A Batter of Life and Death (3 page)

Philip would be camping out at the Black Swan Theater along with Elliot Cool, the host of the show, and the rest of the production crew. The other contestants were being put up in various commercial kitchens around town. I pitied whoever was stuck with Richard Lord.

My stomach fluttered with nerves and excitement as the bell on Torte’s front door jingled. “Showtime,” I called to Andy, Stephanie, and Sterling. “Tighten your aprons, everyone.”

Sterling welcomed everyone inside as Stephanie greeted them with a tray of pastries and a shy smile. Andy offered carafes of coffee.

I smoothed my hair and hurried to the front.

“Jules.” Philip greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. His graying scruff scratched my face. “Lovely to see you again. We were just discussing on the drive over from the airport what a charming, charming little town you have here.”

I smiled and motioned for everyone to take a seat. “The space is all yours for the afternoon. Take as long as you need. Andy, our head barista, will be happy to make anyone a specialty coffee, and Stephanie is going to bring around some snacks. Help yourself to anything, and welcome to Ashland.”

Philip typed with both his thumbs on his smartphone. Without looking up he mumbled, “What’s that?” He wore expensive jeans and a tight purple T-shirt with a black sports jacket over it.

When I’d had dinner with him to discuss the idea of using Torte, his phone had been like an extra person at the table with us. Most of our conversation that night involved me repeating details, because he was only half paying attention. We have a strict policy at Torte that cell phones get stored in the office during working hours. Mom built the business by really listening to our clients. One of her biggest pet peeves is when tourists don’t even bothering looking up from their phones when placing an order. I had a feeling that Philip was going to test her patience.

I repeated my welcome to Philip.

He looked up from his phone, turned and clapped a portly man with a white chef’s coat on the back. The chef clutched a notebook under his arm. “What did I tell you, Marco, isn’t she lovely? This is Jules Capshaw, owner of Torte. You’ll be working here with her and her mother, Helen.”

I could feel my cheeks warm. “Please make yourself at home. We’ll try to stay out of your way. Just holler if you need anything.”

Philip grabbed my arm. “Actually, I’m hoping you can join us. We’ve had a slight change of plans, and I have a proposition for you.”

A proposition? I didn’t like the sound of that. Philip’s demanding personality put me on guard.

Stephanie circulated with a tray of sweet and savory offerings. Philip picked an almond croissant from the tray, broke it in half and took a bite. “Perfection. Absolute perfection.” He handed Marco the other half. “Try this, chef. I think she’ll do quite nicely.”

Marco’s rounded cheeks didn’t give any hint of whether he enjoyed the croissant as he slowly chewed it. Philip waited with anticipation.

What was going on? What would I do quite nicely on?

After Marco finally swallowed, he appraised me. I had to stifle a little laugh because the rotund chef stood about shoulder high to me. His stern, scrunched face was a sign that he was trying to intimidate me, but it was difficult to feel fear when the Pillsbury Dough Boy was scowling at me.

He shrugged. “It is okay. Just okay.” He tapped a sausage-sized finger to his lips and stared me down. “She’ll do.”

Philip clapped him on the back again. “Yes. She’s perfect.”

Marco grabbed a pastry and waddled over to a table.

Scrolling on his phone with one thumb, Philip wrapped his free arm around my shoulder and escorted me to a table. He smelled like expensive aftershave. I’d peg him to be about Mom’s age, maybe mid-fifties. Unlike Mom, who was aging naturally, allowing her chestnut-brown hair to streak with gray, Philip definitely fit the part of a Hollywood television producer. The skin around his eyes had been stretched and smoothed. His entire face looked tight and slightly shiny. It reminded me of the Saran Wrap we stretch over cookie dough while it chills.

He placed his phone on the table. “Jules, this is your lucky day.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How so?” I’d met plenty of charmers like Philip during my time on the ship and growing up in a community centered around the stage. It was going to take more than a dazzling smile for me to trust his motives. A warning voice sounded in my head. Proceed with caution, Jules.

His phone buzzed. He reached down to silence it. “I’ll let that go. You, my dear, are my top priority at the moment.”

