The Sweetest Temptation

by Rochelle Alers

  Tessa gave her a saccharine grin. “I know I’m not.” She headed for the bathroom.

  “Do you and Micah plan to have children?” Faith said as Tessa retreated.

  Tessa smiled over her shoulder. “Yes.”

  Simone winked at Faith before following her sister into the bathroom. “Hot damn! We’re going to be aunties.”

  “I’m going to spoil my niece or nephew!” Faith called out.

  “You better not,” Tessa called out.

  “Try and stop me, Theresa Anais Whitfield.”

  Tessa stuck her head out of the bathroom. “Oh, no, you didn’t call me by my full name.”

  “Yes, I did.” Faith returned to the kitchen area to turn off a simmering pot of shrimp chowder. She added a Thai peanut dressing to the salad, tossing the crisp greens and crispy-fried popcorn shrimp, placing the bowl on the table next to the floral centerpiece. She planned to begin the five-course meal with shrimp cocktail, followed by soup, salad, an entrée of shrimp and snow peas with white rice and a dessert of frozen cassata—a vanilla ice cream cake that incorporated the flavors of an Italian cannoli filing: ricotta, chocolate, pistachios and orange peel.

  The sisters returned. Tessa offered to uncork the bottle of wine while Faith ladled the steaming chowder into soup bowls. Her cell phone rang, and before she could tell Simone not to answer it, she’d picked it up.

  “Good evening, Let Them Eat Cake.” Simone knew Faith used her cell phone exclusively for business.

  “May I please speak to Faith Whitfield,” said a deep male voice.

  Simone’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Ethan McMillan.”

  Simone covered the mouthpiece with her thumb. “It’s Ethan McMillan.”

  Faith’s breath caught in her chest before she let it out slowly. “Ask him if he can leave a number so I can call him back.”

  Simone repeated Faith’s request. “Hold on while I get something to write with.” She gestured for something to write, and Faith handed her a pen and paper from the magnetic pad attached to the side of the refrigerator. Simone wrote down the number, then repeated it for accuracy. She was smiling when she ended the call. “Who’s the brother with the X-rated voice?”

  Faith schooled her expression not to reveal what she was feeling at the moment—a rush of excitement for a man who’d managed to affect her more than she wanted, a man whose very presence disturbed and piqued her curiosity.

  “How do you know he’s a brother?” she asked Simone as they sat down.

  “Don’t play yourself, cousin,” Simone drawled as she placed a cloth napkin over her lap. “Only brothers are blessed with voices that deep.”

  Tessa peered closely at Faith. “Who is he?”

  Faith knew that if she didn’t give the two a plausible explanation, then they would pester her throughout dinner. She could lie and say he was a client, but she’d never lied to her cousins and didn’t want to start now.

  “He’s someone I promised to go out with.”

  Tessa shared a smile with Simone. “I’m going to ask you one question, then I’m going to get out of your business.” Faith nodded. “Is he what Aunt Edie would call ‘potential husband material’?” Faith’s mother had lectured them sternly once they’d begun dating, saying, “Every man you date should be considered a potential husband. If not, then don’t waste your time.”

  Faith filled the wineglasses with the pale wine rather than meet Tessa’s questioning gaze. “I’ll reserve comment. First I have to find out whether he’s a frog.”

  “Ribbit!” Simone croaked.

  Faith and Tessa burst out laughing, setting the tone for an evening of good food and a closeness that had begun with earlier generations of Whitfield women.

  Tessa pushed back her chair and stood up. “I forgot to give you Bridget’s gift.” She retrieved her purse and took out a small gaily wrapped box, handing it to Faith.

  Simone and Tessa stared at Faith as she removed the paper, opened a small black velvet box and stared numbly at a pair of thirteen-millimeter Tahitian pearl earrings suspended from a drop clasp of bezel-set diamonds.

  “Oh, my!” Faith gasped in awe. “They are stunning!”

  “I got the same pair,” Simone said.

  Faith smiled at Tessa. “I’m going to wear them at your wedding.”

  “Speaking of weddings, Faith,” Tessa began softly, “I’d like to ask you if you’d be my maid of honor.”

