Henry left his cakes to bake on their own and met up with her. Kristin stumbled, apparently not expecting a tall scruffy gay man to get in their way.
Bertha smiled at him. A small, somewhat tight smile, but a smile. “You coming to say goodbye? I’m only here to get some filler shots. They didn’t have enough footage of me looking devious.”
Kristin put on a fake laugh. “Now that’s not it. We want to get some extra footage to stitch everything together.”
“I know, darling.” Bertha nodded at her and flashed the same smile. “Let a sad old cake lady have her jokes.”
Kristin apparently didn’t know what to do with that either, since she just walked off and started talking to Jacob and the sparse camera crew they had on hand. Which gave Henry enough time to do some reconnaissance. But he didn’t feel like he could launch straight into that, so he started cordially. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. I knew it didn’t feel right, what I was doing, but I was desperate.” She shrugged and sat on the stool in her old station. “Let’s be honest, I wasn’t taking home the big prize here.”
“You might have.”
“I can make good cakes and I didn’t win the cake round. If that’s not a poor omen, I don’t know what is.”
Henry could have spent time telling her that she’d have been fine, trying to make her feel better. But he wasn’t sure how much time he had before they started filming, and the question burned against his tongue. “Can I ask what you actually did?”
Bertha nodded. “Figured someone would want to know eventually.” She sighed. “I’m no good at making bread. Never have been. When it comes down to it at a family get-together, I buy the frozen rolls or make a loaf of beer bread. Willa shared her foolproof roll recipe with me during one of the practices. It wasn’t what she was making, so she said it would be fine, and at least I’d get something out for the last challenge.” She shook her head and chuckled softly under her breath. “Guess the judges disagreed that it was fine. Definitely make sure you’re providing all your own recipes.”
She’d used Willa’s recipe. Henry relaxed, though he tried not to make it too obvious. The chances of him crossing that line were nil.
Kristin led two cameras over, offering him a convenient out from the conversation. “Sorry, Henry, but we need Bertha back. Faster we get this filmed, faster she can get home to her family.”
Henry nodded, smiling at Bertha, and retreated to his station as the timer clipped to his lapel chirped. She was going home for a legitimate reason. Still, the specter of rule-breaking hung across his shoulders. Mostly, it was the shock of it all, the sudden nature of it. One slip up—a bad one, admittedly—and that was that.
Someonehadbrought it to the judges, though. Not Bertha, and not Willa, but someone. And that fact alone made him uneasy.I wouldn’t turn someone over for something like that.Maybe that had more to do with his personality, or his reasons for being here. Or maybe he was assessing himself wrongly.
As he removed his cake from the oven, he sighed. Fretting wouldn’t get him anywhere. He had to muscle forward and take the fact he was still here at face value. It was good. He was around. And he would win.
Tristan took advantage of their filming break to step outside and smoke his much-needed cigarette. The bienenstich hadn’t been too hard, once he had it figured out, and his pretzels looked and tasted like pretzels, which was a nice little surprise. Still, his hands had started to shake there at the end, and he had this crawling, creeping pit of despair in his stomach thatsomehowwasn’t all that comforting.
Tristan flicked his lighter to life and started up his cigarette, muttering to himself around it. “These things’ll kill me, but they’ll kill my nerves a hell of a lot faster.” And before he made his towering Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, he needed those nerves gone.
“Don’t suppose you could share that with me?”
Tristan dragged deep as he turned. Henry had slipped out the door and leaned against the wall next to him.
“You don’t smoke.” Tristan’s words rode out on billowing blue smoke.
“Nope, but maybe I should take it up. Now seems as good a time as any. Calm my nerves.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and dragged in the warmth again. “I’m not getting you hooked, and the only reason this shit relaxes me is because I have a nicotine addiction. Don’t think it’s going to work for you. Try downing half a bottle of kirsch and call me in the morning.”
“Spoilsport.” But Henry smiled and winked and the whole thing was over and okay. Tristan pressed up close to him in spite of the California sun, and Henry put an arm around his shoulders. “Good pretzels, and your bee-sting cake seemed to get the job done.”
It had. He wasn’t used to making yeasted cakes, but it had gone all right, in the end. He’d even managed to throw together a quick honeycomb to add some texture—and it felt nice and on brand for bee-sting cake. Plus it was good to know he still had the chops for something different. The fact his honeycomb had turned out right on the first try had been a hell of a high. “Wish my custard hadn’t been quite so thick.” It had been very solid compared to the other smooth, silky custards that had come from the other bakers.
“Well, I think you’re safe. Only a couple people got as good of a rise out of their bienenstich as you.” Henry nudged him in the side. “As long as you’re confident you can pull off a cake. I know it’s uncharted territory for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be fine with it once this cigarette’s gone.” Tristan dragged a little more smoke off it, letting the nicotine wash over his fraying nerves and meld them back together into something cohesive. “You thinkyoucan pull it off? I mean, black forest cake, that’s pretty seventies.”
“First of all, I make them for the shop, remember? We talked about it first day of filming.”
“Oh yeah, we did. I guess I forgot. That was back when we hated each other.”
Henry snorted a chuckle. “Second of all, I did a whole seventies party for someone back during my short-lived foray into catering. For their thirtieth anniversary. They met in high school back then. Baked Alaska, black forest cake, rum baba, battenbergs, some monstrosity called mock apple pie... I think I can handle this little bit of retro flair popping back up.”
Tristan pulled the butt from his lips and ground the cherry out against the wall behind him. “Mock apple pie? Because it’s... not pie?”
