Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (3 page)

Three

I concentrated on rolling and braiding the rounds of dough that kept piling up in front of me. Within minutes, I was caught up in the rhythm of the work and some of my tension began to fade.

Working in the kitchen always helps me relax, and soon I’d destressed enough to enjoy the feel of dough under my fingers and the aromas of yeast and cinnamon that filled the air. After an hour or two, I was even feeling cautiously optimistic about my chances of being able to leave by six.

King Cakes aren’t actually difficult to make and they’re not especially time-consuming either—unless you’re making several hundred at a time. Abe Cobb, Zydeco’s baker, works during the wee hours of the morning while the rest of us sleep. He’s not really a people person, so he likes it that way. Last night, while the cakes for our regular business orders baked and cooled, he had prepared enough dough to keep the rest of us busy all day. He’d spent hours scalding the milk, activating the yeast, mixing in cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and lemon zest and then kneading and leaving the dough to rise in every available space until the rest of us arrived at daybreak.

Dwight, with his cap and beard mask, takes the next step in the process. When he’s not sculpting a cake or working with fondant, he punches down the risen dough and kneads each ball until the dough is smooth and elastic. Then he sets it aside to rise a second time until it’s doubled in size, a process that takes about ninety minutes.

And that’s where I come in.

Between problem-solving and handling my other obligations, I divide each batch into three balls of equal size, then roll each one into a thin rope. I braid them together, forming each braid into a circle and pinching the ends to create a seal. Once I have a ring of braided dough, I insert the small plastic baby figurine, then place the cakes on baking sheets and slide them to the end of the table, where they rise for a third time, until the cakes are doubled in size. This time the wait is about thirty minutes. Once the cakes have risen, Estelle Jergens breaks away from her gum-paste work to transport each tray to the kitchen for baking. When they come out of the oven, she relays the baked cakes to the cooling racks.

Estelle is short and round, with a riot of red curls that escape every effort she makes to restrain them. At forty-something, she’s also the oldest member of the staff. Carting all those cakes around has her moving in and out of the kitchen so quickly, I expect her to lose those forty pounds she’s always complaining about by the time Mardi Gras is over.

Her third job is to carry the cooled cakes to Sparkle Starr’s corner of the design center—a spot that somehow escapes the sun no matter what time of year it is. The location of Sparkle’s workstation is no accident. I’m half convinced she’d turn to dust if the sunlight ever made direct contact. She’s the daughter of aging hippie parents who raised their children in a commune long after the lifestyle went out of fashion. I’m still trying to figure out whether Sparkle’s dour personality and her love of all things goth is natural or if she’s in rebellion against a childhood of flower power and free love. Either way, the name doesn’t fit the woman.

When I first met Sparkle, her pale complexion and pitch-black hair gave me the willies. But she was so cool and efficient on the job, not to mention extremely talented, I now hardly notice the piercings in her face or the dragon tattoo that appeared on her wrist two weeks ago.

This week she’s spent most of her time creating dozens of carnations out of modeling chocolate for a wedding shower cake. In her spare time she drizzles glaze over each cooled King Cake, creating a decorative pattern unique to Zydeco and avoiding the puddles of glaze created by careless or hurried work. Any cake that doesn’t meet her exacting standards is shuffled off for donation to one of the local soup kitchens or homeless shelters.

Once she’s finished, Sparkle passes the cakes to Isabeau Pope for the final step in the production process. Isabeau’s young, blond, and unfailingly perky. She’s also Ox’s girlfriend. In spite of predictions that they wouldn’t last three months, their relationship is heading into its ninth month and seems to be flourishing. Which is fine with me, so long as it continues not to cause any ripples in the staff pool.

Isabeau has been hard at work making a garden of butterflies from sugar paste, royal icing, and sanding sugar for the tenth anniversary of a popular butterfly garden. Every so often she breaks away to sprinkle purple, green, and gold-colored sugar over each King Cake in carefully measured stripes, then passes the cakes to a couple of the temporary workers I’ve hired to help out. The cakes are packed into colorfully decorated boxes along with a handful of plastic beads and cheap metal coins bearing the Zydeco logo. When the boxes are sealed, they’re routed to stacks designated for shipping, local delivery, or walk-in clients.

It was a good system, established by Philippe when he first opened Zydeco. The work goes smoothly—as long as everyone does their part. Unfortunately, the interruptions that are so much a part of my day as boss often make me the weak link in the chain. I hate being the weak link, especially since I’m also still struggling to prove myself to the staff. Miss Frankie is always pushing me to step back from the actual hands-on work and spend my time supervising everyone else. But that’s not why I went to pastry school, so I ignore her.

It was a little after two when Edie Bryce—another old pastry school classmate—came into the design center. Edie wasn’t a success in the kitchen, but she’s an organizational genius, which is why she’s Zydeco’s office manager. Her almond-shaped eyes were narrowed and she’d pulled the corner of her mouth between her teeth, two signs that she was worried about something.

But then, Edie worries almost as much as I do.

“Um…Rita? Got a minute?”

