On Thin Icing (2 page)

“I’m thinking of calling it a snowflake latte.” He reached under the bar and pulled out a notebook that he uses to track coffee recipes and ratios of milk to espresso. “It’s an almond latte with a little touch of white chocolate and whipped cream. Give it a try. I’m hoping it’s not too sweet. It’s my gift to the snow gods. We need some fresh powder on Mount Ashland. I’m dying to hit the slopes.”

The coffee smelled heavenly. I caught a whiff of almond as I took a sip. The creamy latte was perfectly balanced with just the right touch of sweetness. Andy had succeeded once again. We make all of our sauces and syrups at Torte. Our white chocolate sauce is a customer favorite. It’s much richer in flavor and texture than mass-manufactured sauces. I’m not a fan of sugary coffee drinks. Andy knew exactly how to add a splash of sweetness without letting the sugar overpower the drink.

“This is delicious.” I held the mug up in a toast. “It’s like winter in a cup. I think the snow gods will love it.”

“That’s what I was going for, boss.” His cheeks reddened. “Anyone else want to give my snowflake latte a try?”

Mom and Stephanie raised their hands in unison. Andy laughed and started steaming more milk. I knew he appreciated the praise. It was well deserved. I could drink Andy’s lattes all day. That is, until I started to shake from too much caffeine intake.

“This one needs to go up on the special board today,” I said, cradling the warm mug in my hands.

Stephanie tucked her hair behind her ears. “What do you want me to do first, Jules?” She normally wears her dark hair with streaks of purple, but today it was dyed in a shockingly bright violet. The look was startling.

“You changed your hair,” I noted.

She shrugged. “Yeah, I was tired of the black.”

“It matches your gorgeous eyes,” Mom said, returning to the kitchen and handing Stephanie a snowflake latte.

“Thanks.” Stephanie looked at her feet as she spoke. She was dressed in all black, quite the contrast from her cheery red apron and purple hair.

“Can you start on the muffins?” I asked, pointing to the whiteboard. “We’re going to need an extra dozen of each flavor for Lance’s order.”

Stephanie sipped her latte and studied the board. “What are you thinking for the cinnamon muffins?”

One of the many things that I appreciated about Stephanie was her willingness to ask questions. When I worked on the cruise line one of my biggest pet peeves with apprentice chefs was that they were afraid to ask questions. How are you going to learn if you don’t ask? I’d much rather have a chef-in-training ask too many questions versus doing it wrong and having to dump an entire batch of pastries in the trash.

“What do you think?” I threw it back at her. “We could do cinnamon chips or a cinnamon crumble on the top.”

“I’ll do both,” she said.

“Works for me.” I returned to the mixer.

Mom squeezed between me and the butcher block island that sits in the middle of the industrial kitchen. She’s shorter than me by a few inches. I inherited my height and lean frame from my dad. Even in her clogs, she has to stand on her toes to meet my eyes. “I see you’ve already got a head start back here.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“Not at all. In fact, I might get used to this and start sleeping in.” She winked.

I whipped the yolks and sugar together until the mixture turned a creamy lemon color. One of the things I’ve been trying to teach Stephanie is that each step matters when it comes to baking. The most common mistake novice bakers make is to dump all the ingredients in at once. For a light and airy cake, it’s imperative that the egg yolks and sugar are slightly thickened before incorporating the chocolate.

Mom rolled up her sleeves. She cubed butter and measured brown sugar into a large mixing bowl. She chatted with Stephanie and Andy about their classes as she creamed cookie batter together by hand. Baking was in her DNA. Despite the fact that Torte has two industrial mixers, Mom was old-school when it came to making cookie dough. She prefers her large stainless steel bowl and wooden spoon.

“Mom, you know we have an industrial mixer, right?”

“How do you think I stay so fit?” She flexed her arm and raised the wooden spoon. “Who needs a mixer when I have muscles like these?”

I worried that the years of physical labor were taking their toll on her. Her pace had started to slow a bit, but not her enthusiasm, so I let it go.

