“Juliet, can I ask you something?” Mom said, stacking a sandwich on a plate.
“Yeah, anything.” I stared at her.
She hesitated for a moment.
“Is it about the house?” I turned the burner to low to allow the fluffernutter to crisp.
“No. Not exactly.” Her face clouded. “It’s about you. I’m worried about you, honey.”
I started to protest.
She held out her arms. “I know. I know what you’re going to say. You’re fine. But I can see it in your eyes. You’re conflicted. About Carlos, aren’t you?”
How did she always know exactly the thing to say to cut through to my core?
“Mom, I feel like I’ve been conflicted forever. Since I left the ship.” I sighed.
“That could be true, but you haven’t been home for that long. In the scheme of your life, your time here in Ashland again has been a tiny blip on the radar.”
“Yes, but this entire time I’ve been back and forth and back and forth about what to do. Not knowing what’s next for us is making me crazy.” I flipped the sandwich.
She buttered a slice of brioche. “What if you gave yourself a break? What if you tried to embrace the not knowing?”
I made a grunting sound. “Embrace the not knowing? That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”
“You haven’t embraced it. You’ve fought it. Fought for the answer. Sometimes there isn’t one answer. There are many.” She locked her warm, walnut eyes on me. “You know, losing your father brought me an unexpected gift. The gift of uncertainty. After he died I had no idea what would be next for us. I didn’t know if I could keep the bakeshop. If I could run it alone. I didn’t know how you would fare in the face of grief. Many nights I cried myself to sleep after you went to bed from the weight of it all.”
I reached for her hand. “I didn’t know that.”
Her eyes were moist. “I didn’t want you to know. It was my job as your mother to spare you from the burden of my own grief. That wasn’t for you to carry. You had enough of your own, and you were learning how to become an independent young woman at the time.”
I swallowed twice.
“One night about a year after he died, I was up late. It was after two o’clock in the morning and I was missing him desperately. I was at the end of my rope. There were so many choices I had to make—whether to hire help, if I should keep the house or have you and me move into something smaller. We had had so many plans for Torte and suddenly none of them made sense.” She paused and handed me a stack of buttered brioche. “I was worried about you too. You were so focused on school and Thomas that I was afraid you were shoving your grief inside. In any event, I got up and went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. While I was waiting for the water to boil, I had the strongest moment of clarity that I’ve ever had in my life. I heard your dad’s voice in my head, saying, ‘Helen, “All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.”’ His voice was so real. I never finished making the tea. I had to go look up the quote to see if it was real or if I was imagining things. It’s Shakespeare. What did it mean? I was furious that night. If he had come to comfort me, why do it with Shakespeare?”
“Because that’s so Dad,” I said, brushing away a tear as I smiled.
“Exactly.” She threw her arms up in surrender. “That’s exactly how your dad would have come to comfort me. The next morning it was as if everything appeared different. I repeated the words again and again, and suddenly I had a new understanding. My plans were just that—plans. They weren’t etched in stone or promised to me. There was something so freeing about knowing that. In the years since I’ve never had another experience like that night. Maybe because I never needed it. Your father, in my darkest moment, brought me the gift of understanding that sometimes the best—and worst—moments in our lives can come to us without planning, without direction, without even trying. Sometimes it’s up to fate.”
“Wow.” I removed the pan from the stove and placed the first sandwich on a cooking rack. “Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”
“I never thought you needed to hear it until now.”
“So, are you trying to tell me that I should let Carlos come?”
She placed her hand over her heart. “I didn’t say that, honey. That’s up to you, but what I’m trying to say is that there are no wrong choices. That it’s okay not knowing. Be gentle with yourself, and let things unfold.”
“I’ll try.”
She kissed my cheek. “Good.” Then she brushed her hands together. “Now, it looks like we have a serious stack of fluffernutters that we’ve been neglecting.”
We returned to grilling the whimsical sandwiches. Mom’s story rang in my head. Should I allow Carlos to steer his ship to my harbor and release my worries about our future to the sea?
Chapter Twenty-eight
Within minutes of everyone’s arrival they sniffed out the ambrosial smells coming from the kitchen. Marty was the first to arrive. He took one look at the plate of fluffernutter sandwiches and pretended to faint. “Those sweet babies make my teeth itch. Watch out or that plate might disappear.”
The group consensus was that the fluffernutters were a slice of nostalgic, gooey heaven on a plate and should be served with a pile of napkins and a fork. Mom and I asked for feedback on whether everyone preferred the bananas or bacon.
“Both,” Andy and Bethany shouted in unison.
We opted to give our customers three choices. The classic fluffernutter with bananas, a bacon-nutter, and the double dare with layers of both smashed together with oozing marshmallow cream and melting peanut butter sauce.
As the team scarfed down every last crumb we went over the schedule for the day and Mom shared her house news. Everyone was equally excited about Mom’s news, which offered a buffer for Andy to come clean with her about his decision to drop out of school.
“Hey, Mrs. C. Wait, I mean Mrs. The Professor. Do you have a minute?” He had come downstairs to grab extra bags of coffee beans. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Of course.” Mom untied her apron. “Shall we go talk in the office?”
