by Ani Gonzalez
She looked positively depressed about this.
"Isn't that a good thing?" Zach asked gently, trying to figure out what was bothering her.
She should be ecstatic. The Space Cowboys' first album had been a massive hit, their tour was sold out, and their record company loved their new album. What else could a sophomore band wish for?
"Oh, yes," Abby replied, smiling weakly. "It's just the video isn't turning out quite right."
"I'm sure it will. The fireside scenes look great, very peaceful and moody. What else is going in it? What's the conflict scene?"
Abby and Caine looked at each other.
"Well," Abby replied, choosing her words carefully. "That's the problem. The record company wanted something quirky so I called Caine and asked him if he had anything going on."
Understanding dawned.
"Oh, no," Zach groaned. If Abby was counting on Caine to film her video, she was in real trouble.
Abby nodded. "The vampire deer were going to provide the conflict." She glared at Caine. "But they didn't show up."
Caine raised his hands and backed away. "It's not my fault. I'm a miracle worker, but even I can't just produce fanged deer on demand."
"That could still work," Zach said. "The song is about looking for magic and not finding it. The elusive vampire deer fit the lyrics."
"Yes, but that's not enough." Abby grimaced. "I'm competing with tragic love songs and teen angst and Michael Bay movie themes. I need a love story or a fairy tale or something. Chasing vampire deer does not a hit song make." She glanced at Caine apologetically. "No offense."
The big guy shrugged. "None taken. Not everyone appreciates Hydropotes the way we do."
Abby grinned. "And the world is much poorer because of it."
"You could turn it into a love song," Zach mulled, thinking fast. "That's the way we used to play it when..."
His voice trailed off. They used to play it as a love song when they were in the same band. Back when he used to sing it with her. Because Abby was right, a song about searching for magic, or hunting deer, was good...
But a love song was a lot more effective.
They'd sung it a hundred times and gotten a great response every single time. Audiences loved it.
Abby looked at him sharply. "That could work, but I'd need another singer. Someone who already knows the song."
Zach backed away. "Whoa, Abby..."
Surely, she wasn't going to ask him to...
"Someone who'd be willing to help a friend who's in a jam."
She was. He frowned, feeling betrayed. Didn't she know that he'd quit the music biz? But the excuse sounded hollow, even to him. Hadn't he been playing piano only yesterday? And didn't he have a notebook full of song notes?
Quitting wasn't as easy as he'd thought.
"I don't play anymore," he said, trying to convince himself. "I broke my arm, remember."
"She said 'singer,' pizza boy." Caine sounded amused. "You didn't break your jaw."
He frowned at Caine. "But, I haven't practiced..."
"We won't use the vocals," Abby said. "We can record those later. C'mon, Zach, do me a solid here."
"I'm wearing sweats." Pajama sweats no less.
"The wardrobe guys will take care of that," Caine replied, helpfully. "They brought enough clothes to outfit an army."
"But..." Fear gnawed at him. "I don't know..."
Abby stared at him with pleading eyes. "Please, Zach..."
He stared at her. He'd stood on stage next to Abby countless times. Could he do this?
CHAPTER THIRTY
"EMERGENCY. WILL work through the night. See you this afternoon. Love, Zach."
Patricia stared at the note, trying not to worry. It was early even for her and the sun wasn't going to rise for a while. Zach, not an early riser by any means, must have gone to work in the middle of the night. That was unusual.
"Emergency" could mean anything in the restaurant business, from an electric failure that ruined your dairy supplies to a sick worker who destroyed your schedule. The uncommonly cold winter also raised the prospect of burst pipes and flooded kitchens, the thought alone making her shudder. But she was somewhat reassured by the promise of an afternoon rendezvous and the smiley face he'd scrawled next to his name.
It couldn't be that bad if he was drawing smiley faces. And he signed the note with"Love, Zach." That made her smile.
He'd left out coffee, orange juice, a box of her favorite sugary cereal, and milk. She was touched by the cozy tableaux. Yesterday morning, the pantry had been bare except for a sample case of candy corn flavored vodka, which meant he must have gone out and bought supplies.
