by Ani Gonzalez
Patricia complied, wrapping the donut in a logoed napkin and handing it over. Laurie took it eagerly.
"Don't think this will distract me," she said between donut bites. "Elizabeth called the pizzeria to put in a take out order, and got all the dirt. Miss Bloody Britannia told her that Zach came in all googly-eyed this morning--"
"Really?" Patricia interrupted.
Apparently, she wasn't the only one affected. That was a pleasing thought.
"And he was carrying your scarf."
That hit home. Patricia winced, but recovered quickly.
"I must have left it in the van," she murmured.
"A likely story," Laurie replied. "You never take off that scarf. It's your symbiotic."
Patricia laughed at her friend's joke. She couldn't help it. The giggles welled up in her throat like champagne bubbles then burst out in uncontrolled merriment. She laughed and laughed. She hadn't laughed like this in a long time.
Laurie stared at her in wonderment.
"Oh, girl" she said. "You definitely got lucky last night. That joke was bad."
Patricia stopped laughing, and tried to come up with a way to derail Laurie's questions.
"Another donut?" she asked, picking up her serving tongs.
Laurie laughed. "You're a tough nut to crack. Yes, I'll have another one."
Pleased with her successful distraction, Patricia served the donut with a flourish. She really didn't want to discuss Zach with anyone. She couldn't explain exactly why. Going out, or even staying in, with Zach wasn't that big of a deal. Her friends would ask her for details and tease her a bit, but they would be happy for her. There was no harm in telling them.
But she still didn't want to.
"These are delicious," Laurie said, licking her fingers. "You have a real winner here. I bet they're better than that Croisswinkie thingie that all the foodies are raving out."
Patricia froze.
"Croiwhatsing?" she asked, setting the tongs down with a shaky hand.
"Croisswinkie. It's a silly name isn't it? I sent you the link. It's a croissant and a Twinkie combined. It was on one of the morning TV shows. A fancy bakery in Manhattan came up with it and it's all the rage. They only serve them from six a.m. through eight a.m. and they usually have a line that circles the block. People start lining up at four a.m." Laurie shook her head. "New Yorkers are crazy."
She pulled out her smartphone, scrolled down, and flipped it.
"Look," she said, triumphantly.
Patricia stared at a staged picture of a flaky pastry. It looked like a cylindrical croissant, sliced through the middle to reveal a delectable almond cream filling. The golden confection did indeed resemble an upscale Twinkie. It looked both trashy and delicious.
It was also painfully familiar.
"I bet it tastes good," Laurie said.
"Oh, it does," Patricia hissed, her voice full of loathing.
This was her creation. Her cherished graduation pastry. The one she'd spent months perfecting. The flaky pastry was a pain in the neck as it had to be kneaded and rolled then frozen several times in quick succession. The cream was easy, a light mix of almond cream and thickened zabaglione made with amaretto liqueur.
It was freaking amazing.
It was also hers.
She grabbed Laurie's phone and scrolled down. Café Gateaux? That was the name she'd picked for her dream bakery in Manhattan. And, there, that cat logo with the oversize whiskers? That was the logo her friend Lily had made for her. And that dark-haired man in a white chef's coat decorated with the cat logo?
That was Trevor.
Trevor the ex-boyfriend. Trevor the cheat. Trevor the classically trained chef who'd laughed at all her ideas, and claimed they were too cutesy and too tacky to work in a sophisticated market like Manhattan.
Trevor the thief.
He'd stolen everything. Her name, her logo, her croisswinkie recipe. Heck, he'd even stolen her ginger beer float recipe and the cheap Chinatown chopsticks she'd planned on using as decoration. And was that a picture of her dulce de leche crepesadilla? Yes it was. According to the article, his new restaurant was hailed as a "creative reinterpretation of American classics with an international twist."
Her jaw clenched. That was her "creative reinterpretation." That was her "international twist." He'd stolen her graduation project. The one where they were assigned to create recipes based on iconic international foods.