  A rush of tears filled Faith’s eyes. She blinked them back before they fell. “I’d be honored, Tessa. How many attendants do you plan to have?”

  “That’s going to depend on Micah. He’s asked his father to be his best man, and his two brothers will be groomsmen. You’ll be my maid of honor, Simone a bridesmaid and I’m thinking of asking Micah’s sister-in-law whether her teenage daughter can be a bridesmaid.”

  Faith wrinkled her pert nose. “Isn’t it going to feel funny planning your own wedding?”

  “I’m not,” Tessa admitted smugly. “Simone’s going to be my wedding planner.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Faith asked, an expression of shock freezing her features.

  Simone shook her head. “No, she’s not.”

  A blush suffused Tessa’s face. “Micah and I have decided to begin trying for a baby as soon as we’re married. And if that happens, then I’d like to have a backup person in case of morning sickness, bloated ankles and when I’m too fat to bend over to tie up my shoes.”

  Faith waved her hand. “Please, Tessa. Knowing you, you’ll probably design a wardrobe that will make you Brooklyn’s most tricked-out mother-to-be. Speaking of Brooklyn, do you still plan to live there after you’re married?”

  Tessa nodded. “Yes. Micah sold his Bronx condo to Bridget and Seth, and he only has six months left on his Staten Island rental. I’ve put a lot of money into the brownstone, so I’ve decided to keep it.”

  Reaching for her wineglass, Faith raised it in a toast. “To Tessa and Signature Bridals.”

  Simone and Tessa followed suit, touching glasses in a toast to Signature Bridals.

  CHAPTER 5

  Faith couldn’t believe how quickly time had slipped away when she closed the door behind her cousins. They’d talked nonstop about Tessa’s upcoming June nuptials, and would’ve still been talking if Simone hadn’t had to go to Grand Central Station to catch a train to White Plains, before she had to wait hours for one or they stopped running altogether until the following morning. Tessa had invited her sister to spend the night with her, but Simone turned her down, saying she had to deliver flowers to patients at a local hospital.

  Faith had filled a large container with leftover chowder for Simone. Her artistic cousin grew and arranged beautiful flowers, set an exquisite table, but couldn’t cook worth a damn! When their paternal grandmother decided it was time her granddaughters learned to prepare some of the recipes that had been passed down through countless generations of Whitfields, Simone was nowhere to be found. And when she finally showed up hours later, she was dirty and sweaty from playing ball with the neighborhood boys.

  Clearing the table, Faith stacked dishes in the dishwasher, and then she saw it. It was the paper with Ethan’s number. How could she have forgotten that he’d called? Picking up the cordless phone, she dialed his number. He answered after the fourth ring.

  “Good evening.”

  Smiling, Faith cradled the receiver between her chin and shoulder. “Good evening to you, too. This is Faith Whitfield returning your call.”

  A deep chuckle caressed her ear. “I knew it was you, dessert lady, because your name and number came up on my caller ID.”

  “Did you make it home all right last night?”

  “It took a little longer than I’d expected, but yes, I made it home safely. Thank you for asking.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you have your calendar nearby?”

  A slight frown appeared between her eyes. �
�Why?”

  “I’d like to see when you’re available to go out with me.”

  “Before I get my calendar, I’d like you to answer one question for me.”

  There was a pause before Ethan said, “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you married?” She’d noticed the gold signet ring on the pinky of his right hand.

  There came another pause, this one longer than the previous one. “Do you think I’d ask you to go out with me if I was married?”

  “I can’t answer that, Ethan.”

  “And, why not?”

  “Because I’ve been asked out a few times by married men.”

  “Well, I’m not married, so are you still willing to go out with me?”

  Tearing a sheet off the pad, she picked up a pen, drawing a line down the center of the page. She jotted down Ethan’s initials and labeled the columns Frog and Prince. She checked off Prince.

  “Yes. Hold on, let me check my calendar.” Retrieving her PDA, she clicked on the current month. “I’m free Thursday and Saturday.”

