Short Story: The Pastry Chef

Happy holidays! In favor of this food-filled month, I thought I’d share “The Pastry Chef,” a magical realism short story I wrote. This story is also published in this year’s Redwood Writers anthology, One Universe to the Left.

I hope you have a lovely holiday, and a Happy New Year!

The Pastry Chef

Carefully lined icing transforms the walls of the gingerbread house into dimpled terracotta. I study my progress, taking in the counters within the four walls, the shelves of pastries, the small dining tables with chairs. It’s an exact match to the exterior of Decadence, the sweet little dessert bistro I’ve owned the past two years. If I look close enough, I can hear the shoosh of the espresso machine. The tinkling of utensils on porcelain under the din of conversation. Even as I sit in the privacy of the café’s cold back office.

With precision, I place the top level above the shop. My apartment, with the matchbox kitchen and single bedroom, plus a living room with a doll-like bed in the corner. A small licorice cat sits perched in the windows, its tail sweeping the interior wall just like Loki, my little black cat who is currently stationed in my upstairs apartment. There’s a hollow furnace with a gumdrop glowing within, seeming to offer warmth in this cool office. The clawfoot tub over the dark and white chocolate checked floor is made of spun sugar, filled with inviting blue taffy.

“Time for your bath, Emily,” I murmur, my eyes darting through the gingerbread apartment until I finally see a flash of movement. Steam rises from the pooling taffy, small drips of liquid sugar lighting on the chocolate floor. And then she’s in the tub, her small gummy bear duck floating in front of her. Her licorice lace hair is a brilliant yellow. Her blue icing eyes so large they could be stars on her gingerbread face.

“My beautiful girl.”

She grins, that same dimpled smile I both love and miss. Well, I don’t have to miss her anymore.

I let her play a while longer until the bubbles evaporate and I see goosebumps on her doughy skin.

“You’re getting mushy,” I tease as I towel her dry then wrap a marshmallow robe around her shoulders. Once she’s tucked into bed, I kiss my finger then touch her cheek.

“Goodnight, sweet Emily.”

“Goodnight, Mama,” she whispers. My eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s spoken since I learned of this strange magic. But just like then, I won’t question it. If I do, it might be taken away, and then I’ll never see her again.

Outside my office, dozens of cakes line the counters, like miniature crowns awaiting their jewels—billowing dollops of buttercream frosting topped with juicy strawberries just picked this morning. These cakes are the final desserts I’m preparing for tomorrow’s event, the wedding of actress Anna Taylor to film producer Alfie Rogers. Looking at the clock, I only have twenty-seven minutes to finish before they’re picked up for delivery to Los Angeles.

It’s been months since I’ve had strawberries in this shop. Once a Decadence staple, I have not been able to stomach the offending berries for months. But now, I have no choice. Anna Taylor happened upon our shop when she was filming in our sleepy town of Chapel Peak. The cakes went viral on her Instagram. I signed the contract as her wedding’s pastry chef.

But that was before.

Anna Taylor’s fanbase weren’t the only ones in love with my strawberry cakes. A certain golden-haired toddler was also crazy about them, but mostly because of the strawberries. She used to steal the blushing orbs from the cake when she thought I wasn’t looking. Sometimes I let her get away with it, ignoring the telltale smear as the red juices dribbled down her chin. But often my patience ran as short. I’d snap at her, my whole body tightening as hers shrank in the corner, her tiny fist clutching the half-eaten strawberry.

“Here, Mama,” she’d say, holding the massacred fruit out to me as penance.

If I could do things over, I’d have set her up with a whole bowl of strawberries. I’d give her every cake I ever baked, letting her fingers smear through the icing in search of her treasured berries.

I look now to the cakes, the white icing as unblemished as fresh snow. My cautious hands hold the piping bag above the dessert, poised for the first dollop. There’s a slight tremor, and I wait for it to pass with a few box breaths. I think of my office, the peace I feel when I work on the gingerbread house. When the details become more lifelike. When she flashes her painted smile.

I let the calm wash over me. Then, I push all thoughts from my mind and get to work. Soon, tiny mountains of icing top each dessert, waiting for the finishing touch. The berries are off to the side, washed and dried, ready for placement.

