Live and Let Pie Read online

  “It sounds amazing. Go for it.”

  “You always say that.” Andy grinned. He began steaming milk.

  “So have you given any more thought to school?” I asked, keeping my eyes focused on the pastry case.

  He ground fresh beans. The smell was instantaneous. Rich, earthy coffee scents enveloped the enclosed area. “I think so.”

  “And?” I walked around to the other side of the counter, so I could see his face.

  “I’m going to quit, Jules. I’ve made up my mind. I know that you and my mom and my grandma and your mom are all going to tell me that I’m making a mistake, but I’m not feeling it right now. Maybe it’s a mistake to drop out, but I don’t think so. I can always go back.”

  “What about football though? I thought you loved being on the team.”

  He twisted the tamper into the machine. “I do. I love the team, but it hasn’t been the same lately. Something’s going on with the coach. Rumor has it he’s leaving. He hasn’t been at practice. Hasn’t checked in with me or any of the other guys. I’m sure he’s out.”

  “You mean fired?”

  “No. I think some bigger school came calling and probably offered him a lot more dough.” He winked. “Hey, I set myself up for that one.”

  “But you’d be giving up football too.”

  “That’s what my mom is going to say. But, come on, what am I going to do with football? That’s not a career. I’m not good enough to play professionally. I could play for the Raiders for another year or two and then what? A few guys have gotten really hammered lately. One of my friends had to sit out for four weeks with a concussion. I don’t know that it’s worth it. I don’t want to mess up my head just because I like to play a stupid game.”

  “Good point. I worry about you all the time when it comes to taking hits, but you could stop football and still get your degree.”

  “Yeah. Except I want to do this. If I were working here full-time I could learn just as much if not more about the coffee and restaurant business. You know my generation doesn’t care as much about a piece of paper. We want to get out into the world and create our own futures.” Thick espresso dripped into a stainless-steel shot glass.

  “I get that, but I don’t want you to do something rash and regret it.”

  “I won’t regret it. You’ll be my mentor. Remember, you talked about sending me to barista competitions. I’d love to learn more about the coffee trade and even get into roasting. There are so many things I can do if I have the time. Right now, between school, and football, and work, I’m totally scattered.”

  “Andy, you’re far from scattered. You are one of the most reliable staff members we’ve ever had. Have you even missed a single day of work?”

  “See, that’s it right there. Doesn’t that tell you something? This is my passion. This is what I want to do. When I’m in class I’m daydreaming about coffee.”

  I couldn’t argue with him. When I wasn’t at Torte, my mind was never far from thoughts of future menus or new cake designs. I knew it borderlined on an obsession. That was often the way it went with things we were passionate about—a blessing and a curse as Mom would say.

  “See, I can tell you get it,” Andy continued. “If I didn’t love this place and what I’m doing, why else would I show up before the sun? My friends sleep until noon. I’m already halfway through my day by then. You don’t pick this life. It picks you. This is what I want to do, Jules.”

  “You have my support.” I breathed in the aroma of the coffee. “When are you going to break the news to your family?”

  Andy poured a shot into a coffee mug and then began steaming milk. “I’m not sure who I’m scared of more. Your mom or my mom.”

  “If you explain your decision to them the way you have to me, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Right.” Andy laughed. “Have you met either of our moms?”

  “Okay, maybe they’ll freak out at first, but they’ll come to terms with it. They know you’re an amazing guy.”

  A foamy froth spilled over the side of the metal steaming pitcher. “Thanks, boss. At least I know that you’ve got my back.”

  “Always.” I wiped a smudge off the countertop. “Once things settle down, let’s talk about next steps for you. I would love to plan to send you to some competitions and have you take a bigger role with procuring coffee and working with our local roasters. I’m sure that we can arrange an internship of sorts with one of the roasters to have you learn the steps.”

  “That would be awesome.” Andy’s cheeks flamed with excitement. “You’re seriously like the best boss in the world. You know that, right?”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I replied with a smile. “But the bread calls. I can smell the batch I have in the ovens. I better go check on it.”