  “It would have to be Saturday because I’m taking you to the Rainbow Room for dinner and dancing.”

  “The Rainbow Room,” she repeated.

  “Rockefeller Plaza, sixty-fifth floor.”

  “I know where it is, Ethan.”

  “Well…”

  “Well what?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what, Faith?”

  She let out a sigh. “I’ll go to the Rainbow Room with you for dinner and dancing.”

  “Why does it sound as if you’re doing me a favor?”

  Faith smiled. “That’s because I am, Ethan McMillan.”

  He laughed again. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  “I’ll be ready. Good night, Ethan.”

  “Good night, Faith.”

  She ended the call, her smile still in place. Faith was tempted to give him another check, but decided to wait until Saturday.

  * * *

  When Faith unlocked the door to Let Them Eat Cake early Tuesday morning she was met with the tantalizing smell of baking bread. She’d hired Oliver Rollins the year before because some of the regular customers who frequented the patisserie had requested freshly baked bread. Oliver made the ubiquitous white, rye, wheat and pumpernickel, then one day he added onion-dill rye and maple-pecan breakfast loaves. The nontraditional varieties became so popular that Faith and Oliver decided to forgo the traditional loaves. On Saturday mornings a line of customers stretched down and around the block as they waited patiently to get into the tiny shop to purchase loaves of bread, rolls, cake, candies and delicate pastries for the weekend.

  During the warmer weather, the selections varied when Faith made beignets, diamond-shaped donuts made famous in New Orleans where they’re traditionally eaten warm with café au lait. Foccacia had become an instant favorite the first time it was offered, along with pesto swirl bread. A delicious layer of pesto spread on light whole-wheat dough rolled up and baked into a tasty loaf was the perfect complement for soups, salads, pastas and grilled meat and fish.

  Let Them Eat Cake’s reputation hadn’t flourished from the exotic pastries and desserts offered to their customers but from the individual-size portions on display in the showcases. Someone wishing to purchase a black forest cherry cake as dessert for three was given the choice of buying three individual-size cakes rather a whole cake that would serve eight to ten. It took more time to create the smaller cakes, but customers were more than willing to pay extra for the more precise portions. Those who’d admitted being on diets expressed their gratitude because of the all-natural ingredients and size proportions.

  Locking the door behind her, Faith made her way to the rear of the shop. The heat of an industrial oven felt good after her brisk three-block walk. It was five o’clock, and it would be at least another hour before sunrise and two before Let Them Eat Cake opened for business.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rollins.”

  Oliver Rollins, closing the door to the oven, glanced over his shoulder to give Faith a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Morning, missy.” He’d confessed that he wasn’t very good with names, so he referred to every woman as missy. “You’re in early this morning.”

  Storing her coat in a narrow metal locker, Faith returned his friendly smile. Oliver had been a baker with the Silver-cup Bread Bakery in Long Island City for more than twenty years before the plant was sold and converted into movie studios. He’d worked odd jobs over the ensuing years, and because of his appearance was hired as a department-store Santa during the Christmas holiday shopping season. Faith considered herself blessed when, only two days after placing a Help Wanted sign for an experienced baker in the shop’s window, Oliver Rollins applied for the position.

  “I want to bake a few birthday cakes today.”

  She’d decided to begin her book with the ever-popular birthday cake. She slipped on a bibbed apron, covered her hair with a hair bonnet, then washed her hands in a sink. Faith had thought it ironic that the kitchen was twice as large as the shop’s selling area, yet had decided to forgo having an architect reconfigure the space’s design because that would’ve meant getting approval from the building’s owner, obtaining the necessary permits from the city and closing down for several months. Her only other alternative was to relocate to another building in the West Village. One major drawback was that a bigger space in a more up-to-date building translated into higher rent, and because she’d just begun to realize a profit, she was reluctant to operate in the red again.

  A buzzer rang in the kitchen, and Oliver and Faith glanced up at the wall clock at the same time. It was exactly six o’clock. Oliver took off his latex gloves. “I’ll see who it is.” Walking over to a panel on the door that led to the alley behind the shop, he pressed a button. “Yes?”

