Till Death Do Us Tart Read online

  Andy and Stephanie concentrated on their work. One of the many things that I appreciated about our team was everyone’s ability to take initiative. I didn’t have to remind Andy to wipe down the espresso machine at the start of his shift, or ask Stephanie to whip buttercream for our specialty cakes; they jumped in and helped with whatever was needed.

  Once my timer dinged, I removed the golden-brown fries from the oven and arranged a half dozen of them in a red and white striped cardboard fry box. “Who wants a taste?” I called to Stephanie and Andy, setting the fries next to a ramekin of raspberry “ketchup” for dipping.

  “Did someone say taste?” Andy practically hurdled the espresso counter.

  “Careful,” I cautioned. “They might be hot.”

  Sterling and Bethany, the two other members of our small but mighty staff, arrived. Sterling had been taking on a bigger role as kitchen supervisor. He didn’t have formal chef training, but was a quick study and had an innate ability to know what flavors worked well together. Finding Bethany had been serendipitous. We met at Ashland’s annual Chocolate Festival where she debuted her droolworthy brownies. Mom and I asked her to help out while we were on the cruise. She was such a natural fit that we ended up inviting her to stay on permanently. To my surprise and equal delight, she and Stephanie hit it off instantly. They had teamed up to expand Torte’s social media presence with daily contests and gorgeously styled pictures of our culinary creations.

  I knew that we were going to have to hire more staff with the expansion. The thought of interviewing potential candidates made my head swim. That could wait, at least a little while longer.

  Bethany squealed when she saw my pie fries. “These are the cutest things I’ve ever seen.” She reached for a fry. “Let me put my stuff down and get my phone. I can see the hashtags now. #PieFries and #PlayWithYourFood.”

  “Aren’t these the absolute best?” she said to Sterling who joined us in the kitchen.

  “Sure.” He grabbed a fry. “What’s on the lunch menu today?” He folded his apron in half and tied it around his waist. Even with the warming summer temperatures he wore his standard black hoodie and skinny jeans.

  “How does an Italian sub sound?” I pointed to the walk-in fridge. “I ordered extra salami. You could use the baguettes that are coming out of the oven next.”

  “Works for me.” He reached for a spiral notebook. “What do you want on them?”

  “Maybe start with an Italian dressing with fresh parsley and basil. Salami, black olives, roasted red peppers, spinach, and mozzarella cheese.”

  “I’ll take two of those,” Andy shouted above the sound of foaming milk. He had a stash of fries sitting next to the espresso machine.

  “Do you want them grilled or cold?” Sterling jotted down my list of ingredients.

  I thought about it for a minute. Grilled baguettes brushed with olive oil and served slightly charred sounded delicious, but it was supposed to warm up as the day progressed. “Cold,” I said. “In fact, if you make a few dozen now you can chill them so that they’ll be nice and cool by the lunch rush.”

  “On it.” Sterling headed for the fridge.

  Bethany clicked a dozen shots of the pie fries and Stephanie’s cooling cookie cups. She offered to tackle muffins and croissants. That left me to deliver our wholesale orders. I enjoyed getting a chance to pop into neighboring businesses along the plaza, especially as the theater season ramped up. It would become harder and harder to find a spare minute once the summer crowds descended. I packaged buttery loaves of sweet bread and crusty sourdough into a box and headed outside. Flowers spilled from window boxes along the plaza. Empty galvanized tubs were secured with a bike lock on the side of A Rose by Any Other Name, the flower shop owned by my friend Thomas’s parents. Soon they would be bursting with colorful, fragrant blooms. The tree-lined sidewalk looked sleepy, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. By noon the outdoor bistro tables would be packed with diners and the shops would be bustling with tourists. Each building along Main Street had been designed to resemble Elizabethan architecture. Walking this route never got old. I felt like I saw something new each time, like the scalloped iron gate on the terrace above the bookstore or the curved brick archway that opened into a hidden alleyway.

  I passed Puck’s Pub where a bartender was sweeping up the remains of last night’s revelry. He tipped his cap. I waved and continued on to the Green Goblin at the far end of the plaza. The pub and restaurant sat across the street from Lithia Park, Ashland’s crown jewel with acres of hiking trails and lush grassy areas perfect for an impromptu summer picnic or to watch herds of black-tailed deer. I was tempted to take a quick spin through the lush grounds before returning to the bakeshop to calm my mind. Instead, I dropped off the Green Goblin’s order and crossed Main Street to finish the delivery route. By the time I made it back to Torte, Andy was chatting with a line of customers waiting for lattes and Bethany was packaging up boxes of croissants and sticky buns.

  “Are you Juliet?” A woman waiting for her drink order stopped me. She wore a tailored black suit jacket and trim white pants. Most Ashlanders rolled into Torte wearing khaki shorts and sandals or flowy peasant skirts, especially during the morning rush. Evening hours brought a more sophisticated style to the plaza as theatergoers meandered through the shops or stopped for a bite before a show.

  “Yes.” I didn’t recognize her.

  She extended a manicured hand with a diamond so huge it devoured half her ring finger. “Clarissa.” She didn’t exactly smile.