What an asshole.
"Are you okay?" Laurie asked.
Patricia struggled to control herself. She was practically shaking with rage.
Impotent rage.
She wasn't the first person to suffer this kind of betrayal. Culinary school was full of horror stories of students stealing each other's recipes. There was one particular professor who was infamous for copying her students' recipes and using them in her cookbooks. In cookery, this was par for the course.
Her croisswinkie couldn't be copyrighted. She couldn't protect it or her ginger beer float or the rest of her recipes. She could talk to a lawyer, but what good would that do? Trevor had plenty of money for lawyers and publicists. At least he hadn't stolen all her recipes. He hadn't used her historic recipes project or her health and wellness one. She should be grateful for small mercies. After all, there was nothing she could do.
Was there?
She gave the phone back to Laurie and pasted a fake smile on her face.
"I'm fine. That is a very creative idea and it reminds me that I have to start working on my Rosemoor stuff." She gave a tinny laugh. "Now I'm all stressed out."
"You're going to do great," Laurie said, taking her donut and heading for her usual table. "Everyone's rooting for you."
Patricia took a deep breath. Laurie was right. She was going to get the Rosemoor. She was going to turn it into a Victorian tea parlor with refined pastries, gourmet tea and lovely wicker furnishings. That would be her revenge.
She was going to be a huge success.
All she had to do was come up with another croisswinkie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"I HOPE that box has donuts in it," Zach muttered as Patricia swept into the barn dressed in her puffy brown coat sans scarf. "I need my sugar fix."
The town baker was a welcome sight. He'd had a horrible day, but seeing her walk toward the barn's kitchen holding a Banshee Creek Bakery box made him smile.
And it wasn't just because she was bringing dessert.
"I don't have donuts." She set the box down on the kitchen counter gently, as if it held fragile cargo. "But I do have sugar and plenty of it."
He eyed the box suspiciously. Her careful demeanor meant she was probably bringing decorated cupcakes. He wasn't overly fond of ornately frosted cakes, but, hey, sugar was sugar, right?
"Well, I have alcohol," he replied, opening the fridge and extracting a large jar of sangría. "Lots of alcohol."
Patricia laughed, unzipping her coat. "Sugar and alcohol. That's all we need."
He poured the sangría into two wineglasses while she hung up her coat. She returned to the kitchen shortly, and he realized she wasn't wearing the same clothes she'd worn this morning. She'd left the barn in black slacks and a white caterer's shirt, a backup job outfit she'd kept in the van, but she'd returned in tight jeans, a wine red sweater that made her eyes glow, and his blood heat up. He couldn't help but stare.
And she couldn't help but notice.
"I match your drink," she said with a slight blush.
"You look gorgeous," he replied, handing her a glass.
Her cheeks grew redder. She was definitely unused to compliments. Well, too bad. Making Ms. O'Dare blush was rapidly becoming an addiction.
She accepted the sangría and stared at the glass.
"Are these new?"
"I stole them from the pizzeria," he replied. "I also took some plates and cutlery."
"I'm flattered," she said, giggling. "Although, we don't really need plates. My desserts are very portable."
He instantly regretted the crass comment, but Patricia didn't seem to mind. She laughed and sipped her drink.
"Lasagna sounds perfect," she said. "I could use some comfort food. I've been taste-testing all day and some of my combinations have been...less than successful."
"Well, this is called the Peter Lorre Lasagna, but it's just a hearty Italian sausage dish. The name is the only quirky thing about it."
"I guess you're not using it for the Rosemoor then."
He couldn't contain a bitter laugh. "I wasn't planning to open an Italian restaurant, but I guess that's an option now."
She looked confused, but he didn't elaborate. He didn't want his business problems to derail this evening. He wanted to focus on Patricia.
Which was easier said than done.
"I hear you had a visitor this afternoon," she said. "One that your semi-Satanic Mary Poppins didn't like."
He almost choked on his sangría. How did she know? Well, that was a stupid question. This was Banshee Creek. Everyone knew everyone's business.
