The Billionaire's Secret (7 page)

“I hadn’t heard that before.” Confession for bread making? She tried and failed to disguise her chuckle. “I’ll have to find another…ah…goal to inspire me.”

“Yeah, it does not work the same for a woman,” he said, putting the dough in the center of the floured surface of a well-used pastry cloth. “It’s said the first great male bakers in France were monks. I always thought it was one of the few good outcomes of a vow of celibacy, n’est-ce pas?”

“I agree,” she said, laughing fully now. Confession, sin, and now monks. France had a long, colorful history. “I’ll have to share your view with a friend of mine.”

Evan would find the story amusing after his recent celibacy kick. Goosebumps suddenly rolled across her skin as she thought about them coming together as lovers. Would it be tonight? She hoped it would be tonight. Already, her insides felt like over-risen bread loaves, ready to explode, needing heat for completion.

“You are not here, ma petite,” Andre said. “Come rejoin me. You must be present to make magic.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook herself. “Please continue.”

“Brian must have shown you how he learned to make bread, but everyone makes it differently, even when they use the same recipe.”

She nodded. “I know. Even though I’m using Grandma Kemstead’s cinnamon roll recipe, mine still turn out differently. It’s slight, but I can tell.”

He rubbed her shoulder. “You understand me then. So, I will show you my way, and you will find your own.”

“Actually, Brian didn’t teach me how to make baguettes. He didn’t want to give me any bad habits,” she said, touching a finger to the flour on the cloth, itching to get her hands dirty. “He wanted me to learn from the master.”

“Just so,” Andre said, nodding his head in approval. “First, you must make the proper baguette shape.” He used the heel of his hand to roll the ball of dough into a circle. “Now you tuck one side into the middle and pinch the seams. Then, you do the same thing on the other side. Then there’s the third tuck. You take one side and connect it all the way to the other side.”

His hands moved slowly so she wouldn’t miss any of the steps, and he glanced at her every few moments to make sure she was still with him.

“The last part is easy. You use both hands to roll it into the shape of the slender arm of a beautiful woman. A dancer’s arm. See?”

And she
could
see it. He left one end of the baguette a little thicker than the other so it looked like a woman’s arm from elbow to wrist.

He reached for a baker’s blade. “This little tool is your paintbrush. You are going to slash it across the bread to make the cuts everyone has come to expect from a proper baguette.” He made the diagonal slashes with the precision of a master. “Slash. Don’t saw. She will open to you better if you treat her with swiftness and gentleness.”

When he set the baguette aside and reached for another ball of dough, she watched in fascination as he worked ten times faster than he had during his first demonstration to shape it into another baguette. This was a true professional at work, and she wondered how many baguettes he could shape and slash in a minute. She decided to ask him.

“I’ve never counted. The bread sets the pace. You find your rhythm with the dough.”

Margie felt that way with her cinnamon rolls. Sometimes it felt like the dough wanted her to go slower. She mostly listened—unless she was in a rush.

“Once you master the proper baguette,” Andre said, “you can allow your imagination to come forth. That’s where the true magic comes.” He grabbed another ball of dough and shaped it. His slashes this time were more like the lines that divided a highway. “You can do anything with the blade, ma petite. Don’t be afraid of putting your mark on the dough. It’s like putting your mark on a lover, no?” He bumped her playfully. “Do you know what I mean?”

She thought of the fingernail marks or soft nips she’d made on past lovers, and the delicate bites she’d received in kind. Then she thought of Evan and wondered what kind of marks they would leave on each other.

“You are ripe, ma petite,” Andre said, studying her. “It is not just the sensuality of the bread. There’s a man. You are flushed.”

She raised a hand to her chest, embarrassed the heat her skin was releasing was visible to the naked eye. “Yes, there’s a man.”

“When it’s good between a man and a woman, the bread rises higher, but when it’s sour, the dough seems to struggle, and the taste is flatter.” He patted her on the back. “Just a word of wisdom. I became insanely successful when I met Belle. There were no accidents in that regard, ma petite.”

