Chapter Four
The Professor pressed his spine against the booth before he spoke. Was he trying to summon the courage to share what he knew?
I felt the need to brace myself for whatever he was about to say.
He cleared his throat and began to speak in a steady, slow tone. Then he placed his finger on the journal. “Before we look through this, I think a brief backstory would be helpful.” His voice had a nostalgic quality as he leaned closer and began to speak. “In order to understand what transpired between your father and me, we have to go back to the very beginning. It was the 1980s and Ashland as we know it now was not the same charming, inviting tourist mecca that it is today. Yes, the Festival drew visitors to town, but the season was much shorter, and the Rogue Valley was in a desperate state.” The Professor’s voice was almost soothing as he began by giving me a brief history of Ashland. “The logging industry had vanished almost overnight and times were hard. This entire region depended on timber. The drop in timber receipts here in Oregon and across the border in California impacted everything. Libraries had to cut staff and hours, there was no money to keep up the city pool, the little funding that was left had to go to major services—police and fire—but everything else took a huge hit. There was a deep recession in the early eighties compounded with new federal regulations on logging. Unemployment here in the valley skyrocketed.”
“Really?” I asked. I had a vague memory of picket lines and protests in Medford from childhood.
“Yes. This was true in other parts of the country as well, but here in Oregon we had the added issue of the spotted owl. The owl was added to the endangered species list as an indicator species, meaning that if it went extinct, countless other animals in the region would be at risk to follow.”
The spotted owl was something I was more familiar with. We had studied it in school. The chocolate brown owl was native to forests along the West Coast and its decline had made national headlines. Huge debates and protests ensued. One of my most distinct memories was of protesters who climbed thirty feet into a tree and refused to come down until logging efforts were curbed.
The Professor sighed. “It was a trying time. I empathized with both sides of the argument. People were losing their jobs and the only livelihood they’d ever known. That’s a scary proposition, especially in remote southern Oregon where there weren’t many other opportunities for employment. Yet, at the same time an entire species was being threatened. How could we ethically allow that to happen when there was clear path to saving the owl by stopping the clear-cutting of our forests?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “The college was one of the biggest employers, but in those days it was much smaller too. It hadn’t reached university status, and despite having students in town, they were always broke. None of them had extra income to help bolster the local economy. It’s hard to describe what Ashland was like at the time, but certainly it was a far cry from what we see today. Many of the buildings along upper Main Street were abandoned and left in disrepair. You wouldn’t recognize the plaza as we know it now. Buildings were boarded up with broken windows and crumbling exteriors. There were dozens of pawnshops in town, but very few restaurants. However, it was also a time of renaissance. Young families were moving in. Housing and commercial space was cheap—unbelievably cheap. Your parents bought Torte for eight thousand dollars. I was new to the police force and was able to buy my cottage in the railroad district for seventeen thousand dollars. Granted, it was in desperate need of repair, but nonetheless, can you imagine that price point?”
I shook my head.
“Even a new house on acreage in Ashland at the time would go for thirty to forty thousand at most. The railroad district was predominately made up of working-class folks who could afford the small cottages. What money there was in Ashland was all above the boulevard—mainly professors and doctors. Otherwise, the rest of the valley was pretty depressed, economically speaking. Lots of hippy communes scattered around. It was like the Wild West. Aside from some outdoor-adventure rafting companies and fishing-tour guides, there wasn’t any other industry to speak of. Ashland was ‘civilization.’”
“That’s funny to think about.”
His eyes twinkled. “Times have changed dramatically. I saw a sign for a two-bedroom cottage in the railroad district yesterday that was listed at half a million dollars.”
I nodded and sipped my pistachio rose latte. “I was just having a conversation with Lance about that very thing last night.”
“Your parents and I were good friends. Ashland was a younger town then too. Most of the business owners starting the revival in the plaza were in their twenties. None of us knew what we were doing, but it was worth the risk. There was an abundance of opportunity and we became a tight-knit community because we all needed one another to survive.”
Much of what the Professor was saying I had heard from Mom over the years. She and my dad had never owned a business before they opened Torte. They had graduated from college in the Bay Area and worked a variety of odd jobs—waiting tables, bartending, and working at bakeries while my dad got some smaller roles in community theater and my mom contemplated going back to get her master’s degree in family therapy. But even back then, the thought of buying a house in San Francisco was unobtainable. My parents had driven to Ashland in their VW van for an audition at OSF. My dad didn’t get the role, but they fell in love with Ashland, and decided to move there on the spot.
“Your parents opened Torte,” the Professor continued. “Janet and Mike were opening A Rose by Any Other Name, the Winchester was just opening, the Cabaret was getting started, there were jazz clubs in town bringing in big-name acts—some of the greats like Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Charles, and Tony Bennett to name a few played right here in our little hamlet. It was an exciting time to be here. It was also a scary time because there wasn’t the tourist population to support the business community. The off-season as we know it now was dead. I mean deceased. Ashland was a ghost town in the winter. We all knew we had to band together to make a go of things in order for any one of us to survive.”
