I sink back against the couch cushions. “Wow, I had no idea.”
She gives me a pointed look. “You end up at the top of your field by working within the system, not making a scene every time you feel you’ve been wronged.”
Gazing around her big, fancy office with its wall of diplomas and shiny mahogany desk in the middle, I have to admit, nobody could argue that my mom’s not a success. “But don’t you ever feel uncomfortable about it? I mean, you know the system is messed up. You know it’s not fair that dad can do what he wants, and you can’t. Aren’t you making it harder for the next woman by smiling and going along with it? Shouldn’t you use your power to speak up?”
My mom sighs. “What good would that do? I’d be branded as hysterical, and the department would be wary of hiring the next woman. Is that really any better for anyone?”
I let my mom’s words sink in. Are her actions any different from how I’ve spent my second chance year? I’ve gone out of my way to be agreeable at work, to go along with Xavier’s demands, and to deliberately bite my tongue. It’s not like I don’t know that if I were a man, Xavier would treat me differently. And it’s not like I don’t know it’s wrong. But I’ve tried speaking up and look how well that worked out for me. Was I really better off getting fired? Losing my apartment? Getting blackballed from the entire industry? Or am I better off grabbing that executive pastry chef job and running with it? Maybe making a space for the next woman?
“I’m up for a big promotion at Xavier’s.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself. “He’ll be announcing it any day now. Executive pastry chef. It’s kind of a big deal.”
I’m not supposed to say anything, it’s not even official yet. But when my mom’s eyebrows raise, and she says, “Really?” in a voice that sounds maybe a teeny-tiny bit interested, I don’t regret a thing.
I nod, leaning into my story. “You know Xavier is a frequent guest judge on Top Chef, and he’s written several best-selling cookbooks.”
“I remember you mentioned he’s a TV personality. I didn’t realize he’s also an author.”
“This job—it’s not just about baking cupcakes. I’ll be Xavier’s right-hand person, in charge of design and execution of all the desserts at the restaurant. I’ll really make a name for myself. Maybe even end up with a publishing deal for my own cookbook, too.” Now I’m really getting ahead of myself, but I can’t seem to stop talking. Especially when my mom cocks her head and not only looks in my direction, but for the first time, it’s like she actually sees me.
“It does sound like a very promising opportunity.”
I grab her hand, seizing the moment. Now that she’s offered a tiny slice of approval, I want the whole damn pie. “Mom, come into the city and have dinner at Xavier’s. I’d love for you to see what it’s really like there. I think you’d be impressed.”
She nods slowly. “Maybe I will. Let me wrap up this semester first, and we can look at our calendars over winter break.”
“Okay! That would be great. Anytime you can make it.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” She smiles.
The doorbell rings, announcing the first guest arriving for dinner. I jump up to answer it, glowing like a brioche bun browning in the oven.
Chapter 29
We always have at least three or four of my parents’ wayward graduate students and the literature department’s visiting professors at our holiday gatherings. When I was a kid, there was nothing more boring than sitting at the Thanksgiving table through two hours of conversation about the social commentary in Austen compared to Bront?. Don’t ask me which Bront?. Apparently, there were several.
Let’s be honest, I still find it really boring, but at least now there’s alcohol. Plus, I’m still feeling cautiously warm and fuzzy after my conversation with my mom earlier, so I’m willing to nod along.
When we’ve exhausted the Janes—both Eyre and Bennett—the conversation moves to Owen’s new job, but there’s only so much the literature crowd can say about self-driving vehicles. Across the dining table, a gray-haired Shakespearean scholar named Angela is starting to look a little cross-eyed. When she leans across the table toward me, I brace myself, hoping she won’t ask my thoughts on Macbeth.
“Sadie,” she says. “I don’t believe I know what you do for work.”
I reflexively glance at my mom, waiting for her to interrupt before I admit to her academic friend that I’m just a baker. But as my mom makes her way around the table pouring coffee, she gives me a little pat on the arm. “Sadie is a pastry chef at a restaurant called Xavier’s in the city.”
My eyes widen at her tone. Maybe there isn’t quite pride in her voice, but there’s not disapproval either.
“I admit,” Angela confides with a smile, “the Food Network is a bit of a guilty pleasure. I’m very familiar with Xavier’s reputation. Fran, why didn’t you tell me your daughter is in charge of desserts at a famous restaurant?”
I hesitate. Technically, I’m not in charge yet. And I don’t want to lie. “Well, I’m really an assistant. But a lot of the recipes are mine, and I do most of the work of executing them.”
“Sadie’s up for a big promotion,” my mom says. “So, she’ll be in charge soon.”
My mouth drops open because this might be the first time in decades of Thanksgiving dinners that my mom has volunteered anything about my baking to her friends and colleagues.
“You are?” Owen calls from the other end of the table. “Nice work, Sadie.”
“What’s the new job?” my dad inquires, and his unexpected interest leaves me a little uneasy about this entire conversation. I really shouldn’t have said anything until the offer is official.
“Executive pastry chef,” I mumble.
It all sounds so terribly glamorous.” Angela gives me a wink. “I’ll look out for you to judge Top Chef someday.”
“There might even be a publishing deal for a recipe book,” my mom announces, and truly, who is this woman bragging about me? If I had the job and book deal in hand, I’d be thrilled by her sudden interest in my career, but instead, my stomach churns.
“Well, it’s not official or anything.”
My dad’s eyebrows raise as he takes it all in. “Keep us updated,” he instructs.
“Yeah. Sure.” Grasping for a subject change, I shamelessly throw my brother under the bus. “So, Owen, how’s Nora? Are you two still dating?”
My mom stops with the coffeepot in hand, her gaze swinging to my brother. “Owen, you have a girlfriend?”
“Who’s Nora?” my dad chimes in.
Owen glares at me over his THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE PEMBERLEY coffee mug. “She’s just a friend.”
“Friend with benefits,” I mouth at him across the table. Out loud, I say, “She’s super pretty and really, really into Owen. And so nice, too.”
“Shut up,” Owen mouths back.