“Yes!” nearly everyone chorused.

  “Do you get it, sir?” He stared at Gary Powers, who for once only nodded.

  “No eating while you’re being spoken to.” Josh turned to face me. “You’re with me. Reilly, you have the show out here. Let’s do this.”

  He stalked into Tea by the Sea. Marybeth and Cheryl scrambled to get out of his way.

  Chapter 2

  America Bakes! is currently the country’s hottest cooking show. One bakery each season has the honor of being crowned America’s best. Restaurants and bakeries are judged not only on the quality of the food by the three star judges but on the ambiance of the restaurant, the friendlessness and professionalism of the staff, and the opinion of the “average” customer.

  When word got out that CookingTV would be bringing the third season of America Bakes! to Cape Cod, I wanted nothing to do with it. I’m a baker, and all I want to be is a baker. I’m a culinary school–trained pastry chef, and I hadn’t been joking when I said I’ve worked at Michelin-starred restaurants. I’d moved to the Outer Cape from Manhattan last winter to set up my tearoom on the grounds of my grandmother’s B & B, and I’d worked hard renovating the crumbling stone cottage by the road, creating a patio oasis, planning my menus and testing recipes, and getting the word out. We opened in the spring, and I needed to devote all my concentration to getting the restaurant up and running, as well as helping my grandmother with the B & B she’s bought, in the opinion of everyone in the family, on a foolish whim. Obviously, the publicity generated by being on the show would be valuable, but we’ve been satisfyingly busy all season both in the tearoom and the B & B. I decided the disruption from having several days of filming at my place wouldn’t be worth the exposure.

  Bernie and Rose, however, had other ideas. They’d applied to the show without telling me, advance scouts had been dispatched to check us out, and before I knew what was happening, Tea by the Sea had been accepted. Imagine my surprise when Rose gave me the “good news.”

  Six bakeries in Cape Cod had been selected for this year’s competition. Two of them were located in the Lower Cape, the Mid and Upper areas of the Cape had one each, and two were in the Outer Cape: Tea by the Sea and the simply named North Augusta Bakery. I’d never been to any of them, but Rose and Bernie had checked out my nearest competition.

  “A coffee shop,” Rose had sniffed. “Totally common.”

  “Best donuts I’ve ever had,” Bernie said. “You’d better up your game there, Lily.”

  “I don’t make donuts,” I’d said.

  I’d be competing with North Augusta Bakery in the first round. The winner would then be matched against the winners of the other two rounds, and one bakery would go on to complete in the Northeastern US division, then the quarterfinals and, if they were lucky, the grand finale, titled All-America Bakes!

  I was secretly hoping not to continue. If we kept winning, I’d be tied up all summer with TV crews and special guests. I don’t think of myself as a competitive person—I leave that to Rose and Bernie—but I have far too much pride to throw the competition. Now that I was in the show, I’d do the best of which I was capable.

  I led the way through the restaurant. No one would be served inside today, as everything was happening on the patio, so the tables weren’t set, and our footsteps echoed around the empty rooms. Sunlight streamed through the east-facing windows, but the alcoves were dark. The trays of food to be served outside had already been assembled and waited on a counter near the kitchen, along with china teapots, airpots to heat the water, and a selection of canisters containing a variety of loose teas.

  “Eddie.” Josh pointed to the cabinet of things we offer for sale. “I want shots of those teacups and stuff. Adds to the atmosphere.”

  “All the jams and preserves we sell,” I said, “are made in Cape Cod with locally grown produce.”

  “Whatever,” he said.

  My kitchen’s crowded when I’m the only one in it. Today I was not the only one. The cameraman and his camera, the sound guy, the woman who clapped the clapper board, and the director somehow managed to stuff themselves in.

  I’d spent almost all of last week baking extra scones and pastries to put in the freezer to serve today, and I’d been up most of last night fixing sandwiches and other things that couldn’t be frozen, with the help of Simon and Bernie.

