Part 3 (1/2)

Felix mumbled to himself as he walked away. I was sure there was a nice peppering of French expletives in there, but I kept my eyes on the work of prepping the mousse. While the gelatin softened in a bath of champagne vinegar, I whisked egg whites and sugar to high, stiff peaks. Irresponsible? Sloppy? A teaspoon or so of egg white sprayed onto the backsplash, and I was nearly manic in my attack of the mess.

I'd folded the egg whites into the strawberry puree, incorporated the whipped cream, and was carefully spreading the mixture into twelve waiting pecan crusts when Felix reemerged from whatever vermin's hole he'd been inhabiting. I didn't look up from my work, just trained my eyes on the soft pink mounds of mousse, thinking words like uniformity and precision and true revenge would equal prison time.

I sure wasn't going to turn around and look, but it sounded as though Felix was getting started on some prep work, perhaps portioning the gold leaf or garnis.h.i.+ng the first few rhubarb tarts. He was quiet, anyway, and when I'd filled the final crust, I straightened, feeling my spine resettle into an upright position. I picked up the baking sheet, nice and easy so as not to upset the perfectly formed crusts and quivering mousse, and I turned slowly to go to the fridge, but the tip of the tray b.u.mped into Felix's girth. He had appeared out of nowhere.

He looked down his nose and over his gla.s.ses at the desserts.

I lifted my chin, daring him to say anything about the beauties before him.

To my horror, he stuck one fat finger right into the center of one crust. The finger emerged, cloaked in strawberry mousse, and then made its way to Felix's mouth. He rolled the filling around his mouth and then pursed his lips before spitting it out onto the floor.

”Needs more sugar,” he said in a disconcertingly serene voice. Only his eyes betrayed his spite. ”Do them all again.” He wiped his finger on a clean towel and nodded to the puddle of his spit on the floor. ”And clean that up.”

Little stars floated at the edge of my vision, and I made a concerted effort to keep breathing. Felix was watching me with a bemused expression, and I saw Alain approach from the periphery, his countenance serious. I let my chin drop to look at the beautiful, photograph-worthy tarts I held before me. I looked up again, my eyes searching Alain's face, waiting for him to come to my defense, shred Felix for his behavior, say anything.

He set his mouth into a thin, straight line.

And he said nothing.

One by one, I released all ten of my fingers and watched a ribbon of pale mousse and silver metal go clattering to the floor. A wide arc of pink sprayed upward, but one tart remained pristine. From some part of my brain, I could hear Felix shouting about the mess on his shoes, but I told that part of my brain to just pipe down for a minute. I had one more thing to do. I crouched to the floor, cradled the only remaining, perfect tart, unfolded myself to my full height, and smiled at Felix.

”I quit,” I said, pus.h.i.+ng the tart into Felix's face, giving one extra turn of my wrist into his nose before the empty tart pan clattered to the floor.

Carlo and Danny were whooping it up around the corner while I s.h.i.+vered into my still-damp coat. I walked on unsteady legs to the back of the kitchen and stepped around Alain.

”Charlie,” he said.

I shook my head once, hard. ”Too late,” I said and kept walking, pausing only to push open the door and venture back into the rain.

Halfway down the block, I noticed a smear of mousse sheltered on the inside of my thumb. I licked it off and shook my head.

Delicious.

And it most certainly did not need more sugar.

I slept the better part of two days after the Tart Incident. I have never loved Egyptian cotton like I loved it for those forty-eight hours. A few times, I stumbled to the kitchen and forced myself to eat a dollop of Greek yogurt or a slice of whole wheat toast, but my heart wasn't in it, so I just trudged back to my little slice of five-hundred-count heaven and went back to sleep. After two days of this, I lay in bed, willing my eyes to stay shut but feeling them pop open anyway. The Chihuahua said it was just after noon.

Sitting up on the side of my bed, I felt light-headed and ridiculously well rested. Was this how normal people began a day? Without the pounding headache and the feeling like one was swimming through mola.s.ses on the way to the coffee pot? I picked up my phone from the nightstand and turned it on for the first time since I'd given Felix's face a mousse mask.

I shoved a tart in Felix's face. Oh, dear Lord in heaven, what had I done? I swallowed hard and felt my pulse quicken. What had I been thinking? The weight of my five seconds of glorious retribution weighed heavily on me, and I let myself fall back again onto the bed.

I was unemployed. My rent was due in five days. I had made an enemy of a world-renowned pastry chef who held the keys to any recommendation for my next job.

