Well, who’da seen that one coming?
For the next few hours, they worked on puff pastry. Flour, salt, butter all went into stand mixers. A little vinegar with the water to help inhibit the gluten development. Billy had taught her that. Mix, mix, mix, and once a dough was formed, Regan took hers out of the bowl to finish by hand. Then she wrapped it in plastic to chill for about a half hour and started on a new batch. Liza’s orders. She wanted each of them to do at least four batches, since a lot of time in the fridge had to happen.
While her dough was chilling, she measured out a square of parchment paper to ensure her butter was always exactly the right size. She was folding it using a ruler when a loud banging sounded. Across the aisle, Ava had a rolling pin in her hand and was beating the hell out of a few sticks of butter.
“That’s one way to do it, I guess,” Hadley said, her voice amused.
“It works. I’m gonna do it, too,” Regan told her and pulled out her own rolling pin. Soon both she and Ava were beating sticks of butter into flat pancakes, glancing at each other with big grins on their faces.
Liza had apparently been watching them for a while and then strolled down the aisle between stations just as they finished with their butter. “Interesting way of doing it,” she commented.
“My teacher in culinary school taught me,” Ava said, her voice quiet. Liza looked to Regan, who held up her rolling pin.
“It was this or a meat tenderizer,” she said with a shrug. Over Liza’s shoulder, she could see Ava’s shoulders move in silent laughter. She glanced at her butter, then Ava’s, each in flattened squares, ready to be rolled into the chilled pastry.
“Looks like you both did a good job.” Liza laid a hand on Regan’s flattened butter, then went across to Ava’s and did the same thing. “Still cold. Nice work.” She waved a hand. “Continue.”
Regan’s first batch of chilled dough didn’t roll well. It cracked and broke and frustrated her, and she ended up tossing it, hoping her second batch was better. Ava seemed to have a bit better luck, covering her butter in her dough, though she didn’t look happy about it, so Regan wondered. Over and over, they made dough, flattened butter, chilled dough, put the butter in the dough, rolled, laminated, chilled, repeated. By the time they’d done six folds on four batches each and were ready to let it rest in the fridge overnight, Regan’s feet were killing her, and her hands and wrists ached from rolling.
“You did well today,” Liza said from the front of the room once more. She’d rolled out almost as much dough as they had. “Tomorrow, we’ll make tarts and turnovers with our puff pastry.” She took her apron off and gave them a wave. “See you bright and early.” And with that, she was gone.
“I can’t figure her out.” Regan had meant to say it to herself but forgot Hadley was standing behind her.
“Who? Liza?”
A nod. “Yeah, it’s weird, right? Like, we’re here to learn from her. And I have, don’t get me wrong. Today was good because puff pastry is hard, and I screw it up all the time, so I’m glad she was helping today instead of just watching and judging like she does other times. ’Cause that doesn’t really help me when I’ve fucked something up, you know? Plus, it makes me nervous.”
Hadley nodded as she wiped the counter with a wet cloth. “I get that. Hundred percent.”
“Hey,” Maia said from across the aisle. “We’re gonna go out for drinks, bring the assistants this time. You in?”
“I’m in” was Ava’s answer. She glanced over at Regan, and the expression on her face was hard to read. Of course, that was how it usually was with Ava, wasn’t it? She was the epitome of stoic. Did she want Regan to come? Did she not want Regan to come? Who knew?
Regan couldn’t hide her grin as she met Maia’s gaze across the aisle. “I could definitely use a drink.”
Next to her, Hadley nodded. “Same.”
* * *
The bar scene really wasn’t Ava’s thing, but as she sat at the large booth they’d secured—and had dragged a table up against so they could all fit—she found herself loosening up a bit, having more fun than she usually would in such a setting. It was loud. They’d broken into different groups, some at the bar, some playing darts, some at the booth where Ava was. People were talking over each other and laughing. Even Vienna, the person in the group that Ava thought was most like her, was laughing heartily and making jokes.
Puff pastry will do that to you, I guess.
“What are you grinning at?” Regan asked, sliding into the booth next to her.
She turned to meet those blue eyes, that nearly ever-present kind smile, and gave a half shrug. “Just observing how relaxed everybody seems to be tonight.”
Regan looked around, as if gauging Ava’s assessment for herself. “It was a rough day. I guess people are shaking it off, yeah?”
“So rough,” Ava agreed, and took a sip of her rum and diet. “I hate puff pastry. No. Lies. I love puff pastry. I hatemakingpuff pastry.”
Regan held up her glass of beer so Ava could “cheers” her. “Same, same, same, my friend.”
They touched glasses and sipped. Ava was on her second cocktail, courtesy of Becca, feeling that pleasant looseness in her limbs, and that was likely why she said what she said. “I never thought I’d hear you call me that. Like, ever.”
“What?”
“Friend.”
