Look Before You Bake (2 page)

"We have to celebrate," says Rachel, and insists on treating Hui and me at the Wise Salmon, Honeycomb Falls' finest eatery. It's situated right on the bank of the river, with a section actually beetling out over the water.

I'm halfway through my order of Grandma Ella's stuffed pork enchiladas when my phone rings. Unlike just about everybody else, I still have and like my old-fashioned flip phone, which I dig out of my purse. It's a Boston area code number that I don't recognize, so I flip the phone open. "Hello?"

"Ms. Anita Hall?" It's a man's voice, very patrician and smooth.

"Speaking?"

"Good afternoon. My name is Oliver Whitman. I'm calling to congratulate you on winning the Franklin County Bake Off."

Have I become that famous already? I have a surreal moment where I wonder if I'm going to be receiving random phone calls from strangers around the state before I recognize the name. Oliver Whitman! The sponsor of the contest, and the man who offered the ten thousand dollar cash prize. My eyes go wide and I leap to my feet, knocking my chair back in my haste to get somewhere quiet. Rachel and Hui stare up at me in surprise, but I just wave my hand anxiously at them and dart into a quiet corner of the restaurant and sit at an empty booth.

"Mr. Whitman! What a surprise! Thank you so much for calling. I'm honored."

"Not at all. I don't usually call in person, but I have heard that your winning entry was quite spectacular. I could hardly understand Mrs. Strongmeyer on the phone, but she said it was a wonderful tart, truly extraordinary."

I blush. "Thank you. I'm very proud of how it turned out."

"In fact," he says, voice betraying a hint of caution, "she said she recognized the taste. Did you know that Mrs. Strongmeyer has been judging bake offs since the late 70's? No? Well, she's quite the connoisseur. She called me to say she recognized the flavor of Elysian honey in your tart. You know, of course, what I am referring to."

I resist the urge to gulp. Elysian honey? "I've never heard it called that before, Mr. Whitman."

"It's an exceedingly rare honey, so I'm not surprised." His voice turns light, almost indifferent. "Could you tell me where you got yours from?"

"It was a gift," I say. "A gift to a friend of mine. She gave it to me in turn."

"A princely gift," says Mr. Whitman. "So what are your plans for the future?"

"Well, to be honest, I'm thinking of opening my own bakery here in Honeycomb Falls." This is Mr. Whitman, the owner of the Platinum Fox restaurant chain. A famous chef, and the man behind my ten thousand dollar check. Admitting to him that I want to open a bakery feels at once like admitting a foolish dream, and also a smart business move.

"A bakery? Very good! With your talent, you should do well. If I may be so crass, I assume you have more savings put aside to help you in this endeavor, beyond my ten thousand?"

"I – uh – well, you see, I've carefully figured out my budget, and –"

"My dear Ms. Hall. Forgive my intrusion." His voice becomes velvety. "I asked for a specific reason. And it is this. I sponsor the Bake Off in the hopes of discovering such talent as yours. I would love to nurture that talent, and would be willing to invest, oh, fifty thousand dollars in your business to help you get started. Minimal interest, of course, with my getting only a tiny fraction of the profits. I would become, in effect, your partner."

Minimal Interest... fifty thousand dollars...
what? I blink and stare stupidly at the wall. My head even cocks to one side as if I were a robot that's just been switched off.

"Ms. Hall? Hello?"

"Hello." I say it in a monotone, wanting to add in a ridiculous manner,
Ms. Hall's not here right now. Please leave a message.
But then pull myself together with a shake. "Wow! Mr. Whitman, thank you. That's amazing. With fifty thousand dollars I could – why, I could build a custom oven. Make a hybrid of a traditional wood-fired oven and a masonry stove – that would allow me to reheat the air temperature between each bake. And –"

"Ms. Whitman." I can hear the smile in his voice. "You could do that and more. There would, however, be one condition."

Everything screeches to a stop. "A condition?"

"I back extraordinary talent that can produce extraordinary goods. If you could acquire more Elysian honey and use that in your baked goods, it would guarantee the success of your bakery, and I would feel confident in loaning you the money. Does that make sense?"

I nod slowly. "Yes." Investing in my bakery at that point would be a sure thing. I'd have a line down the block each day. "But I don't know where to get more."

"Yes, well. It is my sole requirement, and not, I hope, an unreasonable one. You have my number in your caller ID. Should you manage to acquire more honey, please don't hesitate to call me back. I'm eager to help you start your new adventure."

