A Cup of Holiday Fear Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin's Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Chapter One

  They say that the holidays bring people together. Nothing could be truer in my hometown of Ashland, Oregon, which looked like a scene straight out of a picture postcard. Our Shakespearean hamlet had been decked out for the holidays with garlands of fresh evergreen boughs draped over the Elizabethan shop windows and blue and white snowflake HAPPY HOLIDAY banners dangling from antique lampposts. Torte, my family’s bakeshop, was no exception. Our red brick exterior gleamed a beautiful crimson under the warm glow of golden Edison-style lights that stretched from the side of our building to the entrance to the Calle Guanajuato, a cobblestone walkway that paralleled Ashland Creek. Enormous wreaths wrapped with bright red bows hung in the bakeshop’s front windows. Strings of colorful vintage bulbs dotted the roofline and would soon be illuminated along with those of every other shop, restaurant, lamppost, and tree in the plaza.

  For the moment our sweet downtown shopping district sat in a dusky slumber. The sun hugged the top of the mountains, readying itself for its descent. As soon as darkness washed over the Rogue Valley, the holiday season would officially take flight. Tonight was the annual Festival of Light Parade, and I was so jittery with excitement that I almost skipped an afternoon coffee as I stepped inside Torte’s front door. The dining room was packed with familiar faces. I waved to a group of women sitting in a booth near the windows. They were sharing a tray of chocolate fondue, one of our seasonal specials that we served in a ceramic fondue pot with decadent melted Belgian chocolate and an assortment of fruit, pound and sponge cakes, and handmade marshmallows.

  One of the women, Wendy, a Torte regular and dear friend of Mom’s, dipped a skewer stick with a fluffy square of vanilla sponge into the luscious chocolate and called out, “Juliet, we all agree that Torte is going to ruin our waistlines this holiday season.”

  Her friend dabbed a drip of chocolate with the edge of her napkin. “Wendy’s right, but what she didn’t say is that we also decided that it’s totally worth it.”

  I chuckled as I unzipped my black parka and hung it on the coatrack next to the front door. “My apologies to your waistlines, but I’m glad you’re enjoying the fondue.”

  “No apology needed,” Wendy said, helping herself to a square marshmallow. “The holidays are about little indulgences. We’ll focus on our waistlines again in January, right, ladies?”

  The women laughed and clinked their skewers together in a show of solidarity.

  “Good plan.” I flashed them a thumbs-up and turned my attention to the twelve-foot blue spruce tree to my left. The aroma of fresh pine and balsam made me pause for a minute and breathe in the earthy scent.

  For the holidays we had accented the bakeshop with Elizabethan-style greenery. Bunches of ivy, laurel, and holly twisted with golden twinkle lights wrapped around the bay windows and had been adorned along the espresso bar and around our chalkboard menu. Sprigs of mistletoe dangled above the door. Gorgeous, aromatic wreaths made of fresh herbs like rosemary and bay hung from every window. After tonight’s lighting ceremony, we planned to finish decorating the tree with hundreds of hand-decorated snowflake cookies.

  Rosa, one of our more recent hires, stood on a step stool as she twisted strings of pearls onto each branch. “Is this good?” She tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears and pointed to the tree.

  “It’s lovely.” I stepped closer and inhaled the woodsy fragrance. It mingled with the wafting scent of bread and richly brewed coffee. “It’s really starting to feel like the holidays in here,” I said to Rosa, noting the evergreen garland she had tied to our chalkboard menu and the poinsettias placed on each tabletop in the dining area.

  I left her to the decorating and squeezed past a line of customers waiting at the espresso counter. We’d been bustling with nonstop activity for weeks. Our busy season started to ramp up the day after Halloween with customers placing orders for pumpkin, pecan, apple, and chocolate and coconut cream pies for their family Thanksgiving gatherings. Bread production tripled. Our coffee sales began to skyrocket and keeping the pastry case stocked became a daily challenge.

