Meet Your Baker (4 page)
“Want some help?” She gave me a look that told me she was referring to more than just the jam.
I stared back, challenging her. “With the
jam
? Yes.”
She glanced at Andy behind her swaying to music neither of us could hear, and dropped her voice. “You know I’m ready to listen whenever you want to talk. That’s all I’m going to say.”
She paused. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re too thin and you’ve been grabbing the counter all day to steady yourself.”
With that she climbed onto a step stool to take out the pectin from the cupboard.
I hadn’t realized I’d been clutching the counter. My knuckles were white. I let go and examined my arms.
Maybe I had lost a couple pounds. Ever since I found the stack of Carlos’s
letters
nothing tasted the same.
Who was I kidding? Nothing tasted good at all.
Mom rolled the bread racks out of the way so that Stephanie could sweep the floor. The wheels left flour tracks behind them.
Andy threw a wet dish towel over his shoulder. “All done, ladies. I’m gonna jet. You want me back at eleven-thirty tonight for the Midnight Club, right, Helen?”
He flashed a grin at Stephanie who was examining her black nail polish at the counter. “Unless you want to do it, Steph.”
“Don’t call me that.” She tossed the broom against the wall. “I’ve got class tonight,” she said, as she huffed out the door.
“What’s with her?” I asked Mom.
Mom watched Stephanie walk past the window with her shoulders hunched and her head down. “She’s not that bad. It’s an act. You know how it is with college kids. It’s cool to be alternative.”
Andy shook his head and removed his hat. “I don’t think that’s an act. She’s like that all the time. I’ve never seen her with anyone on campus. She’s pretty much a loner.”
Mom set the pectin on the island. “Don’t worry about her, you two. Now, the Midnight Club. Thanks for reminding me, Andy. Let me check the fridge. I know I set aside some snacks.”
I watched Mom go and focused my attention on Andy. “You’re on Midnight, huh? I used to love listening in on the club’s meetings.”
“It’s a good gig.” Andy hung the dish towel on a hook next to the sink. “I just hope Nancy doesn’t crash it again.”
“Yeah, I noticed she was giving you a hard time this morning. If she bothers you again, I’ll step in. Don’t let her get under your skin. Your lattes are to die for,” I said.
“Thanks, boss.” Andy winked. “That’s me. A real coffee killer.”
Mom returned from the walk-in fridge with a huge tray of sandwiches, cookies, muffins, and minicupcakes. “These are for tonight. I’ll leave these in the fridge until you come back. Thanks for being a night owl. You don’t need to come in early tomorrow morning.”
She turned to take the tray back to the fridge and called over her shoulder. “Oh, and don’t forget to lock up when you’re done.”
“You got it,” Andy said. “See you tomorrow.” He waved and stuck his earbuds in as he left.
I pulled a CD from my purse and popped it into the player. Latin music filled the space. My eyes started to mist like the windows from the steam.
The thing about canning is that it’s like a trick the weather gods like to play. In the Pacific Northwest berries and fruit ripen in the unbearable heat of summer. In order to let that freshness permeate the jar you have to can during peak season. It leads to sweaty windows and rosy cheeks, but hearing the sound of a vacuum-sealed lid popping off the top of a jar of homemade jam on a dreary January day is always worth it.
“This is pretty,” Mom said, keeping her eyes on the bowls of warm sugar and pureed raspberries in front of her. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I waved her off with the tongs I held in my hand to remove the glass jars from the boiling water. “Just something I picked up on the ship.”
That was a lie. Carlos used to sing me to sleep with his sultry Spanish voice. He’d harmonize in my ear as I rested my head on the pillow. I loved that the last thing I heard every night on the rocking ship was his voice.
That ship has sunk,
I thought, plucking a jar from the hot water and resting it on the counter.
At least I’ve hit bottom. It can’t get worse.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The next morning I woke before the sun as usual. I don’t move a muscle—not to shower, not to pull on a pair of jeans, not a muscle—without my coffee. One of the things I cherish most about being a chef is creating rituals around food.
My coffee ritual hasn’t changed since my first sip of the bold, black stuff in high school. I hand-grind my beans to a fine powder and use ice-cold water to brew it. While I wait for the coffee to begin percolating, I warm a mug in the microwave.
