Harley spun when Lou’s shirt started to ring. He saw Lou’s precarious position and shook his head, denying her. With a sigh, Lou fished the phone out of her bra and put a smile on her face.
“Happy birthday, handsome! You’re up early.” She turned her back to Harley, looking out the front of the gleaming kitchen.
“So are you,” Devlin said. “I was planning to leave a message. I figured you were still sleeping.”
“I have vendors coming early today,” she lied.
“Fine. You’re still planning on getting out early tonight?”
“Unless it gets busy, I should be over by ten. Is that okay?”
“Not until ten? I wanted more time to celebrate with you. Can’t you leave that restaurant earlier?” She could practically hear his puppy-dog eyes over the phone. Lou tapped her finger on her lip and considered revealing the imminent visit she had planned, but any desire to appease him was outweighed by her excitement to witness his shock when she showed up in a few hours with the cake. Nothing beat cake for breakfast, especially early surprise birthday cake.
“Sure.”
“Great. Can you get my dry cleaning, too?”
Lou sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll have time.”
“Please? For my birthday?”
“Ugh. Sure.”
“You’re the best.”
“I love you, too.”
Lou stuffed the phone back into her shirt and returned to her mission. Now was her chance, as Harley layered fragile phyllo dough into a strudel, hunched in concentration. At over six feet tall, heavily tattooed, with teddy-bear brown eyes and a rumbly voice, he was more Jolly Green Giant than Hells Angel, but Harley protected the vanilla like a mama bear. Lou tiptoed toward the shelf, keeping one eye on him, the other on her target. She needed this cake to be spectacular, so she needed the best vanilla—Harley’s. He knew a guy who knew a guy in Mexico who made small batches. It was the most potent vanilla she’d ever tasted. She’d seen him mark the sides so he could tell if anyone used it. As long as his back stayed to her . . .
“No,” Harley said without turning.
“Hmph.” Lou dropped her hand. Her shoulders sagged. She needed that bottle. “Please, Harley. I need your good vanilla for the cake.”
“He doesn’t deserve it.” Harley turned to face her, shaking his head from side to side. “And I can’t believe you’re moving in with him.”
Lou twisted her apron in her hands. “I haven’t agreed yet. That’s why I need the cake to be perfect.”
“He won’t appreciate the subtlety. He wants you to move in, so it’s inevitable.”
“I don’t know. A ring is one thing. Moving in . . . it’s too real.” She reached toward the bottle again.
Harley watched her, waiting for her next move. His neat, blond beard covered his jaw like Kenny Rogers’s circa 1985, and an ever-present black bandanna covered any hair he had. His full name was Harley Rhodes. Whether from predestination or paperwork, the name fit him.
“Dammit, Harley, as my pastry chef, I respect you. As a friend, I value you. But right now you’re pissing me off. I pay for the stuff. I’ll use it when I want.” Lou grabbed the bottle and scurried back to her mixer. She could feel Harley smile at her retreating back.
She took a deep breath, blew it out, and began pulling ingredients off shelves, confident where each was, never pausing to think before grabbing. Lou set out a large bowl, then measured each cup of flour, leveling the top. A cloud puffed with each addition to the bowl.
“You should weigh it,” Harley said, standing behind her. Lou jumped with a little yip.
“My grandma didn’t weigh it.”
“You’re better than your grandma.”
If only. Luella had been Lou’s favorite grandma. Some grandmas took their grandchildren to parks, or bought them books and dolls, or shared their special stories. Her grandma shared her recipes. She taught Lou how to check when a roast turkey was done, chop veggies without cutting off a finger, and bake a coconut cake grown men swooned over. A fog of comforting smells had perpetually blanketed her kitchen—an expression of her love so strong you could taste it. Lou caught the culinary bug during those early days and loved that she was named after her grandma, even if Lou believed she’d never make food quite as delicious.
Lou rolled her eyes at Harley’s overconfidence.
“I’ll do it her way.” Lou stared at Harley until he returned to his station. Back to the cake. She added the baking powder and salt and whisked them together. Next, Lou combined the coconut cream and milk in a separate small bowl, lifting it to her nose to enjoy the heady scent.