It was kind of sweet.
She prepared her cereal, multicolored dots melting into the pristine milk, then poured out fresh-squeezed juice into one of Zach's mismatched mugs, smiling. He must have raided the pizzeria's promo cabinet to outfit the kitchen. It felt just like home, where she still drank out of semi-offensive sample mugs that her frugal self couldn't bear to throw out. Then she carried her meal to the dining table, where her notes lay, neatly piled.
Time to work. She needed to have this done before she opened the bakery.
She grabbed her pen and wrote, pouring out all her ideas. She ate her cereal as she wrote and soon had and empty bowl and two pages of cramped handwriting.
And a paranormal marketing plan.
Not much of one, probably, but Laurie would help her fix that. The end result, she was sure, would be amazing.
She grabbed her duffle bag, got dressed, and headed out the door with a thermos full of coffee.
The morning was arctic cold and Zach's driveway was full of tire treads, as if a bunch of trucks had pulled up. She got into her van, thinking hard. What could have possibly happened? Middle of the night health inspection? PRoVE break-in? Irascible poltergeist?
Everything seemed normal as she drove into town. There were no Fire & Rescue trucks, no Banshee Creek Police cruisers, and no PRoVE sports utility vehicles. The town appeared bright and cheerful, if a bit on the Siberian side, with big piles of snow on the sidewalks and long icicles hanging from the wrought iron lampposts. The place looked as if Hans Christian Andersen's Snow Queen had paid them a visit.
She parked behind the bakery and got out of the van, carrying her notes and coffee mug. The back door led to the kitchen area and she set down her stuff on a tiny, overstuffed desk next to the door that served as the bakery's administration center. She placed her notes on top of a tottering pile of papers, obscuring a restaurant supplies brochure bulging with neon-colored post-it notes.
In the Rosemoor she'd have a proper office, she promised herself. It will have a large desk with enough space for a computer, and, wonder of wonders, a real file cabinet with hanging folders in rainbow colors.
She flipped on the lights, turned on the ovens, and got ready for her day. She brought in her early morning deliveries, fresh bagels from a specialist bakery in Reston and croissants from the French patisserie in Middleburg, and put them in the display case next to some quesitos that Yolanda's sister brought yesterday from Manassas. The quesitos were glazed puff pastries stuffed with cream cheese, and they were freaking amazing, as well as long lasting. She was going to put in a weekly order. Maybe she'd get some of the guava ones this time, those looked delish.
Once the pastry case was full, she returned to the kitchen to do her baking prep. She was pouring batter into the donut maker when the back door opened. She tensed, pushing too hard on the bowl and a long tendril of golden dough slithered down the side of the machine and splattered on the floor.
"Good morning, Dad," she called out, straightening and tilting the bowl to make the dough flow faster. Unfortunately, speed and accuracy were mutually exclusive in this context and more dough dripped down the side.
Her father stood in the entrance, dressed in his work clothes -- brown corduroy pants and a worn flannel shirt. His hair was still wet from an early morning shower and he looked aroun
d, a confused look on his face.
"Patricia?" He stared at the glossy white breadboard paneling and frowned.
She felt a dull pain in her chest. This was the fifth time this had happened. He forgot that he no longer managed the business, showered and dressed as if going to work, and showed up at the bakery, disoriented.
Patricia smiled at him. "Did you come to help out? Thanks, I could use a hand here."
Dr. Lebensburg said that the best strategy for dealing with these episodes was to integrate him into the activity. He wanted to help out? He'd get to help out. So what if her donuts were ruined? Her customers would then have to try the fabulous quesitos.
His gaze focused on the dripping dough. He grabbed a washcloth, wet it in the sink and bent to clean up the mess.
"You have to be more careful," he scolded. "This things have to be done slowly. Haste makes waste."
"I know," she said, watching the dough slide slowly into the vat. "You always tell me that. I'm just a bit rushed because I still need to put the cupcakes in the oven and call the Manassas bakery to get more quesitos."
