Always the Baker, Never the Bride
Put on a bib and let the drooling begin! Always the Baker, Never the Bride is full of sweet treats, fun recipes, and a surprise ending that will leave you smiling long after the book is finished.
—RHONDA GIBSON, author of What’s in Your Closet?
Not for dieters, Always the Baker, Never the Bride by Sandra D. Bricker attacks the taste buds and heart, and doesn’t let go. Close your eyes, and you just might taste the award-winning creme brulee wedding cake that almost becomes one of the characters in the story. Bricker has created an ensemble cast, each character so unique and interesting that you’ll want to crawl right into the book and be part of every laugh-out-loud scene.
—DEBBY MAYNE, author of Love Finds You in Treasure Island, Florida and Sweet Baklava (coming March 2011)
Sandra D. Bricker’s Always the Baker, Never the Bride is like a high-end wedding cake—multiple satisfying layers. Unexpected filigree swirls distinguish this novel as one of both culinary and storytelling artistry. Bricker fills the pages with charming characters, an imaginative plot, and a reason to keep reading. My compliments to the baker!
—CYNTHIA RUCHTI, author of They Almost Always Come Home (Abingdon Press) and president of American Christian Fiction Writers
Always the Baker, Never the Bride sparkles like a fine champagne. Sandra D. Bricker has truly hit her stride with this romantic comedy with warm, witty characters and a unique wedding destination hotel setting. I give this book 5 of 5 stars!
—BARBARA CAMERON, author of A Time to Love, first book in the Quilts of Lancaster County series (Abingdon Press, September 2010)
With a cast of zany characters, Bricker serves up another rollicking read in Always the Baker, Never the Bride. She’s a master at weaving humor and romance into some of the most unlikely characters you’ll ever fall in love with.
—ANE MULLIGAN, editor, Novel Journey
A delightful blend of humor and drama combined with recipe tips, Always the Baker, Never the Bride is a fabulous story that will add just the right touch of happiness to readers everywhere.
—ANDREA BOESHAAR, author of Unwilling Warrior (Realms Fiction)
Always the Baker, Never the Bride
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra D. Bricker
ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-0762-9
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in association with Hartline Literary Agency.
Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bricker, Sandra D., 1958-
Always the baker, Never the bride / Sandra D. Bricker
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4267-0762-9 (alk. paper)
1. Confectioners—Fiction. 2. Women cooks—Fiction. 3. Diabetics—Fiction. 4. Hotelkeepers—Fiction. 5. Weddings—Fiction. 6. Atlanta (Ga.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R53A49 2010
813’.54—dc22
2010009940
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 15 14 13 12 11 10
Special thanks to the voice in my head.
Barbara Scott,
you’re my editor/champion, friend, and sister-in-Christ.
DEDICATION
To the Girl Power in my life. By now, you chicks know who you are. And Rachelle, you’re the icing on the cake (pun intended). Thank you so much for getting me the way you do.
And to that little dash of Boy SuperPower. Thanks, D.
And to Candy, my personal assistant. Bouncing around my house with the ear buds in, she suggested I might like to listen to her latest CD. Michael Bublé, your Crazy Love album inspired so much of the spirit of this book. And when Hollywood comes calling to put it on film, there’s a part here for you, sugar.
All recipes contained herein have come from the massive card file of the late Jess Bricker. As sweet as the cakes, pies, cookies, and rolls she baked, my mother truly made me what I am today: a diabetic with a weight problem.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Discussion Questions
Bonus Chapter
An Interview with Author
Want to Learn More About Author
Prologue
She just went over like a lopsided sack o’ corn. I tell ya, I never saw nothin’ like it.”
“Emma Rae? Can you hear me, honey? Emma Rae?”
Emma’s eyes fluttered as she struggled to open them. Her mother’s face came into focus just inches from hers, and she jumped.
“Here she comes, Gavin. She’s coming around.”
When Emma tried to speak, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and it made a sound like paper peeling away from plastic as she wiggled it.
“What … happened?”
“You fainted, Princess.” Her father’s pale face moved closer into view, and he took her hand. Emma realized she’d never seen him so obviously worried.
“I fainted?”
“How do you feel now?” After she had spoken, he looked somewhat relieved. “Still a little woozy?”
“A little.”
