Live and Let Pie

by Ellie Alexander

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  Copyright Page

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  Chapter One

  They say that you can’t go back, that it’s better to keep the past in the rearview mirror. That may be true, but lately it felt like my past was creeping into everything I touched. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing. It had started with my mom’s gorgeous midsummer wedding. Seeing her marry her longtime love, the Professor (Ashland’s resident detective and Shakespeare scholar), had filled my heart with happiness, but it had also opened up memories of loss that I thought I had buried long ago—the permanent loss of my father.

  When my dad died in my formative years, it forever altered the course of my future. Mom and I had cocooned ourselves in, sharing the burden of grief, and pouring our energies into Torte, our family bakeshop. We weren’t merely mother and daughter. We were best friends. She was my rock, my confidante, and my steadfast supporter. She had nudged me (well, maybe more like forced me) to follow my dreams of attending culinary school. Without her gentle yet firm guidance I might have never left my hometown of Ashland, Oregon. Now I had come full circle. After years of traversing the seas on a boutique cruise ship I had returned to Ashland and was content to have found my way home.

  The only problem was that my husband, Carlos, was still out to sea. Like Odysseus, he had been sailing vast oceans lured by the siren song of steel-blue waters while I had chosen to plant my feet firmly on Ashland’s hallowed ground. Being apart from him had left a wound in my heart. A wound that, while painful, had forced me out of my comfort zone. It had given me the gift of distance and the opportunity to be alone with myself, maybe for the first time as an adult. I’d spent many months reflecting on my choices, and I was beginning to understand how my father’s early death had influenced my decisions for better and for worse. I hadn’t realized how much I had isolated myself during my years on the ship. Maybe it was what I needed. Or maybe I could have done it differently. Regardless, I had learned valuable lessons and returning to Ashland had cemented my need for stronger and deeper connections. With each passing day my circle of friends and family expanded. It was almost as if I could feel myself branching out, acknowledging the risk of reinjuring old wounds, armed with the knowledge that love and loss go hand in hand.

  When Carlos and his son Ramiro were in Ashland for Mom’s wedding he had professed his desire to be a part of the new life I was carving out. I was torn. As much as I missed Carlos, I wasn’t convinced that he belonged on land. Some people are born to wander. I couldn’t quite picture Carlos thriving in our small, tight-knit community. Wanderlust ran deep through his Spanish blood. He made fast friends at every port of call and thrived on the thrill of ever-changing adventures. Ashland was bucolic, quiet, and quaint. Not that we were without culture. In fact, quite the opposite. As home to the famed Oregon Shakespeare Festival, our sun-drenched town nestled in the Siskiyou Mountains saw travelers from all over the globe who came to take in a production of Sleeping Beauty under the stars or dine at one of dozens of award-winning restaurants. But there was a difference between catering to adventure seekers and actually seeking adventure. I wasn’t sure what Carlos was going to decide, but I knew that Ashland was exactly where I was meant to be.

  “Stop daydreaming, Jules.” I shook myself from my thoughts and reached for a tennis shoe. At the moment I was due at an interview. But thanks to a demonstration of tempering chocolate gone completely wrong, I had had to come home to change out of chocolate-splattered clothes.

  Kitchen flubs can happen to the best chefs—I had had my fair share of disasters over the years—but today’s took the cake. I wasn’t entirely to blame. Torte was undergoing a major expansion. We had recently modeled the basement, which was now home to our baking operations. I was still getting used to the new setup in the kitchen and had forgotten that I had asked Sterling and Andy to move a stack of boxes from upstairs. My chocolate-tempering demonstration had gone without a hitch until I backed into one of the boxes, slipped on the floor, and ended up covered in melted chocolate.

  I knew that my team was going to tease me relentlessly for weeks to come.

  Oh well, such is the life of a pastry chef. You have to be able to laugh at yourself. At least I’d given my staff something to chuckle about. They had been working around the clock and in less than desirable conditions during the remodel.

  The next phase of our growth was under way and involved punching stairs through to the coffee bar and dining area above. Our contractor had run into a couple of challenges (one being that our architect’s wife had been accused of attempting to poison me) that had set us back a few weeks. Dust and the constant sound of hammering and drilling don’t exactly mix with the artisan pastries and coffees we serve at Torte. I couldn’t wait for construction to wrap and to get back to the business of baking.

  In the interim, I had been lining up interviews for potential new hires. We had always run a tight ship at Torte with a small but mighty staff. Our physical expansion and Mom’s desire to cut back a bit meant that we needed to ramp up our team. I was excited about the possibility, but I wanted to make sure whoever we hired would be a match. The wrong person could completely change the recipe we had created with our young and highly capable staff.