She babbled on, giving her dad the time and information he needed to orient himself, just like Dr. Lebensburg had told her to do. It was heartbreaking, but it had to be done. And she was going to have to do it again and again.
And then it was going to get worse.
"The quesiwhatsits?" her dad asked, focusing on the unfamiliar word.
The donut maker was finally full, and Patricia relaxed.
"It's a new pastry I'm trying out. It's from Puerto Rico and it has a cheese filling. Would you like to try one?"
Her dad frowned and his voice turned hostile. "What's wrong with the cheese croissants from La Boulangerie? We've always served those."
Patricia counted to ten and told herself that this was normal. He always picked a fight when he was confused. Always. It was just a symptom, she told herself. Just a symptom.
She was about to answer when the front door to the bakery jingled. A customer had just come in.
"I'll take care of that," her dad said, walking toward the front room.
Alarmed, Patricia set the bowl down and followed him. The last time he'd tried to attend to a customer had been a disaster. Cassie had come in and ordered a caramel froth latte with cinnamon pecan sprinkles, and her dad had looked at her as if she'd just grown horns on her head. Then he'd tried to work the espresso machine and almost caused a milk foam crisis.
Not good.
But it wasn't a customer. It was Mr. Franco, holding a newspaper and a bunch of printouts.
"Ah, Tom, I thought I saw you come in here." He held up the printouts. "I finished the letter. Can you take a look and tell me what you think?"
Patricia stared at the sheaf of papers. That was one letter? It looked like a book, one of those Fantasy blockbusters that took a year to read.
"Letter?" Her dad frowned at his old friend. "What letter?"
A flash of sympathy crossed Mr. Franco's face, but it disappeared quickly. "Didn't you hear? The New York Times cancelled the chess column."
Patricia was pretty sure that Mr. Franco had discussed the topic with his friend before. Her father, however, seemed to have no recollection of the conversation.
"What?" Her dad's shock was clear. "They can't do that."
"That's what I think too. I'm writing them a very stern letter, describing how important the column is to the chess world in the hope that they will reinstate it, or at least feel really bad about canceling it. Can you take a look at it?"
"Of course," her dad said. "This is an outrage. Can you take care of the bakery for an hour, Patricia?"
"Sure," she replied. After all, she'd been taking care of the bakery for years now.
"Is it okay if we go to the pizzeria, Patricia?" Mr. Franco asked, his face kind.
"Not a problem," she replied. "Is everything okay at Pepe's?"
"Oh, yes," Mr. Franco replied, holding the front door open for his friend. "Zach is out, so I'm supervising for the day. That restaurant manager he hired is competent but she gets carried away sometimes."
Patricia watched them leave, frowning. Zach left is dad in charge of the pizzeria? That was unusual. Mr. Franco generally disapproved of the improvements his son had made to the place, he was a plain mozzarella kind of guy, and Zach seldom left him in charge. Something was going on.
But she didn't have time to worry about that, because Laurie was walking into the bakery bleary-eyed and carrying her laptop bag and coffee thermos.
It was time to implement her plan.
Laurie headed for her usual spot, dumped her bag onto the chair, and sighed.
"Tough night?" Patricia asked.
Laurie shuffled to the counter with the thermos. "You have no idea." She plunked the thermos on the counter. "Hit me, O'Dare. Double espresso shots and extra sugar." She glanced at the vintage soda fridge in the corner. "You know, you should consider carrying Red Bull or one of the other energy drinks. Sometimes coffee is not enough."
"Heresy." But Patricia made a mental note to look into it. The pile of papers on her desk included a new list from her drinks supplier and she was pretty sure she'd seen a bull in it somewhere.
She filled Laurie's thermos, then reached for her own coffee container and poured the dark, life-giving liquid into it. She needed the pick-me-up too. She set both containers on the counter.
"Here you go, Laurie... or should I say Larissa DellaMorte?"