"You call Sarah 'Mary Poppins'?" he asked, trying to deflect the question. "Does that make me Dick Van Dyke?"
"No, we actually call her Spooky Poppins," she replied, making him laugh. "And, don't worry. No one would ever confuse you with a classically-styled gentleman with exquisite manners and a brilliant sense of humor."
"Well, that's a relief."
"So who was it? Laurie said he came in a Bentley. I don't think I've ever seen a Bentley in Banshee Creek."
Zach sighed. Of course Salvador had a Bentley. He also had a private plane and a villa in Punta del Este and who knew what else. "It's Gabe's partner, Salvador."
"The Brazilian billionaire?" Patricia's eyes lit up. "The one who dated that German supermodel."
Her enthusiasm irritated him. What was it with girls and Salvador Acosta? They all went gaga over him. Well, all except Sarah, which was definitely a point in her favor.
"He's dated all the supermodels," Zach muttered, dreading another question about Salvador's visit.
"I guess he's here because of your brother's engagement," Patricia mulled. "That's kind of sweet."
Zach snorted. The Brazilian tycoon was anything but sweet and he definitely wasn't here because of Gabe's engagement.
But that wasn't something he wanted to discuss with his guest. Luckily, the oven timer rang, interrupting Patricia's train of thought.
"That's the lasagna," Zach said, relieved.
"I'll set the table," she said, forgetting all about Salvador. "Where are the napkins?"
He pointed to a cabinet then focused on the lasagna. He took the foil pan out the oven and set it on the granite counter while she took the sangría pitcher and glasses to the dining room table. He let the lasagna cool and took out a bowl of salad from the fridge.
She smiled when she saw the greens. "You brought rabbit food. I'm impressed."
"Don't be." He took a bottle full of purple dressing out of the fridge. "You're not the only who has been trying out new recipes. You, my friend, are going to act as a guinea pig. This is our experimental eggplant antipasto salad."
She eyed the contents of the bottle uncertainly. "That looks like..."
He twirled the bottle, showing off its contents in all their lurid, lavender-hued glory. "Purple slime, yes it does. That's what Diego wants to call the salad. The Purple People Eater."
She looked appalled.
"I think I'm going to overrule him though." Zach could barely restrain his laughter. Patricia looked truly horrified at his new dish.
He mixed the salad, placed the grilled eggplant slices on the top, and admired the result. Green lettuce, purple eggplant, yellow and orange peppers...the salad looked amazing. Diego had done a good job with the presentation.
But it all depended on the dressing.
He served dinner while Patricia carried the salad and dressing to the table. He followed her, carrying two plates full of piping hot lasagna, and was surprised to see that she'd found a pair of metal candlesticks and a tablecloth somewhere and used them to dress up his rustic -- in a non-hip, old and dilapidated way -- table.
"Those look familiar," he said, setting the plates down. "I think I stole them from Mom several years ago. We needed the candlesticks for a music video."
The memories were bittersweet. The lead singer's intense need for mood lighting for her solo. The pressure of pleasing a talented, but somewhat neurotic girl with a serious Stevie Nicks fixation. Bundling the old candlesticks in a tattered blue towel and sneaking them out of his parents' house. Having the singer's long blonde hair catch fire.
Good times.
Patricia laughed. "Well, that explains why there were so many of them."
"We were teenagers. We felt we needed a lot of candlelight."
She smiled.
"Did the video turn out okay?"
"Not bad for a Fleetwood Mac tribute put together by a band of crazy teenagers. The Banshee Creek Fire & Rescue cameo was very thrilling."
"Oh, I remember that one." She giggled. "You were kissing the vampire girl when her hair caught fire. It was the talk of the school."
"She wasn't a vampire, she was just bohemian," he corrected. "And I wasn't kissing her, I was pretending to."
She brows went up in pure skepticism.
"For the video," he explained. "We were doing a 'Gypsy' cover."
