Meet Your Baker (24 page)
Could I have been mistaken?
“You’re sure?”
Lance arched one brow in irritation.
“Okay, sorry. I must have made a mistake.”
“It can happen.” He chuckled. “Not to me, of course. Kiss, kiss, I must run.” He blew air kisses at me and strode across Main Street in the direction of the theater.
On my way back to Torte, I reviewed my memory of that evening. I knew I wasn’t mistaken. When I called Sterling’s name he turned his head and ran away. One of two things was possible: Stephanie was right and Sterling was in trouble. Maybe he’d snuck in and sabotaged the catwalk. There was another possibility though. Lance could be lying.
I had to find Sterling. He was at the center of this somehow and the only one who might be able to answer my questions.
It would have to wait though. Torte hummed with hungry customers. Mom and I cranked out bread, tarts, and custard all morning.
A lull hit a little after ten o’clock. Andy wiped the espresso machine as I walked by with a tray of pastries to replenish the case.
“Hey, boss. Can I run an idea by you?”
“Sure, let me put these away.” I filled the cases and returned to Andy with an empty tray. “What’s up?”
He handed me a mug. Colorful flecks of black and red dusted the top of the foam. “Try this.”
I smelled the drink. Notes of chocolate, coffee, and pepper hit my nose. Taking a sip confirmed that the drink contained a spicy-hot kick. I also tasted a hint of something sweet and sour. Maybe cherries?
“This is fantastic. What’s in it—pepper?”
Andy grinned. “Yeah. Do you like it? Really?”
“I love it.” I took another sip. The kid had talent. I wouldn’t have thought of peppering the top of a coffee, but the blend of sweetness with the spicy finish made my tastebuds spring to life.
“Awesome.” Andy beamed. “It’s my twist on a Mexican mocha. I thought we could play up the whole fire thing with the tourist crowd. People keep ordering hot drinks. It’s got a little red pepper too. I was thinking we could add it to the specials.”
“Yes.” I savored the complex coffee, impressed that Andy knew coffee mixology and had the initiative to create a drink. That kind of talent is innate. Anyone can follow a recipe, but pairing unexpected flavors—and succeeding—is the mark of a true chef.
“This needs a name.” I handed Andy my empty mug.
“Something with fire,” Andy said.
Stephanie lumbered past us with a wet dishrag and spray bottle of bleach. “Fire Starter, or Sweet Heat.”
“Sweet Heat—that’s it.” Andy grabbed a spiral notebook he kept under the bar. He scribbled on it. “It’s a go?”
“Sweet Heat. Get it on the menu. Nice work, team.” I smiled and returned to the kitchen. Why had I underestimated Mom? She knew who she’d hired.
Stephanie added “
SWEET HEAT
” to the chalkboard specials, complete with orange flames sparking around an outline of a coffee mug.
Mom added her personal touch with a fitting quote from Shakespeare: “I fear neither sword nor fire.”
I don’t think we sold a regular latte or mocha for the remainder of the morning. Customers raved about Andy’s creation. Sweet Heat became a conversation starter. I knew that guests would remember this dining experience long after they left Ashland. They’d tell their friends about the raging forest fires and the fiery drink they’d discovered at a bakeshop downtown. That’s the ultimate goal for any chef—to create a memorable food experience. Customers love to “discover” something too. From here on out, I was going to task Andy with creating a weekly drink special.
What was I doing? I was talking like I was here to stay.
This is only temporary, Jules,
I scolded myself.
Mom showered Andy with praise. By the time we finished lunch, Andy looked like he was floating. He left early for an afternoon study hall.
Stephanie and I cleaned the tables. “Where do you think Sterling could be?”
She shrugged. “No idea. I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Why don’t I try this afternoon? Maybe a fresh set of eyes? Where are some places that you guys hung out?”
“The park, campus … we had lunch on the bricks once.”
“After I finish up here, I’ll take a spin around town. It can’t hurt.”
“I guess. I’ve already looked in all those places and left like a hundred messages on his cell phone.”
“It’s worth a shot. I don’t have anything better to do anyway. But, Stephanie, if he calls you or turns up will you promise me you’ll call me?”
