20. Pascal

I'm notsure if Bud could have gotten any sexier than when he picked me up off the floor, shoved me onto a stool and slid my uncle's recipe in front of me. But there he was, a vision of assertiveness and conviction, a dauntless, dogged determination oozing from every part of him… even the parts in a sling. In that moment, I was willing to do exactly what he told me to do, his irresistible resolve instantly rubbing off on me. To be honest, I was struggling to figure out which Bud I found more intoxicating—the goofy, grinning, big-eyed puppy I'd fallen for in the first place, or this new, decisive, no-more-mister-nice-guy, my-way-or-the-highway Bud.

I watched him make one phone call after another, explaining to his friends that we needed their help with the recipe. He told them about our misadventures, our injuries, and the impending arrival of Giselle Chapelle and her vindictive agenda.

With each phone call, he grinned at the reaction that came down the other end of the line, the unhesitating acceptance of a call to arms as it were, and I thought to myself—So this is what it feels like to have someone willing to protect you, willing to fight for you. This is what it feels like to have someone love you.

I could have cried…

Until somebody almost kicked down the door to the patisserie and came barreling into the kitchen.

"She came, she saw, she kicked its ass!" declared Maggie, her hands on her hips like a superhero… in pajamas and a dressing gown. "Here I am, boys. I'm ready to cook up a storm. Just point me in the direction of the peanut butter and chocolate and I'll whip up the best puppy chow you ever tasted."

"Maggie, we're not making puppy chow," Bud told her.

"We're not? What are we making?"

"Les Larmes du Ciel," Bud said, his French getting better by the hour.

Maggie scrunched up her face. "Le la-la doo-doo blah-blah? What the hell is that?"

"It's a gift from the gods and a curse from the devil," I chimed in. "A near-impossible dream and a terrifying nightmare all at once. It is excruciating to create, yet exquisite to taste. It is, in essence, the greatest challenge a chef can ever rise to."

Maggie pondered my words a moment, then asked, "Is it harder to figure out than the cash register? Because I slapped that bitch's butt in the end. So shut up and give me an apron."

Bud pulled a spare apron off the apron rack and tossed it to Maggie, just as we heard the door to the patisserie open once again.

"Where's the kitchen? Show me the ingredients! This is gonna be just like science… but delicious!"

Like a stray bolt of lightning, a girl with a wheelchair came whizzing into the kitchen, followed by two men struggling to keep up with her.

Bud looked to me and said by way of introduction, "Pascal, I don't think you've met Ginny yet… and her Uncle Gage… and my best friend Mitch."

"Nice to finally meet you," said Mitch.

"And put a name to a face," added Gage.

"And what a handsome face it is," said Ginny with a waggle of her eyebrows. "I'm starting to see what all the fuss was about, Guncle Bud."

"Ginny, seriously?" blushed Bud in all his cuteness.

"I'm so sorry," said Gage, apologizing mostly to me. "Ginny doesn't come with an ‘edit' button. I was going to stay home with her while Mitch came to help out. But as soon as Ginny got wind of what was going on here, there was no holding her back."

"Well, that's very sweet of you to want to help," I said to the girl with the wheelchair, doing my best to relate to someone under the age of twenty-five. "Tell me, little girl. Do you know how to use a measuring cup?"

Ginny rolled her eyes at me. "Dude, I work for the Smithsonian's Department of Air and Space Science. Now if you wouldn't mind setting aside your preconceived notions of age and ability, and instead tell me exactly what it is I can do to help, I think we'll all get along just fine."

I squared off my shoulders and couldn't help but grin as I said to Bud, "I think I like this one."

"If you think she's a hoot, wait till you get a load of me!"

We all turned to see a seven-foot-something drag queen shimmering in through the kitchen doorway, her hair whipped like a peaked meringue, her slinky red-sequin gown trailing behind her and a sparkling tiara on her head.