The notion of becoming more successful because of love appealed to her romantic side. “I appreciate your wisdom, Andre. I hope you will always share it with me.”

“As long as you are here, Margie,” he said. “Now, you will show me what you can do with the bread. First, you will form a traditional baguette. Until you have made it perfectly, I will not be satisfied.”

When he inclined his head toward the tray filled with rising balls of dough, she reached for her first one. It felt like the softest pillow in her hands. In that moment, she decided that was the way she’d envision them—as pillows. Breasts would never work for her. She laid the dough on the pastry cloth and reached her hand out to the nearby container of flour to add some more to the cloth.

“Do not use too much flour,” he said, shaking her hand free until she was only holding a pinch. “The downfall of many bakers is their over-use of flour.”

“Grandma Kemstead said the same thing about the cinnamon rolls,” she told him.

“She knows then,” Andre said. “Now, roll it into a circle.”

She used the heel of her hand like he did. The dough was so alive, she could feel the bubbles burst at her touch. “You make it look so easy. Getting the thickness even as you roll it out is a challenge. Do you never use a rolling pin?” That’s what she used for the cinnamon rolls.

“Never for bread.” He gave a wicked wink. “A rolling pin for bread is like a kinky sex toy. You only bring it out when all else fails.”

Margie disagreed, but she declined to comment. Somehow, bantering with Andre about the sensuality of bread felt dangerous, and she wanted to get to know him better before she threw back a comment so incendiary. Instead, she rolled the bread until she felt it was even and then tucked it together three times like he’d shown her. Rolling it into a baguette that resembled a woman’s arm proved more challenging.

“Mine looks more like a rabbit’s leg.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and jostled her good-naturedly. “You practice. I made an entire tray of bread dough for you today. But to inspire your imagination as you learn the basics, let me show you something else.”

He grabbed another ball of dough and rolled it into a perfectly formed baguette. Then he used some kitchen shears to cut the top of the bread every few inches.

“You see? It is a completely new presentation.” Then he leaned in with a cocky grin. “But there’s still more I can do.” He connected the ends of the bread and made a wreath. “Sometimes we make it this way, and then serve it with fresh berries and cream in the middle. People love it. And it’s so simple. All it takes is a little imagination.”

“Wow!” she said, touching the cut ends of the bread. “You’re incredible.”

“Wait until I teach you how to braid baguettes together.” He leaned back against the stainless steel counter. “You won’t believe how beautiful that can be. But that’s an advanced lesson. For now, you practice making baguette. Then I will show you how we bake the bread.”

She glanced over at the ovens and saw Fabian and Ronan working in tandem, taking out an enormous batch of piping hot golden bread loaves.

“You will have your own baguette to take home, ma petite,” Andre said. “Be sure to savor it. There is nothing like sampling the first baguette of your hands. It is like a first kiss.”

Margie immediately thought of her first kiss along the Seine—how the willows had wrapped her even closer to Evan, how his mouth had felt as it moved in urgent, heated passes over her own.

“And share it with your man,” Andre said with a knowing smile. “But know you will be sharing a part of your soul with him.”

She trembled a bit, hearing that. She’d already shared parts of her soul with him by divulging her dreams and her past with her parents, but somehow she knew sharing this bread with Evan would be huge and intimate. It would leave her feeling even more vulnerable than she already did.

“Do not overthink love, ma petite,” Andre told her and handed her another ball of dough like it was a queen’s crown. “It is like bread. Keep it simple and do not over-mix or over-knead it. Now, practice. I am going upstairs for a while.” He spoke in smooth French to Fabian and Ronan. The men smiled and nodded at her. “They will keep you company. You do not need to speak French to speak the language of bread. They will advise you if you have questions.”

She looked over at the men and gave them a kind of bow, like she would at the end of a yoga class. Somehow it seemed appropriate.

When he reached the stairs, Andre turned to look at her with that wicked smile of his. “And have fun with the bread, Margie. Always have fun.”

After that, time fell away. She made baguette after baguette. Her early ones took longer to form and showed the marks of a beginner. She was still feeling out the best way to roll the dough into a circle with the heel of her hand. She had the three tucking steps down. The hardest part remained rolling out the dough to look like a woman’s arm. A few of hers looked like a crooked water pipe while another resembled a dog’s leg.