She frowned. “You won’t turn him in to the police?”
“Not turn him in. But he is going to have to talk to Thomas—I mean Deputy Adams—or Detective Curtis eventually.”
Stephanie shook her head frantically. “No way, I’m not ratting him out.”
“That’s not what I mean. They need to know every detail of what happened the night Nancy was killed. Plus, if he saw something, he could be in danger from the real killer.”
“Forget it.” Stephanie left, lumbering out the door with her heavy backpack. I could see the ground we’d made earlier had quickly been lost.
“We didn’t finish our conversation yesterday,” Mom said, as I returned to the kitchen with the last of the dirty dishes.
“What conversation?”
“Don’t you play that game with me, missy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I added soap to the dishwasher and ran it.
“It’s time to talk. You can’t keep bottling up whatever’s going on.” She pointed to the stool. “Sit.”
I sighed. “Fine.”
She dumped a sack of russet potatoes on the butcher block and slid a peeler across the island to me. Then she pulled up a bar stool and handed me a mixing bowl. “You peel? I’ll chop?”
“What’s with all the potatoes?”
“Potato salad. I figure it’ll do well at lunch tomorrow.”
I removed a handful of potatoes from the bag and starting peeling.
Mom waited.
Where to start?
“I knew that Carlos had dated other women before me.” I forced the rough skin off the potato, positioning my hand above the empty bowl. “He’s older, so it’s fine. I dated Thomas too, but that was different. That was high school, young love. Carlos had
lovers
before me. Beautiful women, mature women.”
Mom poured a quarter cup of vinegar into a large bowl of cold water. Potatoes, like apples and pears, oxidize when peeled, which results in a nasty, dishwater-brown appearance.
I handed her a potato. She sliced it and submerged it in the water.
“There was one woman in particular—Sophia. They were pretty serious. I guess they even talked about marriage, but then he got the job on the ship and left. It wasn’t that long after they broke up that we met. He told me their relationship wasn’t going anywhere, that they wanted different things. She used to call him all the time. I got a bit jealous and I think he started hiding the calls.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mom sliced the next potato.
“I don’t honestly know if it was all her or not. I know she was the one who called him, but maybe he was calling her too. I don’t know.”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” My hands felt gritty and dirty from the potato skins. I brushed them off and grabbed another handful from the bag.
“You think he’s cheating on you?” Mom watched me fill a bowl with the potato skins.
“No, worse.” I held back tears. “He had stacks of letters—hidden in his sock drawer. I know he didn’t want me to find them.”
“Love letters?”
The potato I was peeling slipped out of my hand and rolled off the island.
“Let that one go.” Mom reached across the island and took another naked potato from my pile.
“What kind of letters, honey?” She sliced the potatoes into perfect cubes and dropped them into the water.
“Letters from his son.”
“What?” She let her knife fall onto the butcher block.
I threw the potato peeler in the bowl and looked up at her. “Carlos has a son. He’s eight years old. He’s known about him this entire time. The letters were from his son!”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”
“Why wouldn’t he have told me? He’s been writing to his son the entire time we’ve been together. When I was putting away his socks I found a whole stack tied with strings—pictures, drawings, notes, everything.”
Mom put her hand to her chin. “And he never told you?”
“Not a word. I mean, I know I can be too much of a romantic sometimes. But, like I said, I knew he’d had relationships before me—whatever. But why, why would he lie to me about a child? Why would he hide something that huge?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.” I stood and paced. “I could even understand if he had an affair. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d be angry—devastated even—but this? I don’t think I can forgive this.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. When I confronted him with the letters, he broke down—said it had been eating him up not to tell me. But he didn’t give me any explanation.”
“Maybe he had a good reason?” She looked less than convinced.
“Yeah, but Mom, am I wrong?
A kid
. He has a
kid
. What reason could there possibly be for not telling me he has a kid?” I grabbed a potato and started peeling again.
Mom shook her head. “No, you’re not wrong. It’s a major betrayal of trust. The only person who is going to be able to answer that question is Carlos.”
“That’s probably not going to happen anytime soon. He called this morning, and I could barely breathe the whole time.”