I pushed a baby into the cake in front of me. “Sure. What’s up?”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the door she’d just come through. “I know you’re busy, but there’s somebody here to see you.”

“Now?” I moved the finished cake out of my way and pulled an empty baking pan toward me. “I didn’t see any consults on my calendar this morning,” I said. “Did I miss something?” I knew full well I hadn’t. Lately Edie’s organized and color-coded schedule looked like someone had turned loose a kindergarten class with a year’s supply of food coloring, but I checked and double-checked it so often, I knew I hadn’t missed an appointment.

Edie shook her head and slid another worried glance at the door to her office. “You didn’t miss anything. This isn’t a client.”

Zydeco isn’t a traditional bakery with an open-door policy. Except for the King Cakes at Mardi Gras, our business is by appointment only, and Edie runs a very tight ship. Nobody gets past her, which made her request this afternoon highly unusual. I stopped rolling dough and looked at her. “You want me to talk to a walk-in?”

“Not exactly.” She looked almost embarrassed.

Which made me nervous. “What’s going on, Edie?”

“You have visitors. They’re…family.”

I made a face at her. “Very funny.” Except for Miss Frankie, I have no family in New Orleans. My only blood relatives all live twelve hundred miles away in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Which meant my visitors had to be distant relatives of Miss Frankie’s. But this wasn’t the time or the place for an impromptu family reunion. “Just take care of whoever it is, okay? Explain that I’m busy.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Edie said, but that’s as far as she got. The door behind her opened and a man with a stocky build and hair more salt than pepper stepped through. His skin was tough and wrinkled from years of worry and too much sun, and the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl.

Uncle Nestor?

His eyes locked on mine and he boomed over the chaos, “What’s all this,
mija
? Are you going to keep us waiting out there all day?”

My heart rose at the same time my stomach dropped. I was elated to see him. That went without saying. My uncle Nestor and aunt Yolanda had taken me in and raised me as their own after my parents died. But what was he doing in New Orleans? And why hadn’t he told me he was coming?

Four

“Well,
mija
?” Uncle Nestor said again. “Are you going to stand there all day, staring at me?”

Hearing that familiar, gruff, lightly accented voice pulled me out of my stupor. My uncle is moody and opinionated, with a hair-trigger temper. He’s also kind and compassionate—in his own stern way. Life with him is never boring, and I’d missed him horribly. It had been only a few months since I’d last seen my aunt and uncle, but it felt like years.

I abandoned my workstation and threw myself into his arms just as my aunt Yolanda appeared in the open doorway. Her chocolate brown hair was cut in a choppy style that made her look younger than ever, and her dark eyes were full of love—the kind I imagine a mother might feel for her daughter.

I’d talked with them at least once a week since I moved to New Orleans, but seeing them again made me realize how worried I’d been that they were angry or disappointed with me for leaving New Mexico last summer and then staying in New Orleans for the Christmas holidays.

“I tried to convince him to wait out front for you,” Aunt Yolanda said with a fond scowl in her husband’s direction. “But you know how he is.”

Did I ever. Uncle Nestor is strong-willed and stubborn and nobody can tell him anything, but at that moment I didn’t care. I hugged them both tightly and stepped away to look them over again. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”

“Call?” Uncle Nestor’s voice was so gruff, a few of the staff members stopped working to look at us. “What? We can’t spend a weekend with our favorite niece without an appointment?”

“Of course you can,” I said quickly. But as the first flush of excitement over seeing them faded, the reality of my work schedule began to hit me. “It’s not that. It’s just…well…it’s nearly Mardi Gras and we’re swamped. I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to spend with you.” I owed them both so much, I wouldn’t have hurt their feelings for anything in the world. Plus, I could count on one finger the number of times Uncle Nestor had left his restaurant in someone else’s hands since he’d opened its doors—the fact that he’d obviously left it to come all this way was significant.

But they weren’t staying long. He’d said
the weekend
, right? Surely I could squeeze in some quality time with them over the next couple of days.

“We didn’t come here to be a bother,” Aunt Yolanda assured me. “Do what you need to do. We’ll see you when we can.”

That should have made me feel better, but instead it raised the question for me of why they
had
come unannounced. Why this weekend? Why not for Mardi Gras itself?

Uncle Nestor waved a hand over his head to indicate that he agreed with her, but his attention had been captured by the work going on all around us. “I had no idea your operation was so big,
mija
.”

Coming from anyone else, that might have been a compliment. Uncle Nestor managed to make it sound like an accusation. And that left me squirming inside with guilt. I hated feeling as if I needed to defend myself, so I tamped down the urge and said, “It’s not usually like this.”

Uncle Nestor pursed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back, walking between the tables like a general inspecting his troops. But that only made my irritation flare. He had a habit of taking over whenever he walked into a room, but these were
my
troops. Not his. I was still trying to establish my authority here. I didn’t want anything to make me appear weak.

