Page 44 of Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake
But a quick glance around the small shop showed a bakery that looked… not great.
Three small tables were crammed in, and a huge but nearly empty pastry case sat by the register. The menu was written in fading chalk on the back wall, smudged in multiple spots. The small glimpse she caught of the back kitchen through the swinging door window looked similarly shoddy.
Whatever.
Lizzie could make due working under a bridge with a trash can fire if it meant she was earning wages.
A tall, older woman stepped out from the kitchen, the mass of her frizzy gray hair nearly touching both sides of the doorway. She pulled off her yellow apron, revealing a billowy top and a long skirt. She had thick glasses and a sharp nose that she looked down as she evaluated Lizzie.
“Hi,” Lizzie said at last. Something about the woman was both beautiful and terrifying. “I’m Lizzie. I’m here for the job interview.”
Bernadette nodded, eyeing Lizzie closely for a long moment before saying, “Hello. I’d had a feeling our auras would be complementary. Let’s take a seat and get to it.”
She swept toward the closest table, her multicolored skirt like a fluffy cloud around her ankles.
“My… my aura? You can see my aura?” Lizzie asked, taking the seat opposite Bernadette.
Bernadette nodded.
“What color is it?” Lizzie asked, her voice rising and eyes widening with excitement.
“Magenta,” Bernadette said, pulling a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad from her skirt pocket. “You have strong blue emissions indicating your creativity, but it’s mixed with a vibrant red, which tells me you have a deep connection with the physical world.”
“No arguing with that,” Lizzie said with a lascivious wink. Bernadette blinked at her.
“The colors combine for your magenta emission, indicating you are high-energy and innovative in taking physical substances and stretching them to new forms.”
“No shit?” Lizzie said, leaning back in her chair. “That’s so cool. What color is yours?”
Bernadette tilted her head to the side, studying Lizzie for a moment before saying, “Indigo. Shall we proceed with the interview?”
Lizzie nodded, making a mental note to research the hell out of auras when she got home.
Bernadette asked Lizzie a few standard questions about availability and experience, and Lizzie went into her strengths, discussing her skills with innovative frostings and clever takes on traditional pastry shapes and designs.
The interview was going surprisingly well. Lizzie tended to overshare or say something profane or obnoxious when she got excited talking, which she always did when it came to baking, but she and Bernadette found an easy flow. The truth was, it was the one thing in the world Lizzie really believed she was good at. She ditched hobbies at an extraordinary speed, throwingherself into them like a maniac of enjoyment and burning out of interest just as fast if she wasn’t instantly an expert at it.
Something about baking—the measuring, mixing, experimenting—allowed her energy to hyper-focus on the task and provided an outlet for her hands to work and shape and play for hours of enjoyment.
Lizzie described her most recent large undertaking—a “cake” for a beach-themed wedding that was more like an art installation. The display covered a large table made to look like the shore, sugary sand and small cakes decorated so realistically like shells and driftwood that some guests were nervous to try them.
Bernadette paused the conversation, letting the silence grow as she eyed Lizzie like she was deciding how much she could trust her. Lizzie blinked back.
“If I hypothetically told you I ran a discreet business on the side, what would you say?” Bernadette finally said, steepling her fingers in front of her.
Lizzie’s eyes flicked around the shop, trying to look thoughtful when she was really just confused about whatever the hell the eccentric old woman was talking about. Her eyes landed on a plate of brownies sitting on the counter.
“Oh.” Lizzie nodded wisely. “Pot. I’m cool with it, Bernadette. I’m no narc,” she said, shooting her a wink.
“What? No,” Bernadette said, shaking her head. “I’m not selling weed brownies. It’s something else.”
“What?” Lizzie asked, leaning closer, a fun thrill of suspense chasing down her spine.
“I… hypothetically, might sell”—Bernadette looked over both shoulders despite her and Lizzie being the only ones in the shop—“erotic pastries under the table.”
Lizzie was silent for a solid minute, letting that phrase loop around in her mind, before she erupted in laughter. “I—hypothetically—could never think of a job I was better suited for. So you sell… what? Penis cakes?”
Bernadette looked offended. “It’s not just cock and balls, my dear. These are artistic pieces made with the highest degree of craftsmanship. And the phallic form is so overdone. I specialize in yonic work.”