I appreciated hearing the Professor’s perspective of Ashland, but I wanted him to get to the point. What did any of this have to do with my father and the mysterious Pastry Case he had journaled about?
“To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; But where there is true friendship, there needs none.” He quoted Shakespeare.
“Shakespeare, right?”
“The Bard himself. Timon of Athens to be exact. A truer passage there is not to summarize what those early days in Ashland were like. We needed nothing because we had each other.” A sad smile tugged on his jawline.
I couldn’t help but try to move the Professor along. “I think it’s wonderful that you all supported one another, but how does that connect to the Pastry Case?”
“Ah, yes.” He sat up straighter. “Touché my dear. I suppose I wanted you to understand the smallness of our burgeoning town as a way to ease my guilt for involving your father, perhaps.” He opened the journal and looked to me. “Shall we?”
MARCH 15, 1988
Beware the ides of March. Julius Caesar’s warning has never rung truer. If I had heeded that advice and listened to my own internal guidance, I might never have found myself mixed up in this mess. This case feels as if it’s beginning to crash down upon me. I think it’s best that I start from the beginning. I’ll use these pages to recount every detail of what has transpired thus far, in hopes that the process of writing might trigger a new revelation. If nothing else, I’m hopeful that the kinesthetic act of putting pen to page may help silence my ever-growing anxiety and paranoia.
“Helen, where’s Juliet?” I removed my raincoat and hung it on the wobbly hook near Torte’s front door. Note to self—add a new coat rack to our ever-growing list of purchases for the bakeshop. Had we made a mistake? Perhaps we should have listened to our parents’ advice when they told us that run
ning a small business with a small child was the worst decision we could possibly make.
“She’s here with me,” Helen called from the kitchen. “We’re making you a special treat for after dinner.”
I walked through the empty dining room and into the open kitchen to find my wife and daughter at the butcher-block island (our first purchase for Torte and the most expensive piece of furniture we had ever owned). Juliet’s pale blond pigtails were askew. Her tiny fingers were covered in flour as were her rosy pink cheeks. She was a miniature version of my wife. Helen was a true beauty. She was the kind of woman who Shakespeare wrote sonnets about. I’d known that from the minute I’d seen her on campus, and she’d only become more beautiful in motherhood.
“William, you’re back. We wondered what happened to you, didn’t we, Juliet?” Helen brushed flour from her hands.
“I brought you both a surprise.” I pulled a large paper shopping bag from behind my back and cradled the bottom of it.
“We said no presents, remember? Every penny we own is invested in the bakeshop.” Helen’s brow furrowed as she nodded toward Juliet.
“It’s our anniversary, though, darling. Of course I had to get you a little something.” I handed her the bag and watched as she removed a ceramic vase with a low cut bouquet of pale purple and ivy roses. “That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”
“Will, they’re beautiful.” She walked around the island and stood on her tiptoes to kiss me. “You shouldn’t have though.”
“It’s nothing. I did a little trade with Janet. Anniversary roses in exchange for a batch of your double-chocolate cookies tomorrow. That’s acceptable, isn’t it?”
Helen smelled the fragrant bouquet. I had asked Janet to create something romantic and ethereal. “There’s something in the bag for you too, my little pea blossom.”
Juliet’s eyes widened as she dug her head into the bag and came out holding a flower crown. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Daddy.”
“Put it on. Every heroine needs a crown now and then, doesn’t she?”
Helen caught my eye and blew me a kiss. “We were just putting the finishing touches on Daddy’s surprise. You want to help me with it?”
Juliet nodded. Helen helped her place the flower crown on her head. It was a simple string of baby’s breath, dotted with rose petals, but at five, to Juliet I was sure it seemed like a crown fit for a princess. Her light eyes sparkled with delight when Helen lifted her up to see her reflection in the mirror behind the pastry counter. She had started kindergarten this fall, and Helen and I were constantly in awe of how bright and curious our young daughter had become. Not a day went by when she didn’t have at least a dozen questions for me, everything from how to make peanut butter cookies to wanting to understand why the stars disappeared behind the clouds sometimes.
Helen set Juliet back on the floor. “Okay, close your eyes, William. No peeking.”
I obliged, listening to their giggles.
“Okay, go ahead, open them.”
I opened my eyes to see a spectacular cake shaped to resemble Shakespeare’s scroll sitting on the edge of the countertop. “Did you bake this?”
“Mommy did it!” Juliet blurted out.
Helen beamed.
“It’s amazing.” I stepped closer to get a better look at the cake. It had been frosted meticulously with buttercream. The perfectly exact cake edges looked like they had been carved from tile. An antique scroll with bloodred tassels filled in the center of the cake and my favorite quote from Romeo and Juliet had been piped with chocolate frosting. It read:
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.”
I had recited those words to Helen on our wedding day.
“I knew you could bake, but when did you learn how to design like this?” I looked to Juliet and raised one eyebrow. “Have you two Capshaw women been keeping secrets from me?”
Juliet bit her bottom lip and nodded.