"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Whitman. Thank you so much."

"The pleasure has been all mine. I look forward to hearing from you. Goodbye."

Chapter 2

I flip my phone shut and stare at it thoughtfully. Rachel and Hui are waiting impatiently at our table, so I drift back over and sink into my seat.

Hui has a spear of asparagus pointed at her open mouth. "What happened?"

I sigh, unsure how to resolve the jangly feeling of hope and the uneasy sense of the whole thing being out of reach. "That was Mr. Whitman, the Bake Off's sponsor. He's willing to invest fifty thousand dollars in my bakery if I can find more of that magic honey to bake with."

Hui goes wide eyed, and Rachel immediately picks up her empty wine glass and motions to the waiter for refills all round. Hui sets her asparagus down carefully. "But you don't have more honey."

"I know," I say, resting my chin in my palm.

"And you don't know where to get more," continues Hui.

"I know, Hui."

"And –"

Rachel cuts in smoothly. "There's always a way. I'm sure Blake can ask around, and find out where this bear shifter lives. Then all you have to do is ask him if he'd be willing to either give or sell you more honey." She pauses as the waiter, a sly, foxy-looking young woman with flaming red hair steps out of the shadows to pour outrageously delicious wine into our glasses. With an enigmatic smile, she gives us a bow, and steps back into the shadows. "But, Anita. You have to think carefully. Having Whitman invest this money would make him a partner, right?"

"Yes." I raise my glass to my nose and inhale. Visions of blackberries, old leather, and a faint hint of fall come floating into my mind. I swirl the wine, then take a sip, and those visions blossom across my tongue, till at last I drink. "Hmm. I love this wine. Can bakeries serve wine?"

"Anita." Rachel sounds stern.

"I know." I set my glass down. "He said he'd ask for minimal interest, or to be a minor partner. Neither sounded very scary."

"Hmm." Rachel sits back, swirling her own wine. Hui watches her do so for a moment, and then sits back as well and mimics her. "You have to be very careful with the small print in these kinds of things. Trust me on that one. But, fine, say you're happy with the terms. Do you even want a partner?"

I stare into my wine glass and allow that question to bounce around my mind. Do I? "Oliver Whitman is very big in the culinary scene. He's published books, has a chain of successful restaurants, and years and years of experience. His career has been so amazing that some people think he's had supernatural help." The others listen as I figure things out. "While I'd love to go it alone, I'd benefit from his wisdom. Maybe having him on my team would really help make my dream a reality."

The others nod. Hui sniffs at her wine suspiciously, then takes a sip. Her eyes light up, and she takes a second. "This is good wine. It is important to be practical. Dreams do not pay the bills. Good bookkeeping does."

"Yeah. I don't know. I'll think it over, and look at what his eventual offer is. But – well – maybe I'll try to get some honey regardless. It would only help my business grow."

Rachel sits forward and spears the remaining sliver of her filet mignon with her fork. "True. So you want me to ask Blake?"

"Yes, please." A cage of butterflies opens in my tummy, and they flutter around, tickling and making me breathless. "Can you imagine? If I managed to get a constant supply of that miracle stuff? My bakery would take off like a rocket!"

"You know," says Rachel, setting her cutlery down, "with Honeycomb Hall now the official Cairn Lodge, Honeycomb Falls is going to get more foot traffic from shifters. Maybe you could create shifter-focused baked goods."

The idea hits me like a massive pillow to the back of the head, and I sit upright. "A bakery that caters to shifters? Oh! Can you imagine? Hot werecats strolling in looking for a glass of milk and – and – a mouse cookie? Wait." I frown as the others laugh.

"Steak and kidney pie," suggests Hui. "For the werewolves."

"Blood sausage for the werebats," grins Rachel.

"Big pieces of raw meat for the werelions!" Hui pauses. "Wait. That's not baking."

"Hmm. I'll need to think on this more." I drink my wine. "But first, the honey."

"Agreed," says Rachel. "Let's get the check, then head home."

***

We find Blake tinkering with his new motorcycle, or perhaps more accurately, his recently acquired ancient motorcycle. It's a massive beast of iron and steel, rusted and falling apart, which he bought for ten dollars at a junkyard a few towns south. Ever since then, it's been parked next to his gardener's shed, and that's where he can be found when he has a spare moment, working on obscure parts with all kinds of tools, sanding, replacing, and alternating between excited grins and angry curses.

