On Thin Icing (4 page)

The general store, to the left, looked like a miniature version of the lodge. It was closed for the season. Behind us, dirt trails, partially covered in snow, snaked from the lodge up into the woods. Cute cabins, each with a peekaboo view of the lake, were tucked into the trees.

Sterling took a load of supplies from the back of the car. I followed behind with a box of my baking gear, feeling grateful that I’d opted to put my winter boots on before we left Ashland. I hadn’t seen this much snow in years. It made me want to grab a ball of it and toss it at Sterling.

The smell of a crackling fire greeted us as we stepped inside the cheery lodge. A familiar memory washed over me. The lodge was exactly as I remembered it. Its knotty-pine walls were adorned with antlers, hunting trophies, and Native American artwork. Giant picture windows offered a spectacular view of the lake. The open communal dining room had one long wooden dining table in the middle and an arrangement of smaller two- and four-person tables throughout the room. There was a roaring fireplace with a well-worn leather couch, comfy chairs, and vintage travel magazines in the front corner. An attached bar stood to the left and the kitchen where Sterling and I would spend our weekend was in the back.

“This is cool,” Sterling said, resting the boxes on the main dining table. “It’s like a retro cabin. Kind of like stepping back in time.”

“Exactly.” I set my box with my marble rolling pin and pastry knives next to the supplies. “Lance said he was going for a theme of rustic elegance. I’d say that pretty much sums up this space, right?”

“Right.” Sterling wandered toward the fireplace and picked up an old issue of
Life
magazine. “Nineteen fifty-five.” He held up the magazine for me to see. “Is that when this place was built?”

A woman’s voice answered before I could. “No. The lodge was built much earlier, but we’re trying capture the spirit of that era here.” She strolled toward us, and extended her hand. “I’m Mercury Rule, owner and manager of Lake of the Woods. You must be Jules.”

I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. This is my sous chef, Sterling.”

Mercury shook Sterling’s hand and then stepped back and waved her arm toward the frosted windows. “What do you think?” She was dressed in a casual pair of jeans, black snow boots, and a comfortable fleece with a Lake of the Woods logo embroidered on the front. While her look was casual, her demeanor was very businesslike. I’d guess her to be in her early fifties, probably a little younger than Mom. Her graying hair was twisted in a tight bun.

“Cool vibe,” Sterling replied.

“Good. That’s what we’re hoping for. There’s no cell service, cable, or Internet access in any of the cabins. We want our guests to completely detach from the outside world while they’re here.”

“So no texting, then?” Sterling pulled his phone from his pocket.

“I’m afraid not.” Mercury pointed toward the lake. “You can try down by the marina, but we don’t have cell towers out this way. We have a landline in case of emergencies, but otherwise we’re off the grid up here.”

Sterling shrugged. “That’s cool. She probably wasn’t going to text me back anyway.” He winked at me and tucked his phone back in his pocket.

Not having cell service wasn’t a big deal for me. I was still getting used to my phone beeping and dinging all the time. We didn’t have service on the cruise ship, so being constantly attached to a device was new to me. It had been strange, even in a small town like Ashland, to see how dependent people had become on their smartphones since I’d been away. Even Mom texted me all the time, just to check in.

Mercury reached into her pocket and handed me a heavy set of keys. “Before I forget, these will open the lodge and the marina. I’ll get you both keys to your cabins later.” She glanced toward the front door and frowned. “We’re short-staffed and the cleaning crew is still getting the cabins ready.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ve got some serious cooking to do.”

“Well, in that case let me to show you the kitchen.” Mercury smiled. “I appreciate your flexibility. Usually guests get very upset if their cabin isn’t ready. It’s one of the many things I’ve been trying to fix up here.”

“Really, it’s no big deal.” I picked up my box of baking supplies.

Mercury walked us to the kitchen. “When my husband and I bought this place two years ago you should have seen what a disaster it was,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ve been remodeling one building at a time. We started in here because we figured having a quality kitchen was critical when we reopened to the public. It’s been a real labor of love.” She sighed.

The kitchen definitely looked like it had been updated. I was impressed with how Mercury had managed to maintain a rustic vibe. The natural maple countertops blended seamlessly with the knotty-pine walls. They were ideal for chopping and slicing. All of the appliances were new, including an eight-burner gas stove. My eyes focused in on a wood-fired brick oven and stack of apple wood waiting to be burned.