“It’s nothing. The community center in Medford offered a weekend class on cake designing. Remember how I told you that I’ve been helping Janet set up the flower shop on Sunday afternoons? Well, really, I’ve been taking a design class. I’ve learned so much and the instructor said I have real promise. Your anniversary cake was my first attempt at something not in our class manual. Be honest, what do you think?”
“What do I think? I think that Torte is about to become the best-known bakeshop on the West Coast. Imagine, Helen, if you can do this for our customers. We can offer special birthday and holiday cakes like this? Maybe OSF will even hire us to do their opening shows. Wow. I’m almost speechless.”
“You’re never speechless, William.” Helen reached for a stack of plates on the shelf next to the mirror.
“True, but this is going to be a game changer. My beautiful and talented wife is going to outshine all the professional pastry chefs.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, you haven’t tasted it yet,” Helen teased.
We cut into the cake and shared a slice around the kitchen island. Juliet relayed her big day in school and Helen told me that she had some even more exciting news.
“Stewart Anderson called while you were gone. He wants you to stop by the Cabaret first thing tomorrow morning. Apparently he doesn’t think they’re going to be ready for dinner or dessert service for the grand opening and is wondering if we might cater it. Can you imagine? That would be a huge client.”
“That is great news,” I agreed, savoring the chocolate, raspberry fudge cake. “Catering live theater would be a big job, but that could mean some serious cash. And, lord knows we need cash.”
“Exactly.” Helen wiped chocolate from Juliet’s cheek. “I can call one of my girlfriends to come help me if you decide to do it. I’m sure Wendy would gladly fill in for a little while, and Janet and I already agreed to do a kindergarten carpool. Thomas and Juliet can take turns being here and at the flower shop. We can make it work, if you want to do it.” She paused. I could see the slightest hint of worry behind her walnut eyes.
“I mean it is a great opportunity and would mean steady cash for the run of the show.”
I scooped Juliet up in my arms and spun her in a circle. “Let’s see how the meeting goes tomorrow and then we can make plans accordingly.”
Later that night I couldn’t sleep. The burden of the bakeshop’s finances and Juliet’s future had been weighing heavy on my mind. I knew that Helen was equally concerned, so I’d been doing my best to stay upbeat about our finances.
“William, you’re up again?” Helen’s voice sounded groggy as she massaged my shoulder. “You worry too much. Your brain won’t shut off, will it?”
She knew me too well. I reached for her hand. “Don’t give it a thought. Go back to sleep and I will ‘dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.’”
I figured that quoting Shakespeare might get me a punch in the arm or a soft kick in the shin, but instead Helen whispered something under her breath, rolled over, and went back to sleep. At least one of us could sleep. She’d been working so hard, I would do anything to spare her any additional concern over our budget. Perhaps I was blowing things out of proportion. We were doing well for a new business, but sooner rather than later we were going to need to hire some part-time counter help.
Helen and I had chosen Ashland for its lifestyle. The entire motive for our move here was to give Juliet a better life. I didn’t want to watch my daughter’s life speed by and miss major milestones because we were tethered to the bakeshop. My friend Doug had been instrumental in helping me sort out a three-year financial plan for Torte. Everyone we had spoken with in the restaurant business had told us that the first three years were make-or-break. If we could survive these first years, the odds of growing and maintaining the business after the three-year mark skyrocketed. One of the biggest hurdles was the amount of time and sweat equity required
to grow the business. Most new business owners didn’t account for the fact that if they wanted to pull in a profit, hiring a huge staff (or any staff for that matter) wasn’t feasible.
Helen and I knew that going into this endeavor, but what we hadn’t counted on was public demand. Our loyal customer base was growing every day and requesting that we open earlier and stay open longer. It was a good problem to have. Extending our hours meant that we could sell more, but it also meant having to juggle our personal schedules and less free time to spend with Juliet.
If we could bring in extra money by partnering with the Cabaret and put together new pricing for specialty cake designs, we might be able to hire a part-time staffer. We were about to get the first espresso machine in the Rogue Valley. Espresso drinks like cappuccinos and lattes had caught on in San Francisco but hadn’t made their way north yet. Helen and I had agonized over the hefty price point of the imported Italian machine, but it should make Torte stand out as the premier spot for coffee in all of southern Oregon. The machine was due to arrive tomorrow, and I couldn’t wait to take it for a test drive.
Go to sleep, William. You won’t be any good to Juliet or Helen if you’re a zombie. I tossed and turned for another couple of hours, plagued by bad dreams and intrusive thoughts of my daughter and wife left out begging in the cold. If I couldn’t find a way to get my emotions in check, I was personally going to be responsible for tanking our fledgling business before it even had a chance to get off the ground.
Chapter Five
The Professor clasped his hands together. “It is quite evident how deeply attached Will was to you and your mother, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s for sure.” I turned to the next section in the journal, buying myself some time to gain control of my emotions. “You know, I have a vague memory of that cake.” So many of my memories were tied to food. The pink raspberry angel food cake my parents made every year for my birthday, Sunday soups and stews served family style around our kitchen table, and gooey warm cinnamon rolls slathered with cream-cheese frosting. My father’s descriptions of the early days of Torte brought a flood of food memories to the surface.
Nothing Bundt Trouble Page 4