Meet Your Baker (2 page)

“You can call me Jules,” I said, trying to wink. “I think I’m a few years past Ms.”

He grinned and fired up the espresso machine. “Yeah, but you’re, like, my new boss and my mom always says I should treat a boss with respect.” He covered his shaggy, sand-colored hair with a baseball hat.

I pointed my thumb to Mom. “I’m not the boss. She is.”

Stephanie barely made eye contact as she shook my hand. In fairness, her jet-black hair, streaked with plum highlights, fell in front of her face. Hopefully she’d brought along something to tie it up with.

Mom bustled to the front in a clean apron. “Andy, you’re here. Can you start pulling a double espresso? Lance should be here any minute now.” She peered out the window. “Oh, and it looks like Caroline is with him. Stephanie, can you bring a stack of pastry boxes to the front?”

Stephanie chomped on a wad of gum and shuffled to the back. “Uh-huh.”

Andy patted the espresso machine. “She’s already warmed up and ready to roll, Mrs. C. Drinks will be on the bar in two minutes.”

True to his word, Andy poured perfectly balanced shots of thick espresso and steamed soy milk.

As the bell on the front door jingled, he placed the artistically designed coffees on the bar.

I took a deep breath and steadied myself on the island. It had just occurred to me that stories about why I’d returned were sure to be circulating. I should have prepared better for the onslaught.

“Good morning, Lance, Caroline.” Mom greeted them from behind the counter.

“Helen.” Lance reached over the bar and kissed Mom on both cheeks. “You are my morning muse. Look at this! My coffee is waiting and it smells divine in here. What would I do without you?”

I’d peg Lance to be in his mid-forties. He adjusted his thick, black-framed glasses and smoothed his dark goatee. His navy suit looked as if it had been hand-stitched and cut exactly to his lean frame.

Caroline, the woman next to him, I recognized. She’s about ten years older than Lance and a fixture in town. Just my luck that she would be the first person I’d see. Her reputation as an actress and as a busybody who likes to exaggerate is legendary.

“I thought I was your muse.” Caroline flicked Lance in the arm with perfectly manicured fingernails and removed her coffee from the bar. Her lush ginger curls fell to her chest. She was dressed in flowing white from head to toe and her makeup looked as if it had been expertly applied.

“Soy. Exactly how I like it.” She turned to Mom. “Thank you, Helen.”

“What is that gooey, sticky raspberry delight?” Lance asked, pointing a well-manicured finger at the raspberry Danish.

Mom pulled me forward. “I don’t think you’ve met my daughter yet. Lance, this is Jules.”

Caroline squealed. “Juliet!” She raced around the counter and embraced me in a tight hug. “I didn’t even recognize you! You look fantastic. Oh, everyone is talking about you!” She caught Mom’s eye. “We’re all so happy to have you home.”

“
The
Jules?” Lance mocked. “The world-famous Jules whose pastries have launched a thousand ships?”

He surveyed my appearance. “Helen, why didn’t you tell me your daughter was as lovely as she is talented?”

Caroline waved him off. “Juliet, don’t pay attention to him. He’s a charmer.” She patted my shoulder and returned to the other side of the bar.

Lance grabbed my hand, and stretched out my fingers. “The bone structure. So elegant. Fine lines. Stunning cheekbones. Those eyes. Men could lose themselves, really lose themselves, in those eyes.” He dropped my hand and studied my face. “You remind me of a young Gwyneth Paltrow. That hair. It’s absolutely ethereal—golden, white. Can you take it down?”

I reached my hand up to my ponytail protectively and shook my head. “Can’t. Wouldn’t want to leave a hair in a cheesecake or something.”

Growing up around theater types like Lance and Caroline had given me a healthy mistrust of gushing compliments like Lance’s.

“What a Mona Lisa smile you have,” Lance gushed.

“Leave her alone, Lance,” Mom chimed in. “She gave up her acting days years ago.” She elbowed me in the ribs. “He’s right, though, how long have I been telling you that you need to actually smile?”

I ignored them both.

Lance made a tsk-tsk sound. “What a shame. We won’t let that stop us from convincing her otherwise, will we, Caroline?”

Caroline smiled through pursed lips. “You’re embarrassing her, Lance.”

