“Yep,” she replied, accepting the protein shake. “Thanks, Fee. Our customer would like six fudge brownies. Would you package them and collect his payment?”
Before Fee could reply, Emma turned her back and headed for the kitchen to enjoy her shake.
“You know,” she heard Fee suggest just as the doors clanked shut behind her, “we have a really nice blonde brownie if you’d like to try a variety.”
The snicker that popped out of her was certainly not ladylike.
Jackson climbed out from behind the wheel of his Altima and tucked the white bakery box of brownies beneath the shelter of his overcoat to protect it from the rain.
The moment he crossed the threshold of The Tanglewood Inn, the familiar cackling of hens greeted him.
“Jackson, you’re dray-enched,” Georgiann declared in her thick Southern drawl.
“It’s rainin’ cats and puppies out they-ah,” Madeline added.
Norma Jean tossed him a thick, white towel that smelled like flowers. “Dry yourself off, baby bruthah.”
All my sisters in one place, at one time. No good can come of this.
“What are you all doing here?” he asked them and then rubbed his rain-soaked face with the towel. “Did I forget something?”
“Norma Jean called us just this morning,” Madeline explained. “I can’t for the life of me figure out why you didn’t rally the troops, Jackson. You know we offered to help you interview for staff.”
“I appreciate that, I really do—”
“All evidence to the contrary,” she crooned. “Norma said you have hotel staff interviews all day today.”
“Yes, but—”
“But, nothing, do you hear me? We’ll set up shop in three corners of the restaurant, and we’ll just plow through those interviews until we find you just the right people.”
Jackson knew better than to argue. He’d learned to choose his battles in cases like this.
Norma Jean Drake Blanchette was the sister closest to Jackson’s age, but being raised as the only boy with three older sisters and a single mom left him feeling a little bit like a lone sitting duck on top of a twirling birthday cake.
“What’s in the box, Jack?” Georgiann asked. Her smile caused the deep dimples on either side of his mouth to cave in like bread dough pressed with two large thumbs.
Box? He’d almost forgotten.
“The most unbelievable fudge brownies you will ever taste,” he announced. “Let’s get some coffee set up in the dining room, and I’ll grab the résumés from Susannah and meet you in there.”
If his sisters were going to force their assistance upon him, the least he could do was wash it down with a few more delectable calories. And he supposed he could share the wealth as well.
The glass elevator up to his office groaned before lifting and then shimmied the rest of the way to the fourth floor. He was relieved when the doors opened at last.
“Coffee?” Susannah asked him as he crossed her office toward his own.
“No, thanks. I’m going to have some downstairs with the Hens.”
“I heard they were here.”
“You heard?” And then he thought better of it. “Don’t tell me. Do you have that file with the résumés?”
“On your desk with your messages.”
Jackson dropped into the leather chair behind the large maple desk. Susannah had separated the message slips into two piles, based on priority. Inside the file folder were at least two dozen resumés, paper-clipped and categorized with small blue sticky notes, annotated in his assistant’s perfect round handwriting.
Desk staff.
Bell staff.
Catering staff.
Susannah Littlefield was the best thing that had ever happened to Jackson’s professional life. She’d been with him for all twelve years at his former job and had agreed to take a gamble and leave the security of corporate America to come along with him on this turkey shoot. Susannah was nearly sixty now, and Jackson was in a state of denial about the fact that she’d be thinking about retirement one day in the not-so-distant future. What in the world would he do then?
Susannah stood in the doorway and adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on her knob of a nose, and then she smoothed the salt and pepper bun at the top of her head.
“I brought you a brownie,” he told her. “But it’s in a box downstairs.”
“I hope to one day meet it in person,” she replied with a grin.
“We live in hope.”
Susannah handed him a typed schedule of interview appointments. “They’re all confirmed except the two highlighted in blue.”
“Thank you, Suzi. You take very good care of me.”
“Somebody has to do it,” she commented on her way out of his office.
Jackson closed the thick file and tucked it under his arm, waving at Susannah as he strode past her desk. Remembering his elevator ride up from the lobby, he made a quick right and headed for the stairs instead.
When he reached the dining room, Jackson stood in the doorway and observed his three sisters. Georgiann and Madeline had their mother’s dark hair, light eyes, and porcelain skin, while Norma Jean’s sandy hair and hazel eyes were reminiscent of the father who had passed away much too early with four small children still waiting to be raised.
Jackson watched them doctor up their coffee as they chattered with one another, oblivious to his presence. Each woman had a style that was all her own: George, in her ankle-length floral dress and single strand of perfect pearls; Maddie, wearing a smart sweater and pleated brown trousers; both women flanking Norm in her acid-washed jeans, tucked-in Henley and flat-soled suede boots. Each of them so different from the others, and all of them still polar opposites from the little brother they adored. Jackson knew he was fortunate to have them, a fact that was easy to forget some days.
“Jackson,” Georgiann called out to him, waving her arms. “What are you doing standing over they-ah? Come on in and let’s get down to business, huh?”
“Did you open the bakery box?” he asked as he joined them at the table.