“That would be great.” Andy caught my eye and crossed his fingers. I gave him an encouraging nod.
Meanwhile, Sterling, Marty, and I began preparations for the evening meal. Marty diced bulbs of garlic and chopped bundles of fresh rosemary for the focaccia bread we would serve with the chicken cacciatore. “If anyone had fears of vampires running free there’s no need to worry now,” Marty joked. “I think there’s enough garlic here to ward off an army of vampires.”
“You never know when an angry mob of vampires will descend on Torte,” I bantered back.
“Isn’t that every teenager with a cell phone these days?” Sterling asked.
“Touché.”
He had assembled the ingredients for the cacciatore. “You’re sure you’re cool with trying to re-create my mom’s recipe? It’s not exactly a traditional version.”
“Absolutely. That’s what makes it even better.”
Marty agreed. “Put us to work. We’re at your bidding.”
Sterling took quiet command of the kitchen. He assigned Marty to searing the chicken breasts in olive oil and garlic. “I’m going off memory, Jules,” he said, opening cans of black olives. “I definitely remember olives, crushed tomatoes, sweet peppers, and lots of Italian spices, but I’m not sure what else. I pulled up a few traditional cacciatore recipes to use as a starting point.”
“Perfect. Trust your instincts.” I paused and chuckled internally at my own advice. Trusting my instincts had been the theme of the past days, weeks. I hoped that I could learn to continue to trust myself more when it came to my future.
Sterling jotted a couple of notes on the recipe. “And taste as I go, right?”
“And the apprentice becomes the master,” I teased.
Marty passed by us with an armful of baguet
tes. “Master chef in the house, high five.” He paused to give Sterling a high five.
Sterling returned the gesture.
“The kid has got the chops,” Marty said to me. Then he ran one finger along his handlebar mustache. “And that’s high praise from me.”
I laughed.
“He’s going to be one to watch. We’re going to be able to say we knew him when. I see a James Beard award in his future, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.”
Marty continued on with his crusty stack of bread. Sterling ran his fingers through his dark hair.
“See, I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a natural talent.”
He rolled his eyes. “We’ll see, Jules. I have a lot to learn.”
“So do I, but that’s what makes this business fun.”
Marty and Sterling cranked out dozens of fluffernutters. The double dare was by far the most popular. As the morning gave way to afternoon we shifted gears from sweet sandwiches to our Sunday Supper. Soon the smell of charred sweet peppers and caramelized onions wafted from the stove. Sterling added crushed tomatoes, olives, Italian parsley, basil, salt and pepper, and a touch of lemon juice to the sauce. “Taste it.” He held out a spoon for me. “It needs something else.”
I took a bite of the tangy sauce. It needed time to simmer in order for the flavors to marry and deepen, but from the first taste I could tell that we were on the right track. “What about a splash of white wine and balsamic vinegar?”
“Good suggestion.” Sterling poured chilled wine and dark fig-infused balsamic vinegar into the bubbling sauce.
We tasted it again.
“That’s it.” He took another taste with his pinkie. “It’s just like I remember.”
His eyes became dewy. That was the ultimate gift of food. Its ability to transport us to another place or time. To evoke powerful memories with a simple bite.
“It will be even better once it simmers for a few hours,” Marty said, poking holes in the focaccia dough. “Did you know that ‘cacciatore’ translates to ‘hunter’ in Italian?”
“No,” Sterling and I said in unison.
“Yes, it’s an old hunter’s recipe. A hearty, rustic dish created with ingredients hunters would forage in the forests and then set to rest for an afternoon.”
“We’ll have to share that tidbit of history with our guests tonight,” I said. Then I glanced around the kitchen. The focaccia was ready to brush with olive oil, garlic, rosemary, and sea salt. We would bake it in the wood-fired oven to give it a smoky finish. The cacciatore would simmer for the next few hours. Right before dinner service we would boil spaghetti noodles, grate fresh Parmesan and Romano cheeses, and assemble the salad.
Marty and Sterling shifted gears to dessert. Bethany was tasked with baking more cookies to pair with the frozen custards.
“Everything is running like a well-oiled machine. I’m going to get started with setting up the dining room. Steph, can you help?”
She had finished the final custom cake order for the day. It was boxed and ready for pickup with the customer’s name and order tag. I couldn’t get over how smoothly things were running again after the renovation.
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound enthused but trudged after me.
The day had flown by. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Mom about her conversation with Andy.
“Did he tell you?” Steph jumped on her, the minute she spotted Mom.
“Yes.” Mom kept her expression neutral. “I know you’re upset, but Andy will be fine.”
Steph grunted. The last lingering customers gathered their dishes and shut down their laptops when I flipped the sign on the front door to CLOSED.
“You don’t need to hurry out,” Mom assured a young woman who was still eating. “We’re going to be rearranging furniture, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
The woman looked up and smiled. It was Gretchen. I excused myself from the preparations for a moment to go check in with her. She was finishing my Sunday-morning special—the fluffernutter sandwich.
“How is it?” I asked, pointing to the sandwich.
