stories.” Mia reached into a bag at her feet and took out a rectangular package wrapped in bright blue paper and tied with a red ribbon. She handed it to Polly with a flourish. “Happy birthday.”
“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Pleased, Polly accepted the present. “Actually, considering you’re the reason my head is about to split open, you totally should have.”
She tore the paper off the package to reveal a shiny, hardcover cookbook embellished with a photograph of a handsome, silver-haired man wearing a white chef’s jacket. On the table in front of him was a gorgeous array of French desserts—pastel pink macaroons, glossy strawberry tarts, and a chocolate religieuses piled with thick, rich cream. The title read The Art of French Pastry by Pierre Lacroix.
“Pierre!” Delighted, Polly reached across the table to hug Mia. “Thank you so much.”
Mia gave her a self-satisfied smile. “I knew you’d like it.”
“I love it.” Polly leafed through the thick pages, her mouth almost watering at the sight of all the pastries—flaky croissants, golden-brown brioches, silky chocolate tarts.
Pierre Lacroix had been her pastry chef hero for years, ever since she and her mother had religiously watched his weekly program on PBS. The Art of French Pastry was his latest book, released only a couple of weeks ago. If she’d had the money, Polly would have run out and bought it on release day, and she had another intense pull of gratitude toward Mia for knowing exactly what she’d love.
“This is incredible.” She turned the book toward Mia and Ramona. “Look! It’s his personal recipe for madeleines. He guarded that like a state secret for years.”
“I saw an interview with him where he talked about his career,” Clementine said. “He’s part of an exclusive, one-time course being held this fall at the Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
“Really?” Polly ran her hand over a glossy photograph of a mille-feuille . “That sounds amazing.”
“There should be something about it in the book.”
Polly turned back to the cover and read the sticker near the title: Apply for the Art of French Pastry Course.
“Look it up,” Mia suggested.
Polly set the book aside. She pulled Pierre’s website up on the laptop and clicked on the pastry course link, which provided the details of the six-month course taught by several renowned chefs. After the course was over, the students would be placed at internships in various patisseries and restaurants throughout Paris, including Pierre Lacroix’s Pain du Sucre on the left bank.
“You should apply,” Clementine said. “You’d wanted to do a year abroad in Paris when you were in college, right?”
That was true. But Polly had dropped out in her sophomore year when her mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Jessie Lockhart had been far more important than any trip anywhere would have been, though her mother had also been upset at the thought that Polly had given up her own dreams to come home.
Polly hadn’t seen it that way, wanting nothing more than to help Jessie however she could. And she had. But while she would never regret the three years she spent with her mother, difficult as they’d often been, she certainly hadn’t expected Wild Child to end up on the verge of bankruptcy.
Her problems ran to the very foundation of the business. She’d lost credibility with her suppliers because of her overdue payments, and as a result, the quality of all her baked goods was dropping. That fact would have horrified Jessie, who prided herself on using only top-level ingredients.
Integrity and quality were also part of Pierre Lacroix’s professional philosophy.
Polly scrolled through the application, which involved writing an essay and submitting a recipe for an original pastry. She’d never created an original pastry in her life—that had been her mother’s domain, as inventing new recipes had been one of Jessie’s greatest joys.
“It would be cool to send my
“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Pleased, Polly accepted the present. “Actually, considering you’re the reason my head is about to split open, you totally should have.”
She tore the paper off the package to reveal a shiny, hardcover cookbook embellished with a photograph of a handsome, silver-haired man wearing a white chef’s jacket. On the table in front of him was a gorgeous array of French desserts—pastel pink macaroons, glossy strawberry tarts, and a chocolate religieuses piled with thick, rich cream. The title read The Art of French Pastry by Pierre Lacroix.
“Pierre!” Delighted, Polly reached across the table to hug Mia. “Thank you so much.”
Mia gave her a self-satisfied smile. “I knew you’d like it.”
“I love it.” Polly leafed through the thick pages, her mouth almost watering at the sight of all the pastries—flaky croissants, golden-brown brioches, silky chocolate tarts.
Pierre Lacroix had been her pastry chef hero for years, ever since she and her mother had religiously watched his weekly program on PBS. The Art of French Pastry was his latest book, released only a couple of weeks ago. If she’d had the money, Polly would have run out and bought it on release day, and she had another intense pull of gratitude toward Mia for knowing exactly what she’d love.
“This is incredible.” She turned the book toward Mia and Ramona. “Look! It’s his personal recipe for madeleines. He guarded that like a state secret for years.”
“I saw an interview with him where he talked about his career,” Clementine said. “He’s part of an exclusive, one-time course being held this fall at the Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
“Really?” Polly ran her hand over a glossy photograph of a mille-feuille . “That sounds amazing.”
“There should be something about it in the book.”
Polly turned back to the cover and read the sticker near the title: Apply for the Art of French Pastry Course.
“Look it up,” Mia suggested.
Polly set the book aside. She pulled Pierre’s website up on the laptop and clicked on the pastry course link, which provided the details of the six-month course taught by several renowned chefs. After the course was over, the students would be placed at internships in various patisseries and restaurants throughout Paris, including Pierre Lacroix’s Pain du Sucre on the left bank.
“You should apply,” Clementine said. “You’d wanted to do a year abroad in Paris when you were in college, right?”
That was true. But Polly had dropped out in her sophomore year when her mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Jessie Lockhart had been far more important than any trip anywhere would have been, though her mother had also been upset at the thought that Polly had given up her own dreams to come home.
Polly hadn’t seen it that way, wanting nothing more than to help Jessie however she could. And she had. But while she would never regret the three years she spent with her mother, difficult as they’d often been, she certainly hadn’t expected Wild Child to end up on the verge of bankruptcy.
Her problems ran to the very foundation of the business. She’d lost credibility with her suppliers because of her overdue payments, and as a result, the quality of all her baked goods was dropping. That fact would have horrified Jessie, who prided herself on using only top-level ingredients.
Integrity and quality were also part of Pierre Lacroix’s professional philosophy.
Polly scrolled through the application, which involved writing an essay and submitting a recipe for an original pastry. She’d never created an original pastry in her life—that had been her mother’s domain, as inventing new recipes had been one of Jessie’s greatest joys.
“It would be cool to send my
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