Meet Your Baker (3 page)

Wow. These two really don’t get along.

I wasn’t going to get in the middle of their battle. Our philosophy at Torte has always been to treat each customer with kindness. I took her cup and the other dirty dishes and flashed her a smile, complete with my pearly whites. “Thanks for the feedback.”

“And that girl behind the counter has the most appalling customer service skills I’ve ever seen.” Nancy glared at Stephanie.

Stephanie glared right back. Maybe she and I were going to get along after all.

Lance and Nancy exited together. Caroline hung back.

She squeezed my elbow. “I know your mom is thrilled to have you back. Maybe we can chat alone sometime soon?” She craned her neck toward Mom in the kitchen. “I’m pretty worried.”

Mom spotted us talking and waved.

Caroline continued, “I’ve got to run, but let’s find time to have a cup of Andy’s coffee. Thanks for jumping in with Nancy. Isn’t she awful?”

I nodded. “Don’t let her get under your skin. I know her type. As Mom likes to say, we’ll just have to kill her with kindness.”

Caroline’s eyes hardened. “I’d like to kill her with something else.”

She waved good-bye and breezed out the door.

I glanced out the window, which offered the perfect view of the town square. My nerves felt unsettled, and not just because of my sea legs. Nancy Hudson took the cake for being obnoxious, but I couldn’t quite figure out what she’d done to warrant death threats. And more disturbing was Caroline’s comment about Mom. As far as I could remember she and Mom weren’t close. Was she just being dramatic? If she was concerned about Mom, was something really wrong? I’d come back to Ashland to get grounded and mend. What was happening to my sweet, cozy hometown?

Chapter Three

“Your Danish is a hit,” Mom said, cracking eggs into a large mixing bowl. “We’re almost sold out and the morning rush hasn’t even begun. Can you make another?”

I washed my hands and left the dishes in the sink for Andy. “Happy to, but I better get some yeast rising.”

The timer on the oven buzzed. Mom wrapped her hand in a dish towel and pulled out trays of almond shortbread.

“How many times have I told you, you’re going to burn yourself doing that?” I threw a rubber oven mitt at her. “That’s a fireable offense on the ship. One slip of the towel and your fingers are fried.”

“How many years have I been managing this kitchen?” she launched back. “I’m fine, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll use this.” She pretended to fasten the mitt around her arm.

“It’s no joke, Mom. The kitchen’s a dangerous place.”

Andy popped his head around the counter. “Hey, are we selling that raspberry jam from the Danish? Customers are asking for it.”

“Look at you—your first official day back on the job and our guests are begging for your jam.” Mom beamed. “Andy, didn’t I tell you my daughter’s an artist?”

Her smile took years off her face. Her aging had started to show in the way she worked the dough. Her quick hands used to fly over the dough, rolling out a dozen pie shells in a matter of minutes, and she kneaded bread dough like she had aggression to work out. Baking by her side again, I could tell her pace was slowing.

“Tell them to check back tomorrow.” I didn’t have any pressing plans for the afternoon, or for that matter for the rest of my life. Maybe the meditative process of jamming might help me clear some head space.

“You got it, boss.” Andy returned to the espresso machine.

I watched him for a minute. Nancy couldn’t be more wrong. The kid pulled shots better than the highly trained baristas on the ship.

“I met Nancy Hudson. She’s a real gem,” I said, pulling yeast from a rack.

Mom chopped chunks of dark chocolate that she’d slowly melt to dip the almond shortbread into once it cooled. “Don’t even get me started on that woman.”

Before we could dish on Nancy, a man’s voice interrupted us.

“Ah, the rumors are true. I see the prodigal daughter has returned.”

The voice belonged to Richard Lord, owner of the Merry Windsor Inn. Richard had been trying to buy my parents out for as long as I could remember. Once Dad died, he ramped up the pressure. To Mom’s credit, she appeared unfazed by his attempts.

I know the only reason Richard wants to get his hands on Torte is because he wants to own the entire town. He takes the “Lord” part of his name seriously.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Lord.” I put on my best customer service smile.

Mom came around behind me and stood with her arm on my shoulder. “If you’re here to try to poach my business or daughter, neither are for sale.” Her face was passive, but her tone was cool.