Mom kicked me behind the counter. “Now about that raspberry Danish. You two go sit and I’ll bring you each a slice. Jules just pulled it out of the oven.”

While Caroline and Lance took a seat I grabbed wedges of Danish. I couldn’t resist finishing off the plate with fresh raspberries and a sprig of fresh mint. Mom cut bread dough with a large knife and plopped the loaves into a big plastic tub. She covered the tub with a clear plastic bag and set it on a baking rack to rise.

“Who’s Lance?” I whispered.

“He’s OSF’s artistic director. He’s been here maybe five or six years.”

“I figured he had to be part of the theater.”

“Whatever gave that away?” Mom kept a serious look on her face, but her eyes twinkled.

“And Caroline’s still a stage diva?”

“Yep. She likes to make it known that she’s been with the company longer than any actor on record.” A timer buzzed. “I think that’s you.” Mom motioned to the oven.

I removed another batch of Danish from the oven. The crust came out tawny and firm. The raspberry sauce glistened on the top, left the sweet bread slightly gooey. I drizzled vanilla glaze over the top.

“I’ll take these out, Mom. Can you keep an eye on the shortbread?”

Lance and Caroline had settled in the farthest booth from the front door. He patted the red vinyl bench as I placed the Danishes in front of them. “Join us, Jules. We’ve heard so much about you from your mother.”

I glanced at the front counter. Andy was chatting with a customer as he steamed milk for the line of people eagerly awaiting their morning fix. Stephanie bagged and plated pastry orders. Mom stood faithfully by the cookies in the oven. I needed to get back to work, but the idea that the customer’s needs always come first is ingrained in me.

“Okay,” I said, scooting in next to Lance. “Just for a minute.”

Lance took a sip of his dark espresso. “Where’s your poison?” he asked, noting my empty hands.

Before I could answer, the front door burst open. The usually charming little bell clanged frantically from side to side.

Lance’s body went rigid. Caroline turned her head to see who was at the door. She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Nancy Hudson.”

“Who’s Nancy Hudson?” I started to say but was drowned out by Nancy’s shrill voice demanding that Andy get her coffee on the bar—stat.

Caroline kept her voice low. “She’s the newest OSF board member, and let’s just say she hasn’t been making many friends.”

Lance removed his glasses and fingered his goatee. “That’s for sure.” He nudged me playfully in the arm. “Speaking of poison, you don’t happen to have any hiding in the back that we can spike her coffee with?”

I laughed, and secretly felt a wave of relief that there was other gossip than my surprise return spreading around town.

Lance’s eyes darkened. To Caroline he said, “She thinks I’m kidding.”

Chapter Two

“We try to keep poisonings to a minimum,” I joked. “You know—kind of bad for business.”

Lance stabbed at his Danish. “You are a clever one. I’m kidding of course. Dramatic effect, honey. It’s what we do in
the theater
.”

Nancy continued to bark at Andy, demanding her coffee be remade and insisting that her quiche felt cold.

“He might be kidding, but I’m not. That woman is on a mission to destroy everyone and everything in this town.” Caroline took a dainty bite of the sweet bread. “This is absolutely delicious! The best pastry I’ve ever tasted.”

Clearly, she hadn’t lost her flair for the dramatic. I nodded my thanks and motioned for her to continue. “What’s her story?” I asked.

“Nancy arrived in town a few months ago,” Lance said. “She made an extremely generous donation to OSF that unfortunately had more strings attached than a marionette.” He lowered his voice a bit. “This recession hit the theater hard. The arts are always the first thing to feel the pinch, so when Nancy and her checkbook arrived it seemed like a gift from the theater gods. I’m afraid I jumped in without reading the fine print.”

OSF is a nonprofit and one of the oldest professional theaters on the West Coast. Founded in 1935, the theater historically only produced Shakespearean works. Today the company offers eleven plays in three theaters during the season. Only four works of Shakespeare are offered. The remaining plays range from classics to contemporaries and independent scripts written by local actors and playwrights.

Throughout my childhood the theater was constantly trying to raise funds through private donors, foundations, and grants. When times got tight, the theater would always struggle but never stop.

“No amount of money is worth the hell she’s putting us through,” Caroline chimed in. “I’ve been an actress with the company for thirty years, and she waltzes into town and thinks she can get me fired.”

Lance signaled for her to be quiet.

