Penny
Millie isn’t expecting us, but she loves the unexpected, which is what I love about her. The overnights at the bakery were enough to pay the rent but this, her real passion, was something she loved to share with other people. For some reason it feels important for me to let Dalton see that unknown commodity of joy that comes from feeling like you are right where you’re meant to be. Doing just what you were made to do.
“Should I be worried?” Dalton asks as he ducks down to get under the low doorframe. We’re working our way through a maze of doors and hallways in a recently rehabbed building on the edge of the city. It’s the only place Millie can afford, and I can still remember the day she found it. We ran through this place like kids let loose in a theme park.
“It’s eclectic,” I explain to Dalton as I run my hand against the ruddy multi-color walls. Millie and I painted these ourselves when she first signed the lease. “Can you smell it yet?”
“Smell what?” he asks, looking nervous. I think he’s been breathing through his mouth this whole time, too afraid of what this place might be filled with. “Is it going to be dead bodies? Is this the part where I find out you’re a femme fatale?”
“If I go all praying mantis on you would you run?”
“I’d like the first half of it, that’s for sure.”
“Well it’s not dead bodies you’re going to smell. It’s cakes,” I sing, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward Millie’s sanctuary. Dalton’s face shifts from concerned to shocked as we enter Millie’s kitchen.
“Penny,” she sings out, clapping the flour off her hands and running toward us both. “And hunky guy who I am assuming is Dalton, but if it’s not this is going to get super awkward.”
“It’s Dalton.” I laugh, accepting her warm hug as she giggles in my ear.
“The neighbor,” she coos, stepping back and eyeing him approvingly. “Oh damn, you were right about those hands.”
Dalton clears his throat and instinctively glances at his hands to try to keep up with us. He doesn’t stand a chance. Millie is the sister I wish I would have in Kylie. Occasionally I’m certain we can read each other’s mind. She’ll have a field day here with Dalton, but I don’t care. Something tells me, even though I didn’t originally peg him for it, he’ll be a good sport.
“We need cake,” I announce, looping my arm in Millie’s and circling around her creations. “What do you have for us?”
“What are you celebrating?” Millie asks playfully with an arched brow. “Or are you trying to build your energy up after sexersizing? I mean exercising. Exercising.”
“Not celebrating anything. We just want one of your amazing creations. My favorite job is being your taste tester. Tell me what you’re working on.”
“You’re a pastry chef?” Dalton asks as though he’s finally grasped something that makes sense to him here. A job. A profession. Something he can relate to.
“Not classically trained,” Millie says, waving the idea off. “I work at a bakery in town, and I’ve learned everything I can. Baking is my passion, but I’ve never really had the opportunity to get training so I’m learning as I go.”
“She’s amazing,” I say. Because she is. “Training sometimes makes people think there are rules. Millie takes risks. She tries things most people wouldn’t.”
“Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t.” Millie blushes. “You remember that time I put olive paste in that frosting. I thought it would be savory.”
“That was”—I search for the right words—“I haven’t eaten olives since. But there have been plenty of other things you’ve nailed. Give us something to taste test.”
“Taste test,” Dalton coughs out. “I’m not much of a sweet tooth.”
“You will be after this.” I grin, pulling him up to the big steel table where her creations are in various stages of being decorated. “What’s this one for?”
“Word of mouth is really picking up. I did a wedding at the end of last month, and people loved the cake so much I got two more orders. This is for a bat mitzvah tomorrow. But this one here is an experiment. You should try it.”
“Don’t tell me what’s in it,” I say, waving her off. “I want to guess. Dalton grab a fork.”
The look on his face is priceless. It’s as if I asked him to cram his hand down the garbage disposal while I keep my finger on the switch.
In true Millie fashion, she can’t contain her excitement as I take a huge bite. “Peach and bourbon,” she blurts out as she claps her hands together in excitement. “The bourbon is in the frosting and the cake. And I used a fresh peach puree.”
I load my fork up and force a bite into Dalton’s mouth, treating him like a reluctant toddler who needs to be tricked into eating his peas.
“Holy shit,” he says, swallowing the cake and snatching the fork so he can grab some more. “You made this?”
“All by myself,” Millie teases. “Oh, this one next, you’ll love it.” She gestures for us to move down the prep table in front of another sample cake. “Strawberry lime. I know it sounds odd, but it works. There’s fresh strawberry jam mixed into the layers. The zest of the lime in the buttercream frosting has such a zip to it.”
We’re three more cake samples in before Dalton finds the words he’s looking for. I like how this experience is silencing him. Speechless Dalton is a sight to behold. But when he does finally talk, I’m reminded how his mind works so differently than mine. “You could mass produce these recipes if you set it up right. Take your top-five most unique creations that sell best and build a brand around unexpected flavors that work together.”
“He’s dead serious, isn’t he?” Millie asks, looking at me as though Dalton isn’t in the room at all.
“He is,” I answer sadly. “He’s all about the dollars and cents.”
“And the mansplaining? Is that something he’s known for too?”
“Big time,” I say, widening my eyes and gesturing at him with my chin. “Always trying to dumb things down like I’m the one who has things backward. If he only knew.”
“If I only knew?” Dalton says, chuckling. “I’m trying to help you. If you played your cards right you could get an actual storefront instead of this sketchy kitchen.”
“This sketchy kitchen,” Millie argues, “is full of antiques. You couldn’t mass produce these ingredients and have the results come close to what I get from these appliances. You know bigger isn’t always better.”
“Sure.” Dalton shrugs. “Unless you’re talking about bank accounts, stock holdings or”—he hesitates on the thought—“uh, shoe sizes.”
“This guy,” Millie says, jabbing a finger into his chest. “He’s hilarious. I like him. Let’s have some more cake.”
“Yes,” I say, dragging Dalton on to the next slice. I don’t have to pull too hard. He’s loving this more than I imagined. Must be a sugar high.