Uncle Nestor stopped at Isabeau’s table, raising his eyebrows at the multicolored sugar that had fallen to the floor. After a moment he moved on, this time stopping in front of Dwight and running a look over his wrinkled shirt and threadbare jeans. “What’s all this?” he asked, but I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the work or Dwight’s appearance.

To my relief, Dwight didn’t seem to notice his disapproval. “King Cakes,” he said without looking up. “Big tradition in these parts.”

“I know what a King Cake is,” Uncle Nestor said. “But so many?”

I explained what Ox and I had discussed earlier about the bulk of our business coming from these flaky cakes, which earned a surprised grunt. “Right now we’re making around two hundred a day,” I explained. “We’ll be making at least that many every day for the next week or so.”

Aunt Yolanda moved closer and touched my arm. “We’ve come at a bad time. I knew we should have called first.”

I didn’t want her to feel guilty, so I grinned, trying for a carefree effect. “It’s fine. Really! I’m so glad to see you nothing else matters.”

She grimaced. Hard. Which told me I’d gone a little over the top with that last bit.

Uncle Nestor completed his inspection and turned back toward me with his hands on his hips. “So, this is what you left us for.”

I shifted a little under the weight of his stare and Aunt Yolanda’s scowl and wished they’d chosen to show up on a day when the work proceeded in an orderly and controlled fashion. A day when I looked competent and organized and when dirty dishes weren’t piled everywhere waiting for Estelle’s nieces to come in after school and load the dishwashers.

“You know why I stayed here,” I said. “Miss Frankie needed me.” It was a cop-out. I knew it, and so did he. I squared my shoulders and took a more adult approach. “And it was a good chance to strike out on my own. All that money you spent on my education would have been wasted if I’d stayed in Albuquerque.”

“Ha!” he said to Aunt Yolanda. “There we have it.” Irritation settled like a storm cloud in his dark eyes. “If there was something wrong with working for me, I’d like to know what it was.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I assured him. “Agave is a wonderful restaurant. But if that’s what you wanted for me, why did you send me to pastry school?”

“So you could use those skills in
my
kitchen.”

“I worked at Agave for two years after Philippe and I separated. I was still doing prep work for other chefs when I left.”

He waved off my argument with a flick of his wrist. “Patience,
mija
. Everything doesn’t have to happen at once.” As if he’d settled that, he put his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and changed the subject. “Where is Miss Frankie anyway? I’d like to say hello.”

“She’s at home,” I told him, “but I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you again.” Relieved that we’d moved on, I gave him an affectionate nudge with one shoulder. “Come on. Admit it. You’re impressed by what you see here.”

Uncle Nestor snorted and turned away. “I suppose it’s all right.” Which in Uncle Nestor–speak is the equivalent of “It’s fabulous!” from anyone else. “You’re making a mistake to let your people leave so much clutter lying around,” he said. “Organization is the key to success.”

“Nestor…” Aunt Yolanda warned. “You promised.”

He growled, but when he spoke again, his voice was a little less brusque. “Your aunt missed you at Christmas. So did the boys.”

Meaning my four burly cousins, all of whom were grown and could hardly be considered “boys.”

“I missed you, too,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t rehash the arguments we’d had over my decision to stay in New Orleans with Miss Frankie.

“We could have done with a few more pictures.”

“I’ll be better about that from now on,” I promised. “What are your plans for this evening? Are you free? There’s a party I have to go to…” I wasn’t sure that I wanted Uncle Nestor grumpy-facing it at the Captain’s Court, but surely he’d snap out of his mood before then. Besides, not inviting them would be rude, and I liked the idea of having two more people I actually knew among the guests.

Uncle Nestor looked at me as if I’d lost my sense. “We’re here to see you,
mija
. We’re doing whatever you’re doing.”

Aunt Yolanda nodded. “We know you’re busy. Would you rather give us your key and let us take a cab to get settled in?”

My key?

It took a couple of seconds for her meaning to register. When it did, my stomach rolled over. Omigod, of course they planned to stay at my place. I’d told them all about my beautiful new home (which I’d inherited from Philippe), and had thrown out the invitation for them to come and stay with me anytime—never really imagining they’d take me up on it. At least not without notice.

A mental image of the mound of dirty laundry on my bedroom floor raced through my head, along with the breakfast dishes piled in the sink. And the empty take-out containers from the Thai restaurant next door sitting on the table from last night’s dinner. What can I say? Lately I was home just long enough to make a mess, not long enough to clean it up.

And now I had houseguests, one of whom would have a field day pointing out everything I was doing wrong. I spent a few seconds pondering my options. Stay and work like a responsible adult, or scurry home and hide my mess before Uncle Nestor spotted it. There really wasn’t any question. I’d rather face half a dozen angry pastry chefs than disappoint my uncle.

As I unbuttoned my chef’s jacket, I sensed Dwight tensing with disapproval, but I ignored him and tossed my jacket over an empty chair. I delegated the most pressing jobs and promised to be back as soon as humanly possible, then rushed out the back door to make sure the car was clean before Uncle Nestor got into it.

I almost wondered what else could go wrong today, but I stopped myself just in time. I was afraid I’d get an answer.