Always the Baker, Never the Bride

by Sandra D. Bricker

  “Mohammed can’t come to the tea room, so the tea room will just come to Mohammed,” she quipped. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  He leaned back in his chair and let the shadow of a smile cross his face.

  “The menu was a big success,” she told him as she laid it out in front of him. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it soon enough.”

  “No doubt,” he replied. “Is that coffee?”

  “Yes. No special flavor, no added anything, just strong, black and Colombian.”

  He sighed, then grabbed the cup and waved it beneath his nose. Closing his eyes, he took a strong whiff and sighed again.

  “Enjoy,” she whispered as she backed out of the office.

  “Wait. You don’t have to go right away. Have a seat.”

  “Susannah said you were buried. I don’t want to sidetrack you.”

  “I can use a little sidetracking right now, Emma. I’ve reviewed and signed so much paperwork today that my eyes are a blur and my hand is cramped.”

  “Poor little hotel owner,” she teased.

  He shook his head and pasted a mock-serious grimace on his handsome face. “And here I thought I might get a little sympathy.”

  “What made you think that? Silly man,” she returned, and he shot her a good-natured grin.

  “So did my sister hit you up about your mother?”

  Emma’s eyes darted from the desktop to Jackson’s face. “Pardon me?”

  “I guess not. George has this crazy idea that having your mother come to the opening night gala might help put us on the map, socially speaking.”

  “Oh.” Her thoughts were suddenly like a crazy, offbeat railroad hub where trains just barreled in, smacking into one another on every side. “I really don’t think … I mean … How does Georgiann know who my mother is?”

  “I guess I told her,” he admitted. With his face tilted downward, Jackson lifted his eyes and squinted slightly as he gazed at her. “Sorry.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The day you came in to interview. You mentioned it.”

  “I did?” She strained to remember what would cause her to do such a thing. She normally liked to keep her family tree planted behind a brick wall and an imposing fence.

  “There’s no obligation,” he assured her. “I mean about inviting your parents.”

  “My parents?” she exclaimed, and she reached out and held the edge of the desk with both hands. “Both of them? Well, that could just never … it couldn’t … they wouldn’t.”

  Jackson’s laughter was lyrical, yet really irritating at the same time. What on earth could he find to laugh at? What could be funny about the horrifying picture he’d painted on her black-black mind’s eye! Gavin and Avery Travis in the same place, the same room, at the same time?

  “Don’t panic, Emma. Calm down. No family reunions, I get it.”

  “It’s just that … you don’t understand how … how …”

  “Relax,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s okay, I do understand. Family, over there.” And he waved his arm at the doorway and down the hall. Then he mimed a circle in front of him and added, “Work life, here. Worlds colliding, bad.”

  “Yes,” she nodded emphatically, and then transitioned to shaking her head. “Very, very bad.”

  “You’re singing to the choir, my friend. Singing to the choir.”

  The familiar jingle from the bell on the front door of The Backstreet Bakery brought a sort of hollow nausea to the pit of Emma’s stomach. She thought she would never cross this particular threshold again but, as her Aunt Sophie used to say: “Never” can be a very short surprise.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  It had only been a couple of weeks, but Harry looked different to her. His comb-over was particularly sparse, and the sour expression on his scrunched-up face appeared just a little more tart.

  “Hi, Harry. How are you?”

  “How am I?” he exclaimed. “You take off and leave me in the lurch like that, and now you darken my door to ask me how I am?”

  “I referred three wonderful bakers to you, Harry. It’s not my fault that you ran every one of them out of the place with your sparkling personality.”

  “Incompetents! All of them.”

  Emma found herself wondering, just for a moment, whether Harry and Anton Morelli were related.

  “Harry, what’s this nonsense about suing Jackson Drake?” she asked, stepping toward him, just the display case standing between them. “Please don’t do that.”

  “He stole my whole staff right out of my kitchen.”

