On Thin Icing (5 page)

“But we don’t have any alcohol.” She chomped on her fingernails. “Tony never ordered it and now he’s telling me that if we use what he has stocked here, he’s going to charge me double.”

“That doesn’t seem right.” I looked at Sterling. He gave a nod of agreement.

Whitney opened two cabinet doors and stood on her tiptoes. “I don’t know what else to do. We can’t have a weekend retreat without any alcohol.”

She was probably right. Not that Lance or any of his board members were prone to getting drunk—I mean, maybe they were—but a cozy weekend at a remote mountain lodge really did pair perfectly with bottles of Oregon’s Pinot Noir and spiked after-dinner coffees.

I started to tell her as much, but was interrupted by the sound of an argument in the dining hall.

“Whatever, Mercury!” a man’s voice bellowed.

“That’s him.” Whitney put her finger to her lips and pointed to the hallway. She mouthed the word “Tony.” Her petite frame and short statute made her look even younger than she was.

We couldn’t hear Mercury’s response. Tony hollered back to whatever she said with, “What? Like you’re going to find another bartender up here? Good luck with that.”

Had she just threatened to fire him? Yikes. No alcohol and no bartender weren’t exactly a great way to start the weekend.

Tony huffed into the kitchen. He stopped mid-stride when he spotted us. I recognized his type immediately. Ashland may be a mecca for lovers of literature, but the surrounding areas of the southernmost part of the state are known for farming, hunting, and fishing. Tony looked like he would blend in with the outdoor crowd in his faded jeans with patches on the knee and work boots. A Budweiser T-shirt stretched across his belly, which looked as if it had consumed its share of beer over the years. He finished off the look with an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His balding blond hair was combed over to one side.

“What’s going on in here?” he asked, letting his eyes scan my entire body.

“Not much, just prepping for dinner,” I replied, making sure to use my authoritative chef voice.

“No wonder it’s so hot, you’re smokin’.” He winked and clicked his cheek.

Great. Just what I needed. Sterling tried to stifle a laugh.

“I’m Jules. I’ll be running the kitchen this weekend.” I pointed to Whitney. “I hear there’s some kind of problem with the alcohol.”

Tony puffed out his chest. “Nope. No problem. I told the girl that I’d take care of her. I’m pretty good at taking care of the ladies, if you catch what I mean.”

I caught Sterling’s eye. He puffed out his chest like Tony. He was enjoying this way too much.

Whitney closed the cabinet doors. “So you have enough wine and beer in stock?”

Tony helped himself to a slice of baguette. It couldn’t taste good since it had yet to be toasted. He ate it in one bite anyway. With his mouth full he said, “Yep. I’ve got a stocked bar, like I told you.”

“But you said I’d have to pay double.” Whitney bit her thumb.

“That’s right. It’s expensive to get booze delivered all the way up here. I’m going to have to charge you for the delivery fees.” He grabbed another slice of bread.

It must be hard to get good help, I thought. Mercury hadn’t sounded thrilled about Tony when she spoke of him earlier. I wondered if she was seriously trying to find a new bartender. I couldn’t blame her.

Tony gave Sterling a nod. “Cool tats.”

Sterling glanced at his forearms. He had pushed up his sleeves, revealing tattoos that covered his skin. “Thanks.”

Tony pulled back the neck of his T-shirt. “I’ve got one right here.” He showed off a tattoo of a hunter holding up a dead deer on his chest.

Wow. Sexy.

Sterling didn’t respond. Whitney grimaced.

“Man, this one really hurt.” Tony massaged the tattoo. He held my gaze. “I won’t show you where my other tat is. I’ll save that for later.”

“Please don’t.” I picked up a spatula and unwrapped cubes of butter. I wanted Tony out of my kitchen. If he didn’t get the message soon, I’d have to kick him out.

Surprisingly, he took the hint. “I’ve got to get the bar ready for action, but don’t you worry, I’ll be right up front if you need me.” He turned to Whitney. “You wanna come see what I’ve got in store for you?”

She tucked her tablet under her arm and followed him toward the dining hall. I felt sorry for her.

“Do you think we should go help her?” I asked Sterling once they were out of earshot.

He pulled his hoodie from his chest. “Want to see my tats?” He winked.

I flung the dishtowel at him. “Stop.”

“Now that is something you don’t see every day in Northern Cal,” he said, catching the towel. “Talk about redneck.”