Lou used her stand mixer to cream the butter, blending until it was smooth. She poured in the sugar and kept mixing until the batter was pale and fluffy. Ingredients in baking were mixed in a specific way to create a specific result—a lot like relationships, Lou thought. If people didn’t blend well together, you’d never get the outcome you wanted. Next, she added the coconut extract and Harley’s vanilla. Before capping the vanilla, Lou dabbed a little behind her ears as if it were Chanel N°5.
She added the flour and coconut mixture, a little of each at a time, to the butter mixture. The key to a light, delicate cake was to not overmix; handling it too much made the cake dense and tough. If you tried too hard, you ruined it. She wanted Devlin to understand and love the restaurant as much as she did, but every attempt to involve him ended in anger and silence. Too much mixing, Lou thought.
She looked into the bowl. The perfect mix. At least she could get this right.
Lou divided the cake batter into the pans and carried them to the baking ovens. Harley heard her coming.
“Turn back around,” he said.
“Harley, I need to bake them.”
“It’s bad enough you wear my vanilla like perfume; you can’t use my baking ovens, too.”
“Technically, they’re my ovens.”
Harley crossed his arms and stood in front of them. “I have bread proofing.”
“Fine.” Lou stomped back to the main cooking line and put the cakes into the small, yellow-doored oven behind the grill station. This was the oven she used when a dish needed roasting or braising, not quite as precise as the baking ovens, but it’d do. After all, her grandmother had never used a fancy oven. She walked the dirty bowls to the sink, using her finger to scoop up leftover batter, closing her eyes to fully experience the balanced flavors—not too sweet, plenty of coconut, but not so much you couldn’t taste the vanilla. Perfect. Grandma would be proud.
“You want in on this?” Lou held out the bowl. Harley walked over, took a fingerful, and dabbed it on his tongue.
“And?” asked Lou.
“Should have used the scale.” But Lou could see a faint smile in his whiskers. As his hand reached for another sample, she pulled it away.
“Then no more for you.” She set it by the sink and walked away but saw Harley sneak the bowl back to his corner.
With the cakes baking, Lou made some breakfast for the two of them. She slapped a few slices of bacon on the heated griddle. Sizzling started immediately and the scent of rising coconut cake mingled with the smoky salt of bacon. “Heaven.” She buttered day-old baguettes to toast, then cracked a few eggs for breakfast sandwiches. “Now some cheese. Brie? Emmental? Mmm, smoky onion cheddar.”
The sounds of her cooking bounced around the empty restaurant like a Super Ball, reminding her of where she was and why. She still couldn’t believe Luella’s was hers, that she’d mustered the guts to open it. If Sue and Harley hadn’t promised to work for her, she never would have done it. Going it alone was never an option. Each month she felt a thrill of shock when her balance sheet squeaked into the black. The profits were tiny, but they existed. After over a year of hard work, it looked like Luella’s just might make it.
Standing at the sink to eat breakfast, Lou drained two cups of coffee laced with enough sugar and cream to make it dessert. She set her dishes in the sink for the dishwasher just a
s the timer dinged. Heat blasted out when she opened the oven; the sweet smell of coconut saturated her nose. The cakes glowed with golden perfection, tender to the touch—perfect. She had made four rounds, so that if she screwed up two taking them out of the pans, she’d have backups. Besides, her staff would devour the backup cake during prep. While the cakes cooled, Lou made the frosting: more softened unsalted butter, more fresh coconut milk—just enough to make it spreadable—powdered sugar, and more of the precious vanilla. So creamy and decadent, Lou used her finger to scoop out a Ping-Pong-ball-sized glob.
After frosting the cake and sprinkling on toasted coconut for a little crunch, Lou glanced at the clock. The little hand hovered by the seven.
“Damn!” Lou slid the freshly frosted confection onto the cardboard box, then folded it around the cake. She tied the box closed with butcher’s twine, grabbed her keys, waved to Harley, and rushed to the door as Sue entered the kitchen. Lou noticed Harley stop and stare at the newest arrival.