  “He didn’t. He made me an offer, and I took it. I stole Fee, Harry.”

  “So you admit it. I’ll just name you in the suit then.”

  Emma sighed. “I don’t know why I thought coming here to talk to you would help the situation. I guess I just hoped you’d surprise me and sprout a conscience.”

  “I made you, Emma Rae. You’d be nothing without The Backstreet.”

  She swallowed hard. “You’re probably right. Maybe that’s why I’m here.”

  Harry glanced down at the floor.

  “Please tell me what I can do to make this right, Harry. The Tanglewood is such a great opportunity for me. And I’m sorry for the effect it’s had on you, but I had to take the chance and move on. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  No reply.

  “I went to culinary school with a girl named Delilah,” she said, rooting around in her bag until she found the slip of paper with her friend’s name and phone number scribbled on it. “She is a wonderful baker, Harry; probably better than me. I’ve told her all about you, and she’s waiting for your call.”

  Harry glared at her, but he took the paper from her hand.

  “Don’t mess this up,” she warned him gently. “She’ll keep this place on the map.”

  Harry sniffed and gave her half a nod. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Hire her, Harry. And then call off your attack dog and leave Jackson Drake alone to get his hotel up and running.” They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then Emma smiled. “Please do this for me?”

  He nodded, and made a sort of a grunt that Emma decided to take as a verbal agreement.

  “Thank you.”

  Emma headed for the door, and just as the bell jingled overhead, Harry called out to her. “Emma Rae?”

  She turned back toward him and waited.

  “You’re, uh,” he muttered. “You’re the best there is.”

  “Thank you, Harry.”

  On the drive back over to The Tanglewood, while stopped at a light on Holcomb Bridge Road, Emma did something she hadn’t done in a very long while. She closed her eyes and asked God for His help in placating Harry and convincing him to drop the ridiculous lawsuit against Jackson.

  “Jackson has his hands full right now,” she reminded Him. “I can’t stand being the root of one more crisis for him.”

  A honk from the car behind her jerked her eyes open, and she pressed the gas and eased back on the clutch. “All right already. I’m going.”

  Fee had several tables dressed and ready to go for the photo shoot by the time Emma returned to the hotel and made her way into the restaurant. She’d called on her old high school friend, Peter Riggs, for photographic help, and he was now placing lights on tall stands around the crème brûlée wedding cake she’d finished just that morning. Fee had placed it on a high table draped in a yard of scarlet velvet cloth that perfectly matched the color of the sugar roses climbing the tiers of the cake.

  “Hi, Petey. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Glad to do it, Emma Rae. How are you?” Peter pulled her into an embrace, and one of the two cameras hanging around his neck dug into her arm. “Congratulations on your new job, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Listen, I’ve got a meeting upstairs that starts in about three minutes. Fee will get you anything you need, and I’ll try and get back down here before you fin
ish up.”

  “No problem. Do what you need to do.”

  “Fee, be sure and get the cakes out of the lights and back into the fridge as soon as Peter shoots them?”

  “Chu got it, boss lady.”

  “Thanks, both of you,” she called to them as she jogged out of the restaurant and across the length of the lobby.

  She caught her breath on the elevator ride to the fourth floor, and then took several deep breaths and released them slowly before turning the corner into Susannah’s doorway.

  “They’re waiting for you.”

  Emma nodded, then walked into Jackson’s office with a smile. Norma and Anton Morelli flanked Jackson’s desk, and he nodded Emma toward the empty chair to one side.

  “I’m sorry if I’m late.”

  “Where is the other one?” Anton demanded. “Fiona Bianchi.”

  “Oh, she’s downstairs overseeing a photo shoot for me,” Emma replied, and then she turned toward Jackson. “For the framed photographs in the consultation room.”

  “Good. Glad you’re on that.”

  “We were just going over Mr. Morelli’s exquisite wedding menus,” Norma said, and she handed a stack of them to Emma. “Have a look.”