“Helen, you jest.” Richard smoothed his green and yellow plaid golf shorts. His belly had expanded and his hairline had receded since the last time I saw him. “I simply wanted to welcome Juliet back into town, and I promised my golfing buddies I’d bring snacks. As you know, our kitchen at the Merry Windsor is undergoing a state-of-the-art remodel. I’m adding a coffee stand and a whole new line of pastries to go.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” Mom went back to racking cookies.

Richard waited while Andy boxed up an assortment of pastries in one of our white cardboard to-go boxes with a red and blue Torte logo stamped on the front.

“Juliet, you should come by the inn. You won’t recognize the place. I’ve expanded. Took over the old shoe repair shop. The remodel is keeping your mom on her toes, right, Helen? You know what they say, ‘a little healthy competition is always good for business.’”

Mom either didn’t hear him over the clatter of customers chattering in the front, or more likely intentionally ignored him. Richard shrugged, took his box of goodies, and pointed his index finger at me. “You come see me soon, ya hear?”

After he was out of earshot, Mom shook her head. “I don’t care how tight money is, that man is never getting this place.”

“
Is
money tight, Mom?”

“No, no, don’t worry about it.” She reached for another handful of chocolate and changed the subject. “Did you know Richard’s dating Nancy? I couldn’t pick a better match. Those two deserve each other.”

“Wait.” I paused as I stirred lukewarm water and yeast together. “Richard and Nancy are a couple?”

“Yep. They’ve been together a month or so.”

“Funny, she just told me a sob story about losing her fiancé.”

Mom nodded, “She’s got that act well rehearsed, if you ask me.”

“Maybe
she
should audition for one of Lance’s plays.”

“I think she prefers to run the show,” Mom said as she spilled some melted chocolate on the floor.

Seeing Mom rattled by Richard worried me. Mom’s usually the town’s sounding board. When someone has a problem they come to Torte. She brings out a batch of fresh scones, some homemade apricot jam, and takes a seat.

Her secret is that she’s a good listener. She doesn’t say much, mainly nods, leans in, and exudes calm.

You could pay a psychologist for the same service, or drown your worries at a bar, but most folks around here prefer Mom’s bakeshop wisdom with a side of pie. Maybe it’s not great for the waistline, but people always seem to leave Torte a bit lighter after a visit with Mom.

I turned Caroline’s comment over in my mind. I guess I never thought about who Mom goes to for support. I’d have to find time to talk to Caroline soon.

The bell on the front door jingled all afternoon as customers breezed in and out of the shop. I pureed flats of raspberries for jam and mingled with out-of-town visitors and familiar faces from my childhood.

Andy kept the line for lattes moving and the customers in good spirits. Stephanie, on the other hand, had to be prodded to wipe the permanent scowl from her face. Sullen service seems to be all the rage at swanky coffee shops these days, but I don’t get it.

As I was about to pull her aside and have a chat about keeping a pleasant demeanor with the clientele, I heard another voice that I’d recognize anywhere.

Tommy Adams, my high school boyfriend, propped the door open with his foot. He carried a cardboard box filled with white and blue hydrangeas for the tables. Tommy’s family runs A Rose by Any Other Name, the floral shop two doors down.

“Sorry these are late—” Tommy stopped in mid-sentence when he saw me. I thought he might drop the box. “Juliet?”

Instinctively, I brought my hand to my heart and gasped. Of course, I knew that I’d run into him sooner or later. It was inevitable in such a small town. I guess I just expected it would have been later.

“Tommy!” I collected myself and scooted over to him. He looked equally shaken, as he stood holding the flower box awkwardly.

I grabbed the box from his hands. “These are beautiful. It’s so nice to see you. How long has it been?” I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

He hesitated and then followed me to the counter. “Way too long. You look great, Juliet.”

I rested the box on top of the pastry case and removed a vase. “Thanks, you do too. Actually, I go by Jules now.” I twisted my wedding ring again. A small bruise had begun to form under it.

Tommy laughed and rubbed the golden-brown stubble on his cheeks. In high school he’d played football tight end. He looked like he still maintained a tight training routine. “Well, officially, it’s Deputy Adams, but for old friends like you, I go by Thomas.” He gave me a shy smile.

“That sounds very dignified.” I teased him, pointing to the police vest he wore. “Looks like you’re official these days, huh?”

