Nothing Bundt Trouble

by Ellie Alexander

  “I’ll walk you out,” I offered. “I want to get the espresso machine warmed up for Andy and Sequoia.” That was only half true. What I really wanted was a chance to ask him about the Pastry Case.

  The Professor and I went upstairs together. “Do you have a minute?” I asked in a low whisper. Mom’s hearing wasn’t great anyway.

  “For you, Juliet. Always.” He clasped his hands together and waited for me to speak.

  I motioned for him to move toward the dimly lit dining room. I didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. “I found something last night.” I unzipped my bag and removed the well-worn leather journal. “This involves you.”

  “Ah, most intriguing.” His brow creased ever so slightly. “What is it?”

  “My dad’s old journal.” I watched his expression. If he was concerned by this news, there was no hint of it on his face.

  “How wonderful for you. I didn’t know that Will kept a journal. What a gift. To be able to connect with your father’s words and writings.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but I’m afraid nothing about his words brought me any comfort last night.”

  The Professor frowned. He reached out to touch my arm in act of caring concern. “Why? I knew your father better than anyone. I can’t imagine what he possibly could have said that would be disturbing.”

  He sounded genuinely surprised.

  “I didn’t get very far in here last night because I wanted to talk to you first.” I ran my index finger along the smooth binding. “What I read last night was about the Pastry Case.”

  The Professor’s face bleached white. He grabbed the edge of the booth to steady himself. “The Pastry Case? Will wrote about the Pastry Case?”

  I nodded, expecting him to say more.

  He looked over his shoulder as if someone might be listening. “Please don’t mention anything about this to your mother. I have an appointment to keep, but let’s have lunch later and I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

  He left before I could ask anything else. I didn’t want to keep a secret from Mom. I was starting to feel like I had unearthed a long-forgotten mystery that should have stayed in the past.

  Chapter Three

  Concentrating on baking took every ounce of self-control. My only saving grace was that the wedding cake that I had been working on required complete concentration. The bride had requested a five-tier lemon rosemary cake with hundreds of sugar flowers. The delicate work of transforming gum paste into gorgeous and dainty pastel flowers involved rolling out the paste into thin sheets and using cutters to fray the edges and shape each petal. Once we had thin petals, we glided a ball tool over them gently to create a wavy, leafy effect. It was slow going because the petals could easily crack and break. Some pastry chefs use wire to hold sugar flowers together, but at Torte we believed that everything on the cake should be edible, including any decorations or embellishments. It made the task more challenging, but the reward of seeing a happy bride’s face was always worth it.

  “How are your fingers holding up?” Mom asked around mid-morning. She set a pale pink flower on the drying rack in front of her and shook out her hands. “Mine are starting to cramp.”

  “You know what that means then?” I brushed lemon juice between the layers of petals I was adhering together. “Coffee break.”

  Mom dipped her paintbrush into a bowl of shimmer dust. Applying a tiny dusting of the shimmer powder on the edges of the petals would give them a hint of a shine, as if they were being kissed by the sun. “I was telling Sterling earlier that it might be time for a coffee intervention for you.”

  “Me?” I pointed to my chest. “A coffeeholic? Never.” To prove my point I took a sip of the half-full mug next to me.

  Around us the kitchen was in the full rhythm of the morning swing. Stephanie and Bethany, our team of pastry designers, were working on piping dozens of individual cupcakes with beautiful pastel buttercream. Marty, our jovial bread maker, had his sleeves rolled up as he kneaded dough like he was trying to breathe life into it.

  “Are you kneading dough, Marty, or performing CPR?” I teased.

  Marty grinned. His thick, bulky arm muscles massaged the dough with tender care. “I like that. Breathing life into this challah for sure. That’s what we do here. Breathe life into baked goods and build some arm muscles in the process.”

  “Or, some of us spend our days drinking copious amounts of coffee.” Mom shot me a playful wink. “I warned your father that raising you in a bakeshop could have long-term consequences. If he were here now, you would be the living proof.”

