Page 141 of Seale the Deal

He disappears into the back and returns with two hairnets—one for his head and one stretched over his beard, hooked around his ears like some kind of bizarre bridal veil.

He stares at us, silent.

The cakes? Remi prompts.

Yep. He vanishes again.

Remi gestures toward a tiny pastel cafe table near the display case. We peel off our coats and scarves, shivering from the cold front that’s blown in.

I so need some cake, Remi says. This whole selling my book for a TV show thing is stressful.

What’s going on? I ask.

Remi lets out a dramatic sigh. Apparently, selling your rights is the fun part. After that, it becomes a lot of waiting while other people make decisions about your baby.

I wince. That sounds tough.

It is, she says, slouching forward and resting her forearms on the table between us. They’ve kept me on as a consultant, which sounds more important than it is. Really, it just means they occasionally ask my opinion in the million meetings we’ve had.

She runs her hands over her face, leaving her bangs sticking up in all directions. I can tell them why a scene will or will not work, but at the end of the day, it’s not my decision. The production company owns the rights. The writers write. The producers produce. I mostly sit around and hope they don’t turn my beloved characters into something I don’t recognize.

I nod, completely understanding. In many ways, Remi is going through something similar to what I am. Her future feels uncertain and intimidating, but at the same time, it’s attached to an opportunity so big she’d be crazy not to take it.

Do you have a production schedule yet? I ask.

She shakes her head. Nope. Last I heard, they were still finalizing scripts and figuring out if they’re going to do it on location or in a studio. It’s very much in the developmental stages, which is apparently a lot of meetings. At this point, they’re thinking it’ll start filming in a year.

That’s a long time.

That’s television, she says. It’s crazy to think that a year from now, my life could look totally different, but right now, I just have to wait and trust the process.

Soup reemerges with a tray of bite-sized cake samples. They look divine… though I still scan for stray hairs.

So, we’ll try these and let you know? Remi asks.

Yep. He drops the tray off and disappears again like a cryptid retreating to its cave.

Does he know any other words? I ask.

Remi thinks for a beat. I’m not sure. But I usually ask yes or no questions.

You literally just asked him how he was doing.

And he answered. ‘Yep’ means good.

What if he wasn’t good?

She shrugs. ‘Nope.’

We both laugh, and it feels good to let go for even a few seconds and simply enjoy being with my best friend.

Here. Remi turns the tray so a sunny yellow cake with thick white icing is in front of me. This is my personal favourite. It’s a lemon cake with his signature ganache.

I take a fork, do one last hair scan, and pop a bite into my mouth.

Oh. My. God.

It’s velvet on my tongue, rich lemon brightened by silky ganache, balanced by cream cheese frosting that’s so perfect I might cry. I close my eyes and let out a small, involuntary moan.