Her eyes locked on mine. "You must be Monsieur Dupont. Bonjour, je m'appelle Tante Bea. Bud says you need some help. Lucky for you, hot hunky damsels in distress are my specialty. What is it we can do for you, my Chantilly cream pie?"

"We need to create perfection," Bud stepped in, cutting to the chase from my previous response to Maggie.

The drag queen smirked. "Yet another one of my specialties." She clicked her fingers, and I could have sworn I saw sparks of glitter. "Quick everybody, apron up. It's time to light the fires and call in the choirs, because by the time we're through, everyone will be singing ‘Hallelujah'."

I turned to Bud with an even bigger grin on my face. "I think I like that one too. In fact, I think I like them all."

"Even me?" asked Maggie, picking up a blow torch and triggering the flame.

"I'll like you a lot more when you put down the weapon."

Maggie pouted. "But I was having fun. You're not gonna ask me to leave, are you?"

"No! No, I don't want any of you to leave. I'm thrilled you all came. I've never had anyone help me before."

"It's called being there for one another," said Aunt Bea. "Mulligan's Mill may not be big on airs and graces, but we know how to lend a hand to our friends when they need us."

I felt a lump in my throat and Bud rested his good hand on my shoulder. "Thank you," I said. "Thank you all."

"You don't have to thank us, French Toast," said Maggie. "Just shut up and tell us what to do. I didn't give up a night of CSI: Miami for nothing. Start barking orders and let's make some magic here."

I didn't have to be told twice. "Alright then. Maggie, I'm going to put you in charge of the compote for the Puits d'Amour. There are strawberries in the refrigerator and saucepans under the cupboard. Bring the fruit to a simmer and let me know when the juices begin to bubble. Ginny, you're in charge of the choux pastry. You'll need flour, butter, sugar and eggs. Mitch, you can do the crème patisserie for the Puits d'Amour while Gage can take charge of the crème chiboust for the gateau, which is the same as the crème pat only made with egg whites for a fluffier consistency. Aunt Bea, you can do the caramel for the choux buns. Once they're done, you'll need to get straight onto the puff pastry. It won't need too much layering, it should be a rough puff."

"How rough, exactly? Are we talking bed-head rough, or bad-boy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks rough? Because I definitely know which I prefer."

"Bad-boy rough is perfect."

Bea puckered her lips. "Mm-mmm. Don't I know it."

Pots clanged and whisks tinkled against the sides of metal bowls as I began to guide each person through their duties.

Milk glugged, cream bubbled and sugar and water melted into caramel.

Maggie stirred, Ginny mixed, Mitch stepped this way while Gage stepped around him.

And all the while, Bea looked fabulous as she calmly coiffed her hair, making sure it was as tall and fluffy as her pastry.

Along the way, Bud helped out where he could with his one good hand, opening oven doors, transferring pastry dough to the chiller, washing up saucepans and wiping up spills.

Of course, as the hours ticked by, not everything went to plan.

Maggie's compote turned into a burnt gooey mess more than once.

Mitch's first three attempts at crème patisserie curdled while Gage's crème chiboust looked more like scrambled eggs.

And for Ginny, piping delicate balls of pastry proved to be harder than rocket science, at least until she got the hang of it.

But through it all I kept my cool, buoyed by the sheer perseverance of these people who had stepped out of their comfort zones and were willing to stay up all night, just to help me save my reputation.

Yes, my oddball team of impromptu pastry chefs took orders without argument or complaint, stirring and spooning and blending and baking until eventually—as the morning sun spilled through the kitchen windows—we were ready to piece together my uncle's treasured delicacy.

"I can't do it with these injuries," I said, turning to Bud. "Would you mind doing me the honor?"

"But I've only got one good hand."

"That's all it takes. Just keep it steady."

"But what if I screw it up? We don't have time to start again."

I looked up at the clock. "Don't panic. We still have an hour before Giselle Chapelle arrives. Take your time and you'll be fine. I know you can do it."