  The mention of my dad made my back stiffen. “Or, you could thank him for introducing me to the wonderful world of artisan coffee. Torte is all the better for it.”

  Sterling interrupted us. “Can you guys taste this and let me know what you think?” He wore his Torte apron tied halfway around his waist and held a tray of miniature deep-dish pizzas.

  Mom picked up a slice. “It smells divine.”

  “It’s barbecue chicken with red onions, cilantro, and a three-cheese blend. Normally we do flat crusts in the pizza oven but Marty introduced me to his deep-dish crust yesterday and it’s a winner. If you like it, we were thinking we could bake each pizza in an individual six-inch cast iron and serve them straight from the pan.” His dark locks fell across the right side of his forehead.

  The crust was two-inches thick with nicely crisped brown edges. I took a bite. The bubbly crust was dense without being heavy. Sterling had balanced the spice combination in the barbecue sauce with a hint of heat and a tangy, sweet finish. The cilantro and red onions gave the pizza extra texture and, like everything that we made in the brick oven, the touch of smoked applewood flavor gave the pizza a rustic taste that couldn’t be achieved in a standard oven.

  “Delish,” I said through a mouthful.

  “Amazing.” Mom agreed, taking another bite.

  “Glad you like it. That crust is something special, isn’t it?” Sterling, in a true chef move, tapped the golden brown edge of one of the pieces. “I’ve got two more tests in the oven. A veggie option with peppers, tomatoes, olives, and goat cheese, and a meat combo with salami, pepperoni, and Canadian bacon. A pizza trio for our lunch special today. Does that work?”

  “All of those sound great. I can’t wait to sample the rest. In the meantime, I’ll take like a dozen of these,” I said.

  Sterling smiled, but I could tell from the brightness in his blue eyes that he was pleased that Mom and I were raving about his pizza combinations. “We’re also experimenting with a cauliflower crust for a gluten-free option. You basically separate the florets and pulse them in a food grinder until they resemble rice. Then you boil the rice-like mixture, let it cool, squeeze out any excess moisture, and press it into a crust. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “I’ll be excited to try it,” I replied.

  Sterling had taken a larger role in menu testing over the past few months. I rarely had to give him feedback. He had a naturally discerning palate and was inventive when it came to flavor profiles and new pairings. I couldn’t ask for anything more in a chef.

  He left to check on his other pizzas. A dish towel was slung over his left shoulder. It was a move he had learned from Carlos. For a moment I could almost see Carlos in the kitchen and hear him teaching Sterling the tools of the trade. “A chef must always have a towel at the ready, si? You do not need fancy oven mitts or silicone tools; a good chef needs only a handy kitchen towel. You use it to remove things from the oven, to dab a splash of sauce from the side of a plate. Many, many uses for a simple towel.”

  Mom wiped barbecue sauce from her cheek with a napkin. “He’s really becoming a great chef. His instincts are spot-on.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” I finished my tasting slice, wishing for another.

  “Watching him and Marty together this morning makes my heart happy.” Mom savored the last bite of her crust. “They are quite the pair but get along s
o well, and at least from an outward perspective seem to really appreciate each other and build on their individual skill sets.”

  Marty was old enough to be Sterling’s dad or even grandfather. He had moved to the Rogue Valley a few years ago to care for his wife. When she died, he decided that he wanted to return to baking. He had worked as a bread maker in a famed San Francisco bakery. We were thrilled to tap into his experience, and I had known from the first minute I had met him that his jovial attitude and humor would be a good match for Torte’s vibe. What I hadn’t expected was that he and Sterling would become such fast friends. It was telling that both men felt confident in their abilities and unique roles at the bakeshop. When my parents had started Torte, they had set out with a goal of creating a space where everyone who came through the front doors, staff included, were family. I was glad to be upholding their values and continuing that tradition.

  “So, coffee break?” I asked Mom, walking to place our dishes in the sink.