  With Thanksgiving behind us, my team of bakers- turned-elves had been rolling out our signature sugar cookie cutouts in the shape of Christmas trees and winter stars. Rows of butter stollen, chocolate Yule logs, gingerbread spice cookies, hot chocolate petits fours, and rum fruitcake filled the pastry case. There were red and white candy-cane-striped cakes on display in glass stands and baskets of our holiday breads filling every square inch of the counter. From Hanukkah cider and jelly doughnuts and chocolate rugelach to old English figgy pudding and trifle, we were committed to making sure that our offerings were special, unique, and filled with tradition.

  “Hey, boss.” Andy gave me a two-finger wave from behind the counter. His cheery red apron with the Torte logo was tied around his waist and a Santa hat with a fluffy cotton ball flopped to one side of his head. “I saw you come in and thought you might need sustenance for the parade.” He handed me a steaming mug with a mound of whipped cream sprinkled with crushed peppermint candies. “It’s my peppermint bark mocha. Tell me what you think, because Steph is getting ready to put the holiday specials up on the chalkboard.”

  “I’m sure it will be great. No one could claim you’re skimping on the whipped cream.” I snuck a taste with my pinkie. “Did you add a dash of peppermint extract to this?”

  Andy grinned. “You know it. I was thinking we could serve these with sticks of peppermint candy canes, too.”

  “Sounds delish.” I balanced my coffee and headed downstairs to check in with my baking team.

  Torte had recently undergone a major renovation, including expanding into the basement space that now housed our gorgeous state-of-the-art kitchen and cozy seating area where customers could get an up-close and personal look at our bakers in action or linger with friends in front of the atomic fireplace. Rosa had wrapped evergreen boughs and twinkle lights along the stairway railing and a second (albeit slightly smaller) Christmas tree had been placed near the seating area, awaiting decoration.

  “How goes parade prep?” I asked as I stepped into the kitchen.

  Sterling, my newly appointed sous-chef, stood near the wood-fired oven watching over savory flatbread that had just begun to char. Stephanie had the meticulous task of hand piping the sugar cookie cutouts with royal icing. If anyone was up to the task, it was her. At first appearance her goth style, shockingly purple hair, and heavily lined eyes made her seem aloof, but I had learned that under her reserved exterior she had a tender heart. Much like the Grinch.

  One of my most recent hires, Marty, a jovial and professionally trained baker in his sixties, was stirring a vat of butternut squash soup for the upcoming lunch rush. We had prepared extra stock of all of our usual offerings along with some holiday specials for the day. Tonight’s parade would draw thousands of people to the plaza. Historically it was one of the busiest days of the year. Locals and visitors would line Main Street at dusk to sing carols and watch as Santa, Mrs. Claus, and their sleigh of reindeer paraded through town until they arrived at the plaza where they would illuminate a million festive lights and kick off the official holiday season. Christmas in Ashland was nothing short of magic.

  Since Torte was just a few doors down from the balcony where Santa and Mrs. Claus would flip on the lights, we planned to set up an outdoor hot chocolate and cookie station. We had made stacks of unfrosted cookies in fun holiday shapes—trees, stockings, presents, wreathes, and Santa’s sleigh. Children would be invited to frost a cookie with colorful buttercream and decorate them with an assortment of shimmery sprinkles. We would offer complimentary hot chocolate and handmade peppermint marshmallows to warm people’s spirits while they waited for the light show.

  “Andy and I have the tables set up outside,” Bethany said, interrupting my internal checklist. “Do you want to come see?”

  Bethany wore a long-sleeved emerald-green T-shirt with red and white lettering that read WE WHISK YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS. Her unruly, long curls had been tied into two ponytails with matching red and green ribbons.

  “Nice shirt,” Sterling noted with a smile as he removed a tray of bubbling mozzarella, salami, and tomato flatbread from the pizza oven. “Where do you find so many shirts with baking puns?” His jet-black hair had begun to grow out. It had a hint of a wave now that it fell below his ear. The naturally disheveled look suited him.