Laurie's eyes widened in shock. She grabbed the thermos and stared at Patricia in disbelief.
"How did you know?" She gasped. "Who else knows?"
"I figured it out a couple of days ago, during dinner with Holly and Patricia. Holly was talking about building an e-book catalog for the library and how this new erotic vampire series would probably be a bestseller. She's a big fan and she kept going on and on about it. Something about the series seemed really familiar to me, like I'd heard it before. Then I remembered a couple of conversations we've had, and that got me thinking so I did some research."
"And you found me." Laurie looked alarmed. "Rats, I need to do some clean-up, don't I?"
"I think your writer social media is linking to your personal email account."
Laurie's face darkened. "I hate social media," she hissed. "Hate it."
"I think it's great," Patricia replied, confused by her vehemence. "The series is a big hit and you have tons of adoring fans. Why are you hiding it from everyone? This is Banshee Creek. Vampire romance is not going to turn you into an outcast."
Laurie winced. "I just don't want anyone to know. Don't tell, please."
Patricia felt a twinge of guilt. Her friend sounded frightened, which had not been her intention at all. Why was Laurie so worried about her books? Sure they were kinky, but they must be good.
And the books had given Patricia an idea.
"I won't," Patricia reassured her. "But I need a favor in return."
"A favor? What kind of favor?" Laurie's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Are you blackmailing me, Patricia O'Dare?"
Patricia winced. "No. Well, not really... but maybe, sort of? I really need your help, Lor."
Laurie smiled. "I never would have expected it. Fine, what do you need so badly, you're willing to blackmail a friend to get it."
"You know, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound very attractive."
Lori laughed. "It isn't. Spill the beans."
Patricia sighed, walked to the kitchen to pick up her notes and handed them to Laurie. She explained the plan as best she could, and waited for her friend's reaction.
"I just pulled an all-nighter to meet a deadline to my editor," Laurie said, staring at the paper. "This is going to be another one."
"Really? I was hoping it wouldn't take that much time."
Laurie snorted. "We need to write it out and proof-read it and pick the right typography. Then we need to get it printed. This is going to be a very long menu."
"There's also the invitations,
and the menu cards. I have a friend in Alexandria who can get it done ASAP."
Laurie shook her head "You go all out, don't you? That's a lot of work and you only have a couple of days."
"You don't think we can do it?" she asked, her heart sinking.
This was the only idea she had left. If it didn't work, it would be red velvet cupcakes and paper napkins with little hearts on them. She had no idea what to do.
"Oh, we can do it," Laurie said. "We'll just collapse right afterwards."
"So it's a deal?"
"It's a deal. But you have to keep my secret confidential, and you'd better do a better job with my pen name than you have with your torrid affair with Zach Franco.
Patricia's mouth fell open. "What? I'm not..."
Laurie pointed to the thermos on the counter. "That's a Pepe's Pizza thermos. And, if I recall correctly, as I generally do, it's from that box of samples that the Duchess of Bitchingham was raving about last summer. There's only one place you could have gotten that."
Patricia stared at the thermos, speechless.
"Try harder." Laurie commanded.
Patricia nodded.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"WHERE THE hell have you been?" Sarah hissed, sounding, for a brief moment, positively American. "You've been gone for three days. Three."
"Out," Zach replied, walking quickly up the hill to the Rosemoor. Sarah and Diego followed him, the last uncharacteristically silent.
Smart Diego. Zach had just gotten off a plane and he wasn't in the mood for scoldings.
His restaurant manager, however, didn't care.
"Really?" Sarah asked with a bitter laugh. "We hadn't noticed with all the prepping and designing and last minute panicking we were doing. Your parents have been driving us crazy. Diego is freaking out over the menus and I still have to finalize our staffing for the night."
"You guys are wonderful. I've always said I have the best team in the business."
The compliment rendered her speechless, which gave him the opportunity to speed up and greet Elizabeth, who was standing on the porch, greeting the workers and designers and welcoming them to the Rosemoor. He looked around, trying to find Patricia. He had a lot to tell her.