Dog-tired and bleary-eyed, Bud puffed out a few anxious breaths like he was summoning the last of his energy, then nodded with confidence. "If you think I can do it, then I'm ready. Just talk me through it."

At that moment we all heard the zing of a phone buzzing.

"My phone," I said. "It's a notification on my phone. Bud, it's in my pocket. Can you please pull it out for me?"

Bud pulled my phone out, saw the notification message, and went pale.

"What? What is it?"

"It's a message from Giselle. It says—I hope you're ready for me, Monsieur Dupont. Our plane arrived ahead of schedule. We're early. We're driving into Mulligan's Mill as I type this message. Surprise!"

Everyone gasped at once, like an audience that had just spotted the villain in a bad pantomime.

"She's gonna be here any second," Maggie panicked. "Quick, just shove the pastries together. No matter how fancy your food is, it all looks the same on the way out anyway."

"This is French artistry at its finest," I said. "We can't just shove it together. Someone keep watch at the window."

Ginny swiftly wheeled herself to the window to keep guard. "What exactly am I looking for? What does Giselle Chapelle even look like?"

"I'm not sure," answered Aunt Bea. "But I imagine she's wearing a coat made from Dalmatian puppies."

I tried to push the early arrival of Giselle out of my mind for a moment so I could concentrate. I looked to Bud, my eyes focusing on his. "I know you can do this. I have faith in you." I gave him a kiss for luck, then started calmly leading him through the process. "Okay, start off with the pastry shell of the Puits d'Amour. Spoon in the compote, then pipe the crème patisserie on top."

I watched as Bud followed my instructions with care and precision, with not a single tremor.

"Good. Now take the blow torch and delicately brulee the sugar."

Bud looked around urgently. "Where's the blow torch? Has anyone seen the blow torch?" His suspicions turned to one person. "Maggie?"

With an innocent laugh, Maggie reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the blow torch. "Oh look. What do you know, here it is. How on earth did it get in there? It must have slipped off the bench."

"Maggie, you promised no more hoarding!" scolded Mitch.

"If you hadn't noticed, Mitchy-Moo, we've got bigger problems to worry about right now. Stay on message, would you?"

Bud grabbed the blow torch off Maggie, then carefully crisped up the peaks of the vanilla cream and caramelized the sugar.

"Excellent. Now, position the Puits d'Amour in the center of the gateau, making sure not to disturb any of the choux buns or dent the whisps of the crème chiboust."

As Bud picked up the Puits d'Amour, I saw that his hand was starting to shake, ever so slightly. As history had taught me, the most miniscule quiver could bring an entire croquembouche tower tumbling to the ground.

"You're doing great," I encouraged. "Just take your time."

He lifted the Puits d'Amour slowly over the center of the gateau.

Nobody breathed or said a word.

Every one of us was frozen to the spot, all except Bud who—like a spy dismantling a bomb—painstakingly and precisely lowered the Puits d'Amour into the middle of the gateau, clearing the crème peaks by mere millimeters.

When it was down, he pulled away just as carefully and gradually so as not to knock a single piece of pastry out of place.

As soon as he was clear, he and I both let out the longest sigh of relief as his friends all cheered.

"We did it!" Bud laughed, so excited he cupped the back of my head with his one good hand and pulled me into the biggest kiss of my life. He was still laughing when he pulled out again. "Pascal, we did it! You did it!"

But his buoyant grin began to sink when he saw the doubt in my eyes.

"Pascal? What is it? Did we get the recipe right? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, not at all. And the end result is exactly as my uncle intended."

"So, what's wrong?"

"We've worked so hard to find Uncle Alphonse's recipe, to recreate it. And here it is, perfect, an exact replica of what he would have made. And yet… there's none of us in it. I've been following in his footsteps for so long, wanting so desperately to be him, that perhaps I've lost myself in his baking. I've forgotten to add the most important ingredient of all. Me. You. Us. The important things in life." I looked down at the pastry we'd made. "You know, for a Well of Love, there isn't a single flourish of our love to be seen."