  Marybeth and Cheryl had come in early this morning to help me prepare the presentation. Fortunately, everything served at afternoon tea is served at room temperature and brought out at the same time. We normally offer some variety in our menu—traditional afternoon tea, cream tea, light tea, royal tea, and children’s tea—but unlike a restaurant where everyone gets their own selection on their own plate, the food is served on platters or stands, from which guests help themselves. That makes it far easier to plan and prepare for an event such as this one than if we had to fill individual orders.

  Marybeth and Cheryl would appear to be taking orders, but the camera wouldn’t show them picking up the prearranged stands. We simply couldn’t function with the three of us working in the kitchen as well as the camera crew.

  While all that was going on outside, I’d be happily baking away in here. I’d be filmed rolling and slicing and mixing and stirring and peering anxiously into the ovens, all the while chatting to the camera about what I was doing and why. My plan for today was to do two types of scones, plain and orange, and pistachio and hazelnut macarons. Macarons always look lovely on camera. I normally make a lot more food than that in a day, but Reilly’d warned me things would take a good deal longer under the relentless eye of the camera. The judges wouldn’t come into the kitchen today to watch me work and talk to me about it. That was on the schedule for tomorrow.

  “Okay,” Josh said. “You do whatever you normally do, Lily. Pretend we’re not here. Talk about what you’re doing, but don’t talk too much. And don’t try to tell any jokes. People are nowhere near as funny as they think they are. Okay, let’s go. I want lots of close-ups of her hands, but she’s younger and prettier than most of the old bags we get on this show, so give me plenty of close-ups, too. Tomorrow, honey, wear a tighter sweater, will you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t get all offended. You look good, so I want you to look even better for our fans. Most of the cooks we get on this show have enjoyed far too much of their own baking, if you know what I mean. A lot of men watch our show, so let’s make everyone happy.”

  “Careful, Josh,” the clapper-board woman said.

  He waved his hand in the air. The clapper board clapped.

  The first thing I always do when I start work is put on my hairnet. I reached for it.

  Josh yelled, “Cut, cut. What are you planning to do with that thing?”

  “Cover my hair. It’s a public health measure.”

  “I’m not covering up that hair. It’s your best feature. Forget it.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. If someone gets hair in their food and complains, we’ll cut it out.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but I decided not to argue about it. Not only do I wear a hairnet when I’m cooking, but I tie my long hair back. Melanie, the makeup artist, had insisted on leaving it loose.

  Baking is my happy place, and as I got out my ingredients and utensils, I tried to put myself there. It wasn’t easy, not with the camera in my face, Josh saying either “Speak up” or “Don’t yell,” the makeup itching my face, and my hair falling over my eyes and into my mouth.

  I thought I was going to be allowed to bake as I normally do. Wasn’t that what I was being judged on? Instead, I had to keep stopping and starting. I weighed my butter on the kitchen scale, as I always do, but Josh wanted me to slice it according to the markings on the package, as the home cook does.

  “I am not a home cook,” I reminded him.

  “You’re whatever I want you to be,” he replied. “Now do it again.”

  I thought I’d feel silly talking to myself about what I was doing; instead, I started getting annoyed when Josh objected to everything I said. I was, apparently, explaining too much or too little.

  “Cut those scones bigger.”

  “This is the size I always make them.”

  “I want them bigger.”

  I rummaged around in the drawers, looking for a larger round cutter.

  Finally, the first batch of scones was in the oven.

  “I’m going to check how it’s going outside,” Josh said. “Keep filming.”

  He left, and Eddie, the cameraman, said to me, “Never mind Josh. He can be a perfectionist at times.”

  I rolled my shoulders to release some of the tension. I had one batch of scones in the oven, and I was already tired enough to call it a day. “I thought this competition was about baking and restaurant service and ambiance. Not whether I use scales or measuring cups.”