It’s easy and it brings the coffee to the next level. I just fill my mug with tap water and heat it in the microwave for a couple minutes. Once the coffee is done brewing, I dump out the water and replace it with the dark, steaming roast. Not only does this keep the coffee warm longer, I swear it enhances the flavor.
I finished my cup off with a splash of heavy cream and a shake of cinnamon. Ah—perfection.
After two cups, I felt ready to face the day. I showered, slid on a pair of well-worn jeans, and Carlos’s Barcelona soccer T-shirt. It was starting to lose his scent. Note to self, don’t wash it.
I tucked it back in my bag and instead opted for a simple ebony cotton tee.
My wardrobe consists of an assortment of black T-shirts, scoop necks, V-necks, three-quarter sleeve, long-sleeve, and turtlenecks. It’s boring, but a bakeshop is no place for fashion. First of all, everything I wear ends up smelling like butter. Plus, I’m covered by an apron all day anyway.
I do like to splurge on the weekend and wear gold hoops, which are another no-no in the bakery.
* * *
When I called Mom to let her know that I was coming home until I figured out what was next, she wanted me to move into my old room, with my collection of stuffed animals and playbills. I declined. It’s only temporary. I’m taking leave for a while, that’s all.
I mean, I love Mom, but dropping into my old life like I’d never left made me queasy. Instead, Mom found a furnished studio apartment for rent above Elevation, an outdoor store, and a block away from Torte. The four-hundred-square-foot space was exactly what I needed, compact and clean. Pretty much like my room on the ship, only quiet.
This morning, I decided to take a walk through Lithia Park before opening the bakery. I checked my watch—three-thirty
A.M.
I had time.
We call the park the soul of the city. I breathed in the ancient trees—willows, giant sequoias, redwoods, cedars, and spruce. Maybe their massive root systems would help ground me.
I meandered through Lithia’s paved walkways, past moonlit flower beds and grassy meadows, lost in thought. When I was at sea, I’d often loop around on the top decks of the ship at this early hour. I liked watching the sun rise above the water, sometimes catching a glimpse of a pod of dolphins skimming over the waves.
A herd of blacktail deer foraged on grass and stood on their hind legs to try to reach low-hanging leaves. They didn’t flinch or scatter as I passed by.
The predawn hours on a cruise ship are reserved for staff and a handful of late-night revelers passed out on lounge chairs next to the pool. Here in Ashland, I was alone and beginning to find the park and street eerily quiet.
I cut my walk short and headed to the bakery to get started on the morning’s pastries.
As I turned onto Main Street, someone bumped into my shoulder.
I screamed and jumped backward.
“Oh, I’m, I’m, so, so sorry. I didn’t see you there.” The voice came from a petite girl. I couldn’t make out her features in the dim, purple light, but I was pretty sure this was the girl Nancy Hudson had been screaming at on the street yesterday.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stopping to pick up her papers that had scattered all over the sidewalk.
I bent over to help. Handing her a stack of papers, I said, “Yeah, I’m fine. What are you doing?”
She glanced to her left, then right. “Uh, nothing. I was, uh, working on a story.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“Yeah, uh, I like to write in the park while it’s still quiet.” She pointed to a bench across the street. “That’s my bench. It’s nice because the streetlight’s right behind it, so I can see what I’m doing.”
The glow from the lamppost cast shadows on the pavement. Writing under such muted light seemed like torture on the eyes.
She stuffed the papers in a satchel, stood and looped the bag over her shoulder.
I stood as well. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Damn boat.
She grabbed my arm. I noticed a streak of red on her hand.
“Are you bleeding?” I asked.
She looked at her hand and licked the red streak. “No, that’s raspberry jam. My boyfriend gave me a jar and I had some on toast this morning. I must have got some on me. He works at the bakeshop around the corner.”
“Torte?”
“Yeah, you know the place? It’s amazing.”
I laughed. “I do, it’s my mom’s place.”
Her mouth hung open. “Oh my God, you’re Juliet.” She thrust the hand she’d just licked jam from in my direction. “I’m Mia! Well, Hermia, but I go by Mia. You were my idol growing up. All those awards.”