I want to do it. But every time I reach for a berry, my hands resume shaking. The bile catches in my throat. The sound of screeching tires and Emily’s sweet blonde curls stained crimson.

“The truck is here for the delivery.”

I start at my sister’s voice, my hand knocking against the bowl of berries as I jerk back.

“Oh, sorry Margot. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Jenny rushes forward, but I’ve already pushed the bowl back in place, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.

“It’s fine. I guess I got lost in concentration.” I sweep a hand over the cakes, hoping it hides my shaking hands. “All I have left are the strawberries. If you take over, I can make sure the paperwork is in order.”

A flash of something crosses Jenny’s face. Her mouth puckers, and I think she’s going to say something. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by her usual sunny smile.

“Of course, Margot.”

I leave the kitchen, greeted by a delivery man with a stack of papers and a bored look on his face. As if he weren’t transporting Chapel Peak’s finest desserts to the poshest party of the year. This is not an unwarranted flex. It’s exactly what Vogue wrote when they shared details of the Taylor-Rogers wedding, including my desserts, officially putting my little shop on the map. The phone has been ringing off the hook ever since, some from potential customers, but also from reporters wanting to know more about the dessert menu.

And what’s on the menu? Besides the haunting strawberry cakes, I’ve made lemon tarts topped with meringue that rest on a shortcake crust, glistening candied pearl bon bons in the shape of juicy cherries, activated charcoal sablée cookie sandwiches with a seductive pistachio filling, airy mousse in a delicate dark chocolate shell, and a spongy tiramisu with layers of mascarpone between ladyfingers, finished off with a dusting of chocolate and a decadent drowning of Plantation rum.

The contracted fee was enough to pay the lease on the shop and apartment for the next year, which is great timing since Charlie left me holding the bag.

After the paperwork is signed and the refrigerated delivery van is packed, I help Jenny wipe down the counters and close shop for the night. She’s been quiet since the strawberries, and I know she’s biting her tongue. I don’t want to open the conversation, so I hum as I clean. As if everything is fine. As if I’m not wishing she would leave so I can continue working on the gingerbread house instead of wiping sugar from every corner.

“Margot, can we talk?”

I close my eyes, bracing myself for the wound she’s going to open.

“I just…”

“I ran out of time,” I say. “And you do a wonderful job with the berries.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes still look troubled. “It’s not that. It’s…” She sighs, then turns toward the small office in the back. My heart hammers as she reaches the door. A door I always keep locked. And yet, it opens easily when she turns the knob.

“Jenny, don’t.”

She pauses, but then, to my horror, enters the room. Approaches the gingerbread house on my desk.

“Don’t,” I repeat, rushing to stop her. But she’s quicker. Her hand dips into the house, retrieves the little gingerbread girl.

“You’re doing it again.”

My breath is shallow as I reach for the small figure, but Jenny pulls away.

“Are you still talking with your therapist?”

“I don’t need to,” I say. “What I need is for you to respect my privacy and stay out of my things.”

“Because you want to continue living in a fantasy world, Margot!” Jenny holds the small, delicate figure between two fingers. And before I can react, she throws the little gingerbread girl to the ground. One arm detaches and skitters across the tile. A crack severs her frozen smile. One icing eye is missing completely.

I drop to my knees, gathering the pieces of my little girl as fat tears splash across the floor. “How could you!”

Through blurry eyes, I see remorse on my sister’s face. She kneels, picking up one of the gumdrop buttons and placing it in my palm.

“I miss her, too,” she says softly. “I keep expecting her to waddle through the kitchen like she used to do, getting under our feet while she looked for…”

Strawberries. But even she can’t say the word.

I take the pressure off my knees, swinging my legs around so I can sit cross-legged on the cold floor, gingerbread Emily cradled in my hands.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Jenny rests her hand on my knee.

“It was, though.”

The rolling strawberry. The open door. The screeching tires.

I close my eyes, my eyelids as red as the blood in her curls.

“Charlie always said I didn’t watch her closely enough. That if I wasn’t careful, she’d get hurt.” A hoarse laugh erupts from my chest, pushed by the pain that’s been there for months.

