Meet Your Baker
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MEET YOUR BAKER
Copyright © 2015 by Ellie Alexander.
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eISBN: 9781466857247
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2015
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Contents
They say it takes a while to recover your land legs after years spent at sea. I sure hoped mine would come back soon.
It had been twenty-seven hours and forty-two minutes (not that I was counting) since I left the ship, my husband, and everything I’d known for the last ten years.
Nothing felt solid. Not my feet on the familiar pavement of my hometown. Not my stomach with its constant churning like I was still stuck on rough waters. Not even the welcoming sight of the cozy shops and storefronts lining Main Street were enough to shake the haze that had settled over me.
I couldn’t even blame the haze on the fact that it was 3:45 in the morning. Most people would have an excuse to feel groggy this early. Not me. I’m used to working bakers’ hours, and I was fairly confident that the foggy feeling assaulting my body had more to do with my life having been turned upside down.
Not much had changed downtown in the past decade. I took my time walking to the bakeshop, in part because of my unsteady gait, but also because I wanted to soak in the idyllic village as it sat in an early slumber.
Ashland, Oregon, my hometown, is nestled in the foothills between the Cascade and Siskiyou Mountains. It’s home to the world-famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival, an eclectic community of artists, outdoor adventure seekers, college students, farmers, hippies, rich retirees, and a constant stream of tourists. At nearly two thousand feet in elevation, its Mediterranean summers make it the perfect spot to watch Shakespeare under the stars or hike one of the nearby peaks. In the winter, Ashland attracts skiers and snow lovers to its nearby ski resorts and backcountry trails.
Growing up here made for a comfortable and imaginative childhood. Our family bakeshop, Torte, has served actors, playwrights, artists, students, and pretty much everyone else in town for thirty years. I remember the heat from the ovens warming my hands after school on cold winter afternoons, delivering cakes and pastries to the theater on opening night, and the comfort of chatting with my parents over the counter as they orchestrated an assembly line of baked goods in the kitchen. All this time away might have me idealizing my childhood, but honestly, it was pretty perfect.
It was an easy and quiet life. This morning I found myself wondering why I left.
Maybe it was hearing the foreign accents and stories of far-off corners of the planet from travelers stopping by our quaint little town. Their tales sparked a desire for me to get out there and see the world for myself. So, the day after I graduated from high school I took a giant leap and enrolled in culinary school. After I expanded my baking skills I landed a job as an apprentice pastry chef on a European cruise ship. I’ve been sailing the seas ever since.
And your legs are proof, aren’t they, Jules?
I thought as I twisted the handle on the front door of Torte, causing a bell above my head to chime.
“Mom, I’m here!” I called, and flipped on the front lights.
She didn’t answer.
Torte is located in the heart of the old-fashioned plaza downtown, just a block from the Elizabethan theater and in a perfect spot for grabbing a coffee or a muffin before perusing the shops or wandering along the river path that cuts through Lithia Park. The front of the bakeshop houses a coffee bar, bistro tables and booths that line the windows. In my unbiased opinion it’s the best spot in town to catch a glimpse of all the action.
Corrugated metal siding wraps the counter and the walls are painted in royal colors—teal blue with bright, cranberry-red accents. It makes the space cheery and pays homage to my dad’s obsession with all things Shakespeare.
He died when I was fifteen. Mom pays a subtle tribute to him with her rotating quote of the day on Torte’s massive chalkboard menu.
Today’s read, “Torte—where everyone is above the salt.”
I didn’t recognize the obscure reference. That’s what Dad used to be good at, making Shakespeare’s words accessible to everyone. All these years later, it looked like Mom was continuing the tradition.
“Good morning, Mom,” I called again. I could see her working in the back. Torte’s industrial kitchen is open so that customers can watch Mom rolling out dough or sidle up to the counter that divides the front from the back to gab over coffee.
The air-conditioning chugged, attempting to keep up with the heat rising in the ovens and creeping in from outside. July in Ashland can be a scorcher, but mornings and evenings tend to be cool. Not today. A heat wave had settled in, making me wish for a saltwater breeze.
“You beat me,” I said to Mom, taking in the scent of brewing coffee and yeast and grabbing an apron from the hooks hanging on the wall. “Whew, it’s hot out there.”
Mom started. “Juliet!… Sorry … Jules.”
Okay, let’s just get this out of the way now. My real name is Juliet.
Wait. It gets worse.
Juliet Montague Capshaw.
I know. It’s ridiculous.
When I was a kid it seemed sort of sweet and fitting for the town. Plus, it made my dad proud. As soon as I left, I quickly realized a name can make or break you. I have firsthand experience working as a sous-chef for a nasty pâtissier. He made me the laughingstock of the kitchen, singing “Romeo, Romeo” whenever I made a mistake.