When Andre returned, he hovered near her and eyed her progress. “You are improving, ma petite.”

“I hope you aren’t selling the baguettes I am making,” she said honestly. “I will give your bakery a bad name.”

“No worries, ma petite,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “We will put your loaves in a special basket that says apprentice bread and discount it. If it doesn’t sell, we will give the rest to the neighborhood church. We rarely have bread left at the end of the day, but when we do, either Belle or I walk to the church to give them to Father Charles. He hands the loaves out to the poor who visit their door every night. I cannot abide bread being thrown away. If I could make it for free and still live well, I would. It is not about the money.”

She nodded. “I feel the same way.” She knew how hollow the happiness bought by money felt.

“But money makes the world go around, as they say, and so we play our role,” Andre said. “Now, show me what you have done.”

He critiqued each loaf, noting the unevenness of some of them and a few lazy pinches that would come apart as the bread started to rise. “Remember, ma petite. You must give the bread its structure because once it starts rising again, it will break free of any loose shaping.”

She nodded, and he moved down the row of her baguettes, which Fabian had helped her lay out on baking trays that would eventually go into the oven.

“Your slashing technique is improving as well,” he said. “I would say it’s your best feature so far.”

Picking up the baker’s blade, she made a slashing motion. “I’ve kind of fallen in love with this tool. It’s rather fun.” When she could concentrate on her cinnamon rolls again, she wanted to consider other options besides simply rolling them out and placing them in a pan. What might her imagination inspire her to create?

She and Andre continued to work side by side as she practiced and practiced. When he finally called out for her to stop, satisfied with her progress, she’d made fifty baguettes to her count. Not too shabby.

“Now for the easy part,” he said. “The baking. Come closer to the ovens.”

She stood as close as she felt comfortable. Andre was about a foot closer to them than she was.

“The heat is impressive, no?” he asked. “I use a Winkler oven to bake my beauties. As you can see, it’s a gas oven. I’m old fashioned this way. I like having the hint of fire bake my bread. What kind did you buy?”

“I have a Bodgette I inherited from the former owner. It still works beautifully. I used it to bake cinnamon rolls with the former owner before she handed the keys over to me.”

“It is a good brand, I think,” Andre said, “and how nice that you did not have to pay for it yourself, although I’m sure the equipment was included in the price of the bakery.”

“It was,” she said, thinking back to what a dance she’d had to do to make it all work. She and Grandma Kemstead had itemized all the equipment in the store, and Margie had chosen what she wanted to keep. “The bread slicer I inherited goes back to the 40s, and it’s still in top shape. There’s a man in town who’s been sharpening the blades for forty years.” And now he would sharpen the blades for her.

Whenever she thought about continuing the special legacy begun by Grandma Kemstead, she got teary-eyed. After walking away from the legacy her parents had tried to force on her, she’d never expected it would make her this happy to find a connection to something that spanned the generations.

“Good equipment can last forever with the proper care,” Andre said. “So, after all the shaping, it’s pretty simple to bake the bread. We just pop the trays inside. At this point, they don’t need to rise much. The dough has already reached its apex, so to speak. The heat takes it home. Would you like to do the honors? They’re your baguettes.”

“I’d love to,” she said and picked the first of the three heavy trays she’d filled with her baguettes.

“You are stronger than you look,” Andre commented as he opened the oven door for her.

“I added extra weights to my routine when I decided to buy the bakery.” Not that she’d been doing much working out lately. She hadn’t the time.

The heat was intense on her face as she slid in the first tray and then followed suit with the next two. Andre shut the door and gave her an impromptu hug. Fabian and Ronan clapped, interrupting the cleanup they were doing near a small sink next to the stairs.

“You have made your first magic in Paris, Margie,” Andre said. “I feel like a proud papa. Oh, I will teach you so many things. Now, we will let the bread bake. Come upstairs with me. We have some champagne in the refrigerator. Belle insists on keeping it. We must celebrate.”