"That's a lovely song," she said. "But it doesn't have anything to do with kissing."
He gave her his wickedest grin. "It does when I sing it."
She laughed and they sat down to eat, with old fashioned metal candlesticks, and the sausage lasagna that was his dad's old recipe, and a Fleetwood Mac song running through his head that was all about going back to the way one used to be.
But you couldn't go back.
Yet you wouldn't know it from their conversation. They talked about high school and growing up in a weird little town where everyone knew each other. Some topics were easier than others, though. She asked him about his old band and his Latin America tour, and he deflected the question by asking her about her culinary adventures in New York.
She didn't want to talk about that.
Instead, she praised the eggplant salad, which was, he had to admit, pretty good. Good going, Diego. He needed a new name for it. Purple People Eater wasn't going to cut it. But he couldn't think of a horror movie connection to the color purple, all he could thing about was Oprah.
Maybe it didn't have to be a horror movie name?
He felt an urge to pursue that thought, but Patricia asked him about his favorite songs and he found himself answering, going on and on about old bands from the seventies and obscure Spanish Rock bands. She didn't know Mecano or Sodastereo, and he spent a good half-hour rectifying that situation.
Which only resulted in a fit of giggles.
"You're still so serious about music," she explained, wiping her mouth with a napkin, the better to hide her giggling, he thought.
"Sure." The terse answer seemed to confuse her. But why shouldn't he be serious about music? It had been his whole life for years.
"Time for dessert," he said, getting up and clearing the plates. The motion pulled at the scar tissue in his arm, a recurring annoyance that he barely noticed anymore.
But tonight he couldn't help but pay attention. It was a reminder, one he couldn't ignore.
He came back with dessert plates. Patricia was standing by the dining table holding the pastry box.
Her hair spilled over her shoulder, and the red sweater hugged her curves, making her look like a seductive fire spirit. She also looked nervous. She was biting her lip and her hands gripped the box like it was a lifeline.
He inspected the inoffensive piece of cardboard intently. What the hell was in that box?
Whatever it was, it wasn't mere cupcakes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
-EIGHT
PATRICIA SET the pastry box on the table and took a deep breath. Her hands were practically shaking and she had a hard time opening the box. She didn't know why she was so anxious.
No, she knew. She was nervous because she remembered doing this several years ago. She'd gone to Trevor's ritzy Park Avenue co-op with a pastry box, plain white because that's what they used at the culinary school, containing her best creations.
It had been her school project and Trevor had torn it to shreds. The recipes were too derivative, he said, too unsophisticated. She'd been devastated at the time. Now, of course, she knew that he'd lied, that her recipes were good, at least good enough to steal.
But she was still afraid.
And here she was, going through the same process with Zach. She didn't feel she had a choice. She'd come up with a concept. It wasn't a new concept, it was one she'd first developed in culinary school, but it was, if she said so herself, bold and original.
And perfectly suited to the Rosemoor concept.
And she had Trevor to thank for it. If it hadn't been for that article she wouldn't have thought to go look through her old recipes. She wouldn't have remembered her very first school project. The health and wellness one she'd based on the crazy stories from her hometown. She'd tinkered the recipes a bit -- after all, she knew a lot more about baking now -- and they were amazing.
But she needed feedback from someone who knew the food business. Her friends had oohed and aahed over her creations and Elizabeth had eaten three cardamon-carrot cupcakes, all the while complaining about fitting into her Valentine's Day Ball outfit. Her dad had given her his grudging approval even though he was a vanilla cake and buttercream frosting kind of guy. Even the paranormies had approved, with Caine giving her copious comments on her marketing concepts.
But that wasn't enough. She'd never run a restaurant, just a storefront, and she needed a sounding board, someone who would tell her that her ingredient list was too complicated and that her ornamentation took too much time. At least two of her recipes required overnight freezing and she didn't think she could fit, or afford, two freezers in the Rosemoor kitchen. Maybe she could stagger the offerings? Would that work?