“You know how it goes.” Thomas grabbed a vase of flowers and held it like a torch. He placed his other hand on the gold star on his left chest. “Floral delivery guy by day. Deputy-in-training by night. I do solemnly swear that I’ll keep the streets of Ashland safe, and the window boxes watered.”

I felt myself relax. I hadn’t expected Thomas to grill me on why I’d returned, but I appreciated his easy manner.

One of the booths by the window opened up. I motioned to Stephanie to wipe it down. She didn’t notice me or the line of customers growing in front of her. She was caught up in a disagreement with a guy who looked to be about her age.

“You always were a kidder.” I headed to the empty booth, stacked the dirty dishes, and placed the flowers on the table. “A deputy-in-training. Impressive.”

Thomas delivered his vase to the next booth and greeted a couple sharing a roasted red pepper quiche.

I surveyed the packed space. The only empty table needed to be bussed and four customers stood waiting for coffee and treats at the counter. Andy’s fingers were flying at the coffee bar. He looked like he was conducting an orchestra, grinding beans and tamping shots without missing a beat.

Stephanie and the kid were still in a heated discussion. I left Thomas chatting with the couple and raced to the counter to lend a hand.

“Hey.” I interrupted Stephanie’s conversation. “I need you to bus that table, put the rest of these flowers out, and make sure everyone’s coffee is warm.”

She seemed taken aback, but didn’t move. “Yeah.”

I handed her two flower vases and nudged her out.

If I’ve learned anything about being a chef it’s that you have to take control. I’ve gotten over being worried that I’ll hurt someone’s feelings. My job is to craft high-quality food and provide my customers with a fabulous dining experience. I’m used to running a tight ship. Stephanie was going to have to step it up.

“Can I get you something?” I asked the kid she’d been fighting with. He wore a black hoodie with the sleeves scrunched up. Tattoos covered every square inch of skin on his arms. Who wore a sweatshirt in this heat?

His eyes followed Stephanie across the room. He flicked the front wheel of the skateboard he held firmly under his arm.

“Do you need a pastry, coffee?” I asked again.

“Huh?” He turned his attention to me. I took a step back. His eyes were like ice. I’d never seen anything quite like them. They were almost menacing, and yet I was drawn into them.

“Did you want something?” I tapped the glass case.

“Nah.” He shook his head and glanced out the window. Across the street Nancy Hudson was lighting into a young girl, her arms waving wildly. Without another word the kid pulled his hood over his head, tightened his grasp on his skateboard, and bolted out the door in their direction.

I had expected my reentry into town to be awkward, but this day was off to a weird start.

Thomas stopped on his way out and asked if I wanted to catch up sometime soon. I said sure, but knew that if he actually followed through, I’d put him off.

I wasn’t ready for anything more than rolling out pie crust and pitting peaches right now, so that’s pretty much what I did for the remainder of the day. I returned to my jam, but kept a closer watch on Stephanie. Before I knew it, it was after 5:00. Time to flip the wooden sign hanging on the front door to
CLOSED.

Once the last customer left with a bag full of pastries, Mom, Andy, Stephanie, and I went through the routine of closing up and readying the shop for midnight.

Andy scrubbed dishes with his iPod headphones in. I’d have to ask him what he was listening to. Whatever it was had him beat boxing and swinging his hips while up to his elbows in suds.

Stephanie lumbered between tables, picking up one dish at a time. Why had Mom hired her?

Mom boxed up the few straggler pastries left in the case that she donates to the local food pantry.

I erased today’s specials from the chalkboard and added in tomorrow’s:
RASPBERRY DANISH
,
MUSHROOM TARTS
,
SUMMER CILANTRO SALAD.
In the bottom corner I wrote:
RASPBERRY JAM
, 8
OZ. JARS
$4.50.

It had been a while since I made jam. Quarters were too tight on the ship for the kind of space required for canning. Fortunately, the process came flooding back. I warmed sugar in the oven and boiled Ball jars on the stove.

Mom returned to the kitchen. “All right, everything up front is all set.” She pushed up her sleeves. Her style matches the vibe in Ashland—casual elegance with just a hint of hippie. The honey-colored linen shirt she wore brought out the bourbon highlights in her hair and eyes, and fell loosely over her narrow hips, which were clad in skinny jeans. The Ashland giveaway was her clogs. She wears clogs year-round, since they’re so comfortable. They also help her stand a few inches taller than her five-foot-five frame.