I filled the double boiler with an inch of water and placed it on the stove. Then I measured dark chocolate chunks. I would melt the chocolate on a low boil and slowly incorporate it with the eggs and sugar. Soon the entire kitchen became infused with the delightful smell of cinnamon muffins baking in the oven, steaming coffee, and melting chocolate. I couldn’t resist swiping a taste of the warm chocolate as it liquefied in the pan.

“Where’s Sterling?” Mom asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was almost six. In a few minutes Torte would be bustling with locals stopping by for a coffee and pastry on their way to work.

“He said he’d be here by seven,” I replied, wiping chocolate from my fingers. “He stayed late last night.” Sterling was our newest staff member. Like me, he’d thought Ashland would be a temporary resting place, but had come to love our quirky small town. His piercing blue eyes, tattoos, and skater style had earned him quite the following among teenage girls. I wanted to tell them that they were wasting their time, while they stood in line, giggling and ordering hot chocolates. Sterling liked Stephanie. I wasn’t sure where she stood. The chemistry between them was definitely palpable, but as far as I could tell that was where it ended.

Sterling and Andy made a dream team in the front. Their personalities complemented one another. Andy with his boyish all-American good looks, and knowledge of local sports, chatted up customers with easy banter. Sterling had a sexy edginess that customers responded to. He discussed indie bands and dabbled in writing poetry. He reminded me of a young Johnny Depp.

After the holidays, Sterling asked me if I’d be willing to give him cooking lessons in the evenings. He didn’t think baking was his style, but he was interested in learning his way around the kitchen. It was great timing for me, since Torte’s catering business had been steadily increasing. Having an extra hand to help prep would be a huge help.

By the time Sterling arrived, Andy had sold a dozen snowflake lattes and packaged up pastries to go for our regular clients. A handful of locals occupied the tables in the front, but we were nowhere near as busy as we are in the summer months. I arranged the theater pastry order in a large white box with the Torte logo stamped on the side. Lance, the artistic director for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, was hosting a breakfast for some local board members and requested pastries to be delivered before eight.

Mom and Stephanie had things under control in the kitchen. My chocolate mousse was cooling on the counter, so I zipped up my coat and balanced the box of pastries. “I’m off to deliver these to Lance,” I called as I pushed open the front door.

A blast of cold air assaulted my face.
Hurry, Jules,
I thought as I quickened my pace. It’s freezing. Little did I know things were about to get much, much colder.

Chapter Two

The Oregon Shakespeare Festival complex is just up the hill from Torte. This morning I opted to cut through Lithia Park and take the Shakespeare stairs. The staircase leads directly from the park’s expansive grounds up through the tree line to OSF’s theaters.

The park sat empty. Even the birds had flown south in search of warmer skies. I took the steps two at a time, as my breath frosted in front of my face.

Although the theater was shuttered for the season, OSF’s senior staff work year round. It was odd to see “the bricks” (as locals refer to the brick plaza in front of the theater) deserted. The marquee read: “Thanks for Another Stunning Season! See Us Again in February When We Open with
Three Amigos
.”

I smiled to myself as I hurried past. People tend to associate OSF solely with Shakespeare. The company is known for producing the Bard’s works, but it also stages a variety of modern plays and even the occasional musical. Theater lovers from around the world return season after season for OSF’s offerings.

Lance’s office is located in the Bowmer Theater. I knew the way. Lance and I became friends last summer. He drives me crazy with his insistence that I should be on stage. Somehow word got out—that tends to happen in Ashland—that I’d dabbled in theater when I was younger. Lance had made it his personal mission to convince me that I should return. It wasn’t going to happen. I had no interest in being on stage. Pastry was my medium.

I passed the dark stage. A single lamp with a glowing yellow bulb stood like a beacon in the otherwise vacant theater. It cast a ghostly shadow on the empty stadium seats. Lance had told me the practice of leaving a light on the stage was an old theater superstition. It gave me the creeps. I hurried past and walked down the back stairs to Lance’s office. Balancing the box in one arm, I knocked on his door. “Lance, it’s Jules.”

“Juliet, darling,
entrez
.
Entrez,
” Lance said, waving me in with one hand and studying me through a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses that rested on the tip of his nose.