  Sterling, a closet poet with soul-piercing eyes and a gentle heart, was responsible for the majority of our savory items—daily soups, grilled paninis, fresh chopped salads, and hearty pastas. Bethany and Stephanie were my pastry stars. They couldn’t be more different in appearance or attitude. Steph’s goth style and aloof attitude, paired with purple hair and a tendency to stare at her feet while speaking, gave off the impression that she didn’t care. Nothing could be further from the truth. Working with her had taught me never to judge a book by its cover. Stephanie was devoutly dedicated to the bakeshop and spent her spare time (when she wasn’t studying for her coursework at SOU) watching baking tutorials on the Pastry Channel and poring through cookbooks. Bethany was bubbly and upbeat. Her cheery, positive attitude brought a lightness to the kitchen. Her baking skills were equally vibrant. She had a natural sense of how to balance sugary confections so that they didn’t end up cloyingly sweet. Finishing out the team was Andy, our resident barista and all-around good guy. Andy’s coffee creations had become a thing of legend. Locals and visitors lined up for his foamy lattes and flavor-infused cold brews.

  The trick would be finding new staff with skills complementary to our current crew. It was a big task, but I was up for the challenge. Ashland is a college town, home of Southern Oregon University, so there was never a shortage of energetic and eager help. Fingers crossed, I would find some gems in the candidates that I had lined up to interview.

  Armed with a list of interview questions and a clean T-shirt, I tied my long blond hair into a ponytail and left my apartment. My apartment sat above Elevation, an outdoor store on the plaza. The minute I stepped outside the sound of laughter and cheers greeted me. I walked down the stairs to find one of the staff members from Elevation balanc
ing on a slack line that had been strung up in front of the store. A small crowd had gathered to watch him as he held his arms out in a T and danced across the line on his tiptoes.

  I joined in the applause when he made it to the opposite end of the rope and took a bow. “Today only, you can go home with your own slack line for the low price of $99. And come watch bigger and better stunts at Lithia Park this afternoon at four. We’ll be showing off our best balancing acts and giving everyone a chance to walk the line.” I overheard his sales pitch as I turned to the left toward Torte.

  The plaza, Ashland’s downtown core, was awash with colorful activity. Each storefront was constructed to resemble Tudor architecture. Seasonal summer displays, from butterfly gardens to racks of costumes and wigs, beckoned shoppers inside.

  A group of tourists loaded with shopping totes stopped to admire a window display at the jewelry shop, where sparkling diamond-studded tiaras and crowns of rose gold reflected the sunlight. I chuckled at the banner above the glittery gems that read: WHERE WOMEN GET IN TROUBLE AND MEN GET OUT OF TROUBLE.

  One of the tourists pointed to the clever line as I walked past. “So true, honey,” she said with a wink to one of her friends. “Let’s go get into some trouble. I see a pair of platinum earrings that will make my husband’s eyes spin.”

  I smiled as I walked on toward Torte, which sat at the far end of the block. Across the street, near the bubbling Lithia fountains, a musician blew on a didgeridoo. The trumpetlike sound echoed throughout the crowded sidewalks. It was nearly impossible not to feel happy in Ashland. Maybe that was due to our Mediterranean climate, the long stretches of sun, the fact that mountains swept to the sky in every direction, the sepia-toned hills to the east, and the dark green forests to the west. Or maybe it was due to our eclectic community of artists—drawn to the southernmost corner of Oregon for its picturesque vistas and star-cluttered skies. Ashland was a haven for creative types—writers, painters, sculptors, dancers, actors, visual artists, and technology wizards all landed in our hamlet, meshing together seamlessly. And then there were the tourists. I was convinced that one of the reasons Ashland exuded such a laid-back and happy vibe was because at any given time vacationers filled our charming downtown streets, popping into shops and restaurants for an unhurried afternoon and lingering over late-night cocktails after the evening show.

  Yep, you’re one lucky woman, Jules, I said to myself as I arrived at Torte and pushed open the front door.

  Inside, the familiar throb of hammering and the hum of the espresso machine greeted me. Our makeshift dining room consisted of crammed-together chairs and a handful of our dining tables. Usually the front of the bakeshop was open with bright, airy window booths, a collection of two- and four-person tables, our pastry counter, and the coffee bar, but during construction we had temporarily reconfigured the space. It was snug to say the very least.

  The entire back half of the shop had been taped off with thick clear plastic. We had removed most of the tables, taken out the old pastry case, and set up a small counter for the short term that housed our pastry trays and espresso machine.

  Andy waved from behind the counter, where he was pulling shots of dark, aromatic espresso. I breathed in the scent and said hello to a couple of regulars who were sitting within earshot of the coffee bar. “It’s looking good in here, Jules,” one of them said, raising an iced matcha latte. The green tea and foamy milk made for a lovely glass.

  I glanced around the tight space. Every spare inch of countertop contained trays of cookies, hand pies, and crusty loaves of bread. The plastic tarp flapped in rhythm with the work crew’s power tools. Customers squished into booths and tables, and light dusty footprints led from the front door to the construction zone. “Thanks, I think. Hopefully we’re in the home stretch. It’s … uh … cozy in here.”

  “Don’t give it a thought, dear. No one cares. Torte is meant to be cozy.” The woman pointed to her honey-lavender scone. “As long as you keep making baked goods that taste like this, we’ll eat out of garbage cans, won’t we, Wendy?”

  Her friend Wendy flashed me a thumbs-up as she took a bite of her pesto-egg croissant sandwich, smothered with melted provolone cheese and stuffed with thick-sliced bacon.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” I grinned and left them to their breakfast. “How’s it going?” I asked Andy.