“We were waiting on you,” Norma replied. “But let’s have at those brownies.”
Madeline poured a cup of steaming coffee and slid it toward him.
“Mm!” Georgiann exclaimed in one short grunt, and then she repeated it. “Mm! These are fantastic. Wherever did you get them?”
“I forget the name of the place. A bakery down near the square.”
“The Backstreet Bakery?” Norma asked, savoring her first bite with what appeared to be nothing shy of ecstasy. “Has to be. Oh, I love that little spot.”
“Maybe.”
“Jackson, you’ve got to steal away their pastry chef for The Tanglewood,” Madeline stated. “These are amazing.”
“Oh!” he snorted, setting down the cup and shaking his head. “N-nnnno.”
“Why not?”
“I met their baker, and she was annoying.”
“Oh, come on,” Georgiann drawled. “How much time could you have spent with her when you stopped in a bakery for a coffee and a sweet? Really, Jackson. How annoying could she be?”
“Ha!” he blurted. “Pretty annoying.”
Well. Besides those exceptional green eyes, and the chestnut silk she wore pulled back into a casual ponytail.
“Jackson.”
“No kidding. She was pushy and tried to sell me something I didn’t even want.” The flour-dusted woman’s green eyes flickered across his recollection, and Jackson shook his head. “And she has a strange preoccupation with hazelnut.”
“Oh, I love hazelnut.”
“Me too.”
“Fine. But she’s not an option for The Tanglewood,” he declared. “Let’s move on. Here are the resumés for the interviews, and the candidates should start arriving in about thirty minutes. George, why don’t you make recommendations for the bellmen, and—”
“Can I have another?” Norma asked, dipping her hand toward the bakery box.
“There are two in there,” she objected.
“The delivery guy gets the last one.”
“They were delivered?”
“Yes. By me.”
“Oh. Well.”
“Here. Console yourself with résumés for the restaurant positions. Maddie and I will talk to the desk applicants.”
“Sweet tooth abuser!” Norma playfully accused.
“Just saving you from yourself,” he said, tying up the box with the length of white string.
“Gee. Thanks.”
“Saving you from yourself,” Georgiann repeated, and then she clicked her tongue. “More like saving the brownie for yourself.”
“Yeah. There’s that,” he replied. And with one defiant flicker of a smile, he popped the last of the brownie into his mouth.
Important Tips for Cake Decoration
Choosing the right bag for applying icing is crucial.
A parchment bag is ideal; it can be used quickly and is disposable.
A round tip is best for applying dots, making straight lines, or writing script.
A star-shaped tip creates beautiful flowers and zigzag shapes.
Use a leaf-shaped tip for a lovely garland design around edges.
Decorate with the V Principle, making a “V” with thumb and forefinger.
Remember: Practice makes perfect! Use a sheet of wax paper or an overturned cookie sheet to practice making designs before icing.
2
My eyes look weird. Do I have bags under my eyes?”
“Not in real life.”
“Well, what does that mean?” Emma asked as she scurried across the kitchen and yanked her favorite pot down from the rack above the prep island. Holding it upside-down and using the bottom as a makeshift mirror, she inspected her face. “Maybe I need more sleep?”
“Em,” Fee groaned. “The picture is two inches square. And whether you look like you might possibly have bags under your eyes is really not the news here, is it?”
Emma thought better of it and sheepishly replaced the pot on the overhead rack. “Of course not.” She sniffed. “No.”
Fee spread out the food section of the Atlanta Journal in front of them. The headline sent a wave of excited shivers over Emma as she read it for the gazillionth time.
“Local Baker Makes Atlanta Proud.”
Three columns and a baggy-eyed color photograph telling the world (or at least her little slice of it) that Emma Rae Travis had won the prestigious Passionate Palette Award for her crème brûlée “masterpiece.” First, a finalist in the wedding cakes category, which had been all the award she’d dared imagine. But then she’d taken the whole enchilada, Best in Show, a national award that said she was the best there was.
“Why didn’t they use a photograph of the cake?” she wondered out loud. “That’s the real story, anyway.”
“They really should have. Dude! That cake was magnificent.”
Emma felt a rush of heat rise over her, and she shook her head. In her mid-thirties, she could still blush like a sixteen-year-old, and she hated that.
“Four layers of sinful confection,” Fee read, pausing to shoot Emma a wide, toothy smile, “layered with some sort of vanilla miracle that stands on its own without daring to seep into this luscious cake. It even manages a whisper of the traditional brûlée crunch without intruding on the velvety softness of the overall experience. Judges scrambled to figure it out as they hovered over Travis’s creation, planning weddings in their minds that would serve merely as an excuse to share this magic with friends, family, and an unsuspecting world. Emma Rae Travis is a confectionary genius.”
It was the third time Fee had read the article out loud, but the excitement hadn’t waned for Emma.
A confectionary genius.
Over the top, but really, really gratifying.
“They only mentioned the Backstreet in tiny letters after the close of the article,” Fee pointed out. “Harry’s going to go ballistic, you know.”