“Did you put that in?” I asked, pointing to the oven. Terra-cotta-colored bricks ran from floor to ceiling. A stainless steel ash rake, shovel, and pizza peel were mounted to the bricks. Between the oven and the picturesque snowy windows, I felt like I was in the Italian Alps.

Mercury smiled, making the wrinkles around her mouth crinkle. “We did. Isn’t it gorgeous? I don’t cook, or claim to know anything about cooking, but I love having a fireplace in the kitchen. It was my husband’s idea. He’s the chef.”

“It’s amazing.” I ran my hand over the bricks. My head was swimming with ideas of things to fire, from bread to pizzas. I wondered how expensive adding a wood-fired oven would be at Torte. I’d have to add that to our dream list of potential upgrades.

“Customers seem to love everything that comes out of it,” Mercury said. “I don’t know if Lance told you, but my husband is in California right now. I think we finally have an offer on our house there. We’ve been trying to sell it ever since we bought this place. It wasn’t a good time to sell, and let me tell you I cannot wait not to have a mortgage payment on top of all the bills we have here. No one told me running a lodge was going to cost so much, and I’m determined not to lose this place.”

I nodded. Ashland had seen a number of established business succumb to the recession.

“He said to tell you to make yourselves at home here. Use anything you want, and just let me know if there’s anything you need. Like I said, I’m not a chef, but I know my way around the property now, and I can call Gavin Allen. He’s the marina manager. He knows everything about this resort. He’s been working here since he was in high school. I don’t know what I would do without him. He can fix anything, which is a good thing right now since everything seems to be falling apart.” She paused. “Anyway, you don’t need to know that. Gavin is a great guy. He’s rough around the edges, but a teddy bear. The store is closed, but Gavin has extra supplies in the marina if you need anything.”

“Great.” I surveyed the kitchen. “I can’t think of anything we need now, but I’ll let you know.”

Mercury snapped her fingers. “Oh, and—if he actually shows up anytime soon—I’ll introduce you to Tony. He’s our bartender.” She sighed. “And a total flake, but that’s not your problem, either.” She walked toward the door. “Like I said, let me know if you need anything. I tried to make room in the fridge and cupboards. You can store extra supplies in the marina if you need to. Make yourselves at home.”

“A flaky bartender—that sounds about right,” Sterling said as he began unloading boxes with pastry flour, sugar, and yeast. “Where do you want this?”

“Good question.” I surveyed the kitchen. Mercury had cleared two shelves in the large stainless steel refrigerator, and emptied two cupboards near the sink. “Let’s get all the perishables put away first,” I said to Sterling. “Then we can make a game plan for everything else.”

“That works for me. You want me to unload the car first?”

“Absolutely!” I grinned. “Especially if that means I get to stay inside and fire up this baby.” I massaged the bricks.

“Go for it.” Sterling pulled his hoodie over his knit cap and headed for the car.

I arranged the meats, cheese, vegetables, and other perishables in the fridge. This was by far the nicest kitchen I had worked in. Red gingham curtains were tied back on the window, allowing for a glimpse of the icy lake. It did feel like I was stepping back in time, but with all the perks of a modern kitchen. While Sterling unpacked the car and organized our baking supplies, I loaded the brick oven with apple wood and lit a fire.

Soon the snug kitchen smelled like the fruity, sweet wood. “This is going to be a great weekend,” I said to Sterling.

He tossed me a Torte apron. “You know it.”

We mapped out our plan for the day. The board members would be arriving sometime in the late afternoon. Dinner was our first official meal, but I wanted to have some appetizers and snacks prepared for guests to nosh on while they waited. Sticking with Lance’s theme of rustic elegance wouldn’t be difficult. That was my philosophy on food. I love creating meals that are simple and comforting.

I had already planned on making roasted chicken for tonight’s meal. But baking the chickens in the brick oven would elevate the dish and add a lovely smoky flavor to the meat. I wanted them to roast slowly.