  As she pored over them, Emma wondered who would have the task of suggesting barbecue and cole slaw for Danny’s baseball wedding.

  Pumpkin tortellini with chestnuts.

  Herbed pork loin with praline mustard sauce.

  Pan roasted Georgia rainbow trout with Granny Smith apple and walnut chutney.

  Roasted prime rib of beef with wild mushrooms and caramelized onions.

  Glazed duck breast with roasted eggplant.

  “This is staggering,” Emma told Anton. “You’re a master. An absolute artiste.”

  His very straight face slowly tilted upward into a sort of smile, and she heard Jackson sigh as it did.

  “Now you tell me,” Emma suggested. “Out of my list of specialty cakes, which ones would create the best marriage with your entrees?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Norma shoot Jackson a look, and she imagined that it meant they were pleased. At least she hoped that’s what it meant.

  “Let’s start with the crème brûlée cake,” she said. “What would you think of suggesting a pairing with the duck?”

  “No!” The three of them jumped when the word popped out of him like a sharp, pointed sword. “They must pair crème brûlée with the prime rib of beef!”

  Emma cast Norma a quick glance. Then she shook her head, chuckled and nodded. “Of course. You’re one hundred percent correct.”

  “A gentler taste with the duck,” Anton insisted, pulling one of the description cards from the pile on the desk. “This one, with pistachio filling.”

  “Perfect.” Emma nodded, handing the card to Norma. “The champagne and pistachio cake with the glazed duck breast entrée. Of course, we can never guarantee that they’ll take our suggestions, but—” His expression changed as fast as a dark storm cloud appearing on the horizon. “—we’ll always nudge them toward good taste wherever we can.”

  Anton surprised her with a laugh. “One man’s praline sauce is another man’s beef barbecue, ehh?”

  Emma looked up into Anton’s eyes, and he winked at her. “Fee Bianchi told me of the baseball disaster. But we will please every customer, not just the ones who are right in the head.”

  A string of chuckles tumbled out of Emma, a sort of blended mixture of relief, amusement, and averted panic. Pulling it together again, she told him, “I think that attitude just reinforces why you’re such a master, Mr. Morelli.”

  Anton tweaked her cheek just a little too hard, and Emma glanced over at Jackson just in time to catch the silver flecks of glee flashing in his dark brown eyes, which caught and held hers.

  “Now for the daytime weddings,” Norma interjected. “Mr. Morelli has created some simpler menus for brunches or luncheons.”

  Emma tried to concentrate on Norma’s words—

  Smoked salmon bruschetta, cocktail meatballs in black pepper cider sauce, chicken roulade with rice pilaf… something about stuffed chicken breasts …

  —but all she could really hear was the annoying pound-pound-pound of her own heartbeat in response to Jackson’s tender hold on her eyes. Emma couldn’t look away, and it was frustrating. She was reminded of the time she and Danny had been arguing, and he used duct tape to bind her wrist to his so she couldn’t escape. No matter how hard she twisted and pulled, Jackson Drake’s eyes had her in an infuriating lock.

  “Emma?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Anton asked if you had a pastry with a Southern slant. Something traditional to go with his rainbow trout.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, peeling her gaze away from him like gray duct tape from her wrist. “Yes. Umm, I have something here …” She fumbled through the cards until she found it. “It’s a pecan praline filling with a caramel glaze.”

  “Exceptional,” Anton rumbled, and he gave Emma’s hand a harsh little pat.

  Stacking Multi-Tiered Wedding Cakes

  A cake with multiple tiers often looks as if the layers have simply been placed one on top of the other; however, this is not the case. To do so would ensure a cake avalanche effect as the weight of the upper layers crumbled into the lower ones.

  The bottom tier of the cake is affixed to a cake board with a thin layer of icing to hold it in place.

  The upper tiers are supported with three or four wooden dowels per layer, carefully placed and measured, so that the weight of the upper layer is supported.