  “I have my sources,” Bethany bantered.

  “Did you know that studies say people who use puns are smarter and wittier on average?” Marty chimed in.

  “Validation!” Bethany raised her arms in triumph. “Long live the pun.”

  “Now look what you’ve d
one,” Sterling said to Marty. “Don’t encourage her. The next thing you know we’ll all be wearing matching punny T-shirts.”

  Marty ladled the gorgeous, creamy butternut squash soup into a waiting bowl. “Hey, you can’t argue with research.” He paused and shared an impish look with Bethany. “As they say, the proof is in the pudding.”

  Stephanie, who had remained silent, let out a groan.

  Sterling rolled his eyes. “We’re doomed.”

  I knew that the teasing was all in fun. My staff, while different, shared a mutual love of the craft of pastries and a mutual respect for each other. Mom and I prided ourselves on the fact that Torte rarely—if ever—experienced any bickering among our team. There had been one exception: Andy, our lead barista, had been less than welcoming of Sequoia, another recent hire. I had come to learn that Andy’s personal life was in turmoil. He had made the decision to drop out of college and was worried that Sequoia was going to replace him. We had assured him that he would always have a place at Torte. Things between the two of them had been better ever since.

  “If you guys would stop bugging me, I have real work to do, like show Jules the adorable Christmas-cookie decorating station.” Bethany tossed one of her ponytails over her shoulder as I followed her out of the kitchen.

  Having the bakeshop divided into two levels had allowed us to greatly expand our product line. The commercial kitchen was more than double the square footage of our old kitchen, but running up and down the stairs throughout the day to deliver fresh trays of pastries and having staff and customers on two floors provided new challenges. We had kept the royal-teal-and-red color scheme that my parents had used when they opened Torte’s front doors decades ago. It felt perfect for the holiday season.

  Bethany lifted a tray of Christmas puddings, cupcakes piled high with fluffy mounds of buttercream frosted to resemble snow, and raspberry and pecan kringles (a Danish pastry) that made my mouth water. “I’ll drop this off upstairs before we go outside.”

  “Does anything else need to go up?” I asked, taking a sip of the mocha Andy had made for me. It had a wonderful balance of chocolate with hints of peppermint, but it wasn’t overly sweet. He had managed to have the coffee flavor dominate, with subtle touches of mint in the background. I was impressed. It wasn’t an easy task. Many coffee shops opted for overly sweet and cloying chocolate drinks with artificially flavored syrups. At Torte, we made everything by hand from natural, locally sourced ingredients.

  “No.” Bethany expertly maneuvered the tray. “Just this for now, but there will be lots to bring up soon.”

  As I glanced at the shiny Christmas puddings dotted with edible gold leaf, I felt a sense of gratitude for tradition. When my parents opened the bakeshop, they made a pact to create artisanal food baked with love and seasonality. There was something special about baking based on the season. Some of my fellow pastry chefs had succumbed to the pressure of launching their holiday lines in September. But not at Torte. We prided ourselves on savoring the flavors of every season. The beautiful Christmas puddings Bethany was carrying would only be available for the next few weeks, and I liked it that way.

  Once upstairs, Bethany slid the new tray into the pastry case and received a round of oohs and ahhs from waiting customers.

  “Hey, boss, what do you think of the peppermint bark mocha?” Andy asked as I went to grab my coat.

  “It’s heaven in a cup.” I raised my half-full coffee mug in a toast.

  “Awesome.” Andy’s sincere and youthful face lit up in a smile. His summer tan had faded, making the freckles on his cheekbones more pronounced. “I’ll add it to the holiday special board. You’re not going to believe what Sequoia wants to put up there.” He stuck out his tongue and pointed to Sequoia, who was boxing up a pumpkin cheesecake. A month ago his reaction would have worried me, but since he and Sequoia had found a working rhythm, I knew his goofy and somewhat disgusted face was in jest.

  “What?” I asked.