  “This is called reality TV,” he said. “In reality, it’s anything but. The show’s not concerned about the quality of your food or the arrangement of the flowers on the table. It’s about creating drama and interest. Reality’s boring.”

  I didn’t agree, but I didn’t say anything. I think baking perfect scones, tarts, cupcakes, and other delicious things and watching people enjoy them are very exciting.

  Josh didn’t return, but Reilly came in and took the director’s place. “What’s up next?”

  “Scones made with the slightest touch of orange peel. I serve them with our royal tea, that’s the one with sparkling wine.”

  “Boring. Josh said you’ve already been making scones. What else have you got?”

  “Macarons?”

  “Perfect. Do that.”

  And I did.

  While I worked, Reilly jotted notes on his iPad. “I’m coming up with questions we want the judges to ask you,” he explained.

  “Do I get them ahead of time?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be realistic. We want you answering off the cuff.”

  “I thought reality TV wasn’t about reality.”

  He grinned at me. Reilly was in his early thirties, lightly tanned, with nicely muscled arms and chest beneath his T-shirt, softly curling brown hair, and intense hazel eyes. “Lily, this show is all about what we want it to be. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  My rooster timer crowed to tell me the scones were ready to come out of the oven. I slipped on my oven mitts and took the baking sheet out. The cameraman stepped closer and focused his camera. The scones looked good, I thought, high and round and beautifully golden.

  When he had the shot, Eddie helped himself to a scone. The sound guy and the clapper-board woman did so, as well.

  I needed those for tomorrow, but I didn’t say so.

  “The macarons need to rest for thirty minutes,” I said. “What do you want me to do while that’s happening?”

  “They need to rest?” Reilly said. “Why?”

  “The shells have to dry out so as not to create bubbles when they bake.”

  He made a note on his iPad. “Sounds like a good time to take a break. I want to see what’s happening outside.”

  I have to admit, I was also curious. The building that houses Tea by the Sea is made of stone, so I can’t hear much of what’s going on out front when I’m in the kitchen at the back. I took my apron off, hung it on the hook, and followed Reilly and the crew out. I’d been in the kitchen for three hours, but everyone was still in place outside, and Marybeth and Cheryl were still serving.

  “How’s it going?” I whispered to Cheryl as she passed me with a stack of used dishes. Not a scrap of my baking remained.

  “Weird. We’ve been told we can’t serve the tea or food until someone says to, so a few tables are still waiting. They’re getting impatient, but trying not to look it in case the camera turns their way. I’ve been giving them water, so they have something.”

  “They were told the process can take a long time and not to come if they couldn’t devote most of the day.”

  “Every time I turn around, there’s a camera stuffed in my face. I got such a fright, I almost dropped a full tray the first time it happened. I’m afraid Marybeth’s face is going to crack if she keeps smiling like that. She’s either smiling or threatening to burst into tears. The director cursed her out for looking unnatural. I don’t know what he expects. We’re not actors.”

  “Have the judges eaten anything?”

  “They were served first.”

  “Did they like it?”

  “Impossible to tell, Lily. They kept their faces totally impassive. Now they’re visiting tables, admiring the place settings and food arrangements and talking to people.”

  “Otherwise everything going okay?”

  “Gary Powers caused a bit of a stink earlier. I’m surprised they didn’t throw him out.”

  “What happened?”

  “He came over all flirty with Scarlet McIntosh.”

  I rolled my eyes. Gary Powers had a reputation. Come to think of it, his wife, the mayor, did also.

  “No, flirty isn’t the word,” Cheryl said. “More like lecherous old man.”

  “Gary’s not that old. Forty-five maybe.”

  “Around that. But he acts like an old lech. Anyway, Tommy Greene stepped in and got right in Gary’s face. Told him to back off and sit down and shut up, or he’d be thrown off the set. Gary looked like he was going to stand his ground, but then he gave in. Said something about not meaning any offense, just wanting to meet the, and I quote, star. He cracked a joke to the crowd, but no one laughed. Susan puts up with a lot from him, but I’d say that pretty much took the cake, no pun intended.”