  Remember that tiered cakes tend to be quite heavy, so if the cake has to be transported, you’ll want to consider that carefully. You may choose to disassemble the layers before transporting, and then reassemble them when you reach your destination.

  Always advise the bride and groom to cut the cake at the bottom layer first.

  8

  Norma had transformed the room that had once been an office into an inviting consultation room for planning receptions, banquets, and special events. Steel-blue walls set a backdrop for an arrangement of six 11” x 14” photos in identical brushed nickel frames displaying an array of banquet possibilities, from buffet tables brimming with choices to elegant place settings bearing gourmet meals.

  A cherry table and three chairs angled into the corner, and on the opposite wall hung another arrangement of six framed photos, those showcasing Emma’s abilities as a baker and wedding cake designer. Beneath the display sat an overstuffed floral sofa between two indigo easy chairs and a cherry coffee table set with glossy flyers and brochures detailing what The Tanglewood Inn had to offer.

  “It’s really beautiful,” Emma told her as they stood inside the doorway and inspected the finished room.

  “I tried to make it into a place where clients will want to relax and spend time pulling together the details.”

  “You certainly accomplished that.”

  Fee poked her head through the doorway. “Wow!”

  “Isn’t it great?” Emma asked her.

  “Amazing.” She tossed a smile toward Norma before catching Emma’s eye. “You have a call.”

  Emma rubbed Norma’s arm on her way to the doorway. “You done good.”

  “Thanks, Emma.”

  She rounded the corner and crossed her kitchen, then sat down behind her very own desk with a sigh.

  “Emma Travis,” she said as she picked up the phone. “My daughter, the professional.”

  Emma grinned and leaned back into the chair. “Mother.”

  “It always sounds like you’re calling me a bad name when you say it like that, Emma Rae.”

  “How would you prefer me to say it?” she laughed.

  “Mother, darling!” Avery exclaimed. “I’ve missed you so.”

  “Well, I have. How are you, Mother darling? Are you in town?”

  “No, I’m in Savannah with your Aunt Sophie, sweetheart. I’m thinking about bringing her with me to Atla
nta.”

  “It would be nice to have her visit.”

  “Not for a visit, Emma Rae. I’m thinking of bringing her there permanently.”

  Emma chuckled. “Have you discussed that with her yet? I can’t imagine Aunt Sophie packing up and leaving Savannah behind after all these years. Has she ever even left the city limits?”

  “Yes, she has. But she’s not doing very well, and I’m worried about her. I thought I might be able to get her one of those apartments in the Sandy Springs complex where Delores and Beauregard Denton moved last year. Peachtree something.”

  “Everything in Atlanta is Peachtree something, Mother.”

  “It’s one of those communities; a retirement village with a penthouse.”

  “Assisted living?” Emma asked.

  “Yes, that’s it. Sophie can’t live on her own anymore, Emma Rae.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “She wandered off in her nightclothes last week, and they found her waiting outside Nieman Marcus for the doors to open.”

  “Oh,” Emma groaned. “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m very concerned. I’m going to call the Dentons and see what they can tell me about the place. I visited them last year, and we had a very nice luncheon in the restaurant downstairs.”

  “The cafeteria?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Give Aunt Sophie my love?”

  “I will, sweetheart. Now tell me how your new job is coming along. When do you open?”

  “Next week we have an official opening,” she replied, and then she opened the desk drawer and propped both feet on it. “The first hotel guests are booked the week after, and our first wedding is on the eighteenth. You’ll never guess whose wedding it is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Danny Mahoney.”

  “Mahoney,” Avery repeated. “Mahoney. Where do I know—”

  “My high school boyfriend.”

  “Oh! Sweet Ivy James, you can’t be serious. Remember how your father abhorred that boy?”

  “Well, he needn’t have worried. Apparently, Danny has found the woman of his dreams in a tiny blonde named Callie, and their wedding theme … wait for it! … is the Atlanta Braves.”