  Sequoia handed one of our white craft pastry boxes with our blue and red fleur-de-lis logo to a customer and closed the pastry case. She had a distinctly Ashland look. Her dreadlocks were hidden beneath a navy bandana. Knotted bracelets were tied around her petite wrists. We don’t have a strict dress code at Torte, but I had encouraged Sequoia to ditch her flowing peasant skirts for more practical jeans. Loose-fitting clothing or clunky jewelry isn’t a good match for a crowded kitchen or the narrow space our staff had to navigate behind the pastry counter and espresso bar. Sequoia had taken my advice, in part because I think she was tired of having her tie-dyed skirts stepped on. Today she wore jeans that were covered in patches and a long-sleeved navy T-shirt under her Torte apron.

  “You know, a lot of people around here celebrate winter solstice,” Sequoia replied in her languid tone. “I was thinking we could do a winter solstice chai with brandy extract, star anise, cinnamon, vanilla bean, oranges, and black peppercorns. Something real earthy, you know?”

  “That sounds wonderful. I’d love to try a sample.” I took another drink of my coffee and set the mug in a tub under the counter.

  Bethany clapped twice. “That would be so cool. I could do an Instagram post about chasing the light. Maybe we can do a whole thing about light versus dark around solstice. It’s not for a couple weeks, right?”

  “It’s the first day of winter every year. Did you know that solstice is the turning of the sun?” Sequoia didn’t wait for Bethany to respond because it was obvious by the dreamy look in Bethany’s eyes that Sequoia had her full attention. “Throughout history and across nearly every culture there have been celebrations and festivals marking the return of the light. There’s a huge solstice celebration here in Ashland with a bonfire at Emigrant Lake. It’s an event for the whole family with face painting, music, food, and a wonderful trail of luminaries around the lake. You can follow the path of light and reflect on the past year and the year ahead.”

  “That sounds amazing.” Bethany whipped out her phone and started scrolling. “Okay, what about something like this?” She held out a picture for me and Sequoia. “Black-and-white-dipped cookies to pair with your solstice chai—those should make some great shots for our social media and such a great story to share too—I love the idea of following a path of light. What do you think? And can I come to the solstice celebration?”

  Sequoia’s inner calm radiated when she smiled. Her energy wasn’t as effusive as Bethany’s, but it was equally inviting. “Absolutely. I’d love to have you come along.”

  “Hey, don’t forget about my peppermint bark mochas and eggnog shooters.” Andy pretended to be injured. He tossed the Santa hat he’d been wearing in Bethany’s direction. “I thought you were going to get some shots for social media after you showed Jules the setup outside.”

  She caught the hat and handed it back to him. Her cheeks flamed as red as the felt hat. It was a common occurrence whenever Andy was around. “No worries. I am. Totally. Like we talked about this afternoon, it’s going to be huge. I’m going to shoot so much footage at the tree lighting and do a massive push for your holiday drinks.” She spoke so fast there wasn’t time to breathe between sentences. “Anyone who comes in after the lighting and shows that they’ve made a purchase at any shop on the plaza is going to get twenty percent off any of our holiday drinks.”

  “It’s cool. Don’t freak. I was just messing with you.” Andy raised the hat in surrender.

  “Yeah, but I just want you to know that I would never say I was going to do something, like promote your amazing holiday drinks, and not follow through.” Bethany’s cheeks burned with color.

  I took it as my cue to rescue Bethany. “Shall we go check out the cookie station?” I headed for the front door.

  Sequoia flashed us a peace sign.

  Andy pointed outside to the bustling plaza. A group of carolers dressed in period costumes had gathered in front of the Lithia Fountains to serenade shoppers.

  “Uh, I wouldn’t stand there too long if I were you, boss,” Andy said, nodding at the sprig of green mistletoe above my head. “You might get smooched.”

  “Eeeek. Let’s go, Bethany.” I motioned for her to hurry, but I was too late. The door swung open and Lance, my friend and the resident artistic director at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, swept in.