making some strides towards opening his own place: a dessert emporium where he’ll create luxurious confections to cater to the most upper-crust and refined of sweet-toothed cravings.
It was my idea for us to apply as a couple’s team for the Food Network’sBehemothHoliday Baking Bonanza!I thought the television exposure might do him good. That the publicity might help him get on his feet. Even if it did mean putting my own budding career on pause for a hot second. Or more. I’m not sure anyone’s going to want to hire a nutritionist known for peddling butter, flour and sugar in gargantuan quantities, but I’ll worry about that later.
I also thought it might be a nice way for us to spend more time together. Adam’s been hard at work trying to make his business dream a reality, and we haven’t seen much of each other lately. Which is rather unusual. Adam’s been in my life almost as long as I can remember—his dad and my stepdad are criminal defense lawyers at some fancy law office downtown, and when my Mom married my stepdad, she became friends with Adam’s mom, too.
As a couple, we just made sense. While other high-schoolers spent their weekends partying and illicitly drinking, Adam and I would make cookies together. Until Adam graduated a year before me and moved on to culinary school, creating soufflés and choux pastry and leaving me to lick snickerdoodle batter from the bowl alone on Friday nights.
But having a dessert emporium is Adam’s dream, and I totally respect all the work he’s put into it. Including frequent meetings with Elizabeth Carberry, business advisor extraordinaire. And really, really pretty.
I know, because I’ve visited her website. Numerous times.
I was a little suspicious for awhile… but then, I found the ring in his sock drawer.
Adam’s finally going topropose.
And I’d bet money that he’s planning on proposing this Christmas. My family has spent every holiday season with Adam’s family at their cabin in Aspen for years. It was at that cabin that Adam asked me out for the first time, and though it was over a decade ago, I still remember it like it was yesterday. It would be theperfectplace for him to propose. Bookend our relationship. Christmas is only a few months away now.
That has to be why he’s been so stressed and distant lately. Planning a proposal for your girlfriend of over a decade while also trying to start your own business has to be alotof pressure. And on top of that, I had this idea for us to do this nationally televised baking show together.
But a nagging, unsettled voice in me wonders if I have it wrong. Maybe this whole thing—making 200 novelty holiday cookies for a TV show—is beneath him and his luxurious dessert brand.
Maybe he’s only taking part in it becauseIwanted us to?
I suddenly feel a bit guilty. Guilty enough to smile and soothe his snapping tone.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” I say gently as I put a hand on his arm, trying to ignore the cameraperson who’s currently getting all up in my face. Which I’m sure is beet-red and sweaty as all hell. I feel like I’m about to melt into the floorboards. Why do they have to film Christmas shows in the height of summer when it’s literally a hundred degrees out? “I’m sure you know better than me how to fix the frosting.”
“I’m not talking about the damn frosting.” Adam’s jaw tics and he yanks his sweater off. His glasses get stuck in the process and go flying, skidding across the counter.
He blinks at me, all squinty.
“Oh, let me get those for you!”
I can’t even take a single step before he grabs my arm.
In-my-face cameraperson is now literally so close, I can see my tiny, surprised, red-cheeked reflection on the lens. In the corner, the judges have taken notice of the commotion and are looking at us with interest. Another camera materializes right next to us. And another.
Apparently, our little tiff is more interesting than the grannies at the next station happily whipping up fruit cookies.
“Mads,” Adam says, looking at me through unfocused eyes. His eyesight has always been terrible, and contacts never agreed with him.