I shortened my name to Jules. Thankfully, it fits.
Mom shifted the stainless steel mixer to low. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“All these years of working in a loud kitchen is making you deaf, Mom.”
“Honey, you worry too much.” She brushed flour from her hands and wiped her brow. “I still can’t believe you’re really here. I want to pinch myself.” She squeezed the skin on her petite wrist to prove her point.
Do
I worry too much? No. If anything, I have a tendency toward self-reliance much like her.
Being away made me realize that the last few years had taken a toll on her. Don’t get me wrong, she looks amazing for fifty-five. She wears her dark hair, streaked naturally with silver, in a shoulder-length bob. Age is leaving its subtle mark on the corner of her walnut eyes, and her gentle smile now has soft lines.
“I’m all yours.” I sighed, cinching my apron around my waist. “Want me to jump in?”
Mom shut the mixer off and started scooping buttery dough on the wooden island that sits in the center of the kitchen. “No, no, I’ve got this under control. You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah, an extra kick might help.” I tried to keep my voice light, hoping that our being oceans apart for so long would make her less likely to see through me.
I poured myself a cup of the nutty brew, adding just a splash of cream. “What’s the ‘above the salt’ quote?”
“Oh, that’s an old Shakespeare reference.” Mom sprinkled flour on top of the dough and began rolling it with a well-used wooden rolling pin. “Back in his time, salt was a valuable seasoning. It was placed in the center of the table—close to the king and his family. Everyone else was seated below the salt.”
She finished rolling the dough and began pressing the tart crust into twelve-inch pans, taking extra care to work it into the indentations in the sides. “I think it speaks to our philosophy: everyone’s royalty at Torte.”
Sips of Mom’s expertly brewed coffee helped take the edge off. “Definitely.” I paused, taking another gulp of coffee. “I see raspberries over there. I’m feeling nostalgic for that raspberry Danish Dad used to make. Are you game?”
She put her hand to her heart. “That sounds delicious. Yes, of course. Look at us, right back where we left off.”
“Okay, but Mom, remember—this is only temporary. I’m only here until I figure out what I’m going to do next. I don’t want to jump in and mess up your routine or anything.”
She stopped forming the tarts and held up a dough-covered finger. “Listen, honey, I know you’re—you’re…” She paused. “Working some stuff out, but please, let’s not tiptoe around each other. Okay?”
“Yes, captain.” I saluted her.
When I called her last week to tell her I was coming home, I took her by surprise. It’s not like we haven’t tried to maintain a relationship. We’ve had a standing Sunday-evening phone call since I left. But mainly we just covered the highlights. There wasn’t time to dive deeper.
Going back to work on the tarts, she chuckled. “Plus, no one else in town has a world-class pastry chef manning the kitchen, now do they?”
I polished off the bottom half of my coffee and scoffed. “Hardly.” I twirled the antique platinum wedding ring on my left hand.
Mom placed a tart pan in the oven and came around the island to me. She squeezed me tight, floured hands and all. “Juliet, you’re going to be fine. And, at some point you’re going to have to talk about it. I’m here when you’re ready.”
“I know.” I looked at my feet.
She released me from her grasp. I didn’t move.
“Okay, we’ll leave it for the moment.”
I’d forgotten how Mom can be equally pushy and patient with me.
She clapped her hands together. “So, let’s get baking.”
Over the next hour we started to find our rhythm. I was surprised by how quickly we eased back into our old routine. It must have been cellular memory. My hands instinctively remembered that measuring spoons are in the second drawer down and that the spatulas and wooden spoons hang on the far back wall.
Baking on solid ground certainly had its advantages. Like not having to worry that muffin batter will spill out of the pans if the ship lists to one side. Or having to clutch onto utensils so tightly they leave marks on your hands, because you’re afraid that if the ship hits a wave the wrong way they’ll go flying and take out a poor busboy’s eye. Not to mention baking for thousands at a time in a hectic kitchen.
Maybe life on land wasn’t so bad after all.
By the time we opened at six
A.M.
, we’d cranked out enough pastries to feed the entire town. The glass cases were stuffed with morning buns, cinnamon scones, rhubarb muffins, cherry tarts, savory quiches, almond crescent cookies, and my raspberry Danish.
Andy and Stephanie, the college students Mom had hired to help, arrived before the first customer.
“Hey, you must be Ms. Capshaw. How’s it going?” Andy stashed his backpack behind the cash register. His long strides with his shoulders hunched slightly forward were a telltale sign he hadn’t grown into his height yet. He tugged off a tattered Southern Oregon University sweatshirt and grabbed an apron. Torte’s aprons are fire-engine red with blue stitching and a chocolate torte on the front.