She tried to answer with a mouthful of thick brioche and peanut butter. I waited for her to swallow and wash the bite down with an iced latte. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my entire life. Who knew that bacon and bananas went together so well? If I could I would eat this every day.”
“That’s high praise.” I grinned. “But I’m guessing your stomach might revolt at some point. These aren’t exactly low-cal, low-sugar sandwiches.”
Gretchen cut the sandwich with a fork. “It would be worth it.” She dabbed peanut butter from the corner of her mouth. “I can see that you’re setting up for something, so I won’t keep you, but I did want to stop by to say thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
Gretchen licked gooey marshmallow from her fork. “For everything. If it weren’t for you, we might not be about ready to make an announcement about our plans for the homeless village.”
“What?” I was confused.
“Yeah. It was a strange twist of fate. I found a new partner. Thanks to you.” Gretchen took a last bite of the melty masterpiece and then wiped her fingers on a napkin.
Note to self, the fluffernutter was a two-napkin sandwich.
“I don’t understand.”
Gretchen folded her napkin on the empty plate. “You see, when you told me about Edgar, I lost it. I’ve put every ounce of my soul into the plans for the village, and knowing that Edgar was dead meant that my plans would likely die with him. But then I bumped into Stella. I couldn’t believe it, but she told me that she had a space on the south end of town that would be perfect for the village. She offered to work pro bono for us. It was like a gift from the gods.”
“That’s amazing.” I was stunned by Gretchen’s news. “What does that have to do with me though?”
“Stella overheard me talking to one of our donors about how wonderful Torte has been to us. I was sharing a story, like the one I shared with you, about how it’s the small things that can make the biggest difference. Stella told me that her family struggled financially when she was younger. She was on free or reduced-price lunch at school and would receive a grocery bag with peanut butter and bread on the weekends. The Torte donations reminded her of a time when she received a pink box with chocolate cupcakes for her sister’s birthday in the weekend lunch bags. She never knew who added the cupcakes, but the memory stuck with her.”
“I had no idea.”
“Neither did I. I thought Stella had a singular focus on money when we first met. To be honest I didn’t like her much, so it was a complete shock when she showed up at my office and said she had a proposition for me.” Gretchen tried to tame her wild curls. “Like I said, you never know what kind of lasting gift your pastries might give.” She stood. “You’ll have to come see the location. We should be breaking ground within the next few weeks.”
She gave me a genuine hug before she left. I couldn’t believe that Stella Pryor had had a one-hundred-eighty-degree shift. Nonetheless it was great news for Gretchen and the transient community. The fact that Torte had been even a tiny piece of Stella’s decision to partner with the homeless council left me on the verge of grateful tears.
Chapter Twenty-nine
After Gretchen left, I returned to helping Mom and Steph. We pushed chairs to the edge of the room and moved the two- and four-person tables together in the center to form one long communal table.
“Did you tell him it’s a terrible idea?” Stephanie asked Mom. It was clear she wasn’t going to let the subject go.
Mom wiped the table with a wet cloth. “No.”
Stephanie scowled. She looked to the espresso bar, where Andy and Sequoia were cleaning and taking inventory for tomorrow’s morning rush. “Why is everyone so chill about this?”
Mom’s voice was soothing. “Because we’re all afforded our own choices. We are the makers of our own destiny.”
<
br /> “Even if you’re throwing your destiny away?”
“Even if.” Mom walked over to Stephanie and placed her hand on her wrist. “You are a good friend to care this much about Andy, but he’ll find his own way.”
Stephanie didn’t look convinced, but she dropped the subject. We strung twinkle lights from the ceiling. Mom covered the table with a crisp white linen tablecloth.
A knock sounded at the door. I looked up to see Thomas waiting with a box of flowers.
“Are you going to let me in, or are you going make me stand here all day? These things are heavy, Jules.” He flexed his toned arms as I opened the door for him.
“It’s a good workout, right?”
“Where do you want these?” he asked.
The delicate, sweet scent of the flowers hit my nose. “Just put them on the counter for now. We’re still setting up.”
“I can see that.” Thomas placed the box of flowers on the counter and then inhaled deeply. “What’s on the menu tonight? Something smells amazing.”
“Chicken cacciatore, rosemary and garlic focaccia, salad, and our new line of concretes and cookies.”
Thomas pretended to stab himself. Then he tapped his badge. “Too bad I’m on duty tonight. Otherwise I’d beg my oldest friend for a seat at the table.”
“You wouldn’t have to beg. You know you’re always welcome here.”
“But begging is much more fun.” He winked.
“Where’s Detective Kerry?” I asked. Lately Thomas and Kerry had appeared glued at the hip. It had been a while since I’d seen one without the other. “Is she still working undercover?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m not at liberty to comment on any open investigations.”
“Got it.”
“I do have some news though,” Thomas started to say. A buzzing sound originated from his chest. He removed his mini iPad from his pocket and clicked it on. “Just got a notification through the new app. Can you believe this? The app has generated over one hundred community responses since we made it live. We’ve had reports of missing cats, panhandling on the bricks, and of a suspicious van casing the Railroad District.”
Live and Let Pie Page 22