“Morning, Lou. Hey, Harley. Coffee on?” Sue said in his direction, avoiding eye contact. Eyeing the box in Lou’s hands and sniffing the vanilla-and-coconut-scented kitchen, she finished braiding her long, red hair. She always wore two braids while cooking. If things got really hot, she’d tie them on top of her head in an overexcited Pippi Longstocking look. Lou smiled at Sue’s no-nonsense greeting.
“Yup,” said Lou. “Gotta go, I’ve got to run some errands before I surprise Devlin with his cake. He’s expecting it tonight, but I thought a prework birthday party would be a nice treat. I’ll be back later. The backup cake is by the coffee—dig in.” Then Lou leaned in to whisper, “Let me know what Harley says.”
“Sure thing.” Sue walked out to the coffee station, then, with a mouth full of cake, added, “He doesn’t deserve you, Lou.” But Lou rushed out the front door toward the corner, purse in one hand and cake in the other, eager to surprise her fiancé.
• CHAPTER TWO •
Al Waters stood at the corner of St. Paul and Milwaukee Streets, a crisp, white note card in one hand, irritation on his face, and the wind at his back. The snow-white, thick paper had two imperfections: blue-gray engraved initials, DP, in the bottom right, and a suggestion, “Mr. Wodyski, Consider visiting Luella’s at 320 St. Paul Street.”
In response to such a succinct directive, Al had made all the arrangements so A. W. Wodyski could dine incognito at Luella’s tonight. Right now, he just needed to find the bloody place: “Three-oh-six, 312, 320. Here it is.” On the back of the card, he scrawled,
Hours
S, T–H 5–10
F+S 5–12
Al studied the entrance. He liked to scout restaurants before dining to see what they looked like without the hustle and bustle of other patrons as a distraction. Through the window, he could see a woman with ginger braids near the kitchen doors. The chef, most likely. Luella’s—dull name—probably a grandmother, thought Al. He looked at the menu posted in a small, bronze-framed box to the right of the restaurant’s entrance. His mouth grimaced at the laundry list of ordinary French dishes. The review practically wrote itself.
Al shivered and headed back toward Milwaukee Street, scowling at the chill wind whistling between the city buildings, a contrast to the bright, blue sky above him. He remembered seeing a Starbucks a few blocks away and could use a hot cup of tea, even from there. As he walked into the crowded coffee shop, the caffeinated air slapped him in the face. Coffee had no subtlety. It was bitter at best, mud from a rubbish heap at worst. He could manage a latte or mocha, but that didn’t count as coffee. Al shuffled to the counter to order his Earl Grey with a splash of milk. Starbucks had an absurd tea selection—Darjeeling and Earl Grey were the only reasonable options. The rest involved berries and herbs, which no self-respecting Englishman would order.
He waited for his tea at the pickup counter, tapping his foot at a rapid pace. Finally, he grabbed the hot drink and worked his way through the caffeine-deprived crowd toward the door, still polite and smiling at him as he pushed through. What were they so cheery about at seven in the morning?
Al left the coffee shop and crossed the street to the Milwaukee Public Market, the one small but bright spot in Milwaukee’s culinary scene. He had heard about an outdoor farmers’ market here in the summer, but after four months in the freezing, godforsaken city, he thought summer was a cruel joke locals played on new arrivals. It was supposed to be the first warm day of spring, which was why he’d left his winter coat at his flat. Foolish of him.
The Milwaukee Public Market consisted of one building the size of a small city block. Of the two stories, the first contained several booths for vendors ranging from coffee to beef to spices. All good quality and a decent variety for such a small market, though it was nothing compared to the meandering and never-ending food stalls of London, Paris, or even Vancouver’s Granville Island. The second story had a small seating area for people to watch the action below and sample their parcels. A few of the stands catered to the downtown lunch crowd—business folks looking for a reason to escape their cubicles for a minute of sunshine and fresh air. On the rare occasion when Al wasn’t eating out for work, he came to the Public Market to pick out the freshest ingredients for dinner. This morning, he just wanted to get out of the wind.