“Yep.” Emma glanced at her watch and nodded. “Any minute now, in fact.”
When the front door exploded open and the bell flew off like a heat-seeking missile, Emma tapped the face of her watch and raised an eyebrow at Fee. “Right on schedule.”
“Why are you standing around back here?” Harry blustered, propping open the kitchen door and filling the doorway as he stared Fee down. “Didn’t you hear the bell in the front? I could have been a customer, and that’s what you do, Fee. You wait on the customers. Now march your tail out there and wait on customers!”
“But you’re the only—”
“Do you not speak English?” he sniped. “Get out there.”
Fee didn’t say another word or even cast a glance in Emma’s direction. Once she slipped past Harry, he stomped into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him.
“So you’ve seen it,” he growled, nodding toward the newspaper.
“Yes,” Emma replied, folding the paper and tucking it into the drawer beneath the counter.
“Then you know that the bakery was barely given a mention.”
“Yes, Harry, and I’m really sorry about that. I talked to the reporter and—”
“The Backstreet Bakery is practically a landmark in Atlanta!” he exclaimed, and then he rubbed his sandpaper face with both hands. “You’d be nothing without this place. You wouldn’t even have that ridiculous award if not for the Backstreet.”
Nothing!
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly—”
“You think about that the next time you go looking for a little notoriety on your own, Emma Rae.”
Emma heard the bakery phone ring, and she wished it had been her cell phone.
My kingdom for an interruption!
“This place gave you your start. I took you in—”
—when you were a nobody right out of cooking school. Emma could say it with him, word for irritating word. She’d certainly heard it enough times to commit the diatribe to memory.
I took you in and gave you a kitchen to bake in, and this—
“…is the thanks I get?”
Fee didn’t set foot into the kitchen. She just called to her through a slight crack in the door. “Em? The phone’s for you.”
THAT’s what I’m talkin’ about! An interruption!
Harry was still grumbling as she moved past him and picked up the phone.
“Emma Travis.”
“Ms. Travis, my name is Susannah Littlefield. I’m the administrator over at The Tanglewood Inn.”
“How can I help you, Miss Littlefield?”
“Susannah, please.”
“Susannah.”
“I don’t know whether you’ve heard about the redesign at The Tanglewood?”
“I think I read something,” Emma said, trying to recall the article. “Some business tycoon bought it to turn it into an exclusive wedding destination hotel or something like that.”
“Yes. My employer, Jackson Drake, has been completely refurbishing The Tanglewood, designing a five-star, one-stop shop for weddings and elegant affairs.”
Emma’s heart began to race, and she glanced at Harry as he leaned over the stainless-steel sink, scrubbing maniacally to eradicate some nonexistent blemish.
“I saw the article about your award,” the woman continued. “Congratulations! It’s quite impressive.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Emma replied. “So what can I do for you, Susannah? Were you looking for a wedding cake?”
“At least one,” Susannah said on a chuckle. “Mr. Drake is interviewing for the catering staff tomorrow afternoon and I saw the article. I was hoping you might come in and meet with him.”
Emma narrowed her eyes and grimaced. As Harry met her glance, he puffed his cheeks and shrugged. “What!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”
“I’m offering you the op
portunity to run your own kitchen at The Tanglewood, Ms. Travis. Select your own staff, and work with Anton Morelli, one of Atlanta’s finest chefs.”
“I’m aware of his reputation. He’s … gifted.”
“I’d like you to consider coming to The Tanglewood to create wedding cakes and pastries for us on a full-time basis.”
Emma’s eyes met Harry’s again, and he glared at her. “Tick tock, Emma Rae. Is that a personal call?”
“Would you like to come and meet with Mr. Drake?”
“I’d love to, Susannah. What time tomorrow?”
Emma stood before the glass case, tap-tap-tapping her fingers on the top of it as she considered the array of baked goods before her.
“Let’s do a selection of petit fours,” she said. “Both kinds of brownies. A couple of the red velvet cupcakes.”
Fee obediently removed each selection as Emma pointed it out, arranging the pastries atop a lace doily on a large aluminum tray.
“I’m going to take two of the mini wedding cakes out of the fridge. The crème brûlée, of course.”
“Of course!”
“And the praline espresso.”
“I thought you made that for the Reynolds tasting.” “I did, but that’s not until Thursday. I can make another before then.”
“Oh, Em,” Fee said on an excited sigh. “This could be huge for you.”
“For us,” Emma replied. “If I go, you go. They said I could hire my own staff, and you can start out as a pastry apprentice.”
Fee crumpled as she tried to stifle her enthusiasm, and then she popped up into a bouncing ball of excitement.
“Buh-bye, Harry,” she sang. “Buh-byeeeeeee.”
“All right now. I don’t have the job yet.”
“But you will,” she vowed. “Once the dude gets a load of what you can do, that job is yours, Em.”
“From your lips to—” She couldn’t even finish it. “Well, you know.”
God hadn’t been paying much attention to Emma for a while. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, she had no reason to believe He’d be interested in starting again now.
Always the Baker, Never the Bride Page 2