Page 53 of Sweet and Salty

I drop the spatula I’m holding, and it makes a deep clanging noise on the floor. Thank heck the kringle is already on the cooling racks. My mouth is so dry I’m not sure I can form words. “Um, yes! Yes, I love that show.”

“Thank you! We are so proud of it! Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that we saw your Insta post, the one with your Wild in Love cake, and it’s absolutely fabulous! We have never seen a cake like that before! How unique! I’ll bet it tasted just as good. What were the flavors again?” There is a pause where I imagine her scrolling through her notes. “Chocolate, passionfruit, and raspberry cream! Heaven!”

Apart from her affinity for speaking in a royal we with exclamation points, her cheer is infectious. Or maybe it’s the compliments.

“Thank you.” I perch on the stool set beside my worktable. “The bride was very clear on what she wanted.”

“So true! And you delivered!” The woman laughs. “Anyway, we are so impressed with the cake and the rest of your gallery. Frosting Monkey, such a great name. We wanted to invite you to audition forAmerica Bakes!Is that something you’d be able to do?”

“Yes.” I speak without fully considering anything, but it feels like the completely right move. “Yes. Definitely. I’d love to.” My mind fills with a thousand different recipes, colorful and flavorful.

“Wonderful! I’ll just get your email and we will send you all the details.” I give it to her quickly. “Perfect! I’ll get that sent out over the weekend. By the way, who was that gorgeous man standing with you in that photo? Talk about a hunk of Wisconsin cheddar.”

I reel from the abrupt shift in the conversation. Also, despite being a lifelong Wisconsinite, I have never before referred to a man as a “hunk of Wisconsin cheddar.” Besides. Jesse is more of a rare, aged blue cheese.

“Jesse? Do you mean Jesse Vanek?” Great. I’ve been so pulled together, so professional, and now here I am blathering away.

“Jesse Vanek? Great name. I notice you didn’t tag him. I wouldn’t mind following some of these lumberjack thirst traps, if you know what I mean.”

Of course I do. She isn’t being obtuse in any sense of the word. “He’s just a friend. He helped me out at the wedding.” The words taste like week-old stale donuts in my mouth. Just a friend? A person who refers to my thighs as thick and glorious, says he wants to spend all his time with them as earmuffs– and actually means it– is not “just a friend.” So much for keeping it casual, Laura.

“I don’t think he’s on social media,” I say, since she seems to be waiting for a reply.

“Right! A real mountain man, huh? Mm, yes, please.” She laughs, but it sounds tinny through my speaker. “Anyhoo, we’ll send out the audition information over the weekend, so make sure you’re checking your email. Have a great day!” The call ends with absolutely no fanfare, just an empty line.

My hands shake where I sit.America Bakes!I’ve watched that show from its first season, when the tent they were in caved on one side during an unexpected snowstorm. And that episodewhere Indira Ravaswamy baked her bread sculpture into a replica of a mango tree?

The scent of chocolate-filled kringle wafts toward me and I stare at them. How are they good enough for a show like that? Am I good enough?

Maybe I should call her back, explain that it’s a mistake, that I don’t think I am the right candidate.

Then it occurs to me that she had never given me her name.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Jesse

I stand behindthe counter at Moe’s, counting the truths I’ve told. It’s a far shorter list than the lies, so it’s solely for the sake of expediency. Besides, there are only a couple of people in the shop this Friday afternoon. Most seem to have gone home early to get ready for the fish fry, and I’ve been told by more than one surprised customer how grateful they are I’m open.

Apparently, I’m the massive chump who doesn’t know Moe always closes early on Fish Fry Friday.

So it seems appropriate to count my failings—or lack thereof.

Truth: I’m starting to like St. Olaf. Not a lot. The weather is weird and mercurial, no one ever says “bless your heart,” and bears scare me far more than gators ever have. Still, it has a kind of charm that sneaks under my skin and smells suspiciously like Laura’s shampoo.

Truth: My grandma would have loved Laura. Not just liked her or tolerated her, but outright adored. She probably would have disowned me in order to adopt Laura and her entire family.

Truth—

“Hi. I’ll just get these.” The woman, with her blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail and extensive tattoos on her arms, places a few items on the counter. She came in with Opal Larson, who is still perusing the shelves.

“No problem.” I scan and bag the bandages and liniment, my mind still miles away in Laura’s bed, and throw in a package of Epsom salts and a bottle of iodine.

“Wait, what’s that?” The woman says, her question cutting through my brain fog.

I glance down at what I’ve done. Oops. “It’s nothing. I heard you talking to Opal. You mentioned your horse is lame? It could be an abscess.” I take her outstretched credit card and run it through the machine. “Soak the hoof in an Epsom salt bath, dry it off, and wrap it with the bandages soaked in iodine. Did the vet already drain it?”

“Wow. No.” The woman puts her credit card into the wallet attached to her cellphone. “I called him but he can’t come out until tomorrow. You know horses?”

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