Sterling rough-chopped carrots, celery, onion, and garlic while I showed him how to assemble the birds. I drizzled olive oil over the skin and massaged it in. Then I poked holes in clementines and lemons and stuffed them into the bird along with a handful of fresh rosemary and sage. I drizzled more olive oil in the bottom of an oven-safe baking dish, layered the bottom with the vegetables, and added a splash of homemade chicken stock. Then I placed the bird on top and finished it with a healthy shake of sea salt and cracked pepper.

“Oh man, that smells good already.” Sterling swept onion peel into the garbage. “Looks easy enough. You want me to take it from here?”

“It does, doesn’t it?” I fanned my hands over the pile of vegetables and herbs on the counter. “Just wait until we get these beauties in the oven.” Roasting the chickens with the vegetables should infuse them with flavor. The lemons and clementines would give them a hint of citrus and ensure that the meat would be moist. We would use the vegetables to make a hearty gravy and serve the roasts with smashed garlic and rosemary red potatoes, whole-grain bread with whipped honey butter, and a green garden salad. I practically salivated as I reviewed the menu in my mind.

With Sterling focused on the chickens I turned my attention to appetizers and dessert. I’d brought some day-old baguettes from Torte. They should make a nice crostini that I could top with pesto, parmesan cheese, bruschetta, and a bean spread. I sliced the baguettes into quarter-inch pieces and brushed them with olive oil.

Sterling grabbed his phone. “No service, but at least I can play some tunes.” He turned the volume as high as it would go and blasted Irish funk music.

I tapped my foot to the beat, and set the baguette slices aside. We could grill them in the oven right before we served them. Next I chopped basil and pine nuts for the pesto, and diced tomatoes and red onions for the bruschetta. Lance hadn’t ordered appetizers. I wanted to surprise him with a little bonus for any guests who arrived early.

The heat from the brick oven continued to rise. Sterling removed his knit hat, and wiped his brow. “That thing cranks out the heat.”

“I love it,” I said. “This is the first time I haven’t felt cold since October.”

“And you call yourself a native Oregonian.” Sterling shook his head. “Hardly.”

“Hello?” a voice called from the doorway.

“Come on in,” I replied.

A young woman with frizzy brown curls pushed the door halfway open and peered into the kitchen. She looked as frazzled as her hair. “Is Tony in here?”

“Nope, just us.” I pointed to Sterling and then back to myself. “Can we help you with something?”

She sighed. “Not unless you happen to have a couple cases of booze back here.”

“Yikes.” I glanced at the clock above the sink. “It’s not even noon, and you look too young to be hitting the bottle this early.”

“It’s not for me.” She came into the kitchen. “Wow, it smells amazing in here.” Her hair frizzed in all directions. It looked like she’d stuck her hand in a light socket.

“I’m Jules.” I held up my hand which was green from the basil.

She held a tablet under her arm. “I’m Whitney, Lance’s new assistant.”

“Right, we spoke on the phone. Nice to meet you in person.”

“You, too.” Whitney scrolled through her tablet. “You’re the caterer?”

“That’s me.”

“Please tell me you have everything you need.”

I looked at Sterling. “Yep. We’re all set. Why?”

She didn’t look up from her tablet. “Everything is a mess. Everything. I just flew in from California last night. Now they’re predicting a snowstorm. Some of the board members are scared to drive up here, and have canceled. There’s no Wi-Fi. I have no idea how I’m going to get anything done without an Internet connection.” Her voice was breathless. She looked like she’d just arrived from California. Hopefully she’d packed warmer clothes. I couldn’t imagine traipsing around the resort in her outfit—skinny jeans, a peasant blouse, and a pair of pumps without socks. She had to be freezing.

“Don’t stress,” I tried to reassure her as I continued to chop the fragrant herbs. “Everything seems great to me.”

Sterling walked to the sink and washed his hands. “I’m originally from California, too. Where are you from?” I could tell he was trying to get Whitney to relax.

“The Bay Area.” Whitney slid the tablet off. “Well, at least we’ll have food.” She looked up for a minute. “There’s not any alcohol hiding somewhere in here is there?”

I shrugged. “Not that I know of, but you’re welcome to take a look around.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, making it look even more disheveled. “I don’t know what to do. Lance is going to kill me.”

Grabbing a red gingham towel from a hook, I wiped my hands on it. “Lance won’t kill you. He’s all bark and no bite, trust me.”