Abuela says to tell you she is praying a special rosary for the car right now!she assures me. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to help. The line moves a few cars and my heart leaps, but then we stop again. Twenty more minutes in the sun. The temperature outside is ninety-two now, and I’ve pulled up my sheath dress as high on my legs as I can, trying to cool down. Now my thighs are sticking to the seat with sweat. I’m panicked, blood pressure probably through the roof. I sneak a peek at the chocolates in their plastic containers. The ice is mostly melted, but the chocolates are okay so far. I blow out a long breath and try to think positively. I pour a few sprinkles into my palm and lick them up. My palm is salty with sweat. I need more courage now than maybe ever before.
Thirty more minutes pass and I’ve only inched forward a few car lengths. I check my phone. Ninety-three degrees. And now I’ve got a new worry. If I don’t get through the border soon, I’m going to miss the deadline to submit my entries. This entire trip, and the weeks of preparation, will be for nothing if I can’t get my entries there in time. I pound the steering wheel, feeling half crazed with stress.
My phone dings with a text. It’s from Henry.How’s it going? Looking forward to seeing you,with a cute heart emoji.
I start to tell him what’s happening, then hesitate. For some reason I’m not eager to share the emergency I’m currently facing. I send him a lame yellow thumbs-up and close my eyes in sheerimpotent frustration. I put my head on the steering wheel and pray the line moves. It does not. Slowly, I start to despair.
Twenty-two minutes later, I finally get through the border. It’s fifty-five minutes to the hotel, and I have exactly one hour until the competition deadline window closes. The car is almost unbearably warm. I reach back and feel inside the plastic bag. The ice is now almost entirely water, seeping out onto the carpeted floor of my car, but the containers holding the chocolates are cool to the touch. I turn around, brace my hands on the steering wheel, and race for Vancouver.
Chapter 32
Exactly fifty-nine minutes later, I push through the revolving door into the lobby of the big corporate hotel in downtown Vancouver and race to the entry table outside the conference room. I’m red-faced, sweaty, and gasping for air, but I am not too late. I have made it just in time. The woman sitting behind the registration table with her hair in a sleek bun looks alarmed by my disheveled appearance, but I simply set the ominously warm and still-wet containers on the table and wheeze out my name. I have one minute to spare. I didn’t even stop to check the chocolates when I got here. There was no time. I hope they’re okay. It would be the miracle I desperately need today.
She thumbs through a list. “Ah yes, Ms. Wynne. Here you are. And I see you have three different entries today?”
I nod. “That’s correct.” I’m trying to catch my breath.
“Excellent. Fill out these forms for me and then you can go on in. They’ll start the judging in just a few minutes.”
I hastily scribble down the necessary information on the forms for each entry, feeling weak with relief. I made it! I really have to pee and I’m a sweaty mess, but I made it in the nick of time.
I hand the completed forms back to the woman. “Can I go to the ladies’ room?” I inquire hopefully. “Before I go in?”
She glances at the clock and frowns. “I’m afraid not. They’re starting the judging in a minute or two. You need to go find your table now.”
With a resigned sigh, I head into the large conference room. Just before I go in, I place a few sprinkles on my tongue, then square my shoulders and head inside. Around the room, long tables are set up with all the entries displayed. Standing behind their entries are my competitors, about two dozen of them. I smooth my crumpled dress and wish I’d had a moment to freshen up somehow. And pee. I really need to pee. I’ll just have to hold it. I’m convinced that one of the superpowers moms develop is the ability to hold our bladders for long periods of time. It’s not comfortable, but I’ll be okay. I made it. I still have a chance.
I find my spot in the middle of a table near the center of the room and set out my Tupperware containers. I’m flanked by two competitors, an intense-looking young man dressed in an immaculate pastry chef uniform, including the double-breasted white jacket and poofy chef’s hat, and a woman who looks to be in her fifties with a crew cut and a stern expression. She’s wearing a plain flannel shirt and jeans and work boots.
“Hi, I’m Emmie,” I murmur to the woman, who nods curtly.
“Darla, from Racine, Wisconsin,” she tells me in a loud whisper. I turn to the young man, but he looks away.
The room is cavernous, windowless, and sterile, with industrial gray carpet, bright lighting, and air-conditioning that is making it very chilly. Suddenly the entire room hushes. The threejudges have just walked in. Two men and a woman, all three professional-looking and unsmiling.
“Here we go,” Darla mutters. The judges start at the table next to ours. The first contestant, a young woman with purple hair, places a chocolate on each of three small white plates on the table in front of her, and the judges sample the chocolate, then take a few minutes to write on clipboards they carry. No one speaks except the contestant, who simply states the name of each entry. She has two more entries, which they sample in turn, writing down comments on a separate piece of paper for each. Then they nod to the contestant and move to the next competitor.
They proceed down the line slowly, taking their time. No one speaks or even moves. It feels like the entire room is holding its breath. I want to pry the lids off my containers and make sure they have fared okay, but everyone is standing completely still behind their tables. It would be distracting if I made a move now. I lick my dry lips and try not to fret. I’m dehydrated and hungry, and almost dizzy with relief that I actually made it in time. The judges come to our table next. Darla snaps to attention. “Judges,” she says.
“What do you have for us today”—a judge with an Australian accent checks his list—“Darla?”
“I have a sweet mascarpone and almond truffle with a layer of amaretto,” Darla says proudly, setting her truffles on the three plates. The judges try the truffle in silence. One makes a tiny frown as she sets the uneaten half of her truffle back on the plate. They fill out the forms in silence. Darla sets out her second and then third entries—a Moroccan mint tea meltaway and a freeze-dried raspberry chocolate bar with a sweet cream layer. Then it’s my turn.
“Hello, Emmie,” the lone female judge takes the lead on this one. “What do you have for us today?” she asks crisply.
I try to look calm and in control, though my heart is pounding like I’ve just sprinted for my life. In a way, I have. I take a big gulp of air and taste the last faint trace of the gold sprinkles on my tongue. They strengthen me. I’m aware that all eyes in the conference room are on me.
“These are browned butter hazelnut toffee…” I stop as I pull the lid off the container. My heart sinks in dismay. My beautiful browned butter hazelnut toffee truffles are a soggy, half-melted mess. The caramelized hazelnut crumbles completely slid off the chocolate and are lying at the bottom of the container in a gooey clump. The ice must have leaked into the container, and the heat finished off every one of the truffles. Nothing is worth salvaging.
“Oh no.” The female judge peers into the container and looks at me with sympathy. “Maybe the others fared better?”
They did not. I open the container of dark chocolate and salmonberry gelée bonbons to find them melted and unrecognizable, the bright orange swirls smeared across the container. The rose, cardamom, and ruby chocolate truffle with the gold sprinkles is similarly ruined. It’s a disaster. Every single one of my chocolates is ruined. I have nothing for the judges to taste.
“I got stuck at the border in the heat,” I explain. “I’m so sorry.” I try to swallow down a big knot of shame and disappointment lodged in my throat. It’s hard to take a full breath. I think I might burst into tears at any moment. I’m so devastated I feel sick.
All around me I hear the murmurs of surprise and speculation rippling through the other contestants. This is the most humiliating moment of my life.
The Australian judge reaches across the table and claps me on the shoulder. “Better luck next year,” he says kindly. I nod, face burning. I swallow hard and put the lids back on the containers. The judges have moved on to the young man in the chef’suniform. There is nothing more for me here. I’ve been dismissed. Quickly I grab my things and slip from the room as fast as possible.
