Melody’s eyes went wide. She looked back at Justin, who looked equally shocked, and then they both burst into laughter.
“Bet that’s not something he’s going to forget soon,” he said with a crooked smile.
Melody pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m going to have to go out there now to approve his work and pretend what he just saw never happened.”
“Then fortify yourself first.” He speared a piece of meat from the container that had started this whole game and fed it to her with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “I always thought this dating-a-chef fantasy involved feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries in a dark kitchen, but I can be flexible.”
Melody sighed and smoothed her hair. “That’s going to have to wait. I need to go sign off on the tile work. How do I look?”
“Like you’ve been making out with your boyfriend in the kitchen.” He smoothed his thumb over her lower lip. “I could go do it for you, but I’m really not sure what I’m supposed to be inspecting.”
“No, no, I’m going.” She squared her shoulders and pointed at him with the most serious expression she could muster. “You are trouble.”
“I do my best.”
To her relief, the contractor showed no sign of having walked in on a personal moment. He took her around the room, pointing out places he’d had to cut the tile and showing her the cement board where the inset would go. “As soon as the mosaic is finished, I can install it and we can grout the day after.”
“It all looks good; thank you.” She waited for him to pick up the last batch of tools and locked the door behind him. The snow had started coming down even thicker than before, blotting out the usual dusk in favor of early nightfall. She flipped off the overhead lights and went back to the kitchen, where Justin was bent over his tikka masala.
“I saved some for you,” he said. “I suppose now would be the time to tell you I don’t really like vindaloo.”
She slid onto her stool a safe distance away, then pulled the foil-covered packet of naan toward her. “You really are trouble.”
“Only around you.” He grinned, but the expression quickly faded. “I have news.”
“Oh? What kind of news?”
“The charter fell through.”
Melody blinked at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means someone else made a better offer. It took us almost a year to find this one, so it’s hard to tell how long it will take to find another suitable opportunity.”
Melody studied him, afraid to let her heart grab on to the surge of joy that had surfaced as soon as he spoke the words. “You’re really staying.”
“For now? Yes.”
Her heart squeezed with a painful intensity. She slid off the stool and threw her arms around his neck. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. I knew things were going to work out somehow. Do you believe now?”
Justin sobered. “I’m beginning to.”
Melody looked into his eyes, saw the tenderness there. He was staying. He might not have said it, but she saw his devotion in their expression. For a second, a nervous flutter surfaced in her stomach, and she hid it with a quick grin. “Now about that last piece of naan . . .”
“It’s yours.” He grinned and surrendered the Indian flatbread willingly. When they finally finished the food, Justin began cleaning up. “How long do you have to stay?”
“I can go now. I just had to stay until the tile guy was done. I’ll be back here tomorrow morning, assuming the roads are passable.”
“So this is all you? Rachel’s not helping?”
Melody shrugged, but her gut gave a little twist. “She’s still working. And it’s my design. It’s easier this way.”
“Things are still awkward, huh?”
“We mostly ignore it. We’re partners, after all. If I think about it, I get mad all over again.”
“Hey.” He captured her hand and forced her to look at him. “I never wanted to put a wedge between you and your friends.”
“You didn’t. You just happened to reveal a side of them I’ve never seen before. And that is most definitely not your fault.” She gathered up her tote and retrieved her parka. “Now I am going to go home and binge-watch Netflix and eat the peanut butter cookies I tested earlier this week.”
“Want some company?”
Melody deposited the take-out bag in the trash and searched his face for any hidden intention. But no, he was looking at her like he always did. “You’re sure you want to go straight to my place? You haven’t even been home yet.”
He gestured for her to come close and pulled her back to him. This time when he kissed her, it was far more tender than heated. “As far as I’m concerned, you are home.”
Chapter Thirty-One
OVER THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, Melody practically lived at Bittersweet. There were final design decisions to oversee, like the fixtures in the customer restrooms and the installation of the chalkboards they’d use for menus behind the front counter. The espresso machine had to be hooked up and the lowboy refrigerator installed under the counter. Then there was the interviewing.
“I didn’t think it would be this hard,” Melody said to Rachel when they’d finished talking to their tenth applicant and were no closer to finding a full-time cashier, baking assistant, or sous-chef. It didn’t help that this wasn’t the typical restaurant situation, so they didn’t get the quality of applicants that their experience and standards demanded. Mostly they got people from the type of retail establishment she’d just left—employees who were well-meaning and hardworking, but had spent years working with premixed doughs, frozen baked goods, and mixes that were prepared in a manufacturing facility and finished on site. Not a single one of them would know how to handle a high-hydration dough like those Melody worked with or how to adjust a batch for humidity or product variations. And while Melody would love to be able to train new employees like she herself had learned, she needed to know that she could leave the bakery in good hands or she’d be working sixteen-hour days for the foreseeable future. The situation on Rachel’s side was even worse.
“I don’t think we’re paying enough,” Rachel said. “At the same time, I’m reluctant to add to our overhead.”
