Chapter 19: The Kitchen at Quist

Quist Bakery smells like burned sugar and butter at nine at night.

The shop was dark, but the kitchen in back was bright.

It had steel tables, ticking ovens and trays of croissants proofing on racks.

Simone stood at the long table in her white jacket with her sleeves pushed up and flour to the elbow.

"Eat," she said, as we came in. "Sit. Both of you. Don't talk until you've had something."

She put a plate in front of each of us.

It held a kouign-amann, still warm, caramelized black at the edges.

Winston took a bite and closed his eyes.

"Oh," he said.

"Yes."

"That is a very serious pastry."

"It's three days of laminating," said Simone, pleased. "You're welcome."

I ate mine in four bites and licked the sugar off my thumb.

Then Simone poured coffee, sat across from us and folded her floury hands.

"I called him tonight," she said.

"Who?"

"The flour man." Her whole face went soft.

"I told him I was on a billboard next to someone else."

"I told him it was fake and I'd explain on Friday."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'I know."

"I've known since the poster went up."

"I'm bringing flour Friday morning and then I'm coming to the Carnegie, if there's a seat.'"

"And there's a seat?"

"There's a seat," said Winston. "Row two. I've had Phyllis put it on the list."

Simone covered her mouth.

Then she laughed and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of white across her cheek.

"Okay," she said. "The plan."

The back door opened.

Phyllis Greer came in out of the dark in her gray coat, with a leather folder under one arm.

She nodded to us.

"Ms. Quist. Ms. Orlowski. Mr. Aldridge."

"Phyllis," said Winston, standing. "I didn't know you were coming."

"You didn't ask," said Phyllis. "Sit down. I have fourteen minutes."

She opened the folder on the steel table.

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