“Welcome to Southern Oregon.”

He shuddered. “You know, everyone said that Southern Oregon had a big redneck population, but I guess I’ve just never seen it in Ashland.”

“Yeah, we’re kind of in a bubble.”

“I guess.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “You want me to go check on her?”

“He’s probably harmless, but yeah, why don’t you.”

“These are ready to go.” He pointed to beautifully assembled chicken roasts.

“I’ll stick them in,” I promised as he went to check on Whitney.

A blast of hot air hit my face, as I opened the metal doors on the front of the oven. Heat radiated from the bricks. I couldn’t wait to taste the end result of slow-cooking the chicken over apple wood. I pulled on a pair of oven mitts and carefully slid each roast into the oven. They should infuse with the flavor of the smoldering wood as they baked. Sterling and I would need to keep close watch on them. I hadn’t baked in a brick oven since my days in culinary school, and didn’t want to burn them.

With the chickens complete and the appetizers prepped, I started on the final and—in my humble opinion—most important part of the meal, dessert. Lance hadn’t specified any special requests when it came to dessert. I wanted to make something that would pair well with the chicken and fit with his theme of rustic elegance.

We had overprepared for the weekend. I had packed extra staple ingredients. Inspiration tends to strike when I’m baking and I wanted to be sure I had everything I might need on hand. I took a quick inventory of our supplies and decided on preparing individual bread puddings. We could bake them in the brick oven and serve them warm. In fact, we could create a grown-up bread pudding bar with an assortment of toppings. I could whip up caramel and hot fudge sauces, and have Sterling arrange a tray of fresh berries, nuts, cream, toasted coconut, and dates and golden raisins.

Bread pudding is the ultimate comfort food. I cracked eggs into a mixing bowl and whisked them together. Fortunately, I had asked Sterling to toss in all the extra bread we had at Torte right before we left. Usually Mom donates anything that doesn’t sell to the homeless shelter—which usually isn’t much. I’d been saving day-old bread for the past few days knowing that it might come in handy this weekend.

Sterling returned as I cut stale bread into cubes. “Everything okay up there?” I asked.

He nodded, and walked to the sink to wash his hands. I smiled to myself. We had trained our staff well. “Yeah, it’s under control. Mercury is up there and Lance just arrived. Tony’s something, though.”

“You can say that again.” I tossed the cubes of bread into a separate bowl.

Sterling put his apron back on. “What should I do next?”

“You want to cube this bread, and I’ll keep working on the base for the pudding.”

“Sure. What kind of pudding are you making?”

“Bread pudding. I’ll make a simple vanilla cream pudding and we’ll bake them in individual ramekins in the pizza oven.”

“You’re in love with this thing, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” I put my hand to my chest and batted my eyes.

Sterling rolled his eyes.

I turned and moved toward the stove. Making pudding requires constant attention. I whisked eggs and milk on medium heat, paying careful attention not to let the eggs scramble. “You have to whisk this like you mean it,” I said to Sterling. “If this gets too hot, you’ll end up with scrambled eggs.”

“Maybe you’re onto something, Jules. Scrambled-egg pudding.”

“Ugh.” I grimaced. The pudding was starting to thicken. I added vanilla and cream and continued to whisk until my arm ached.

I was just about to take the pudding off the stove, when the kitchen door swung open. I froze in mid-whisk. I recognized the face and familiar Latin accent immediately. “Julieta,” Carlos, my estranged husband, said as I dropped the whisk on the floor.

Chapter Five

My knees buckled. I grabbed the counter to steady myself. The altitude must have been going to my head. Was I hallucinating? That couldn’t be Carlos standing in the doorway. Could it?

“Mi querida.”
Carlos looked concerned as he came closer. “Are you okay?”

Sterling picked up the whisk and grabbed the pudding from the heat. I could feel my body start to sway. My heartbeat pulsed in my head. This couldn’t be happening. Carlos was supposed to be on a ship somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean, not standing in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, wearing a thick high-neck cobalt cable-knit sweater that brought out the gold specks in his eyes.

His relaxed cadence was so familiar. I wanted to rub my eyes.

Sterling cleared his throat. “I’ve got to check on how things are going at the bar. I’ll be back in a minute.” He nodded a curt greeting to Carlos, gave me a knowing look, and left me standing with my mouth gaping open.