  “Juliet, you are incorrigible.” She shook her head. Then she glanced at the clock hanging above the line of industrial mixers. “I’ll have to pass. Janet, Wendy, and I have a long day planned. Lunch, the spa, maybe a glass of wine at Uva later.”

  Uva was a boutique winery on the outskirts of town that I had recently become a partial owner of, along with Carlos, Lance, and the dreaded Richard Lord. I knew that sometime in the not so far future, we were all going to have to sit down and hash out a plan. Owing any share of a business with Richard Lord filled my stomach with dread. My strategy of late had been doing everything I could to avoid interacting with him. However, I knew that wasn’t going to be a viable long-term strategy.

  “That sounds wonderful,” I said to Mom. “Tell Wendy and Janet hi for me. Where are you going for lunch?” I grabbed my ceramic Torte mug. “Admit it. I could have much worse habits than my daily dose of caffeine.”

  “Never.” She swiped her hands in front of her petite frame, then she laughed. “Janet, Wendy, and I are trying the new falafel shop.”

  Mom having lunch and a spa day with her girlfriends would give me a chance to talk to the Professor alone. “That’s right. You’ll have to let me know what you think. I’ve heard good things.”

  I went upstairs to check in with my staff and top off my coffee. The only drawback to our redesign is having to run up and down the stairs throughout the day. Although, I suppose on the plus side it was good burning more calories.

  “How’s it going?” I asked Rosa, who was coming down the stairs with two empty pastry trays.

  “Good. We sold out of croissants and breakfast sandwiches. It’s been steady all morning.” She wore her long curls in two braids. A warm smile graced her face. Rosa was closer to my age with a calm demeanor and a naturally easygoing spirit. Customers loved her. She had quickly built connections and relationships with our regulars. I often spotted her listening carefully to our guests as she refilled their coffees and delivered their pastry orders.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Rosa went to restock the trays while I continued upstairs to the main floor. The pastry case was sparse. A handful of cookies and cupcakes were left, but otherwise the first round of morning baked goods had vanished. Sequoia spiraled foam onto the top of a latte while Andy manned the espresso machine, pulling shots of liquid gold in the form of rich espresso.

  “Hey, boss. You ready for a refill or can I tempt you with our special for the day?” He poured the shots into a waiting ceramic mug and handed it off to Sequoia who finished the drink by adding steaming milk and thick layer of foam.

  They had found a working routine and (fingers crossed) had developed a professional relationship. I wasn’t sure that they would ever be best friends, given their very different personalities and lifestyles, but they didn’t have to be. I was perfectly happy with the fact that they weren’t killing each other behind the coffee bar.

  “I know this will shock you, but it doesn’t take much to tempt me, especially if there’s coffee involved.”

  Andy laughed. Sequoia handed the coffee drinks to two waiting customers. “Okay, let’s make her our special.”

  While they made my drink, I did a quick spin through the dining room to refill coffee, pick up any empty plates, and say hello to familiar faces. It was fun to watch generations of families come back to the bakeshop. Over the years, families brought in their kids, and now those kids had begun to bring in their babies and toddlers. It was a testament to my parents’ original vision for the bakeshop that Torte had become a gathering spot for people of all ages.

  We reserved a section of our chalkboard menu for our youngest guests. I paused for a minute and watched as two preschoolers drew stars and balloons on the bottom of the menu with colorful chalk. A tiny tug of longing came over me. Many of my friends and colleagues had begun to have families of their own. I was starting to feel like that ship might have sailed for me. Carlos and I had talked about having kids, but it was always “someday,” as in way in the future. Then of course, I learned that he already had a son, Ramiro. Spending time with Ramiro had given me a taste of motherhood and I wanted more. Not that I didn’t have time. I was still in my thirties and these days women have babies well into their forties, but for the first time I was experiencing the old adage of my biological clock beginning to tick.

  I smiled at the budding young artists and returned to the coffee bar.

