Page 16 of From Paris, with Butter
An hour later, we passed each other again. “You know that charity my mom is part of? The one that helps refugees get settled in France?”
“Of course,” I said, looking around the kitchen for paper napkins because one of my tables “didn’t like how cloth napkins felt.”
“They’re having their annual fundraising gala this spring. Food, drinks, auction, live music, the works.”
“Yes? You want me to go with you?” I guessed, taking the two plates a sous chef held out to me.
“No, their pastry chef just dropped out. I told them you’d be great for it.”
I nearly dropped the plates. “Wait, what?”
But Yasmine was already gone.
“Yasmine, absolutely not,” I said later, as we guzzled water during a quick break.
“Why not? You’re a fabulous baker.”
“Only for fun,” I said quickly. I remembered Monsieur Roche and his firm refusal of a home-cooked meal. “And maybe not even for that.”
“Margot, come on. You bake all the time. I have no doubt you’ll amaze them.”
I shook my head. My fingers clenched around my water glass. “I don’t have a certified kitchen spaceor—”
“You’ll use theirs,” Yasmine cut in. “And I know you already have your commercial baking license. I heard you mention it to diners once.”
Merde.
That had been a throwaway remark I’d immediately regretted. Not because it wasn’t true—I did have my commercial baking license—but because I hated to remember the time during my life when I’d gotten it.
“Just think about it,” Yasmine said.
I didn’t need to think about it. The idea sent a knot of panic twisting in my stomach.
I forced a shrug, keeping my voice light. “Yasmine, I just don’t think I’m up for it.” I saw her open her mouth to argue and took the chance to escape. “Sorry, I have to run. Table three is waiting for their next course.”
I got through the rest of my shift by thinking of nothing else than bringing out courses, explaining the food, and refilling water glasses. At the end of the night, I tried to slink out, but Yasmine caught me before I’d taken two steps from the staff room.
“Margot,” she said, frowning. “Why don’t you want to do this? You’re always willing to help me with anything.”
I fiddled with my coat sleeves. “I just don’t want to.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
Yasmine studied me. For a second, I thought she was about to push. Instead, she softened. “Margot, they’re desperate. Seriously, just do your best, and they’ll be thrilled with whatever you bake. It’s for a good cause.”
I shook my head, but she kept going.
“Look, why don’t you just come to an orientation meeting with me? No pressure. If you still don’t want to do it, I’ll never mention it again for as long as I live.”
I shifted uncomfortably. But Yasmine was right; just attending a meeting wasn’t stressful. Or it shouldn’t be. And I was perpetually a sucker for good causes.
“Will there be free food?” I asked warily.
“Mountains of it,” Yasmine said, crossing her heart with her index finger.
I hesitated a moment longer.
“Alright,” I sighed. “Just the meeting. That’s all I’m promising.”