Lance’s office was like a miniature museum showcasing the theater’s success. Playbills and awards lined the walls. A stack of scripts sat in a pile on his desk. Against the far wall there was a couch with purple, gold, and black pillows. Behind the desk, a wall of windows looked out onto the theater complex and the dreary winter sky.

He removed his reading glasses and jumped to his feet when I came in. “Darling, let me take that.” He placed the pastry box on his desk and kissed me on both cheeks. “Look at you, with nice rosy cheeks. I do believe that winter is becoming on you.”

“Stop, Lance.” I rolled my eyes, but my hand went to my ponytail. It’s my typical style for working in the bakery. I can’t stand it when hair gets in my eyes, or—God forbid—the food.

“What is it going to take to get it through that beautiful skull of yours that my makeup artists would die to work on your pristine palette?”

I ignored his comment.

He opened the box and waved his hands in front of his face. “As always your pastries look equally smashing.”

Lance had a flair for the dramatic. He was perfectly cast as artistic director for the award-winning theater. He looked the part, too. Today he wore a pair of tapered jeans, a black turtleneck, purple scarf, and expensive shoes. “I’m so glad you stopped by,” he said, taking a cheese blintz from the box and returning to his seat. “I have a favor to ask.”

I handed him a stack of paper napkins. “Does this involve me and one of your productions? Because you know that my answer is going to be no.”

“One day, darling. One day, I’ll convince you. I’m good at getting what I want.” He bit into the blintz for effect. Dabbing his chin with a napkin, he continued. “But no, this favor involves your culinary prowess.”

“Okay, I like the sound of that.”

“Have a seat.” He motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk.

I sat and waited for him to continue. His large mahogany desk looked as if it had been built to intimidate. I could imagine a new actor gulping down fear as he waited for an audience with Lance. I could also imagine Lance flashing his signature Cheshire grin and enjoying every minute of watching an aspiring actor sweat.

“You may have heard that our quarterly board meeting is coming up.” Lance set the blintz on a napkin. “Usually we have it here in town, but I want to do something more extravagant this year, so I’m hosting a weekend retreat for the entire executive board at Lake of the Woods Lodge next weekend.”

“Okay.” I glanced out the window. It looked like it was starting to rain.

Lance rifled through a stack of scripts. He removed a file folder and slid it across the desk to me. “I want
you
to cater the weekend. The theme is ‘cozy cabin.’ I’ve rented the lodge for the entire weekend. I’m pulling out all the stops. I want the board to feel pampered and dazzled by the food. We have a huge giving campaign that we’re going to kick off next month, and I need them feeling ready to get out there and raise new funds and friends for the theater.”

I opened the file folder. It contained an agenda for the board retreat which involved breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks for forty people over the course of a three-day weekend. Wow. Even though I’d served tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of guests while working on the cruise ship, I’d specialized in pastry and I had a team of sous chefs and dishwashers. An entire weekend of meals would definitely be a new challenge.

This is what you’ve been hoping for, Jules,
I told myself as I returned the agenda to the file folder. “Thanks for thinking of us,” I said to Lance. “There’s not a lot of time to prepare. Your event is in just over a week. I’ll have to call our suppliers right away and make sure they have enough in stock.”

He waved me off. “Darling, you’re the best chef in town, you’ll figure it out, I’m sure. That Sunday supper last weekend was like stepping back in time or into the pages of a storybook. I know you won’t disappoint.”

Mom and I had started hosting Sunday suppers at Torte. For twenty dollars, diners were treated to an appetizer, entrée, and a signature Torte dessert. Each course was served family-style in the dining room. We pushed tables together to make an inviting space for everyone to gather. The concept had been a hit with locals. The last two suppers had sold out.

Without asking whether or not I was going to take the job, Lance launched into a list of details. “I’ll need you to coordinate with my new assistant, Whitney. She’ll order anything you need. I’ve already tasked her with ordering extra booze. I want the wine to flow freely, if you know what I mean.”

I started to ask for clarification about the menu. Lance pushed to his feet. “Must run, darling.” He kissed me on both cheeks. “Talk to Whitney. I’ll see you at the lodge next weekend.”