  “It’s Ranee,” said a nasal voice through the speaker. Faith and Oliver shared a glance. It was the assistant pastry chef, Ranee Mason. The classically trained pianist had turned down a full scholarship to Juilliard to pursue her dream of becoming a pastry chef.

  “Let her in,” Faith ordered in a quiet voice, wondering why her assistant had shown up two hours earlier than her regularly scheduled time. She didn’t have to wait long for an answer when Ranee raced into the kitchen.

  “I need you to sample something I made last night!” Her dark eyes were filled with an excitement that Faith hadn’t seen since the day she told the recent graduate that she was hired. Ranee thrust a plastic-covered container at her boss before she pulled a hand-knitted cap from her braided hair.

  Oliver walked over to Faith, peering into the container when she removed the top. He liked Ranee’s ebullient, outgoing personality. Her enthusiasm for baking was spontaneous and contagious. She reminded him of the dolls on display during the holiday shopping season, with her round dark eyes, smooth brown skin and tiny nose and mouth. Even her diminutive height made her appear doll-like.

  Faith stared at three tart-size cakes. Ranee had baked two cheesecakes: blueberry, raspberry and a mousse made with a chocolate pastry shell, a white chocolate filling and drizzled with dark chocolate.

  She smiled. “They look too pretty to eat.”

  Ranee pressed her palms to her chest over her coat. “Please taste them.”

  Faith, who’d almost given up eating desserts after taste-testing so many of them over the years, removed the cakes from the container. Reaching for a knife, she cut them in two. She handed Oliver a half of the chocolate mousse.

  “Two sets of taste buds are better than one,” she remarked as she took a bite of the cake. Eyes widening in surprise, Faith tried to identify the ingredients. She recognized the distinctive taste of white chocolate and vanilla extract, but the other ones weren’t overtly recognizable. The mousse was delicious.

  Oliver chewed and swallowed his portion, bushy white eyebrows lifting as he angled his shaved head covered with a white baseball cap. “It’s fantastic.”

  “I agree,�
� Faith said, as she searched her mind to identify what Ranee had mixed with the white chocolate. “Okay, Ranee, I give up. What did you use for the filling?”

  Ranee grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I added powdered gelatin to superfine sugar, vanilla extract, eggs and plain yogurt.”

  Faith shook her head in surprise. “That’s it! The yogurt makes it light and not too sweet.”

  Ranee unbuttoned her coat. “It’s a Greek chocolate mousse tartlet. Now, please try the cheesecakes.” She watched intently as Faith and Oliver sampled both cheesecakes. “What do you think?”

  Faith’s impassive expression did not reveal what she was feeling at that moment. Ranee Mason was not only a gifted musician, but pastry chef, as well. “I believe you may have matched Junior’s.” The Brooklyn-based landmark restaurant on Flatbush and DeKalb Avenues had earned the inimitable reputation as the home of New York’s best cheesecake.

  Ranee beamed like a child whose fervent wish had been granted. “I made the blueberry shell with ground hazelnuts and varied the strawberry with a French tart pastry.”

  Wiping her hands on a towel, Faith met her assistant’s gaze. “Congratulations, Ranee. Your cakes will be added to the showcase of staff favorites.”

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, Ranee did a happy dance before hugging Faith, then Oliver. “Thank you,” she crooned over and over, her apparent joy boundless.

  Customers who visited the shop always stopped to peruse the showcase with the recommended items, and the result was usually a sellout before closing time. Faith, while a pastry chef apprentice, had been encouraged to come up with her own creations, and she’d done the same with her baker and assistant pastry chef.

  If the patisserie was forced to move to a larger space, then there was no doubt Oliver Rollins and Ranee Mason would assume supervisory positions. Faith’s long-term plans for her business did not include renting, but building ownership.

  * * *

  Faith, hopping on one foot to the door to answer the intercom, was in the process of multitasking as she pulled up the strap of her shoe over her heel while talking into the cell phone cradled between her chin and shoulder. It was definitely time for her to get a hands-free device. It was seven-thirty, and there was no doubt it was Ethan McMillan who’d rung her bell.