Page 3 of Prelude To You

I looked down at my coat. Granted it was too big and a bit ratty, but it was very warm, and I only wore it to and from work. And my God, who cared at this point? It was a coat, just a damn coat. And the person wearing it was out of a job, which might be a fraction more alarming.

My phone dinged and it was Uber, conveniently letting me know they had a flat tire and my ride was canceled. They offered to get me another.

Well, fuck my night.

I politely declined and made the executive decision to save money and take the bus, since I had a bus pass. My phoned dinged again, and I was hoping it was my best friend, Meg, texting back to talk me off the ledge.

But it wasn’t. It was the bank. Apparently it went against their policy to have less than twenty bucks in your checking account. They wanted answers.Take a number.

And because this night had nowhere to go but straight to the Ninth Circle of Hell, it started drizzling. I tried to knot my hair into a chignon but it was impossible without patience and a brush, both of which were in short supply. I just gave up and let my wild tresses hang free.

I put what was left of the champagne upright in my big black bag. Clutching the pink confectionary box with my twoprofiteroles, I set out for the nearest bus stop, three blocks off. There was no way to avoid striding past the front of Le Petit Chateau, and I couldn’t help but peek inside at all those happy rich people eating my pastries.

During the walk I had time to think of all the many ways my life was not going as planned. I had it all worked out when I was six, the grand plan so to speak: I was going to be a ballerina. Fourteen years of hardcore training later, one misstep, a shattered ankle—and memories were all I had left of that dream. So the dream had to shift.

My mom was a master baker and taught me everything there was to know about making French pastries and desserts. To my surprise, I loved it. And so perfecting the art of pastry making became my next dream.

It wasn’t like saving lives… Actually it wasn’t anything like saving lives, but I liked to think my contribution to the world was adding a little joy with each delicious bite.

When I got the job at Le Petit Chateau, I thought that was it. I was on my way up. Until tonight. In a few dreadful seconds—just like before—my dream went up in a puff of smoke.

Two blocks down, I passed my favorite bookshop, which was one of the last independent bookstores in town. They had a special section at the back with, among other things, the rarest of old recipe books.

I conveniently persuaded myself that escaping the rain was a good idea before it got any worse. Besides, getting hypothermia would be the proverbial cherry on the cake to the brewing catastrophe that had become my life.

There was a prominent sign in the front window, saying no food or drink was allowed inside. I had no intention of discarding my pastries, so I went down the small alley by the bookshop and loitered next to the no-loitering sign because there was an awning over the back door.

There I devoured the twoprofiteroles, safe from rain and prying eyes. I took a moment to marvel at the delicatechouxdough, sprinkled with pearl sugar infused with my signature brandy-filled, chocolate-mousse-with-hazelnut-truffle.

It all needed to go down with more champagne, so I guzzled what was left in the bottle. In the dark alley right next to the no-loitering sign. And with that I officially secured the gold medal in rock-bottom.

At least I wasn’t going to discard the empty bottle in the alley. I did have some standards. They might be low at this point but they were mine. So I put the bottle back in my bag, next to the satchel with my pastry-making tools. I wiped my hands clean, brushed the crumbs off my coat and sauntered into the bookshop, stuffed and somewhat tipsy.

It was quiet and peaceful, a balm to soothe my dampened mood. Classical music played, like that was the only thing people who read books ever listened to.

I walked straight to the back, where they kept the rare recipe books behind locked glass doors. I couldn’t afford to buy them, but at least I could stare and obsess.

There was one book in particular I was dying to read. It was the first edition of a French pastry book from 1877, yours for a whopping five-thousand dollars. It was so far from my reality, my brain hurt just pondering that pesky little fact.

However, that didn’t stop me from getting up-close-and-personal with the cabinet and peering through the glass. And there it was: a brown, clothbound book. The color was faded, and there were a few tiny scuff marks on the spine. To others it might just be an ancient recipe book but for me it held secrets to adding that one extra little touch in creating the perfect pastry.

All I could do was press my nose to the glass and gaze longingly at the object of my desire.

To my surprise, the glass door popped open. Someone forgot to lock the doors. A surge of anticipation coursed through me. I didn’t think twice before carefully pulling out the French pastry book and closing the door again.

I tiptoed around the corner to find a quiet spot where I could hide from snooping eyes while scribbling down recipes. A tiny chair presented itself and I sat down.

I rooted furiously through my bag in search of a pen and a scrap of paper, but the empty champagne bottle got in the way. There was no time to waste so I scooped the bottle out and put it on the floor beside me. It was only going to be there for a second, I swear.

Finally I found a pen and a ratty piece of paper that might or might not have been a receipt in its previous life. Needless to say I forgot about everything else and it became a frantic exercise to balance the big book while copying recipes to the flimsy paper on my knee.

It certainly didn’t help that I drank all that champagne and ate nothing but twoprofiterolesall day. But I was a soldier marching toward victory as I filled the ratty paper with delightful baking tips.

“Excuse me, is that an open container of alcohol?”

I jumped at the high-pitched voice intruding on my space, and scrambled to my feet.

Standing before me was an ant of a man all dressed up in his Sunday best, looking at me over tortoiseshell glasses. The store attendant.

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