I try not to get all shy around Blake, but how can I not? Especially when he's got grease on his hands, is wearing one of his ragged white shirts that do nothing to hide his lean and delicious body, and the sun catches the scruff on his jaw so that it lights up with flecks of gold and red? He's a drop dead gorgeous man, and I'm truly happy for Rachel. It's just that he represents everything that I've never had. I can't help but imagine what it would be like to have a man like that gaze at me in the way he looks at Rachel, his golden eyes lighting up with affection, love, and desire. I watch as she steps into his arms to receive a kiss, their foreheads touching as they grin, still as in love as when they first met, and hold back a sigh. Hui isn't so tactful. She coughs loudly and looks away. The pair separate, but I can see the promise of more to come later in their eyes.

"So, how'd it go, Anita?" Blake's looking right at me.

"Oh, I, well –" Why do I always fumble around for basic words like this?

"She won!" Rachel claps her hands with delight. "And guess what? She's going to open her own bakery in town!"

"You won? Congrats!" Blake steps over and gives me a hug, and oh, sweet magical apple pumpkin pie. His muscular arms wrap around me. I wrap my own arms around him. It's a brief hug, a friendly one, but for one quick moment I imagine it's more, a prelude, a setup to greater intimacies. His smell is masculine, cut through with the sharp odor of engine grease, and there's an easy fluidity to his movements, a dangerous grace, that I could just watch all day.

I step back smiling like a fool. "I guess I got lucky."

"Lucky?" Hui snorts. "You kicked butt. And now she needs your help."

"My help?" Blake looks all kinds of confused. "Um. I'm not really good in the kitchen."

Rachel chuckles. "Trust me. When we first met, he made this terrifying sandwich –"

"Terrifying? You loved it!" Blake swats at Rachel's ass with his rag, and she dances back laughing.

"No, not in the kitchen," I say. "I was hoping – well, wondering – if you could help me track down a werebear. He gave Rachel a vial of honey as a gift, and it's, well, magical. Amazing. The most delicious thing in the world. If I can get more, I might even have a serious investor who'll partner with me in opening the bakery."

"Werebear, huh?" Blake tosses his rag over one of his bike's handlebars, and scratches at the back of his head. "There's a tribe of them a good fifty miles west of here, the Black Rock Clan, but I doubt they're the ones who came over. Let's see. It'd be someone local, permanent." He rubs his jaw. "There's a lone bear who lives a few mountains over. Solitary fellow. Nice enough, though. Goes by the name of Soren. Could be him."

"Soren?" Rachel thinks carefully. "Yes! That sounds right. I think that might be him. Handsome young man. Very large. Soft spoken. I think that's what he called himself when he dropped off the vial."

Blake smiles. "Well, that's settled, then. I can't go this week, but if you can wait till the end of next week, my pack and I can escort you to his valley. It should be a three day walk at most."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" I smile, but my heart sinks. Next week? I don't know if I can wait that long. There's a wild desire in me to get this project going, to run with it, to make it happen now. "Thank you, Blake."

"No sweat." He grins at us all. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very close to figuring out how the –"

"Sure, honey, sure." Rachel leans in and kisses him before he can get started on his technical jargon. "Have fun."

"I will." He lets out a mock growl. "See you soon."

"If I can fit you into my schedule." Rachel lets out a squeal as she jumps away from his grabbing hand again, and then walks toward the house laughing, looking over her shoulder at Blake in a way that does nothing to hide her desire. Hui shakes her head and follows, but I head toward the front gate, seized by an impulse.

"I'll be back in a bit," I call out. "Just going to check something in town!"

"Sure thing," calls back Rachel, and then she and Hui disappear into kitchen. I take a deep breath and head down the driveway, the gravel crunching under my shoes. I feel nervous, excited, worried, and a little scared. It's been only three months since I ran away from home. Three months since I attempted the impossible, and struck out for independence and freedom. I can still remember that night like it was yesterday. How I went to bed fully clothed, shaking with anger at my father's refusal to let me live my own life. Our words in the living room echoed in my mind as I lay there in the dark. Oh, how I felt betrayed. My father, the one man I admired above all others, a principled, honest, strong man who had taught me to love cooking, who had taken me on countless hikes as a child, who had raised me alone after my mother died in the car accident that had robbed him of his ability to walk. That night he'd gone strange and cold, and refused to meet my eye.