* * *
“Not to givein to the whole cop stereotype, but…” Dani grabs a donut from the bag as we meet outside the walk-up counter at Byrdie’s Coffee the next morning after I drop Gus at school. It’s still early, but already the day is sunny and starting to warm. It’s going to be glorious. I stopped at Kristensen’s on the way over to meet Dani and grabbed a treat for both of us. I didnotgo to Kristensen’s to see Jakob, which was good since he wasn’t on the counter anyway. He’s probably over at the shop right now, fixing the giant hole in the floor. Dani’s technically on a shift but is taking a quick break. As we wait for our coffees, I fill her in on my magical date with Henry and the giant hole-in-the-floor fiasco.
“So wait, let me get this straight. Henry offered you a chance to compete in this fancy chocolate show in Vancouver?” she clarifies as we grab our lattes from Justin and go sit at the tiny table for two perched on the busy corner right in front of Byrdie’s walk-up window counter. There’s just one table, positioned in the middle of the sidewalk. Luckily for us, it’s available. “And then you come in yesterday morning and find out the repairs are gonna be super expensive? And you’re asking if you should enter the competition?” Dani bites the head off a maple doughboy. It looks like a gingerbread man but is made of donut dough and fried a rich golden color.
“Yes,” I confirm, biting into a delicious Danish donut with a pretty twisted design. I imagine Jakob’s deft fingers working this dough, and something strange happens low in my belly, a little throb of desire that takes me by surprise. I swallow hard and put the image from my mind. I have no business thinking of Jakob like that. I need to concentrate on Henry.
“Well, duh. Isn’t the answer obvious?” Dani says, rolling her eyes at me.
“Is it? Enlighten me.” I glance around. The intersection where we are perched is busy, cars waiting to turn in every direction. A handful of pedestrians wander by, gazing in shop windows, eating bakery treats, and walking dogs. A woman with two corgis passes our table. The morning sun is warm on my arms, and the air is perfumed with brine and a hint of something floral and expensive wafting from the spa around the corner.
“You said the competition has prize money for the winner, right?” Dani prods, biting the arm off her donut man.
“That’s what Henry said. It’s usually a few thousand dollars, sometimes more. But you do it more for the publicity than anything else. Winners get bragging rights, and it’s really good foryour business if you win.” I take a sip of my hometown honey latte, extra sweet and hot and strong, just the way I like it.
“So what’s the downside?” Dani asks, ripping off the other donut arm. “If you enter this competition and win, you get prestige, free publicity, and extra money to fix that hole you now have in your floor. Seems like a no-brainer. Say yes and enter.” It seems so obvious, except…
“The downside is that I’m totally not prepared to compete on that level,” I protest. “I don’t have the equipment and I’m rusty at techniques. I’ve been working hard on ideas at night for the past week or so, but I’d be competing against the best of the best in North America. I don’t think I’m up to their level. There is no way I’m going to win.”
“Henry thinks you can compete at their level,” Dani points out.
“Maybe Henry is biased?” I say meekly.
“Biased, maybe, but he’s not wrong.” Dani shrugs, licking sugar glaze from her fingers. “You make the best chocolates I’ve ever had. I mean, come on, Emmie. What’s the harm in trying? It can’t hurt, right? And maybe you’ll surprise yourself and win. Then you take that big fat prize check and buy new plumbing and open your dream shop.”
I nibble my pastry. “Well, when you put it like that…” It’s a long shot. A very, very long shot. And I have only two weeks to prepare. It feels daunting, but then again, what are the other options? I already know we don’t qualify for a bank loan. I spent a couple frustrating days earlier this year at the credit unions and banks in the area trying to get a loan so we could replace the failing equipment at the fudge shop.
“What else do you have to do in the next two weeks?” Dani asks. “The shop is closed. You’ve got the time. Why not give it a try? Come on. Be bold.”
“But what if I fail somehow—make bad chocolate or come in last place?” I trace my finger over the twists on my pastry. At the intersection a truck honks and waves a waiting car through. Someone is blaring their car radio at full volume, shaking the table with the bass notes of a rap song.
Dani shrugs. “So what? You’ll never see those people again. And besides, you’ll never know if you don’t try. What’s that famous quote? You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take? Take the shot. What have you got to lose?”
Still, I hesitate. I’m intimidated, plain and simple. I know Dani is right, but I’m scared. I reach into my purse for my lip balm and instead of my tube of Burt’s Bees, my hand closes around a glass cylinder. I peer into my purse, surprised to see the jar of gold sprinkles sitting there. How did it get in there? Last I knew, it was sitting on the shelf in the kitchen.
When Dani’s radio crackles to life and she is momentarily occupied responding to the dispatcher, I covertly open the container and shake a few sprinkles into my latte.
I take a slow sip, waiting for that familiar sensation of courage to zip through me from tongue to toes. I can taste the faint floral note of the sprinkles against the sweetness of the honey latte. Dani is right. I should at least try. If I don’t do this, I’ll always wonder if I should have taken the shot. Maybe I’ll fail. Maybe I won’t. But at least I will have tried my best.
I find my phone.
I’d like a chance to compete if the offer is still open,I text Henry. Then I press send before I can second-guess myself. No turning back now.
Chapter 24
“What do you think of this one?” I ask early the next afternoon, popping open a Tupperware container and doling out samples of my newest creation to Dot and Mom, who are holed up in the office with Mr. Butters. Dot has the office door open so she can keep an eye on her own shop entrance in case customers come. I head out into the storefront and give samples to Walt and Jakob, who are continuing to work on the floor. They started laying the new subfloor today. “Do you like it better than the Rainier cherry and vanilla buttercream truffle from last time?”
Today I’m testing out a browned butter hazelnut toffee bonbon with caramelized hazelnut bits sprinkled on top. Since I said yes to the competition yesterday morning, I’ve been obsessively brainstorming my entries. Every competitor is allowed to enter up to three different original chocolate creations. I’ve spent all morning putting the finishing touches on this new chocolate creation to the sounds of Walt and Jakob ripping up rottingplywood, the whine of the power tools, and the low drone of a baseball game on Walt’s radio.
The shop is a mess with only a partial floor, we’re still waiting on the letter from the county, and I’m no closer to finding a suitable place to open my storefront. But instead of worrying fruitlessly about things I can’t control, I’m focusing on upping my chocolate game to find my best three entries that are unique, delectable, and showcase local Washington-grown foods. I’ve got some good options, but I want to get people’s opinions of them and narrow it down to the top three.
“Oh, this one is my favorite,” Mom says, casting her eyes up to the ceiling contemplatively as she savors the crunchy browned butter hazelnut toffee bits. “It reminds me of English toffee at Christmas.”
“I like that first peach ginger one you made better myself, but they’re both winners in my book,” Dot chimes in.
“Both of ’em are too fancy for my taste,” Walt gripes when I ask him. “I’m a simple man. I like peanuts and maybe some nougat if I’m feeling sassy. But if I had to choose?” He takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head, thinking. “Go with the hazelnut one. It tastes real rich and buttery.”
“I agree,” Jakob says. He’s holding a dirty pipe and lying in the hole where the floor used to be. “The flavor is more complex.”