Carlos’s cheeks were bronzed with sun. His eyes burned with a look of longing. He strolled to me and enveloped me in an embrace.

I let my body collapse into his, breathing in the scent of his aftershave.

His lips brushed my forehead. My knees went weak again. Carlos wrapped me tighter in a hug and stroked my hair. “Did you get my messages?”

I shook my head. What messages? Carlos had been sending me letters for the past few months, but I hadn’t opened any of them. I wasn’t ready, but maybe I should have. I never expected that he’d just show up.

“
Querida,
I have missed you,” he whispered in my ear.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might explode from my chest. Keep it together, Jules, I warned myself.

Carlos released his grip on me and took a step back, still clasping both of my hands. He caressed my ring finger, then paused, and looked at me with a pained expression. “You are not wearing your ring?”

The question lingered between us. Carlos glanced at the brushed silver band on his left hand. I thought about trying to explain, but he met my eyes and nodded in understanding.

“You look even more beautiful than when I last saw you,” he said quietly.

“You look good, too.” I swallowed, trying to steady my breath.

“It has been too long,
querida.
” He leaned closer and rested his lips on my forehead.

I closed my eyes. I’d been dreaming of this moment for the past six months, imagining what I might say when I saw him again. Now here he was, and I couldn’t find a single word to say. It was like my brain and mouth had been disconnected. There were so many things I wanted to say but nothing would come out.

Our bodies swayed in rhythm to Sterling’s music playing in the background. Everything felt fuzzy and surreal. Carlos’s lips remained locked on my forehead as his hands massaged my hips. We were both lost in the moment.

We may have stayed that way indefinitely, but our minireunion was interrupted by Lance. He flung the kitchen door open with his usual dramatic flair.

“Juliet, darling, I can smell your divine cooking from…” He trailed off and gasped. “Well, well, well, who do we have here?”

Carlos stepped to the side and placed his arm around my shoulder.

I wasn’t sure how to introduce Carlos. Should I call him my husband? My estranged husband?

Carlos was the easy answer. Plus, I knew that Lance would know exactly who Carlos was. “Lance, this is Carlos.”

Lance massaged his goatee. “Ah, so
this
is Carlos.” He strolled over and extended a bony hand. “No wonder Juliet has been so hush-hush about you. I’d want to keep you all to myself, too.”

I shot Lance a look, begging him to knock it off.

Carlos grinned and shook his hand. “That’s what I say about Julieta.”

“Julieta?” Lance looked to the ceiling and clasped his hands together. “Oh, this is too much, Julieta and her lovely Latin leading man here at this little lodge for the weekend. I couldn’t script this.”

“Lance.” I furrowed my brow. “Did you need something?”

“No, no, not a thing, darling. I just wanted to see how things were coming along in the kitchen.” He appraised Carlos from head to toe. “I can see they’re heating up quite nicely. Quite nicely.” Turning toward the door, he blew me a kiss. “I don’t want to keep you from whatever it was you were in the middle of, ta-ta.”

“He is in the theater, yes?” Carlos asked, watching Lance prance away.

“How did you guess?”

Carlos’s eyes sparkled. “He knows beauty when he sees it.”

A lump formed in my throat. I’d forgotten—more like pushed from my mind—how romantic Carlos is, and how often he comments on my looks. It was unsettling.

I had to do something. I needed to bake.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as I picked up a clean whisk and began beating pudding that didn’t need any beating.

Carlos peered over my shoulder. “What is that that you are making?”

“Bread pudding.”

“Ah, yes, I remember when you made this dish on the ship.” He picked up a vanilla bean. “I will help, yes?”

I beat the pudding so fast that it sloshed out of the bowl. “Carlos, what are you doing here?”

He pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and peeled the vanilla bean. The sweet scent permeated the kitchen. “I had to see you,
mi querida
. It has been six months now. We agreed. Six months, yes?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you were going to
show up
here in six months.” I wiped pudding from the counter. “I thought maybe we’d talk on the phone or something.” Carlos and I agreed to take a break for a few months after I left. He returned to the ship, and I started my new life in Ashland. It had been easier for me to compartmentalize my worlds. With Carlos sailing oceans away, I immersed myself in Torte. The busy bakeshop had been the perfect place to disappear, and to Carlos’s credit, despite sending me a handful of letters that I never opened, he gave me my space. Until now.