I could feel my muscles tense. Whenever people are overtly complimentary I get suspicious.

“We had a last-minute scheduling glitch,” Philip said, with his hand covering his phone. I wondered if this was to stop himself from looking at it. “One of our
Take the Cake
contestants had to drop out. I believe you know him—Jed Cellars.”

Jed Cellars was the head pastry chef at the Ashlander, the nicest hotel in town. However, it was currently operating without anyone in its dining room. Not because of the dwindling tourists, but because they’d had a huge kitchen fire last week, and the restaurant was currently shut down.

“Of course I know Jed.”

“Then you heard about the fire?”

I nodded.

“We need someone to take his place. He’s too involved in getting his kitchen up and running again.”

I felt terrible for Jed. Recovering from a total kitchen demolition was no small task.

Phillip continued. “This is a boutique show, and I need a boutique chef like you. We’re not a major production like some of the other junk the network likes to put out.”

“A boutique chef?” I raised my brow. “I’m not sure what that means.”

He removed his hand from his phone and began gesturing as he spoke. “The network likes to put on these competitions with glorified home bakers as the contestants. You know, a ‘chef’ who owns a drive-through coffee shop.
Please.
” He rolled his eyes.

“They let twelve, maybe twenty people compete. Most of them can’t even boil water.
Take the Cake
is filmed on location, in a stunning town, with only the crème de la crème of pastry chefs. It’s an expensive production, which means we handpick five of the best chefs in the country. Each week one person will get voted out by the judges, until we come to the final episode where we’ll crown a new winner.”

“Okay.” I’m sure I sounded skeptical.

Philip didn’t seem to notice. He studied me. “How tall are you?”

“Five eight. Why?”

He knocked on the table. “That’s what I thought.” Sneaking a look at his phone, he shook his head and turned it upside down. “Jules, has anyone ever told you that you have the look for television?”

“No.” I wrinkled my nose. Wow, he was really laying it on thick.

“Oh, but you do.” He reached over and turned my face to the side. “Those cheekbones are to die for. Do you know how many actresses would kill for your bone structure?”

I stepped away from him, and shook my head. Praising my appearance wasn’t going to help his cause, nor was invading my personal space. I wished he would just get to his pitch, and stop trying to butter me up.

Philip stared at my hair. “Is that color natural? It’s so blond.”

I nodded.
Where is this going?

“I can see that you’re unsure. Hear me out.” He steadied his gaze on me. “I want
you,
Juliet Capshaw, to be a contestant on the show. It’s perfect. In the biz we call it a synchronistic opportunity. This was meant to be. You’ll win viewers over the moment they see you, and you can bake!” Philip practically bounced in his seat. “Plus there’s a twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize and major network contract for the winner—we’re talking your own show, cookbooks, magazines, and appearances on morning talk shows. You could be a real star, Jules.”

“Uh, let’s slow down here. TV’s not really my thing.”

His phone buzzed again. “Listen, I have to take this call. You wait right here. But you should know that I’m used to getting my way and
you
are going to be on this show.”

I tried to protest, but he waved me off and hurried outside to take his phone call. Synchronistic opportunity. That sounded like Hollywood jargon to me. Having sailed all over the world on the cruise ship, I’d learned that the word “opportunity” actually gets its roots from the sea. It’s derived from the phrase “Ob Portu” which Carlos, my currently estranged husband, told me means waiting for the tide. A ship can’t leave port at low tide, so in days past sailors would wait for the tide to change by hauling cargo on board. Once the tide came in, they would set sail.

In some ways that’s what I’d been doing in Ashland—waiting for the tide to change, for the sea to rise and send me in a new direction. Was this my opportunity? I’d never had visions of becoming a television star, but twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of cash. The prize money could help us take Torte to the next level. As I waited for Philip to return, I tried to imagine myself on TV. How would I come across? Stiff? Too serious? On the other hand, I absolutely love baking. The idea of sharing that love through the airwaves with viewers all over the country sent a shiver of excitement up my spine. Maybe this was my “synchronistic opportunity” after all. If I didn’t jump on board now, the ship might sail without me.