  “I’ll have a java ready for you in five. I want to play around with the ratios of caramel, Irish cream, and cinnamon.” He swirled milk over the espresso. “Thanks again. All kidding aside, you are such a good listener and I appreciate you taking the time to help me through this.”

  “Anytime. You know that you’re not staff—you’re family.”

  He held up the coffee mug in a toast.

  I left to check on my bread, wondering how everyone else would react to Andy’s news. It wasn’t my story to tell. I would let him take the lead on when and how he decided to share his decision.

  Our morning bread orders had doubled over the summer months. In the height of the theater season every restaurant and pub in town was bursting at the seams with hungry visitors. We supplied breads, rolls, a selection of our pastries, and even a few custom cakes to businesses throughout the plaza and town. I enjoyed doing the delivery rotation. It allowed me a chance to stop in and say hello to my fellow business owners. I packed up boxes of crusty sourdough and marble rye.

  Andy came downstairs with a sample oatmeal cookie latte. Sterling and Stephanie accompanied him.

  “Have you heard that you have a dropout on your hands?” Stephanie asked, shooting Andy a sideways glance.

  I was taken aback. I hadn’t expected that he would tell everyone right away.

  I looked to Andy.

  He handed me the latte. “Yep. I’m the new Torte delinquent, I guess.”

  “Someone finally usurped my title.” Sterling punched him in the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

  “Happy to help.” Andy saluted him.

  Stephanie scowled. “This is great. Now I’m going to be the only one around here who’s stuck doing homework on my lunch break.”

  “All part of my master plan.” Andy shot two thumbs up in the air. “No more homework, suckers.”

  Stephanie rolled her eyes. “You’re sure about this?”

  I appreciated that she was concerned too.

  Andy launched into the same argument he had used on me. Sterling and Steph listened attentively. When he finished Steph pursed her lips and twisted a stud earring. “I guess that makes sense. It’s going to be weird not to walk over to campus with you or see you in the library.”

  “But you’ll see me here every day.”

  “I guess. It’s just going to be weird.” Stephanie dropped the conversation and walked over to the sink.

  Sterling clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s you and me against Jules now, watch out.”

  “Nice.” I chuckled.

  “Seriously, man, that’s cool. I can see you owning your own roasting company one day.”

  Andy gave him a look of thanks. “That’s the goal.” He returned to the coffee bar.

  “What do you really think, Jules?” Stephanie questioned. Her startling, almost violet eyes were heavily lined with black and dusted with purple eye shadow. “You can’t let him drop out of school.”

  “I don’t think she has any control over Andy’s decisions,” Sterling said.

  “Whatever. You know what I mean. This is a terrible idea.”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure if it is,” I said. The oven buzzed. I walked over
to check on the next round of bread.

  Sterling gathered a pile of applewood to start the fire in the pizza oven.

  Stephanie reviewed order sheets for custom cakes and cupcakes. “Have you lost it? You think that dropping out of college is a good idea?”

  “No, but I understand Andy’s perspective and if I’ve learned anything over the course of my life so far it’s that sometimes you have to trust your gut instinct. Sometimes we have to make choices based on where we’re at in a particular moment of time. Andy’s decision to leave school reminds me of when I left the ship. It was rash in hindsight. I left without giving it as much thought as Andy’s giving to his decision right now. Would I make the same choice today? Who knows. But I don’t regret it. All of my collective choices have led me to where I am now.”

  “Yeah, but Andy’s giving up his future. Do you know how many people go back to school once they’ve dropped out?” Stephanie was more animated than I’d ever seen her. “Zero.” She made an O with her hand.

  “I know. I told him the same thing.”

  “And that’s it? You’re not going to try to stop him?”

  “Steph, Andy is an adult. I can’t stop him.”

  She muttered something under her breath and then walked over to the fridge for butter, eggs, and heavy cream. “It just sucks that he’s throwing away his future.”

  “Yeah. Although, again, you could argue that I did the same when I left the ship. I gave up great pay, and I had basically no expenses. Not to mention leaving my husband.”

