I can’t help but wonder if there’s a little love connection going on in our four-unit building. There are two apartments on the ground floor and two above—occupied by Mrs. Madison and me, respectively.
As far as I know, only Petunia is married, but her husband is often away on business.
I dig in my purse as my phone beeps again. The caller’s number on the screen is a blur as I struggle to find my eyeglasses.
They’re smudged when I put them on, but the number comes into focus. It’s international and I don’t recognize it.
“I’d better be on my way. Good luck with Chompy the Swamp King.” I only hope Cecil returns it to its habitat before the end of the day.
Phoebe told me not to text and walk, and for once, I obey as I hurry across town to Blancbourg.
The scent of buttery pastry, raspberries, and pastry cream, or as Cate would call it in French,crème pâtissière, reminds me that I’m almost dizzy with hunger.
Biting my lip, I double back. It’s Monday, and I can’t start the week in a frenzied tizzy, nor should I be late, but the scent calls. I’ll get a whole box of pastries for everyone, including one of Cate’s favorites,palmiers.
Promise, I’m not trying to curry favor with the headmistress. We’re friends and she’ll understand that pastries took priority today. Probably. You never know with Cate. All the same, I don’t want to show up empty-handed...or with an empty stomach.
While standing in line, I think about bakery scents and candles, wondering what I could whip up that would be fresh, yet familiar. Vanilla is overdone. Same with buttercream, all things apple, and birthday cake. I love all those scents, but I want something that captures a more unique essence. A fragrance that will take someone back to a particular moment in time. A memory.
Food is such a key part of our olfactory experience, but no one would want a garlic bread or French fry candle. Okay, some people would. I’ve done a survey and had some unique custom scent requests.
My mind rushes with ideas as the line creeps forward and my phone beeps. In the flurry with Cecil hunting for the lizard in the hallway, I forgot someone called.
Adjusting my glasses, I don’t recognize the number. I tap the text icon. The message says:
Hey, sorry if things were awkward the other night. My mom can be intense. And I owe you an apology about something else, too. Hope you made it home without crashing any weddings.
My jaw lowers because I think it’s a message from Chase. It has to be. Only he knows how I literally crashed a wedding, er, the cake.
“Next,” the gal behind the counter calls.
I point to a buttery, flakey, crescent-shaped pastry in the case. “I’ll take a crushant.”
Her brow wrinkles.
“I mean a chaseant.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“I mean a croissant and an espresso. Sorry, I was thinking about something else, erm, my crush.” I finish my order and now have cheeks that are about the same shade after overdoing it with the blush earlier.
Officially and criminally late, at least according to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette standards, I rush up the front walk, clutching the box from the bakery like a peace offering before I even know if I’m under fire.
I greet Arthur, the doorman, butler, and fast friend to everyone he meets, by opening the box and offering him a pastry. Stiff-backed and white-gloved, he politely passes on the pastries.
“I’ll leave one for you in the breakroom,” I say before hurrying inside.
I find Everly, the newest etiquette coach, and Cate are already in her office.
I quickly settle in and then open the pastry box. “Anyone care for something scrummy to start off Monday?”
Cate looks at me for a long moment, likely never having seen me in glasses.
I adjust the frames and then say, “Lost my contact on the way out the door this morning. Sorry that I was running behind.”
She moves right past my apology and gets down to business. “Ladies, I apologize for not offering you more training time, butit turns out we’re getting four new students. Athletes who have bad boy reputations.”
“Sound like rascals,” I say, knowing about those all too well.
