19. Bud

Pascal stoodat the patisserie's kitchen counter, gazing at the stolen recipe in front of him almost as though it were a holy relic. I suppose to him, in a way it was. He was transfixed by it.

Spellbound.

Still.

Silent.

His left forearm was locked in a cast, plaster from his elbow to his hand, leaving nothing but his fingers and thumb protruding from it. Meanwhile I stood quietly to one side, my right arm in a sling and my head a little numb from all the painkillers that Doc Morgan jacked me up on.

I guess Pascal was pretty numb too, given his dosage from Doc was even higher than mine.

Maybe that was part of the reason he looked like he was in such a trance.

Outside, night had fallen.

The day had completely slipped away from us.

And we had twelve hours exactly to conquer his uncle's recipe before Giselle Chapelle and her entourage arrived on Pascal's doorstep.

I didn't want to be the one to say it—to interrupt Pascal from his meditative state—but I guess someone had to. "Pascal. The clock's ticking."

"I know," he said calmly.

"Well… shouldn't we be cooking?"

"We do not cook in this kitchen. We bake."

"Well then… shouldn't we be baking? Do you want me to… I don't know… break open some eggs or something?"

He sighed and turned to me. "You don't know how to bake, do you."

It wasn't a question.

I shrugged. "I'm sure I can give it a try… with your help."

"This isn't the time to ‘give it a try'." His voice was calm, serious, sad. "This is the most important bake of my life. I need to do my uncle proud. I need to honor his work. Not only that, I need to do it in front of Giselle Chapelle… which means I'm doing it in front of the whole world. I'm not sure we can just… ‘give it a try'."

I stepped forward, sensing his despair was beginning to overwhelm him. "Pascal, whatever you need me to do, I'll do it."

"Can you perform a miracle? Because I think that's what we're going to have to do." He held up the piece of paper with his good hand. "This recipe is one of the most delicate and difficult ever created. It's called Les Larmes du Ciel, which literally translates to The Tears of Heaven. It is two classic French pastries combined into one exquisite masterpiece. The first part involves making a Puits d'Amour—otherwise known as a Well of Love—a centuries old recipe that was deemed so sweet, so scandalous, the church almost had it banned. To protect it, my uncle created a circular Gateau de Saint Honore to go around the Puits d'Amour. Saint Honore is the French patron saint of bakers. And so, the irresistibly wicked is given sanction by the divinely delicious. The result is a pastry so extraordinary, that if done correctly, anyone who tastes it will weep at its perfection. Hence the name, The Tears of Heaven."

I gulped. "That sounds… intimidating."

"As was my Uncle Alphonse himself." Pascal tossed the piece of paper back onto the counter. "We may have found the recipe, but I'm not sure even your optimism can help us pull this off. Just look at us… a pair of one-handed misfits with no hope of producing one of the most technical pastries in history."

"We may be one-handed, but you said it yourself… we're a pair. Together we have a perfectly good pair of hands. Doc Morgan was right, you be the right hand, and I'll be the left." I positioned myself beside him and grabbed a mixing bowl. "Tell me what to do. Do I need to sift flour? Do I need to pour some milk? I'll do whatever the recipe says, then I'll hold the bowl and you mix it all together."

"It's not that simple."

"Well then, let's make it that simple. We'll do this one step at a time. We've got just under twelve hours now. Let's make it happen."

He looked at me, his expression dubious. But there was a glint of hope in his eyes, just enough for me to build his confidence with a kiss.

"You really think we can do this?" he asked, his lips eventually pulling away from mine.

"I know we can."

He took a breath, filling himself with courage, and said—"Alright then. Pass me that whisk. We'll need one bag of flour from the pantry and a dozen eggs from the refrigerator. There's sugar on the shelf and rolling pins by the sink, but don't get the one that I used to smash the bottle. The last thing I need now is for Giselle Chapelle to choke on a piece of glass… tempting as that might sound."

As I followed his orders, Pascal rummaged through drawers for measuring cups and mixing spoons.

"We need to start with the Puits d'Amour," he said, reaching past me for a sifter.

"Do we need cream?" I asked, grabbing the eggs out of the fridge.

"Yes, and milk."

"Got it." I turned from the fridge too quickly and bumped straight into him. The carton of eggs slipped from my grip and hit the floor, bright yellow yolks splatting out from the sides.

"Merde!" he cursed.

"It's okay, there's more in the fridge. I'll clean this up."

I ran to fetch a mop.

Pascal filled a glass jug with water from the sink.

I splashed up the mess on the floor.

Pascal turned, slipped on the eggy puddle I was mopping up, and went head over ass in the air.

The jug smashed on the floor.

Pascal landed with a thwack, this time putting his right hand out to save himself. "Argh!"

"Shit! Pascal!" I knelt quickly beside him. "Are you okay?"

"No! Fuck! Shit! Just stop! Stop fussing! Stop trying to help! Stop being so goddamn fucking positive all the time!"

Silence fell between us, and I edged back from him a little.

Pascal clearly needed some space.

Perhaps I had overstepped the mark, perhaps I was being completely clueless trying to help.

I didn't know what to say.

I didn't know what to do.

I looked at his right hand resting in his lap. He was obviously in pain, unable to nurse it with his other injured hand. I saw his right wrist starting to swell.

"It doesn't look as bad as your left hand," I said quietly. "But it's gonna need some ice."

Pascal looked at me. He was so close to crying that all he could do was laugh. "So much for working together. I feel like Monsieur Flannery is looking down on us right now, having the last laugh."

"Let me keep going…" I said stubbornly.

"Bud…"

"I'm serious. I can do this if you tell me how."

"Bud…"

"I'll clean up this glass and get you some ice, then I'm gonna bake like I've never baked before."

"Bud! Stop! It's no use. You can't do this alone, even if I did have the strength to teach you. It's over. It's done. It's time to give up. How many more hints does the Universe need to send us? I'm French. The one thing we know how to do is admit defeat gracefully."

I'm not sure whether it was the surrender in his voice or the heartache in his eyes, but at that moment, something in me switched over… as though my na?ve optimism suddenly turned to sheer, unstoppable determination.

Abruptly I stood and said—"Well I'm American, and the one thing we know how to do is keep fighting and never give up. Now on your feet, Monsieur Dupont!"

I leaned down, reached under him with my good arm and helped him to his feet.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking control. Ever since we met, I've been bumbling around, falling over myself to try and impress you. Well, it's time for a new strategy. I'm in charge now, and there's only one thing left to do that's gonna knock your socks off. I'm gonna take your uncle's recipe and create a pastry so fucking amazing, Giselle Chapelle will weep like a baby when she tastes it."

I grabbed a stool and slid it up to the side of the kitchen counter, then sat Pascal down on it and slid the recipe in front of him.

"But Bud, you can't do this alone."

I grinned. "I don't intend to. It's time to bring in the reinforcements."

"Reinforcements?"

"Yep," I nodded, pulling out my phone. "We're gonna ask for a little help from our friends."

He gave me a puzzled look. "But I don't have any friends."

I dialed the first number in my phone and winked. "You do now."