She blinked a couple of times before she recognized the denim-clad form who peered over her father’s shoulder. The way it stood on end, Danny Mahoney’s wavy blond hair looked like a halo gone slightly berserk. His perfect square jaw clenched as he peered at her with those crystal blue eyes. Danny was the boyfriend Emma had dreamed about since the sixth grade. He was handsome and cool and just dangerous enough to make her parents worry and her girlfriends green with envy.
“Hi, baby. Whatcha need, huh?”
Gavin glared at Danny and separated him from Emma by repositioning himself. “Avery, why don’t you and The Boy,” which Emma’s father had insisted on calling Danny since their first date in sophomore year, “go and check on that doctor, huh? I’ll stay with Emmy.”
Just then an older man with a face like a bunched-up fist appeared from behind the yellowish curtain. His white coat and clipboard made him look a little like a butcher taking an order, but the stethoscope hanging around his neck provided the clarity Emma needed.
“How are you feeling now, young lady? Better?”
Emma tilted her shoulders into a shrug. “I guess.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really. Daddy says I fainted.”
“She went down like a sack o’ co
rn,” Danny repeated, and then he snickered and looked around for acknowledgment. The only hint of it came from her father’s menacing stare.
“What did you have to eat this morning?” the doctor asked.
Emma thought it over. “Nothing. I don’t know. Except some cake. And a candy bar after second period.”
“No breakfast? Any protein?”
“No.”
“Well, that appears to be the problem. Do you know what it means to be di-a-bet-ic?” He said the word in a slow monotone, like Mrs. Prentiss presenting a new vocabulary word to her class.
Emma shook her head. “No.”
“Oh, no, Gavin. She’s diabetic.”
“Calm down, Avery. Let’s hear the man out.”
“See, when you ate that cake and the candy bar, your blood sugar levels spiked very high, like they tend to do when we consume sugar. But after a spike, they tend to fall just as fast, and that’s what’s known as—”
Emma zoned out long enough to smile at Danny, and she didn’t really hear the longest and most important part of Dr. Benjamin’s explanation about the production of insulin within the body, the difference between hypoglycemia and hyperglycemia, or the body’s natural this and that. She tuned back in about the time Dr. Benjamin told her parents how important it would be for Emma to monitor her blood sugar and stick to a diet created just for diabetics. But despite all the words bouncing around, all she really heard—heard and managed to process—were the two horrifying ones that came near the end of the monologue—the ones that made her mother cry and her father look like he’d been shot in the chest.
Daily injections.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious, Emma Rae,” the doctor told her. “It’s good that we’ve caught this now because you need to get into a routine of nutrition and medication that will affect you for the rest of your life. Emma Rae, you have what is called Type 1 diabetes.”
No, Jesus. No, Jesus. No, Jesus. Please, Lord Jesus, noooooo.
“Does that mean we’ll miss out on the prom?” Danny piped up from behind the others. “Because I’m already out for our share of the limo.”
Aunt Sophie’s Red Velvet Cupcakes
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
1½ cups granulated sugar
1 stick butter,
softened 2 eggs
2½ cups general purpose flour
2 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup buttermilk
1 bottle red food coloring
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon distilled white vinegar
Beat butter and sugar on medium speed until fluffy.
Slowly add eggs while continuing to beat mixture.
Sift together flour, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, and salt.
In separate bowl, beat buttermilk, vinegar, vanilla, and food coloring.
Add 1/3 of the dry ingredients to the wet, and mix on medium speed.
Continue adding dry ingredients in portions, mixing thoroughly.
Spoon into cupcake papers, just over half full.
Bake for 15 minutes and then rotate pan on oven rack.
Bake approximately 5 more minutes.
Allow cupcakes to cool in the pan for 10 minutes and then move to wire rack.
Do not frost until thoroughly cooled.
1
Emma cradled a single cupcake in her hands and lifted it within inches of her face to examine it with care. How she’d love to take a massive bite out of it and feel that moist, crumbly red velvet cake against the roof of her mouth, a flavorful burst of sweetness, and then the kiss of cocoa.
“You’re not thinking of eating that, are you?”
Emma didn’t even blink. Her focus remained fixed on the red velvet cupcake.
“Emma Rae? Have you had some protein? Because if you haven’t, I’ll tackle you right now and take that cupcake away from you.”
The corners of her mouth quivered into a half smile before she set the confection on the wire rack beside the others.