  Stephanie set her baking supplies next to one of the industrial mixers. “That’s totally different. You were an adult. And you’ve said a million times that you were ready to leave long before you realized it. You just needed a catalyst.”

  “True, but that’s my point about Andy. It sounds like he’s been simmering on this for a long time.”

  Sterling had stoked a fire. The kitchen filled with the scent of sweet, woodsy smoke. “Speaking of simmering. I should probably get today’s soup special going. Any requests?”

  I was happy for the change of topic. I didn’t think I could win this argument with Stephanie. Nor did I need to.

  “We got a huge delivery of new veggies yesterday. What about summer vegetable minestrone? We can offer a vegetarian option and a meat option. Maybe with shredded chicken?”

  “Sure.” Sterling and Steph shared a look. I knew that he had stepped in as much for her sake as for mine. I didn’t blame her for her resentment. Attending college and working was a huge commitment. Seeing one of her coworkers opt out must be hard to stomach. I just hoped that it wouldn’t cause a permanent wedge between them.

  Marty’s boisterous voice cut through the tension. “Morning, everyone. Who’s ready to bake the bread as they say?” He clapped Sterling on the back.

  Sterling laughed. “For sure, man.”

  Stephanie went to her workstation to start rolling out fondant for a custom cake order.

  Marty set down his things and washed his hands. “What’s on the docket this morning?”

  We reviewed bread orders. Within minutes Marty had yeast proofing on the counter and milk and butter simmering on the stove.

  “Let’s start with a hearty chicken stock for the base,” I said to Sterling, who had gathered veggies and canned jars of tomatoes for the garden minestrone soup. “We have some in the freezer, but I can use my quick-stock recipe for today. If you want to chop everything for the soup, I’ll get a batch of chicken stock going.”

  “Works for me.” Sterling arranged the vegetables on a cutting board and began dicing onions, garlic, carrots, celery, Yukon gold potatoes, and fresh herbs.

  “It’s starting to smell like my grandma’s kitchen in here,” Marty said over the sound of the dough hook whirling in the mixer.

  I rough-chopped onions, carrots, leeks, and celery and added them to a pot along with large handfuls of rosemary, parsley, peppercorns, whole cloves of garlic, bay leaves, and a healthy glug of olive oil. It didn’t matter how the vegetables were cut because I would allow the stock to slowly boil for a few hours and then strain it. While the vegetables were sautéing on low heat, I hacked whole, organic chickens with a meat cleaver into two-to four-inch pieces.

  “Watch out!” Marty called, placing his hands behind his head. “Don’t mess with a woman and her meat cleaver. I learned that lesson a long time ago.”

  “What?” Sterling looked up from chopping veggies.

  “I’ll tell you about it later, kid.” Marty made a goofy face.

  “That’s right. Don’t mess with me.” I lifted the cleaver above my shoulder. “Otherwise, you might get the ax.”

  “Yeah, right. Jules wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Sterling bantered with Marty. “I mean literally. There was a fly in the dining room during construction and she refused to kill it.”

  “Not true,” I chimed in. “It was a ladybug. Not a fly.”

  “I rest my case,” Sterling said to Marty.

  Once the chicken had been cut in smaller pieces I added it to the stockpot and browned it on both sides. The key to any good stock is a low, slow boil. Often, we would use leftover chicken carcasses to make our stocks and keep them on the stove all day. I didn’t have that kind of time today, so I sped up the process by sautéing the chicken and veggies just until the chicken released its juices.

  Simmering the chicken (bones and all) would infuse it with dense flavor as well as iron, collagen, and rich vitamins from the marrow of the bones. By the time we were ready to add it to Sterling’s soup, it should be rich and herbaceous, and the chicken should fall off the bone. We would shred that by hand and add it to the soup.

  My stomach grumbled at the thought.

  With the herbs, veggies, and chicken nicely browned, I added water by the gallon.

  “What are you doing down there?” Marty asked as he passed by me with a tray of beautifully shiny loaves of bread.

  I had crouched to get at eye level while measuring water.