  “Was the incident filmed?”

  “Oh, yeah. Much to Susan’s dismay. Josh told her they wouldn’t use the footage, but I don’t know if you can believe that. Scarlet blushed and giggled and tossed her hair and told Tommy not to make a fuss. The guy was only trying to be friendly. More giggling. She’s an idiot. Claudia D’Angelo, on the other hand, is super nice. She’s been so polite to Marybeth in particular. She knows what it’s like working as a server.”

  I glanced around the patio. The cameramen walked between the tables, the giant black machines on their shoulders so out of place in my oasis of old-fashioned gentility. Guests pretended to sip tea or nibble on fresh baking and chat, while watching the cameras out of the corner of their eyes. One elderly man checked his watch as I passed, and said, “Can we go now?” His table had been cleared, and his teacup was empty.

  “Of course you can.”

  “That fellow”—he nodded to Josh—“said we can’t leave until he says so. He doesn’t want empty tables.”

  And I didn’t want unhappy customers.

  “I think they’re almost finished. Perhaps wait a few more minutes, if you don’t mind?”

  “It’s all right, Harold,” said the equally elderly woman across from him. “It’s not as though we have anything better to do today.”

  Their tablemate laughed. “I can’t wait to get online and tell everyone Tommy Greene admired my hat.” She proudly touched the spray of feathers on her straw hat and threw a longing look at the English chef.

  The man himself had taken the spare chair at Rose, Bernie, and Matt’s table, and I went to join them.

  “No point in talking to this bunch,” I said to Tommy. “They’re my grandmother and my friends. Not exactly impartial observers.”

  “They’re the only interesting people here.” Tommy jerked his head toward the rest of the patio. “How many times can you say, ‘Very good’ or ‘The scones are too dry’?”

  “I hope no one said the latter.”

  “Sure they did. People like to complain. They think complaining will get them more airtime than compliments will. And they’re right.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” Bernie said.

  “Fair? You think TV’s ever been fair? Don’t worry,” he said to me. “We don’t pay attention to what any of them have to say.”

  “Isn’t that part of the judging process?” I asked. “You take their opinions into account in making your final decision?”

  “That appears to be part of the judging process.” He gave me a long look, which I couldn’t decipher. “I have my own criteria for picking a winner.”

  I shifted uncomfortably.

  “I’m just teasing,” he said. “All I’m interested in is the quality of the food, and you’ve done a first-class job today, Lily.”

  “Find yourself a chair, love,” Rose said. “Mr. Greene’s a native of Halifax. In Yorkshire.”

  He gave her a genuine smile. “The moment I heard that accent, I knew I wanted to talk to this lovely lady.”

  “Listen up, everyone,” Josh bellowed. “That’s it for today. You can go now.”

  “We haven’t been served yet,” a woman protested.

  Josh shrugged, not much caring.

  I caught Cheryl’s eye and nodded toward the woman who’d spoken. She understood and hurried to assure the guest her afternoon tea would be out shortly.

  Josh walked away without another word.

  Reilly said, “Thanks for coming, everyone. We have most of what we’re after, but we’ll call if we need you again.” Everyone had been required to fill out a permission form before being given access to the patio.

  Gary Powers stood up. “Hey, I haven’t spoken to the judges yet. I have some ideas they’ll be interested in. The scones were too dry.”

  “As I said,” Reilly said, “we have what we need for now.”

  “My wife’s the mayor.” Gary raised his voice to be heard over Susan’s attempts to shush him. “Aren’t you going to speak to her?”

  “Does being the mayor give her special insight into running a professional kitchen?” Tommy laughed. “I think not.”

  Gary’s face tightened. Susan hissed at him, he hesitated, and then he dropped back into his chair.

  Tommy smirked and whispered something to Rose that made her laugh.

  The crew began shutting down their equipment, rolling up the cables, and loading the trucks and vans.