Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (29 page)

In a turnaround so fast it made her dizzy, Polly was suddenly filled with delight. Eleanor and Simon looked at each other, then back at Hannah.

“You sure you don’t want to go with the minimalist?” Eleanor asked Polly.

“Very sure. Boho chic all the way.”

“We could hit up the flea markets,” Simon told Eleanor, with an elegant lift of his shoulder. “Antique shops. It might be fun.”

“I am on a strict budget,” Polly said. “And I don’t know what Luke told you, but I can’t afford too many design fees either.”

“That’s all right, darling.” Eleanor settled into a chair. “Simon and I love a challenge.”

Within seconds, she and Simon had their heads bent over a drawing tablet and were deep in a discussion about rustic tables and color palettes.

“That’s a great idea,” Polly told Hannah. “Thank you.”

“Just seemed obvious. I mean, you don’t want to change the atmosphere of the place, right? Mom wouldn’t have liked that at all.”

Polly nodded. She and Hannah looked at each other, and for the first time in more years than she cared to think about, a current of tenderness passed between them.

Then Hannah broke eye contact and returned to her seat by the window. Polly picked up Evan’s empty coffee mug and went to refill it.

The warm feeling lingered, as if her sister had hugged her heart.

After setting Evan’s cup in front of him, she sat back down at her laptop while Eleanor and Simon wandered around, sketching ideas. Polly pulled up her email. Her gaze settled on a message bearing the subject line
Art of French Pastry Course Application.

Her heart did a slow, strange roll. She’d convinced herself she wouldn’t hear anything about her application.

Her hand shook as she clicked on the message to open it. She scanned the letter, first written in French and then duplicated in English.

Dear Mme Lockhart,

We are pleased to accept and welcome you to The Art of French Pastry course, held at the kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. The course first taught by M. Pierre Lacroix begins on 6 September.

We are impressed with both your application and the innovation you have shown in your creation of the “Declair.” Our six-month course is followed by a three-month internship at one of several patisseries or hotels, with the option of further training at the recommendation of one of the
chefs pâtissiers
.

Polly stopped reading and sat back in her chair. Exhilaration flared inside her, and before she did something silly, like run around the bakery screaming with disbelief and excitement, she grabbed her laptop and hurried over to Hannah.

“Come here,” she whispered, tugging at her sister’s arm. “I need to talk to you.”

Hannah gave her a puzzled look, but followed her back to the kitchen. Polly turned, her heart hammering so hard she could hear it inside her head.

“Remember when I told you I’d applied to that Art of French Pastry course?” she asked. “I just got an email that they accepted me.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Jittery with elation, her nerves fizzing like champagne bubbles, Polly set the laptop on the table and turned the screen toward her sister. “I had to submit an original recipe, so I first sent in Mom’s éclair recipe. Then I felt bad for passing it off as my own, so when I came up with the Declair, I sent that in instead. And they accepted me.”

They accepted me.

“Polly, that’s incredible! Congratulations.” Hannah threw her arms around Polly in a hard embrace. “You’ll love Paris. I have some friends there I can contact so you won’t feel like you’re alone. And Pierre Lacroix . . . Mom would be thrilled.”

Polly nodded, a rush of emotion tightening her throat as she looked back at the email.

Mom.

“What about Wild Child?” she asked, some of her excitement ebbing. “I can’t leave the bakery. Not right when I’m getting everything back on track.”

“Well, you can’t let the bakery stop you from an opportunity like this,” Hannah said. “If I were you, I’d close the place down. But since I know you won’t, you can turn Wild Child over to Clementine.”

“Clementine is leaving soon,” Polly said. “She’s going up to Humbolt County to live with her daughter and her family.”

“So hire a new manager.”

“What about all the products? The doughnuts and éclairs? The Declairs?”

“It’s not rocket science,” Hannah said. “Hire new bakers and train them how to make stuff. September is over two months away. You have time to get things organized.”

Polly tried to picture it . . . and couldn’t. She couldn’t picture herself standing in a shiny, industrial kitchen with students from other countries, learning about the proper way to make puff pastry dough, icings, baguettes, and
viennoiseries
. She couldn’t imagine actually talking to Pierre Lacroix, much less taking instruction from him.

She couldn’t see herself sitting in French language classes, walking down the Place de la Madeleine and stopping at Fauchon to sample their macaroons and truffles. Nor could she see herself making friends with not only people from other parts of France, but from Spain, Italy, England, and Japan. She couldn’t imagine seeing a lost hope become a reality unlike any she could have dreamed on her own.

Except that maybe she could.

She turned her attention back to the acceptance letter and read the attached documents detailing the program and requirements. If her mother were still here—happy, healthy, alive—Polly wouldn’t hesitate to send in her acceptance.

But Jessie wasn’t here. And not only could Polly not leave Wild Child, there was also the matter of Luke Stone, the hot rich candyman who had eased his way right into her heart.

She pressed a hand to her chest, staring at the laptop screen through tear-blurred eyes. She’d made a promise to her mother that she was still trying to fulfill. But she knew very well that Jessie would be overjoyed at the idea of her going off to study the art of pastry-making in Paris.