  “Here you go, boss.” Andy handed me a creamy pink latte with the shape of a heart cut in the foam and a dusting of green powder.

  “What is it? It’s almost too pretty to drink.”

  “It’s a joint creation. Sequoia suggested a rose latte, so we made a rose-petal infused simple syrup.”

  “That’s where you get the pink color,” Sequoia added. Her dreadlocks were bundled on top of her head in a circular weave.

  Andy’s freckles were more pronounced than usual. He was a snowboarding junkie and spent every waking minute that he wasn’t at Torte up on Mt. A. I could tell by the goggle rings around his eyes that he had been on the mountain this weekend. “Then we added milk, espresso, and the signature ingredient—house-made pistachio paste.”

  “Oh, these are pistachios on the top?” I pointed to the green flakes.

  He nodded. “That’s some extra-finely ground nuts for effect, but the paste is mixed in with the shots of espresso. Try it. You should get floral notes and—”

  Sequoia interrupted him. “Nuttiness. You know, a little salt from the pistachios.”

  “Wow. It’s beautiful and so romantic. Lance would want to serve this at a performance of Cymbeline.” I tasted the unique latte and was surprised to find it light and refreshing. The rose syrup wasn’t too sweet or too floral. And, the pistachio paste added not only a balance of salt, but also a rich earthiness. “This is incredible.”

  “I told you she would love it,” Andy said to Sequoia in a pretend mocking tone. “We took a chance and already put it on the specials board because we were pretty sure it was solid.”

  I looked to the specials board where we posted a weekly rotating Shakespeare quote in tribute to my dad. He had started the tradition when he and Mom first opened the bakeshop’s doors. Now the bottom of the chalkboard had a colorful display of stick figures, flowers, balloons, hearts, and a game of tic-tac-toe provided by our hot-chocolate preschool crowd.

  “You don’t have to ask for permission every time,” I said to Andy. “Like we talked about, you have full reign of the coffee counter. As long as you don’t invite Richard Lord over as a special guest barista you can do whatever you want.”

  Mom and I had given Andy a raise and made him head barista. Like Sterling and the rest of our team, he didn’t need much guidance. I loved that we had created a space for our staff to thrive and grow. Many chefs before me had paved a path forward. I was glad to be able to mentor my young staff and do the same for them. Eventually I knew that Andy and Sterling would likely want to strike out on their own. It’s the nature of the bus
iness, but for the moment I was happy to have them in “leading roles,” as Lance would say.

  The bell above the front door jingled as the Professor came in. He caught my eye and pointed to an empty booth near the window. “Can you make another one of these and bring it over?” I asked Andy. Then I went to retrieve the journal and join the Professor.

  “You’re early.” I sat across from him. My hands trembled with nervous anticipation as I placed the leather book on the table.

  He removed his tweed jacket and hung it on the back of the booth. “I had intended to go to the office after the chamber meeting, but to be completely honest your mention of the Pastry Case rattled me. I figured if I was feeling out of sorts that you must be feeling the same and I owed it to you to offer what explanation I can.”

  I cradled the pistachio rose latte. “What about Mom?”

  The Professor rubbed his temples. “That, fair Juliet, is the conundrum, isn’t it? I do hope that after I share what I’m about to tell you, that you’ll help me determine how best to proceed with Helen.”

  “Okay.” My stomach gurgled, but not from the latte.

  Andy delivered the Professor’s drink and asked if he could get us anything else. I wondered if he picked up on the tension in the air because he made a fast exit when we declined his offer.

  “I think it best if I start from the beginning.” He thumbed through the first few page. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?” The Professor’s astute eyes held my gaze.

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s probably best to settle in, as this might take a while and I can’t get to the crux of my dilemma with your dear, sweet mother unless you understand how it all started. We can review Will’s account of the Pastry Case together and then I will attempt to fill in any missing gaps.”

  My stomach churned so much that I placed my hand over it in an attempt to silence my jittery nerves. Whatever I was about to learn about my dad’s past didn’t sound good.