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CHAPTER20
The Whitney Foodand Wine Festival was a sprawling carnival of tents on the beach. Literally on the sand. Much to Sylvie’s chagrin.
A laminated name tag hung around Sylvie’s sweaty neck by a thick lanyard as she pulled her cart behind her through the warm sand shifting beneath her feet. She regretted wearing sneakers. The grains invaded her socks like a thousand tiny irritants.
Cutting through the long main tent the size of a football field where the biggest names in food would give demonstrations during the day and live music would blare at night, Sylvie dragged the last of her things from the loading zone to her tent. Hers was one of the thirty small white tents divided in two rows behind the main tent.
In the morning heat, the festival attendees were still preparing. Everywhere around her people buzzed with activity. Like Sylvie, they were gearing up to cook their best offerings for foodies willing to pay a huge entry fee for the privilege. Unlike Sylvie, most people were barefoot.
Dressed in a white King of Pastries t-shirt and short denim shorts, Sylvie regretted having worn her wavy hair down around her shoulders. In the sticky heat, it would be a frizzy mess.
As soon as she neared the tent at the end of the row, Sylvie held her breath. Lauren had finally arrived.
Barefoot and squatting in front of her booth, the booth next to Sylvie’s, Lauren was adjusting the Pastry King sign to keep the corner from flapping in the wind. With her long, dark hair piled on top of her head, she was singing to a song emanating from a nearby booth. One of the other Cuban restaurants selected for their heritage.
Lauren’s butt, happily wiggling to the rhythm, was the last thing Sylvie wanted to see that morning. After thinking about it incessantly, she still hadn’t figured out what she was going to do with Freddie’s information. It helped to think about it in distant terms, she couldn’t assimilate it as the truth, even if she believed it. Better to think about it as something that belonged to Freddie.
When Lauren stood, she wiped her face with the sleeve of her t-shirt. As she did, she noticed Sylvie approaching. Without hesitation, Lauren smirked.
Out of habit, Sylvie furrowed her brow.
Grinning, Lauren turned toward her as she approached the tent, her hand on her hip. “Does that face mean good morning?”
Unable to look Lauren directly in the eye, Sylvie grumbled. Moving past her with her sights set on her half-set-up tent.
“Wow, you’re in an even more delightful mood than usual.” Lauren’s dark eyes gleamed in the sunlight as she watched Sylvie unload her cart. “Are you finally realizing that you’re going to be serving your tired creations to the most sophisticated palettes in the world?”
There was nothing different about Lauren’s teasing. It was the way they’d communicated their entire lives. In taunts and jabs.
But Sylvie couldn’t respond. With her righteous indignation gone, she felt like a fraud. She was a fraud.
Ignoring Lauren was all she could do. Tuning her out, Sylvie set to arranging her sandwich press. The tables were even more narrow than advertised, forcing her to struggle to keep the machine balanced.
With sweat in her eyes, sand in her shoes, and Lauren’s voice beating behind her like the tell-tale heart breaking through the floorboard, Sylvie was ready to flip the table and storm off.
Frustrated, Sylvie slammed the power strip in her hand onto the ground. The sand cushioned the fall, dampening the anticipated thud into something muted and dissatisfying.
“Hey.” Lauren was suddenly next to her, albeit on the other side of the table. “Are you okay?” She rounded the booth and stood in front of her.
Sylvie was torn between screaming and crying. She was tired of being asked that question and even more tired of not knowing how to answer it. Of course she wasn’t okay. How was she supposed to be okay?
The kindness in Lauren’s eyes. The concern softening her face. The hand set gently on Sylvie’s arm. It was too much to take.
Yanking her hand free, Sylvie took a step back toward the center of her booth. As if a plastic folding table could protect her from Lauren. From the truth.
Instead of snapping at her, Lauren’s expression grew gentler. She should be enjoying her distress instead of acting like she gave a shit.
“We’re finally at the Whitney,” Lauren said, as if Sylvie didn’t know where she was standing. A breeze off the ocean whipped flyaway hairs around Lauren’s head. “You act like you’re darning socks in hell.”
Sylvie refused to laugh at the RuPaul’s Drag Race reference. She was having an existential crisis. She didn’t have the time or space for Lauren’s jokes.
“Did something happen?” Lauren buzzed around her like a relentless mosquito.
Gritting her teeth, Sylvie wished Lauren would disappear. The last thing she needed was her concern.
“I’m fine! Just leave me alone!” Sylvie snapped, earning glances from the people setting up their booth next to Lauren. Taking deep breaths, she tried to compose herself.
Lauren put her hands up in front of her chest as if saying don’t shoot. “Yeah. Obviously, you’re fine. You’re definitely fine.”