In the end, Rachel hired the forty-year-old culinary student from her school to work as her sous-chef as well as offering an externship to another student, who jumped at the idea of working with a James Beard Award winner in a very small kitchen. Melody’s solution came in a far-less-expected package.
She was stunning, a slender redhead who walked into the room with a confidence that few but Rachel could match. She held out her hand. “Talia Durand.”
“Melody Johansson. Please, have a seat.” Melody gestured to the chair across the café table and settled into her own, studying the woman carefully. Her long hair was pulled over her shoulder to one side, but when she reached into her bag for a portfolio, it fell away to reveal several jagged, puckered scars down the left side of her face.
Talia looked up. “Car accident. I’m fine now, but the scars are likely permanent.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. I find it’s better to address it up front so no one feels awkward.” Talia smiled, but there was something in her tone, a weariness perhaps, that made Melody think the admission was harder than she made it out to be.
“Tell me a little bit about your experience, Talia.”
“I just moved from Chicago, where I worked as a pastry chef for four years, but I really consider myself a chocolatier.” She withdrew a small pastry box from her bag, careful to keep it level, and pushed it across the table to Melody. “This is an example of my work.”
Melody lifted the lid to the box, revealing five petite, beautifully formed chocolates. There were two hand-painted squares, each with a different fanciful design, as well as English toffee, a coconut-dusted bonbon, and a classic peanut cluster. “May I?”
“Please, I brought these for you.”
Melody selected one of the hand-painted chocolates and took a tiny bite. Flavor exploded on her tongue, fruity and rich and unexpectedly layered, as complex as wine.
“Sixty-four percent Madagascar cacao with notes of red currant and blackberry and a dark chocolate ganache center.”
“This is excellent.” Melody took a second bite. “And I wouldn’t at all mind adding some chocolate to the menu. However, we primarily do breads, French pastries, and Mediterranean desserts here.”
Talia flipped open her leather portfolio. “I’m confident in my pastry work. Less so with bread at this altitude, but if you’ll take the time to work with me, I’m sure I can adapt.”
Her portfolio was equally impressive, divided between high-style, fine-dining pastries and simple desserts. Each was plated with an artistic eye, the technique obviously flawless. In fact, even without tasting any examples, Melody was willing to bet that Talia was at least as good as she was.
“Why do you want to work here?” Melody asked finally. “With this portfolio and what I’ve seen so far, you could probably get a pastry job at any restaurant in the city.”
“Not all the restaurants in the city are hiring,” she said with a slight smile. “And I like the idea of working at a small neighborhood bakery. I’m American, but my family is French, and growing up I spent summers in Nice. I miss the patisserie. As I understand it, you are French trained?”
“Partially.” Talia had obviously done her homework prior to coming into the interview. There wasn’t all that much information available on Melody online beyond her Instagram account—she would have had to do a fair bit of digging. “I tell you what. Come back tomorrow at nine for an audition. If you’re half as good as your portfolio suggests, the job is yours.”
They both rose, and Talia shoved her portfolio back in her bag, then stuck out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Melody watched the pretty woman leave the bakery, then settled back into her chair and reached for another chocolate. The bonbon she selected—hazelnut butter covered in a crisp chocolate shell—was the perfect balance of sweet, salty, and nutty, the very definition of heaven. The woman obviously had a way with confectionery, and Melody suspected her pastry would be just as good. But somehow she still didn’t buy the story of wanting to work in a small bakery. Even the paltry salary of a pastry assistant in a larger restaurant would match what they were offering, with far more job security.
She pulled out her phone and typed Talia Durand, pastry chef in the search box of her browser. But instead of pulling up the masthead of a restaurant as she expected, Melody found herself looking at page after page of news reports.
American model suffers horrific accident.
Model Talia Durand announces permanent retirement.
Malibu car crash claims life of driver, leaves passenger disfigured.
Melody couldn’t help but open news report after news report, sifting through the hyperbolic language for the truth. Talia had been in a car accident in Malibu seven years ago, right at the time she’d been at the height of her career, modeling for couture houses and designer fragrances. All that had come to a halt when the car her boyfriend was driving had slid down an embankment in Malibu Canyon, killing him and leaving her trapped for nearly eight hours before anyone noticed the vehicle. In addition to the terrible lacerations to her face, she’d broken dozens of bones, punctured a lung, and spent a good stretch in ICU recovering. That had marked the end of her modeling career and, as far as Melody could tell, the beginning of her stint as a pastry chef.
A tragedy, everyone called it. A horrible waste. Somehow the news reports rankled Melody. Sure, Talia was scarred, but she’d hardly call her disfigured. It was simply that everyone expected a woman that beautiful to be perfect. No doubt Talia had suffered under that expectation since her accident. But if what Melody tasted now was any indication, modeling wasn’t even close to her greatest talent.
She pulled out her phone and texted Rachel: How do you feel about adding fine chocolate?
Rachel immediately came back: Why, are you getting bored with the four hundred items already on the menu?