From the window, Ginny shouted out, "I see cars… three big, black cars… coming over the bridge and heading this way!"

I sighed. "What we've made is superb. And yet, it's still not good enough. Not for me. Giselle will tear it apart. She will call it derivative. Uninspired. Unoriginal. Perhaps she's been right all along."

"Bullshit she is!" Maggie piped up. "Anyone who calls you a hack is wrong. Frenchie, you cook the best Pop-Tarts I've ever tasted, and everyone in Mulligan's Mill would agree. That dragon lady of yours needs a good serving of humble pie if you ask me. In fact, if you want to add a little razzamatazz to your recipe, why not pour a little poison over it. Call it Puits d'Arsenic. We can dump her body in the river and pretend we never even saw her. What do you think?"

I smiled at her good—yet completely evil—intentions. "That's kind of you, Maggie. But I don't think poisoning Giselle Chapelle is the answer."

"Or maybe it is," Bud said, an idea dawning on his face.

"Bud? What are you talking about?"

"I think I may have just the ‘flourish' we need to add to your uncle's pastry."

With that, Bud bolted out of the kitchen, through the café and out the front door.

"Bud? Bud!"

"They're pulling up out the front of the café!" declared Ginny. "They're getting out of the cars. There's three, four, five guys with notepads and recording devices."

"They're her accomplices. Social media minions ready to feed me to her flock of followers."

"Now they're holding the car door open for her," Ginny reported.

We all rushed to the window to see Giselle Chapelle exit the vehicle, adorned in a sleek, vintage Halston halter-neck dress, Cartier sunglasses and six-inch Jimmy Choo heels.

"Oh wow, she's glamorous," said Ginny.

"And gorgeous," said Maggie.

"Who the hell hauls their ass all the way from Paris to Mulligan's Mill and steps out of the car like she's stepping out of the pages of a Vogue magazine?" demanded Bea. "Bitch!"

Suddenly the back door to the kitchen flew open and Bud reappeared, panting and holding a pot of flowers in his hand. "I thought I'd avoid the wicked witch and use the back door." He hurried over to the counter and put the pot down. "I brought these."

"Oh my God!" Maggie said with a wicked grin. "Deadly Nightshade! That stuff tastes like shit. We really are gonna poison her."

"It's not Deadly Nightshade," I said, my eyes lighting up at the dainty, dazzling purple and yellow flowers. "They're nasturtiums. They're perfectly edible. They're perfectly beautiful. And they're the perfect thing to add to my uncle's pastry."

Bud delicately plucked one of the flowers. "It's not your uncle's anymore. It's yours."

I smiled at the flower then kissed him. "It's ours."

Mitch, Gage and Maggie tipped chairs upright and positioned a table in the middle of the café.

Bea threw a pristine white tablecloth over the table and Ginny swiftly made her way around it, setting down a pastry spoon, pastry fork and napkin.

In the kitchen, Bud trimmed the flowers from the nasturtiums and delicately laid them exactly where I asked him to, decorating Les Larmes du Ciel with the most vibrant display of color and elegance until all I could say was—"Magnifique."

Carefully Bud carried the pastry out to the table, placing the plate down without a single slip or stumble before Bea covered it with a shiny silver cloche.

Through the windows of the café, we watched as Giselle stepped up to the front door of Pascal's Patisserie, her entourage filming her every move.

"Are we ready?" I asked our friends as everyone took a deep, nervous breath.

Suddenly Bud looked down at my hands. "Wait, no!"

"What?"

"Your hands. One is in a cast and the other is black and blue. She's gonna know you didn't make the pastry with your own hands."

He was right.

The door opened.

Ginny grabbed the napkin off the table and threw it to Bud.

I crossed my hands in front of me and Bud draped the napkin over my battered wrists and plastered forearm as though I were a waiter, just as Giselle stepped into the café and pulled off her sunglasses, playing to the cameras as she announced to the room—

"I have arrived. Of course, I'm not entirely sure where I am. Is this place even on a map? Do the people who live here even know how to read maps? So many questions, and so little desire to know the answers. For I am not here for the scenery… I am here to track down this man… Monsieur Pascal Dupont. Is he a fake? Is he a fugitive? Is he a complete flop of a pastry chef? My dear food-lovers, we're about to find out."

