Chapter 2: The Contest

The Maple Ridge baking contest was held every fall in the parking lot of the community center, beneath a string of lights that someone had put up in 2011 and never taken down. Grace arrived at seven with four trays of her best work: the almond croissants, obviously, but also a brown butter financier with local honey, a lemon curd tart that had made Mrs. Peterson weep twice, and a new thing she'd been testing — a cardamom pear danish that she wasn't completely sure about but felt right. Nathaniel arrived at seven-fifteen with one thing. One thing, on a single rectangular plate, covered in a cloth. "Confident," Grace said, not meaning it as a compliment. "Focused," he corrected pleasantly. He set up his station with an ease that irritated her — the ease of someone who had done many versions of this and wasn't nervous, which meant either he was very good or very foolish, and she suspected the former. The judges were three: the mayor, who had no real opinions about pastry but had very strong opinions about being seen to have opinions; Councilwoman Park, who had once spent a year in Paris and hadn't let anyone forget it; and old Harold Finch, who ran the hardware store and whose opinion of anything edible consisted of whether or not it was too sweet. Grace watched the judges move through the other contestants — a good apple cake from the school librarian, a technically impressive but emotionally absent éclair from the new hotel chef — and then they reached her table. She watched their faces as they ate. She knew her food. She knew when it was working. It was working. Then they moved to Nathaniel's table, and he lifted the cloth. A single, unadorned tart. The filling was the color of amber, its surface perfectly level, not a crack or bubble. It smelled of citrus and something deeper — cardamom, she thought, the same spice she'd used in her danish. The mayor ate it in two bites and immediately reached for another piece. Councilwoman Park closed her eyes. Harold Finch said, "That's not too sweet," which from Harold was a standing ovation. Grace looked at Nathaniel. He wasn't watching the judges. He was watching her. "What's in it?" she asked, despite herself. "Yuzu. Blood orange. Cardamom from the Vietnamese grocery on Fifth." He paused. "Same place you get yours." She stared at him. "You researched my suppliers?" "I researched what makes your food work." He said it simply, without vanity. "You source everything locally, you adjust your recipes to what's in season, and you bake like you're feeding people you love. I was trying to understand the standard I was up against." Grace opened her mouth. Closed it. "The results are in," the mayor announced. Second place: Grace Hudson, Crumble & Whisk. First place: Nathaniel Archer, Sugar Rush. Grace accepted the ribbon and the scattered applause with her head high. She did not look at Nathaniel again until she was packing up, at which point she found him standing two feet away, holding a piece of her cardamom pear danish. "This is extraordinary," he said quietly. "You should have won." "You did win," she replied. "I know." He handed the rest of the danish back to her. "And I'm telling you anyway."