Haha. Funny. I’m about to hire a pastry chef who is also a chocolatier.
That’s your decision. Just make sure you save some samples for me.
The next morning, Melody was already hard at work when Talia arrived, dressed in a crisp white chef coat and checked trousers, her hair pulled away from her face in a tight knot. “Good morning.”
Melody looked up from where she was rolling out a laminated dough on her marble table. “Morning. You can put your stuff in the staff room back there.”
Talia disappeared for a moment, then returned with her knife case and pastry kit, one in each hand. “What would you like me to do?”
“While I’m making the croissants, I’d like you to make up two pounds of choux for the éclairs.”
“Yes, Chef,” Talia said immediately.
“Rachel gets called ‘chef.’ I’m just Melody or Mel.”
Talia threw her a searching look as she began weighing flour for the dough, clearly comfortable with the process. “Will I get to meet her soon?”
“She should be in later this morning. Her menu is largely set. I’m still tinkering with mine and probably will be up until we open.”
“Which is when?”
Melody glanced at her watch to check the date. “Five days.” She stopped what she was doing. “Wow. Five days.”
“You’ll be ready,” Talia said, moving the bowl to the countertop mixer. “The pastry section is always ready.”
It was true. Compared to the hot line, which depended on each cook performing with split-second accuracy, pastry had the advantage of advance preparation. They never knew which of their offerings were going to go over, but most of service was plating and not baking. And since only the donuts would be deep-fried to order, she’d have very little to worry about.
They’d have very little to worry about. A quick glance at the texture of the choux as Talia spooned the batter into a pastry bag told her that Talia had her recipe down to a science. Little stripes of batter went down on parchment-lined baking sheets, each perfectly uniform, a sure sign that she made these regularly. She slid them into one of the preheated ovens and then came back to the bench.
“Do you have a preference on filling? I’ll make that while they’re baking.”
Melody pushed a binder of recipes toward Talia. “Pick two. I’d like to see how you do with my recipes.”
“No problem.” Talia flipped on one of the induction burners and set a small saucepan on the pad to heat. Melody barely needed to watch to know the woman knew what she was doing, scalding her cream, tempering her egg yolks. When the filling had come together, Melody dipped a spoon into the warm custard and tasted.
“That’s good.” She went back for a second taste. “Really good.”
Talia smiled modestly, but pleasure poured off her.
A few minutes later, the pastries came out, puffed and golden, perfectly baked. Melody watched Talia fill them and sampled one of each, which was by now a formality.
Finally, Melody turned to her. “Congratulations, Talia. You’re hired. You can start on Monday at seven. Beginning opening day, I’ll need you here at four each morning.”
“Thank you.” Talia shook Melody’s hand, beaming. “I’m so happy to be working here.”
“And I’m happy to have you.” More than happy. Melody had expected to hire a less experienced assistant and have to work alongside her. Now she was confident she could hand over her book and let Talia handle all the classic pastries while she focused on the bread and the daily specials.
For the first time, the worry that she wouldn’t be ready in time fell away.
She wanted nothing more than to head to Justin’s apartment and share her excitement about finally finding her pastry assistant, but he’d left on a six-day tour last night after promising that he wouldn’t miss their opening night. Pro
bably better anyway. She’d be so busy for the next several days that she’d have very little time for him . . . and the last thing she needed was to be wishing she were with him when she should be focusing on work.
She took a deep breath, happiness filling her chest. For the first time in longer than she remembered, things were falling into place. Justin. Bittersweet Café. Things were still strained with Rachel and Ana, but given time, they’d see they’d been too harsh. She had absolute confidence in that.
She’d held on through some unpleasant times, but her faith in God’s blessings had proven out. Finally. She could only believe that this was all a sign she was at last headed in the right direction.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A FULL WEEK OFF WAS going to feel like a luxury. Justin had purposely bid his schedule to be gone in early June and head back just in time for Bittersweet’s friends-and-family night. Melody was too distracted to focus on him anyway, with the last-minute preparations taking up all her time. Their interactions had mostly consisted of him bringing dinner and coffee to the Platt Park space, then giving her a shoulder massage in the kitchen until the tension melted from her muscles. She’d plant a quick kiss on his lips and go straight back to work, his presence forgotten, leaving him with a whole lot of time alone with his thoughts.
The final days of this tour were comprised of a few long flights that pushed the limits of the Citation’s range, the last being an LA-to-Atlanta leg that might or might not require a refueling stop depending on weather and winds. It was the kind of trip he enjoyed, requiring constant monitoring of speed, conditions, and fuel load, lots of planning for contingencies. Good weather and the jet stream at their back meant they made it nonstop, two hours before Tropical Storm Isobel had been expected to make landfall on the Atlantic coast.
“You staying overnight?” his F/O asked when they disembarked at Hartsfield-Jackson. By some miracle, he’d drawn Marilyn Terayasu again, who was fast becoming his favorite copilot.
“No, I need to get back to Denver by tomorrow. Flying commercial standby tonight.”
Brunch at Bittersweet Café Page 29