The queue at the newsstand where he liked to buy his newspaper was long, but Al had time. Because he worked afternoons and into the evening, he didn’t have to be in the office until noon. While waiting, Al rocked back and forth, from his toes to his heels, sipping the hot tea. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the familiar warmth and comfort. It almost tasted like home: fragrant, clean, just a touch of milk. Al took another deep breath to warm himself a little when coconut, vanilla, and bacon scents mingled with his Earl Grey. Al looked around, curious about the enticing smells, and nearly collided with a fair-faced, brown-haired woman standing right behind him, causing a few drops of tea to splash onto the pristine white box she held.
“So sorry,” Al blurted out as he turned toward her, catching the cup before disaster. The woman’s face warmed into a stunning smile—straight teeth, except one that was charmingly askew. Her nose crinkled a little when her grin reached its widest, making her faint freckles dance.
“No serious damage done,” the woman said.
Al couldn’t help but smile back—she had that kind of face. A ponytail, tied low on her head and not quite pulled through the last time, kept the hair away from her face. She didn’t wear any makeup and, more importantly, didn’t need it. She wore jeans—not too tight, not too loose—and a warm-looking brown quilted vest over a long-sleeve brown T-shirt. She eclipsed everything around them. He couldn’t stop staring though he knew he should, but he wanted her image seared into his memory.
Al shivered again, despite himself.
“Cold?” the woman asked.
“Bloody freezing. The weatherman said it would be seventy-five today; it can’t be more than fifty.”
The woman nodded with a little smile. “It’s the lake.” Al frowned. “You know, cooler near the lake,” she explained.
“What?”
“Cooler near the lake. I’m sure the weather report said that, too.”
“Maybe. But we aren’t on the lake.”
“We’re close enough. The lake’s not more than ten blocks that way.” The woman gestured over his shoulder. “Cooler near the lake can mean a few miles inland. Lake Michigan is so big, it does all sorts of crazy things to our weather. Wait until we get lake-effect snow.” The woman’s smile got even larger, with a hint of gentle teasing. “I suggest layers.”
• • • • •
Lou tried hard to not laugh at the poor guy. He looked frozen in his neatly pressed tan pants and light blue dress shirt. His shirt pulled against his fit shoulders and arms as he crossed them, trying to stay warm. He wasn’t very tall, so she could see his shocking blue eyes, the kind of eyes that would change based on how he felt. Right now, they looked like a blue
winter sky: brilliant but cold. His frosty face said he spent too much time indoors, and his straight features reminded her of the private-school boys in movies like Dead Poets Society and The Chocolate War. His hair was a dark brown, short on the sides but longer and shaggier on top—the kind of hair you could bury your hands in during a really spectacular kiss. His scruffy face broadcasted he hadn’t shaved for a few days and would probably scratch while kissing. Perhaps she should offer to warm him up. Lou shook her head to focus as he asked her a question.
“So what’s in the box? Coconut?”
“A coconut cake.” She adjusted the dry cleaning and coffee to get a better grip on the box. She had almost dropped it when the man turned around so quickly.
“Where did you get it?” The man leaned forward to get a good sniff.
“I made it.” His eyes widened.
“Really? Someone is very lucky.” With that, he paid the cashier for his paper and disappeared down the street, turning back once before disappearing around a corner.
With a sigh, Lou bought the gum Devlin preferred and a local paper because she wanted to see what this A. W. Wodyski was like. Her phone buzzed with a text from Sue.
Harley ate a piece the size of a suburban raccoon. I’d say he liked it.
Lou looked forward to teasing him later. With a grin, she tucked the newspaper under her arm and slid the gum into her vest pocket, adjusted the dry cleaning so it couldn’t slide out of the plastic bags, took a little sip of Devlin’s soy latte, and picked up the cake box from where she had set it on the newsstand counter.
Glancing at the clocks behind the counter, she realized she had thirty minutes before Devlin left for work. Clutching all the items, she hurried the few blocks to Devlin’s apartment, arriving while the coffee was still hot, so hot she was thankful for her heat-callused hands. A little scalding coffee felt good on a chilly morning.
The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 2