Chapter Three

When Philip returned, he was followed in by Richard Lord and Lance, OSF’s artistic director. The contrast between the two of them was striking. Richard looked like he’d personally sampled every pastry in town. His orange plaid golf pants stretched over his round belly, reminding me of the pumpkin from Andy’s latte. If Richard was a pumpkin, then Lance was the vine. He moved like a cat with his long, thin frame.

Lance joined me at a table and greeted me with air kisses. “Darling, Philip just told me the great news.” He gushed. “Our little starlet is going to be on TV.”

“I haven’t said yes yet, Lance.” I poured him a cup of coffee. Of course Lance was
in the know
. In addition to directing the vision of OSF and its large company of actors, Lance served as the resident village gossip.

“Darling, but of course you will.” He darted his eyes in Richard’s direction. “Just think if you don’t take this, Philip will be forced to scrape the bottom of the mixing bowl, so to speak, and ask someone like Richard Lord.”

“Good point.” I grinned. “Twist my arm. I’ll do it.”

Lance clapped his hands together. “That’s our girl. You’ll love Philip. He and I go way, way back.”

Richard lumbered over, and without asking, he pulled out a chair, intentionally scraping it on the floor. “What are you two conspiring about?”

“Us? Nothing. Richard, you’re so paranoid.” Lance rubbed his goatee and winked.

Richard gave him a dirty look. “Hardly. You two are probably trying to work me out of this deal.”

“What deal?” I asked.

“This television show deal.”

“You’re going to be on the show too?” If Richard was a contestant, too, forget opportunity, I was out.

“What are you talking about, Juliet?”

“
Take the Cake.
Are you going to be a contestant?”

“No, but the show’s going to pay me to use our newly renovated kitchen, and I don’t want the two of you scheming to work me out of the deal.”

“Us?” Lance batted his eyes and fanned his hand in front of his face. “Richard, I’m injured. How could you think that Jules and I would do something like that?”

Richard scowled. “Don’t put on your theater drama with me.”

Lance smiled broadly at Richard and muttered under his breath to me. “Why didn’t we think of trying to cut Richard out?”

I kicked him under the table. Philip called us to attention, before Richard could complain any more.

“Welcome, welcome, everyone.” Philip’s phone was still in his hand. “For those of you who are joining us from Ashland, I want to tell you what an adorably charming little town you have here. Our viewers are going to fall in love with it.

“If I could have our contestants stand, I’d like to introduce you all.”

Four people stood, including Chef Marco. Philip took a moment to introduce each of them. He started with Marco. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the celebrity chef. We’re thrilled that he’s signed on to do this year’s show.”

Marco gave a little bow as Philip went through a lengthy list of his accolades. I noticed Marco decline Andy’s offer of coffee. He kept one pudgy hand on his notebook and glared at Andy like he was trying to steal it or something.

Andy refilled mugs around the room as Philip spoke. After he’d refreshed everyone’s drink he stopped at my table and knelt down.

“Hey, boss, Chef Marco is asking for something stronger. What do you want me to do?”

“Stronger—as in a drink?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall—it read 2
P.M.
I guess it was happy hour somewhere, as the saying goes. “You could open a bottle of that Oregon pinot in the back. Do you know how, or should I come do it?”

“Sterling knows how.”

“You might as well offer everyone else wine too.”

Andy got to his feet, saluted me, and returned to the counter.

Philip continued to tout Chef Marco’s experience. He spent an inordinate amount of time name-dropping all the celebrities who were fans.

“Linda, give us a little wave, please,” Philip said to a woman sitting in a booth by the window. She looked to be about his age and wore a bright pink bedazzled suit jacket and skirt with matching heels and a jeweled scarf, an outfit that was distinctly not Ashland. We’re pretty laid-back in this corner of the world. People tend to wear casual clothing, geared for the outdoors. Hiking trails start in Lithia Park and wind up into the foothills, making it easy to take off for a quick midday hike. The other trend around town is bohemian chic. Since this is a community of artists, people’s wardrobes often end up reflecting their work.

“Linda Belle is the owner of Luscious Linda’s. She’s joining us from Georgia and I’m sure you’ll all enjoy her Southern confections.”