Nancy was heading our way. She wore a peach silk blouse, tailored white slacks, pearls, and white strappy sandals. Her posture oozed snobbery. I knew her type. I’d met her a hundred times on the cruise ship. She’s the passenger who would steamroll the waitstaff into bringing someone from the kitchen to her table in order to pay her “compliments to the chef.” Yeah, right. That someone usually ended up being me, since my boss liked to sample the evening’s sherry and port by the bottle. Halfway into every dinner service he was always sauced.

When I’d arrive tableside in my kitchen whites, the “cruise ship Nancy” would find a way to undermine her praise with a backhanded compliment.

“This rum sauce reminds me of when I was in Paris. You’ve managed a decent replica given that you’re cooking on a cruise ship.”

The Nancys of the seas like to flaunt their money and feel important by waving their power around. She didn’t scare me.

Nancy eased into the open seat next to Caroline without asking if the space was free.

She extended an arm, adorned with expensive bracelets and flashy rings. “Nancy Hudson. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you yet. You must be new in town.”

“Jules Capshaw. My mom owns this place. I’ve lived here most of my life.”

Nancy recoiled slightly. I had to hide a smirk. People like her hate to appear as if they aren’t in the know.

She recovered by hurling an insult Caroline’s way.

“Caroline.” Her voice dripped with fake sweetness. “You are simply too lucky. If I ate one bite of that sinful pastry you’re gobbling down I’d have to pay double for my personal trainer to burn off all those calories. It must be so nice to be in a
theater
where no one cares about your shape.” She focused her eyes like lasers on Lance. “All that’s changing now, though, isn’t it, Lance dear?”

Lance blew on his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt.

The color drained from Caroline’s face. She clutched her napkin and pursed her lips.

Nancy continued, “It’s like I say, women of a certain age have to make a choice between their face or fanny. Caroline has obviously chosen her backside.”

I smiled broadly at Nancy. “No way. You should have a piece, Nancy.
I say
if you eat sweets before noon it doesn’t count.” While I found Caroline slightly annoying, I had to stand up for her. Nancy’s attitude was getting under my skin.

Nancy waved her hand in the air. I noticed a huge emerald on her ring finger. “Thanks anyway. Whatever I eat goes straight to my hips.”

I could tell she was fishing for a compliment; hoping one of us would assure her that her figure was perfect. No one said a word.

Finally, I broke the silence. “What brought you to town?”

“I needed a change of pace.” She flexed her fingers and gazed at her ring. Then she turned her hand so I could have a full view of the princess-cut stone. “An engagement present from my now deceased fiancé. He died before we could walk down the aisle.”

She took in a breath and put her hand over her heart.

Even Lance’s most junior cast members could put on a better act than Nancy.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said, standing. “I wish I could talk longer, but I’ve got to get back to work. Nice meeting you, Lance. Nancy.”

“I’m sure you’ll find me to be a regular fixture around here,” Nancy said. “I’ve become quite immersed in OSF. Which reminds me, will the Midnight Club be meeting here tonight? I haven’t seen a single e-mail about it.”

“Are you still doing those?” I asked Lance.

The Midnight Club came into being years ago. Many of the actors in the company also moonlight as playwrights. They needed a space to brainstorm together, and my father offered up the bakeshop. Since performances run late into the night, they decided to meet once a month at midnight. I used to love coming to the bakery in my pajamas where I’d sit and listen on a kitchen stool as my parents poured coffee and passed around pound cake. The group would act out scenes as they brainstormed, often pulling me in to play an angry dancer or kid with a toothache.

“Yep, every month. We’ve produced three plays written by the Midnight Club in the last few years. We should thank your mom and her pastries in the liner notes,” he quipped. “On that note, I’ve got to get over to the theater. Maybe we’ll see you tonight, Jules?”

Nancy crinkled her nose. “I hope so because
that boy
your mother hired is completely inept.” She said this loudly enough for Andy to hear over the hum of the espresso machine. “He needs to learn how to make a coffee, or you’re going to have to axe him. This is too bitter.” She held up her nearly empty cup.

“You’re pretty axe-happy, aren’t you, Nancy?” Caroline said through clenched teeth.

“In my opinion the axe is the only way to trim the fat.” Nancy rolled her eyes in the direction of Caroline’s rump.