  He wore a red Southern Oregon University football T-shirt, revealing tan, muscular forearms. Practice for the new season began in a few weeks, meaning that Andy would have to take off early for daily doubles. Yet another reason I needed to hire extra staff—stat. “Great, boss!” he yelled over the sound of a jackhammer. “Another quiet morning in coffee paradise.”

  “Right.” I rolled my eyes.

  Andy grinned. His impish attitude was one of the many things that endeared him to customers, particularly with the teen and twenty-something set. There was often a long line at the espresso bar that I knew had as much to do with Andy’s boyish good looks and charm as it did with his droolworthy espresso concoctions. “You don’t look like a dark chocolate mocha anymore,” he teased.

  “Ha-ha.” I held up the file folder with the resumes. “Somehow I figured that being coated in chocolate might not make a good first impression for our potential candidates.”

  “Or maybe they’d feel so sorry for you they’d take the job on the spot.” Andy snapped his finger. “Speaking of interviews, there’s a woman waiting for you downstairs. She’s here early for her interview and I didn’t know where else to put her and she was trying to get a look at my machine.” He caressed the top of the espresso machine. “Not cool, not cool. Hands off the machinery. I sent her outside and downstairs.”

  At that moment Bethany came through the front door with a tray of lemon drop cupcakes just as two women were leaving. Bethany balanced the tray with one arm as the women ducked under the tray, narrowly avoiding a collision. Visions of lemony buttercream splattering on the floor and windows danced through my head.

  “Nice reflexes.” Andy applauded. “Skills. That’s how you do it, boss.”

  A splotchy blush crept up Bethany’s fair, freckled cheeks. I had suspected for a while that she had developed feelings for Andy. I couldn’t tell if he was oblivious to the fact that she turned bright red anytime she was around him, or if he simply wasn’t interested and figured the kindest thing to do was to play dumb in order to spare her any embarrassment. “Thanks.” She set the tray on the counter. “There’s a woman waiting for you downstairs, Jules.”

  “Already told her. You’re too late, Beth.” Andy shot Bethany a wink and poured foam in the shape of a heart in one of our signature Torte mugs.

  When my parents had opened the bakeshop three decades ago, they had wanted to create a gathering space where everyone who walked through the front door was treated like royalty. Torte’s cherry-red-and-teal walls, corrugated metal siding, and focus on handmade artisan coffees and pastries had done just that. Now it was my responsibility to make sure that we stayed true to their vision through the new changes and growth. My goal was to ensure that the Torte our customers knew and loved would feel the same. From our delicate Torte logo with its fleur-de-lis design to our fire-engine-red aprons and diner-style coffee mugs, my mission was to keep the essence of the bakeshop strong and steady while expanding our square footage. It was also my responsibility to keep them safe. The construction could not be over soon enough. Between my chocolate catastrophe and Bethany’s near miss with the tray of cupcakes, we were flirting with disaster. Adding even more people to our cramped working conditions was only going to make things worse. But I didn’t have a choice. We were desperate for help.

  I left as Andy gave Bethany a high five for her cupcake-saving skills. Then I stepped outside and inhaled the fresh mountain air before heading downstairs for my first interview. The woman waiting for me was one of ten interviews. I was confident that I would find someone (and hopefully multiple someones) who would be the perfect blend for the bake
shop. Things were about to change at Torte. There was no denying that fact.

  Chapter Two

  After drinking in the sweet jasmine-scented summer air I turned toward the exterior stairs leading to the basement. What had once been an abandoned, mildew-ridden underground space that felt like a dungeon had been transformed into a bright baking hub. For the time being we had to access the kitchen from the outside. It wasn’t an ideal setup. The building’s original brick steps had been cleaned and resurfaced in the initial phase of construction, but having to traverse the old stairwell, past tourists and customers who tended to gather at the corner of the sidewalk, and back inside Torte’s front door all while carrying trays of strawberry-rhubarb pies and lemon meringue tarts was a challenge to say the very least.

  The gurgling sound of Ashland Creek greeted me as I descended into the basement. Inside, to the right of the stairs, our new baking operations were the thing of dreams for any pastry chef. There were large industrial racks that could be wheeled and moved as needed. Shiny white countertops and sturdy, waterproof faux-barn-wood floors made the kitchen feel large and open, as did the specialized workstations. There was a section for decorating with neat tubs and drawers of spatulas, pastry bags, piping tools and tips, food coloring, and sprinkles. Our massive mixers sat in a neat row nearby. The walk-in fridge was strategically located near the ovens for quick, easy access. And the pièce de résistance was the exposed brick oven at the far end of the kitchen.

  Additionally, there was extra seating for overflow from upstairs. A few tables, chairs, and a comfy couch surrounded a second atomic style mid-century modern fireplace. Customers could nosh on a marionberry and cream cheese scone and watch my team in action in the kitchen. The basement wasn’t open to customers yet. Stacks of boxes, extra chairs and tables from upstairs were temporarily taking up every square inch of available space.