Page 63 of The Client
“Mrs. Dunham,” I ask timidly, suddenly feeling nervous. “Would it be okay if I did some baking? I’ll clean everything up when I’m done.”
“The kitchen is none of my affair,” she tells me, “but as long as you don’t get in the cook’s way, I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Thank you.”
Practically skipping down the stairs, I’m relieved to find the kitchen empty. I start opening cabinets and taking inventory of the huge walk-in pantry, gathering the tools and ingredients I’ll need.
I have no idea what kind of cake Rhys likes, so I decide to make him a favorite from my homeland.karpatkacake is like two giant cream puffs with the most decadent and rich cream sandwiched in between. The top is dusted with powdered sugar and it’s so delicious it’s hard to only have one slice.
Plus, he’s probably never had it, so there’s no chance of it bringing up bad memories.
I use a delivery app on my phone to get the ingredients ordered. Since I have at least thirty or forty minutes to wait, I sneak back into Rhys’s office and find paper, scissors, a hole puncher, and colored markers. The paper is actually a pack of manila file folders, but I’ll make do. The string I need is harder to find, but I dig through all the drawers in the kitchen until I locate some cotton twine.
Everything goes onto the dining room table, and I start cutting triangles out of the thick manila paper, one flag for each letter of “Happy Birthday Rhys!” But they don’t look quite fancy enough, so I decide to cut scallops into their edges. It’ll take twice as long to get my bunting put together, but I think the extra effort will pay off in the end. If this was for Eva, I’d have to douse the letters in glitter, but I think Rhys will appreciate more subtlety. I alternate the markers I use so that each letter is a different color, and add a border to each triangle flag. Perfect.
My phone buzzes with a notification that my order has been delivered, and I run outside to collect the bag that’s waiting outside the gate. I carry it into the kitchen triumphantly, even though the actual baking hasn’t begun yet. I’ve got this.
After I tie on an apron, I grab the mixer and get to work. It takes some time to make the choux pastry for the creampuff layers, but I’ve made this dessert so many times before that it comes naturally to me. I don’t even consult a recipe at this point. The kitchen smells amazing by the time I’m done baking the pieces. Then I get back to work on the birthday bunting while they cool.
My art project gets put on hold when I get a call from Diya. We’ve texted a bit over the last few weeks, but I’ve been pretty tight-lipped about the details of my arrangement with Rhys. All she knows is that a hot young businessman is renting me for the next six months, that I’m shockingly enjoying the sex, and that he’s covering my rent while I’m with him. Diya has been cautiously optimistic, but she’s still concerned for me, hence the frequent check-ins.
“You’re making a special cake for him? Girl, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not,” I lie. “It’s his birthday.”
“You do,” she insists. “This is notPretty Woman.”
Just then, the oven timer goes off. I hang up with Diya to make the filling for my now-cool creampuffs. The filling turns out perfect. Thick, luxuriously creamy, and so very rich. My final step is assembling the whole thing, but I have to finish hanging the bunting first.
An hour later, I’ve finished sprinkling thekarpatkawith powdered sugar and moved onto arranging blue and silver birthday candles on top when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway.
“Mrs. Dunham?” I call out, setting the cake down.
She doesn’t answer.
“Rhys?” I try again.
My heart is pounding as I suddenly start to second-guess myself. I don’t want Rhys to feel overwhelmed, or that I’ve overstepped on his private day.
I just want him to know that someone cares.
Like he did for me when he heard me crying. He shouldn’t have to erase himself from the day that his father and ex-girlfriend hijacked to break his heart.
When he steps through the doorway, both of us freeze. His eyes dart to the cake, then up to the banner, then to me.
I gesture at the cake and say, “Sto lat!”
His face goes pale, all the color draining from it.
“Mrs. Dunham did this?” he asks.
My stomach drops. I can tell that he’s not pleased.
“No,” I say quietly. “I did.”
Without another word, he storms out of the room.
I’ve ruined everything.