My phone also awoke after a forty-eight-hour slumber, and I jumped when it began vibrating with a string of unread text messages. There were a few from Carlo, with sentiments like ”You WHAAAAT?!” and ”WHO'S FELIX'S DADDY?” I scrolled through two from my mother that read more like epistles, detailing a debacle with a failed sump pump and wet carpet in the bas.e.m.e.nt. After checking twice to be sure, there was not one message from Alain, the jerk. Five years of my life devoted to his restaurant, and he didn't have the decency to come to my aid, or at least offer a fond farewell. Or a severance package. Or a boot for Felix's ample rear.

Just as I pulled up Manda's number and was about to make the call to begin my pity party in earnest, my door buzzer sounded. I scrambled out of bed and threw a sweats.h.i.+rt and jeans over my sleep s.h.i.+rt. Raking fingers through my hair as I walked, I reached the door and peered through the peephole. A man I didn't recognize was holding a bulky package. The words on his cap read ABE'S MESSENGER SERVICE.

I unlocked the two deadbolts and undid the chain.

”Can I help you?” I said through the narrow slit that separated us.

”Delivery for a Mr. Charlie Garrett. Does he live here?” The man turned out to be a boy of maybe eighteen with a peppering of blackheads on his nose. He squinted through the opening in the door.

”I do,” I said. ”I mean, I am. I am Charlie Garrett. It's a Ms., not a Mr.”

The kid considered this information and appeared to come to peace with it. ”All right. I'll go with that,” he said. He produced a phone and tapped in some numbers, then held it up to me through the crack in the door. ”You have to talk to this dude first. Says here I can't give you the delivery until you talk to him. I'll put you on speaker.”

I took the phone, confusion registering on my face. ”h.e.l.lo?” I said into the phone just as Avery Malachowski answered.

”Charlie! Sweet. Okay, tell the delivery guy you are cleared for Package One.”

The kid could hear Avery's booming voice through the phone's speaker, so without waiting for a sign from me, he gestured for me to open the door, which I did. Then he handed me a tailored-looking white box tied with an orange and white polka-dot ribbon. I tugged at the ribbon and s.h.i.+mmied the top off the box. A beautiful strawberry mousse tart with a pecan crust was artfully nestled in yards of tissue paper. I couldn't help but laugh.

”How do you know about this?” I shook my head and pulled the tart box inside my apartment, aware that my stomach was rumbling with neglect.

”Oh, Danny the line cook and I go way back.”

”You do?” I was incredulous. Danny and Avery?

”Nah, actually we don't. But a hundred bucks can buy a spy and a phone call when a certain pastry chef goes apes.h.i.+t and gives her psycho boss a pie in the face.”

”It was a tart. And I'm not apes.h.i.+t.”

”Of course you're not. Though you do have your quirks, as I remember. Package Two, delivery man,” Avery said, still on speaker phone.

The kid produced a bigger box, wrapped in white and again tied with the orange polka-dot ribbon. I slipped a finger under the paper and unfolded one side without ripping. I must have been taking too long, because the delivery kid sighed and Avery said, ”A little faster, Garrett. Not all of us are out of work.”

The contents of Package Two made me giggle like the school girl I'd been when I'd first seen it.

”I can't believe you remembered this,” I said, blus.h.i.+ng at his thoughtfulness.

”The MegaPro Dynamic Action Label Maker with extra labeling tape. Remember how you used to drag me to office supplies stores and salivate over the organization sections? You are a weirdo, Charlie. But I thought the MegaPro might come in handy. Package Three, please.”

The delivery boy was starting to look a little scared of me. Could have been the hair. Could have been the two days' worth of morning breath. Could have been my unfettered joy at opening a label maker (high speed and with a touch screen!).

I had to crack the door wider for the last package. It was tall, narrow, and awkward, and when I pulled down the brown packing paper, I saw a hefty shrink-wrapped bundle of moving boxes.

I stared, worrying my lower lip with my teeth, until the delivery boy spoke.

”SHE'S GONE MUTE, SIR.” He spoke inappropriately loudly into the phone. ”WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO NOW?”

”Charlie,” Avery said, ”it's time for a fresh start. Fill those boxes, call a moving company, and send me the bill. Just get out of there.”

”Avery, I'm flattered, but-”

”Oh, sorry! What was that? Hesitation? Reluctance? You've got to be kidding me!” I could picture Avery stomping around wherever he was, gesticulating with his hands. ”There are no roadblocks here, Charlie. Only fear of the unknown, which, as I remember, used to be something we were excited about ten years ago. Remember?”