Polly had no idea if it was possible to keep a promise and follow a lost dream at the same time. But it appeared the universe was telling her to find out.

THE POSTERS OF PARIS THAT
lined Polly’s apartment walls, the French novels on her bookshelves, and especially her copy of
The Art of French Pastry
all took on a sudden heightened significance. She had until the end of the month to either accept or reject the course offer, and it wasn’t an opportunity that would come around again. She also would never forgive herself for abandoning Wild Child after all the work she—and Luke—had done to make it solvent again.

For the next few days, a combination of exhilaration and anxiety sizzled through her. She tried to focus on the bakery and her classes, and she spent evenings writing up lists of things she would need to do if she went to Paris. Everything about the possibility was both exciting and scary at the same time.

On the one hand, she would have a life-changing experience. On the other, she couldn’t shake the sense of insecurity that she might never measure up. Yes, she’d invented the Declair, but that had been a mistake. What if she wasn’t able to create another pastry like that again? What if she couldn’t display the kind of innovation and creativity that chefs of Pierre Lacroix’s caliber would demand?

Then there was the overwhelming matter of Luke Stone. What would her moving to Paris for nine months mean for them? Hannah was still the only one who knew about the acceptance letter, though her sister seemed to think the decision was a no-brainer. But considering Hannah had made a job out of traveling, Polly wasn’t surprised. Just as she wasn’t surprised by her own practical, methodical approach.

As she wrestled with what to do and how to do it, Pendergrass and Peabody Designs took on the
boho chic
remodeling of Wild Child with gusto.

Eleanor came by every day for a week with color samples, light fixtures, and various types of drawer handles and doorknobs for Polly to choose from. When Polly mentioned she liked
this
one, Eleanor would sigh, shake her head, and assure her
that
one was a much better choice.

Polly was always relieved when Hannah happened to be around, since it was easier to turn the decision-making over to her sister. Hannah seemed to have a knack for knowing the difference between “light cream” and “beige,” and which one would work better with the rest of the décor.

Per Eleanor’s instructions, Polly took down all the decorations and prints in preparation for painting. She spent one morning clearing out the rainbow streamers and mandala tapestries from the front windows to make room for a lighted, garden-themed display.

The following Saturday night, she and Luke were scheduled to attend the Fine Arts Museum exhibition opening and fundraiser dinner. Though they talked often, she hadn’t seen much of him this week—they texted and exchanged emails about the business, but he was immersed in work and a new Sugar Rush project in Switzerland.

With all his experience, he would be able to give her excellent advice and insights into the Paris opportunity, so Polly wanted to talk with him at a time when they could be alone and focused.

As the weekend drew closer, she became increasingly nervous about the museum event. It was the first time she would be in Luke’s arena, and she had no idea what to expect or what would be expected of her, despite Mia’s assurance that all she had to do was
“be yourself, but God in heaven, please don’t do any shots.”

Well, as long as she was with Luke, it would be fine. Probably all she’d have to do was smile and make small talk and hope no one asked her about mergers or stock options.

She climbed back into the window display and unpinned a tapestry from a clothesline. A movement outside caught her eye. She glanced out the window just as a tall, blond woman crossed the street from a parked Mercedes.

Polly’s hackles, dander, and guard all shot up at the same time. She dropped the tapestry as she steeled her spine and got ready for a throwdown. This time, she wasn’t going to call Luke for help either.

Julia Bennett strode into the bakery as if she owned the place, dressed to perfection in a (admittedly gorgeous) camelhair wrap, a beige sheath dress that looked as if it had been made for her, and matching suede pumps.

Polly clambered out of the window display and stepped in her path.

“You’re not welcome here,” she said icily.

Julia held up a perfectly manicured hand. “I come in peace.”

Polly suspected the other woman’s definition of “peace” was quite different from her own.

Julia’s cool gaze swept over the rather bare interior. “I understand you’re getting a facelift.”

“I hope it turns out as well as yours.”

Julia gave a little sniff that might have been either offense or amusement. She walked past, her heels clicking on the worn wooden floor.

“What do you want?” Polly asked.

“My brother-in-law told me that somehow you managed to convince Luke to take a weekend off.”

It was such an out-of-left-field comment that Polly was caught off-guard. “So?”

“And apparently it was a short but
real
vacation,” Julia continued, swiveling on her heel to look at Polly again, “because for at least forty-eight hours, Luke didn’t answer any phone calls or emails.”

“How did you know that?”

“Luke told Warren he was going off the grid, as he put it, and not to call. Warren tested him several times by calling and asked other Sugar Rush execs to do the same. No one heard back from Luke until Monday morning. Some people even got a bit worried.”

Monday morning? Polly’s assumption that Luke would jump right on his computer and phone late Sunday night had been wrong.

“We had a good time,” she said warily. “And why are you bringing this up anyway?”

“Because not once in eleven years has Luke taken a vacation and been unreachable,” Julia replied. “In fact, he’s never really taken a vacation at all. If he has, he’s still always called and directed things from afar. It’s insane.”

“His hard work has paid off,” Polly said. “If it weren’t for him, Sugar Rush wouldn’t be such a success.”