The moment she stopped talking for the cameras, her eyes locked on mine and her gloss-red lips curled into a spiteful grin.

"Well, well, well. We meet again, Monsieur Dupont. It seems there is nowhere you can hide where I will not find you. Did you honestly believe you could escape me? Did you really think you would find what you were looking for in a place like Mulligan's Mill?"

"I assure you, Giselle. I found exactly what I was looking for, and so much more."

"Like what?"

"If you must know, I found happiness. I found joy. I even found love." I stole a glance at Bud and I could see in his eyes that he had found the same. "You can chase me to the ends of the earth for all I care, Giselle, but I dare say happiness and love are the things that will forever elude you."

"Enough small talk," Giselle sneered. "I've come to expose your lack of talent once and for all. I hope you've brought your A-game, although I am yet to be convinced that anything you ever do will impress me."

"It's time to find out. Please, take a seat."

As her entourage continued filming on their devices, Giselle sat, eyeing her reflection in the silver cloche before her.

I gave Bud a nod and he lifted the cloche… slowly, so as not to ruffle the petals on the pastry.

I had never actually seen a look of approval on Giselle Chapelle's face, but that morning—with the raising of a single eyebrow and the slightest hint of curiosity in her eye—I knew we had at least piqued her interest.

"What is this? I see Puits d'Amour, I see Gateau de Saint Honore, but never before have I seen them combined. And the color of those nasturtiums, so bold yet delicate, is something definitely… unique. What is this called?"

"Les Larmes du Ciel."

"The Tears of Heaven," Giselle translated. "Why so?"

"Because it is so divine, one taste and you will weep tears of joy."

Giselle laughed. "I somehow doubt that. Is this your own creation?"

"It was my uncle's favorite recipe, lost until now."

"Ah. Just as I thought. Monsieur Pascal Dupont is once again standing on the shoulders of giants."

"We have added our own ‘flourish'. The flowers are from Bud here, the town's very talented florist."

"They give it a certain je ne sais quoi, I'll admit that. But is this a masterpiece? The proof will be in the pudding."

Giselle picked up the fork and broke away some of the choux in the gateau.

She let it linger in her mouth a moment as her tastebuds examined the flavors and textures; the silkiness of the crème, the flakiness of the pastry, the sweetness and crunch of the caramel glaze.

She put down the fork and picked up the spoon, scooping out a spoonful of the compote and br?lée crème peaks from the Puits d'Amour.

She snapped off a piece of sugar-coated puff pastry with her fingers and let it melt in her mouth.

Then, without her even realizing it, she let a tear slip down her cheek.

Everyone's eyes popped open with surprise.

Her influencers zoomed in a little closer.

Giselle still wasn't aware she was crying, not even when a second tear spilled.

"What? What are you all looking at?" she demanded defensively.

Bud couldn't help but smile as he pointed to her cheek. "You're crying."

Giselle looked stunned.

Furious.

Horrified.

"No, I'm not!"

"Oh, I beg to differ," said Bea. "I never thought I'd say this, but you need to go easier on the mascara."

Giselle slammed her spoon down on the table. "I am not crying! Do you hear me?"

"Then what's that water coming out your eyes and running down your face?" Maggie asked. "Either you're crying, or you've sprung a leak."

"I'm not crying! I refuse to cry tears over anything served to me by Pascal Dupont!" She wiped desperately at her running mascara, grabbing for the first thing she could reach to dab away her tears.

Unfortunately, the first thing she could reach was the napkin draped over the cast on my forearm and my badly bruised hand.

She yanked the napkin away…

Began patting dry her tears…

Then stopped crying altogether when she saw my injuries.