“Emily had two parents, if I remember straight,” Jenny bites back. “He was there that day, too. He—”

“Stop. I can’t.”

I hear her breathing in between my shuddering sighs. I can practically hear her thoughts, because they’re all things I know. That he was useless, even before. That he could have helped more with Emily while I was at work. He called this shop my little hobby, even as it paid most of the bills. Even as he tinkered on his car in between odd jobs while I worked myself to the bone. And still, it’s his parting words that get me the most.

She’d still be here if it weren’t for you. But since she’s not, I don’t have to be either.

“Will you be okay tonight?” Jenny asks as I lock the shop doors. I nod. We both have a busy day tomorrow as we cater to the masses who want a taste of what Anne Taylor will have at her wedding. I know I should get some sleep, even as I feel the tiny crumbles of cookie vibrate in my hand.

“I’ll be okay.” I look at the whisps of violet clouds interrupting the tangerine sky. The sun has already set, but the warm air promises an evening of open windows and a symphony of summer cicadas. I think of how the past couple of weeks have been a welcome interruption to my grief. Just by staying busy, there were moments I could escape from reality.

And then there was the magic. I don’t know how it happened, or even when. All I know is that when I create food art, I somehow breathe life into it. First there were the goldfish cupcakes, each tiny orange vessel swimming in circles around the blue icing lake. Then there was the coconut snowball dessert shaped like a miniature yeti. I’ll never forget the way it roared.

And on one of my darkest days, I created the shop and my little apartment. Licorice Loki sat in the window, her candy tail swishing as she filled the cookie home with her purrs. The fireplace offered a toasty glow while an eternal winter remained in my heart.

And my little Emily. I took such care in creating her, from her ringlet curls to her rosebud mouth. And when she smiled…magic.

Charlie found the house the day he left. He smashed it against the wood floors of our apartment, then stomped on it until it was merely crumbs.

“You think you can just bake her back to life?” He picked up a handful of the crumbled house and threw it at me. Blamed me for her death. Then left.

Weeks later, Jenny and I sat at the table, an empty bottle of wine between us as I told her everything. And when it was over, she took my hands in hers, sighed deeply, then told me she knew a therapist who would help me through my grief.

But the therapist didn’t know what was true. Neither did Jenny. And neither did Charlie.

And now at my kitchen table, the pieces of my daughter laid out in front of me, I set to work. I mix a bowl of powdered sugar with egg whites and cream of tartar until it’s silky smooth. After it’s spooned into the piping bag, I line the place where Emily’s arm detached from her body. Then I gently press her arm to the spot and sprinkle sugar crystals on the seam.

“Now you’re bedazzled.” I swear I see her cracked smile twitch. I add more icing to each tiny fissure, and a little more sparkling sugar. With a steady hand, I paint another blue eye. She blinks, looks at me.

“Mama?”

“Hi there, baby.”

But I’m not done.

From a mound of chilled gingerbread, I take a small piece and roll it with a glass until it’s flat. My cookie cutter creates a small human shape. Once baked and cooled, I get busy with her features. Blue eyes like Emily’s. Like mine. A soft, pink mouth, perfect for goodnight kisses. A coconut cotton dress, like the one Emily loved to snuggle against when I sang her lullabies. Tiny red sprinkles—strawberries—on her hands.

The little doll blinks slowly, her eyes looking at me, at the room around us, at her hands, her dress. Then at Emily.

I hold my breath.

Gingerbread Margot gets to her feet and wobbles toward my glittering girl. She plucks a tiny berry from her palm. Emily looks to me, and I nod. She smiles, takes the berry. Takes her new mother’s hand.

I retrieve the gingerbread house from my office and bring it to my apartment. Gingerbread Margot tucks little Emily into her bed. Hums one of the tunes I used to sing to my own little girl. Wiping tears from my eyes, I replace the roof to the house and turn off the lights. Loki hops from my windowsill with a gentle thud. In the gingerbread house, a similar tap signals licorice Loki’s departure from her own icing-lined sill. And underneath the sound of cicadas through my open window, Gingerbread Margot keeps humming our song.