  “Morning exercises?” Marty teased.

  “No, this is an old trick I learned from the chef in culinary school. When measuring liquids get at eye level. You can’t get an accurate reading looking from above.” I did a couple of lunges. “But you’re right. Maybe we can start a new trend. Kitchen weight training.”

  “I like it.” Marty heaved the tray of bread. “Bread push-ups and measuring squats.”

  “Don’t let Bethany hear you guys,” Sterling said. “She’ll want to film you for social media.”

  I winced. “Good point.” I poured water over the chicken and vegetables until they were completely submerged. Then I brought it to a rolling boil, turned the heat down and covered the stock with a lid. It would simmer on low for two to three hours. Then I would scoop the bones and big pieces of chicken out with a slotted spoon and put the stock through a large sieve, lined with cheesecloth, to strain the remaining broth.

  “I’m going to deliver more bread to the Green Goblin. The stove is all yours,” I said to Sterling as I picked up one of the boxes that Marty had packaged as well as a box of cookies I had set aside to donate to Gretchen. “They’re hosting a cocktail tasting this afternoon and asked for a few extra loaves. Be back soon.”

  The rest of the staff had arrived when I went upstairs. Andy was telling them his news. Bethany’s reaction was the opposite of Steph’s. She squealed and threw her arms around him. “That’s so great! You’re going to be here all the time now.”

  Andy returned her hug. “Yep. You’re not getting rid of me.”

  I left them chatting about bigger and better plans for social media involving daily coffee art and documenting Andy’s ventures into the world of coffee roasting. I hoped that my advice was right. Andy had to carve out his own future and captain his own ship.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  My delivery route took me through the plaza’s busy sidewalks. It was later than usual for our morning delivery loop which meant there were already tourists getting an early st
art on the day. Thomas’s mom waved from A Rose by Any Other Name as I passed in front of the colorful flower shop. She was bundling up a cheerful bouquet of bright yellow daisies for a customer. Galvanized tins bursting with vibrant blooms sat in front of the shop. Twinkle lights and strings of pink paper peonies hung from the windows. I made a mental note to stop by later and ask about some flower arrangements for our next Sunday Supper. Antique lampposts lined the plaza. Banners announcing the annual Daedalus project flapped in the warm morning wind. The event had been a favorite among locals and theatergoers since 1988. It was a fund-raiser for HIV/AIDS organizations. There would be a staged reading of a play, a remembrance ceremony, a bake sale, and actor talks throughout the day. The highlight of the evening was a variety show put on by the entire company. Actors showcased a plethora of hidden talents from magic to the electric guitar. Fans waited with bated breath for the pièce de résistance—the underwear catwalk where members of the company strutted through the aisles of the Elizabethan while sweet little old ladies shoved one-dollar bills into their skivvies.

  I dropped off a box of baguettes at Puck’s Pub and continued on toward the Green Goblin. My posture stiffened as I hurried past the Merry Windsor Hotel, which sat across the street from the Lithia bubblers. A run-in with Richard Lord was the last thing I needed today.

  No luck.

  Richard’s booming voice echoed in the plaza. “Juliet! A word!”

  Did he have spy cameras planted outside? It couldn’t be a coincidence that anytime I passed his hotel he came out on the porch to flag me down.

  “Can’t stop, Richard.” I shifted the boxes of bread. “I’m on my way to the Green Goblin.”

  “Stop on your way back,” he countered. He was dressed in plaid golf shorts and a Merry Windsor T-shirt. The hotel had used Shakespeare’s bust as their logo, and Richard had recently added the tagline WHERE EVERYONE COMES TO EAT, DRINK, AND STAY AT THE MERRY. My staff and I had gotten a good chuckle out of Richard’s lame attempt at a pun.

  “No can do. Busy day.” I didn’t wait for a response. Instead I made a beeline for the Green Goblin, which sat at the far end of the plaza. I could sense Richard’s beady eyes burning into the back of my head. Sooner or later I was going to have to face him, but I was fine with avoiding a Richard Lord confrontation for the moment.