Mom stood and came around the island. Putting her arm around me, she said, “You know, I wondered if maybe you were overreacting when you first called to say you were coming home.”
I started to protest.
“I’m not done, let me explain.” She released me.
“I used to blame myself—and your father—for naming you Juliet. Such a name to live up to. One of the most famous romantic heroines in all of literature. I worried that you put too much of yourself into your relationships. But I don’t think that anymore.”
She cradled my face in her hands.
“Juliet, you’re not a romantic. You’re passionate. It’s one of your best qualities. It’s one of the many reasons I’m so proud that you’re my daughter. It shows in the way you bake. You put everything of yourself into your food.”
Her eyes welled. “You used to open your heart to everyone you met. But I know that loving and feeling deeply doesn’t come without risk. I think after Dad died, you closed off a part of yourself. I thought maybe with Carlos—well, I wondered about how quickly it all happened, but I also saw it as a good sign that you were opening that part of yourself up again.”
“I jumped in too fast.” I rested my head on her shoulder. “He was my one big leap. How could have I made such a huge mistake?”
She squeezed me tighter. “You didn’t. I think coming home and giving yourself a little distance for a while is the best thing you could have done.”
As I leaned into her, tears spilled from my eyes. “Thanks, Mom. I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.”
“We’ll figure it out together.” She enveloped me in an embrace and held me while I sobbed.
Mom eyed me as she gathered her things together to leave. “You sure you want to be alone this evening? Why don’t you come home with me? I’ll make a pasta salad. We can escape the heat in the basement.”
“You’re the best.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I’m okay. I’m going to take a look around for Stephanie’s friend Sterling. Doing something—anything—sounds better than sitting around and stewing on it, you know?”
“If you change your mind, call me.” She looped her handbag over her wrist. “You know I’m here for you, anytime.”
She hugged me again. “See you in the morning.”
I watched her walk to her car.
What now? Where could Sterling be hiding?
The early evening sun hid beneath the layer of smoke hanging in the sky. I wondered again how the firefighters were faring against the flames.
As I passed the flower shop, Thomas waved from inside. The flowers resting in buckets of water in front of the shop drooped with ash.
I stepped inside the shop. It had been years since I’d seen Thomas’s folks. The scent of roses, lilies, and jasmine filled the space. Color assaulted my eyes—bright bouquets sat neatly arranged and awaiting purchase, each cheery bunch tied with string and wrapped with brown paper. This is how I like my flowers—fresh and wild, not overly styled and stuffed with baby’s breath.
“Hey, what are you doing here? Flower duty?” I asked.
Thomas held a pair of garden shears in his hands. “Mom ran next door to set up a few arrangements at the bookstore.”
“These are beautiful.” I sniffed cut yellow lilies on the craft table.
“Take them. I’ll wrap them up for you.”
“No, no, that’s okay.”
Thomas snatched them from my hand and twisted them with twine. “Lilies for the lady.” He offered them to me.
“Thanks. Really, I wasn’t fishing for free flowers.”
“I know, but you could use some cheering up after this week.” He thrust them in my hand. “Take them.”
“It has been a week. I’ve been wondering if I should have come back. This all started the minute I returned. Maybe I’m a curse.”
Thomas clipped the stems from roses the color of orange sherbet. “Yep. I blame you. The Professor and I talked about it last night, in fact. We decided you’re banned from town.” He set the clippers on the table and pretended to usher me to the door. “Now, if you’ll follow me, miss. I’ll have you escorted out.”
“I’m serious! I show up and Nancy’s murdered, Caroline’s hurt, Torte is a mess…” I trailed off.
“Stop, Jules.” Thomas’s voice turned husky. “You coming home is the best thing that’s happened to Ashland in years.”
“I’m not home, Thomas. Not for long.”
He turned his back to me and grabbed a handful of daisies. He plunged them into a vase, sloshing water on the table.
“Have you seen Sterling around anywhere?” I changed the subject.
“No, why?” Thomas wiped his hands on a rag and turned to face me.
I debated whether or not to tell him the truth. While I’d given Stephanie my word, if Sterling really did have a connection to Nancy’s murder, Thomas would have to know. For the moment, I figured I’d keep what I knew under wraps.