“Calm down, Fiona. I’m not going to eat it. But you could let me dream about it for thirty seconds, couldn’t you?”
Fee peered over square black glasses, a short fringe of matching ebony bangs dangling inches above them. She stared Emma down, one colorful tattooed arm bent at the elbow, as her fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on her hip. Then she wobbled her head in that familiar way, the one that warned: Next stop, a shaking finger, right in your face.
“How about I go get you a protein shake,” her friend suggested. “They have a new sugar-free flavor. Mango.”
“Mmmm.” Emma forced a sliver of a smile and shrugged.
“Dude, you’ll love it. I’ll be back in ten.”
Emma glanced with longing at the wire rack before she returned to the sink to rinse the cupcake pans.
Diabetes. What a funny and cruel joke for God to play on a baker with a penchant for confections. For her recipes, the sweeter, the better. But Emma didn’t partake. She’d won the Passionate Palette Award just last month for her crème brûlée wedding cake—a six-tiered, twenty-four-layer masterpiece filled with sweet custard that inspired one of the judges to remark, “This rocks my world.” And yet Emma had never tasted more than a single, ecstasy-inducing bite.
She dreamed of sitting at one of the bistro tables beyond the swinging doors of her kitchen, a cup of coffee before her, a china plate adorned with an oversized hunk of cake, where the sweetness of each bite enveloped her and every forkful inspired a new creation.
The jingle of the front door beckoned, and Emma dried her hands before she abandoned her sugar-glazed dream and pushed through the kitchen door.
“Welcome to the Backstreet Bakery,” she greeted the GQ cover model in the $600 suit. “How can I help you?”
“Coffee. Black. And one of those chocolate brownies.”
He flicked the shoulders of his jacket with swift brushes that produced sprinkles of moisture. Emma darted a glance out the window; the sky had turned dark and rain drenched the streets.
“I didn’t even know it was raining,” she commented as she placed a paper doily beneath a large fudge brownie on a Staffordshire-inspired blue-and-white dessert plate.
“Came out of nowhere.” He stood before the bakery case and peered at the confections on the other side of the glass.
“You know, these brownies are awesome with hazelnut coffee. Can I interest you in—”
“No, thanks,” he said, cutting her off. “Just black.”
Emma tried to resist the urge to tempt him further, and she was successful for about twenty seconds. Then, with a charming smile, she extended a glass coffeepot toward him.
“Dark roast. Extra bold. Hazelnut’s perfect with chocolate.”
He lifted his eyes and glared at her across the bakery case. “Just black. Thank you.”
Emma shook her head and slipped the pot back into its place before grabbing the Colombian from one of the adjacent burners.
“Black it is.”
He raked his dark hair with both hands, and his milk-chocolate brown eyes met hers without warning. A world of conversation passed between them in one frozen moment. She peeled her gaze away and tried not to stare at the slightly off-center cleft in his square chin.
“That’ll be four dollars and eighteen cents.”
He slipped a five toward her and muttered, “Keep the change.”
She hesitated, wondering if she should bother to point out that she was the baker and not a waitress. And then she realized the tip was only about eighty cents.
Stand-up guy.
While GQ took his cup and plate and settled at a table near the window, Emma wiped down the counter and started a new pot of decaf.
A happy grunt called her attention back to her customer, and she tripped over the crooked grin he aimed in her direction.
“What’s in this?” he asked, wiping a
smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “It’s fantastic.”
“Just your average fudge brownie,” she replied, unsuccessful in completely masking her pride. “Well, actually, I use cashews instead of walnuts, and the frosting is a mixture of cocoa and—”
“I’d like half a dozen of them.”
“Oh.”
“Can you pack them up for me?”
“Sure. But wouldn’t you like to try a variety? We also have a really nice blonde brownie with hazelnut cream—”
“What is it with you and hazelnut?” he interrupted. “Are you invested in plantations? I like the fudge brownie. I’d like to purchase six of them. Can you do that for me?”
Emma swallowed the answer that pressed against her lips and instead replied, “Yes, sir. I can do that.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Fee erupted through the door at just that moment, drenched from the downpour on the other side, oblivious to the obnoxious customer in their midst.
“I didn’t get mango,” she announced, rounding the bakery case and shaking her wet head until it splashed Emma. “They had the berry one that you like so much, so I got that one. Is that okay?”
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