I grinned and wrinkled my nose. “Nice to see you again, Mia.”
She looked flustered and waved me off. “Sorry!” She brushed both her hands on her legs. “Yeah, gross. Anyway, I can’t believe you’re back in town. It’s all everyone’s talking about.”
“I figured. That’s sort of the way this place works.”
“Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, everyone’s excited to have you here again.”
“I’m sure you did.” I chuckled. “It’s okay. Listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to get rolls in the oven. Maybe I’ll see you at the bakeshop later? I take it Andy’s your boyfriend?”
It was too dark to tell, but I’d bet money that her cheeks were aflame. “Uh. No, sorry. Uh, I didn’t mean ‘boyfriend.’ We’re just friends. We just kind of hang out, you know—yeah, friends. Well, nice seeing you. Sorry about running into you.”
She darted off. I turned and watched her scurry along the sidewalk and away from the park and “her bench.” I wondered if bumping into me had thrown off her writing plan.
Oh well
. I shrugged and continued on Main Street to Torte.
When I arrived at the bakeshop, I dug through my purse for my keys. Last night, I told Mom I’d start the first batch, so she could sleep in a little. She’s been on her own for too long. If anything good can come out of my being home, it’s that I can relieve her workload at least for a little while.
As I stuck the key in the lock the handle turned with ease.
“Mom, are you here?” I called, pushing open the front door. “I told you to come in late.” Why would she come in so early? She can’t even take one morning off?
I yelled a little louder this time. “MOM! It’s me. What are you doing here?”
She couldn’t hear me. Seriously, the woman needs hearing aids.
I tucked my keys in my purse, flipped on the front lights and paused.
The mixers weren’t churning, the fans weren’t running, and the kitchen was plunged in shadows. Mom must not be here after all.
Maybe Andy forgot to lock up last night,
I thought as I made my way to the back.
Something sticky and wet slipped under my foot. I grabbed the counter to steady myself. Carefully, I inched to the wall by the sink to find the lights.
I gasped when the industrial lights flickered on. The concrete floor was coated in red.
Jars of my raspberry jam had burst all over the island and floor. Shattered glass was in pieces like ice. Red liquid oozed off the side of the wooden butcher block island and dripped in a puddle on the floor.
What happened? Did I miss a step in the canning process?
I tiptoed around the island, navigating the mess.
To my horror, more than jam greeted me on the opposite side of the island.
Nancy Hudson was sprawled on the floor; her white pants were splattered with my raspberry sauce. More red pooled around her head.
I inched closer. That wasn’t jam—that was blood.
I knew in my gut that Nancy was dead, but I dropped to the floor anyway and grabbed her wrist—no pulse.
Now what?
Call the police.
I stood too quickly. Black spots clouded my vision.
I grabbed the counter and exhaled. Careful not to slip on the sticky, jam-coated floor, I danced around the mess to the office, picked up the phone and dialed 911.
The next minutes passed in a blur. Blue, red, and white lights from the ambulance lit the inside of Torte like the disco ball on the ship.
EMS workers rushed in, ready to perform CPR, but they quickly confirmed that Nancy Hudson was indeed dead.
The EMS workers scribbled notes, and directed me to the front to wait for the police to arrive.
I felt a wave of relief when I saw a blue sedan pull up and the Professor step out. His real name is Detective Doug Curtis. But, when you meet him, he really looks more like a professor. This morning he wore slacks, a rust-colored cotton shirt, and a tweed jacket. His nickname—“the Professor”—still suited him.
The Professor moonlights as an actor and is the town’s aficionado of all things Shakespeare. He and Dad used to spend hours debating Shakespeare’s works. I hadn’t seen him since we worked on a production of
Midsummer Night’s Dream
when I was in high school.
Hurrying to open the door for him, another wave of dizziness made me rock backward.
“Juliet.” He started to reach out to grasp my hand, but instead grabbed me by both shoulders. “Oh dear. You need to sit.”
He steered me to a chair and eased me into it. “You’re as white as Petruchio.”
He hollered to the EMS workers. “Will someone please bring us a glass of water?”
My head spun. I couldn’t get it to stop.
“Take a couple deep breaths.”