"Wait a minute! Your hands!" Giselle stood and pointed accusingly, her crying turning quickly into a shrill, vindictive laugh. "Those hands are not capable of baking. They're not capable of doing anything. You didn't make this pastry. You didn't crack a single egg. None of this work is yours, none! You really are nothing but a hack. A fake. A complete fraud. Pascal Dupont… you're nothing at all!"

She turned to her cronies with a wild, almost maniacal glint in her eye. "Are you filming? Did you catch that?"

Her influencers all nodded.

"Good! Let the world know, once and for all, that Monsieur Pascal Dupont does not belong in the culinary corridors of Paris. He does not deserve the accolades and adoration his Uncle Alphonse once received. And he will never be one of France's finest chefs. As I live and breathe, Pascal Dupont will never bake a single pastry in Paris ever again!"

"And I will be happier for it," I declared proudly.

My voice was calm.

My nerve was steady.

And my heart was true.

I smiled as Giselle gave me a quizzical, outraged look. "What did you just say?"

"I said, I will be a happier man if I never bake a single pastry in Paris ever again."

Bud placed a hand on my shoulder. "But Pascal, what about your career? Your reputation? Your life's work? Don't you want the same success as your uncle? Isn't that all you've ever wanted?"

"Maybe I've been wanting the wrong thing all this time." I smiled at him… then turned to Giselle, to her influencers with their devices all pointing in my direction. "It's true, I didn't bake this pastry. It's true that I didn't crack a single egg. But these people here did. They stayed up all night to try and help me; to bring me success. I thought that's what I wanted. But now I realize, the only thing I really want is here. It's the friends I've made, and it's the man I love, standing by my side. And that's worth more to me than all the pastries in the world."

Bud took my cheek in his hand and looked into my eyes. "Did you just tell me you love me?"

I laughed and pointed to the devices in the hands of the influencers. "Actually, I think I just told the whole world."

This time it was Bud who started crying. "I love you too!"

He planted his lips on mine.

Giselle tossed her napkin on the table with disdain. "Is this what we flew all the way from Paris for? This is ridiculous. Get me the fuck out of here now."

As she began to storm toward the door, Aunt Bea stepped in her way.

"You really are one prized bitch, aren't you," Bea said. "Before you go, there's just one thing you should know."

"What's that?"

"I have exactly the same Halston dress… and I wear it soooooo much better than you."

Giselle gasped indignantly.

Bea just grinned. "Now why don't you round up your little poodles and get the hell out of our town. The people of Mulligan's Mill will be arriving any minute now to enjoy Pascal's much-loved pastries. We don't want someone like you putting them off their food, do we? People like you tend to leave a bad taste in the mouth. Au revoir now, darling. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

Giselle gave an infuriated humph, then clicked her fingers to summon her lackies.

Maggie rushed to open the door for them.

Giselle's cronies filed out quickly, while Giselle turned to us all for one final announcement. "This has been a most unpleasant experience."

"Good!" I smiled. "Don't bother giving my regards to Paris. I won't be coming back."

"Merci for that!" said Giselle.

She turned and headed out the door… but didn't quite make it before Maggie slammed the door shut, snapping off one of Giselle's heels in the process.

"Ope! Looks like the door hit her on the way out after all."

Giselle scooped up her broken heel and screamed, "You just broke my Jimmy Choo!"

"Gesundheit," Maggie said.

Giselle spun about, red with rage, then limped and wobbled back to her car.

We watched as the three black vehicles peeled away from the curb and sped out of town.

Bud wrapped his arm around my waist and pressed his lips to mine. "That was amazing. You are amazing. I'm so proud of you."

"I'm proud of you too," said Ginny.

"We're all proud of you!" said Bea.

"I'm proud too," said Maggie. "I'm also starving."

"I can fix that," I said. "Who wants croissants for breakfast?"

Everyone cheered.

"Yes!"

"Yum!"

"You betcha!"

"There's only one catch," I told them all, holding up my hands with a grin. "You're cooking."