  “Nice to meet you. Did you need something?” I nodded to the pastry counter.

  “No. This young gentleman is making me a nonfat latte. I wanted to introduce myself, because I believe you’re working with my husband?”

  “Really?” I placed the delivery box on the counter, and pushed a loose strand of hair back into my ponytail.

  Her penciled lips turned downward. “Yes, Roger. Your architect.”

  “Oh, Roger. Of course. We love Roger. He’s done an incredible job.” I suddenly felt self-conscious about my jeans and tennis shoes.

  “I know that he’s the best,” she snapped. “He’s not the best architect in Ashland. He’s the best architect in the entire Rogue Valley.” She twisted the brilliant diamond. “You’re lucky that he agreed to take on a project…” She paused and glanced around the bakeshop. “Of this size. Typically, he prefers to focus his efforts on larger, more profitable endeavors.”

  The way she spoke made me feel like we were a charity case. “He never mentioned that.”

  Andy put Clarissa’s drink on the bar. “Nonfat latte is up.” He glanced at me and rolled his eyes.

  “I’m meeting Roger shortly.” I tried to keep my tone upbeat. “Have you had a chance to see what he’s done with the basement?”

  Clarissa shook her head. “No.”

  “You should come say hello and take a look. He added a woodstove that is going to be the centerpiece of the seating area downstairs. I can’t wait to arrange cozy couches and pillows around it.” My excitement spilled through in my tone, which seemed to irritate Clarissa.

  “I’m sure it will be charming.” Somehow, she made the word sound loathsome.

  “It’s such a quaint space you have here.” She paused and turned her attention to the front door and motioned to a woman in her mid-thirties with bleached blond hair and black leather biker jacket. “I must go. I’m meeting someone.” Clarissa dismissed me.

  She and the woman in the leather jacket made their way to one of the booths in the front. They were an odd pair.

  I got the sense that Clarissa wasn’t impressed that her husband was designing a bakeshop. She obviously wanted him working on more prestigious projects than our quaint bakery. Roger had never seemed disinterested during the time we’d spent working on the redesign. If anything, he’d been enthusiastic and was constantly bringing Mom and me new ideas and suggestions. Oh well, I sighed and returned to the kitchen. Clarissa could turn her nose down on
Torte. I knew how lucky I was to get to spend my days in such a comfortable and welcoming space.

  Chapter Two

  By the time I went to meet Roger to check on progress I had almost forgotten about bumping into his wife. However, the strange conversation flashed through my head when I went outside and found the woman Clarissa had been meeting hanging around one of the picnic tables in front of Torte when I went downstairs. She intentionally turned her back on me, pretending to examine a leaf on the oak tree, as I passed by. I almost got the sense that she was waiting for me. She flipped up the collar on her leather jacket and plucked a leaf from the tree.

  Odd. But I’d seen stranger things on the plaza.

  I ignored her and descended the brick steps that led to the basement. The steps, handrail, and landing had been cleaned and resurfaced as part of the renovation. After years of neglect, they had been covered in a thick layer of moss and slime, which had made traversing them dangerous. I felt much more confident walking down the new steps than I had a few weeks ago.

  Roger was waiting downstairs with the contractor. “Good morning, Jules. I have some good news for you.” Boxes of mud, trowels, and rolls of drywall tape were piled by the front door.

  “I’ll take any morning that starts with good news.” I reached to shake both of their hands.

  Roger flipped through his clipboard and removed a sheet of paper from it. “Turns out the electrical inspector came out before close of day yesterday. He signed off. That means we are officially in the home stretch.”

  “That is good news.” I studied the inspector’s report.

  “The guys are going to finish the trim and molding this morning. We’re painting this afternoon, so I’m going to need your final approval of the paint swatches.” He unclipped a selection of paint samples from his clipboard.

  Mom and I had decided on a bright, creamy white with touches of red and teal accents. Since there were only three small windows in the basement we wanted the space to feel as light and open as possible.

  “These still look good?” Roger asked, holding up the paint samples.

  “Yep. We’re really taking a risk on colors, aren’t we?” I joked.

  He smiled, revealing deep crevasses around his mouth and eyes. I would guess him to be in his sixties with thinning silver hair and a mustache. “You’re being smart. I would do the same thing if I was in your shoes. Color palettes are more my wife’s domain, but continuing a color is always a better idea in my opinion than creating two radically different spaces. This should blend quite nicely with the space upstairs.”

  “That reminds me, I met your wife earlier this morning. She stopped in for a latte.”

  “Clarissa?” He frowned. “She told me she had an appointment this morning.”

  “Yes, she was meeting someone, but she stopped to introduce herself.”

  “Hmm.” Roger looked confused. He shrugged. “Anyway, back to plans. If we can knock out the trim and finish painting tomorrow we should be ready to move ovens and equipment in the next day or two.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t believe how quickly things had progressed. When Mom and I had first started the expansion, I had heard horror stories of renovations taking months and months longer than expected and businesses struggling to stay afloat in the process. That hadn’t been the case with Torte. Roger and his crew had been meticulous about meeting (and often beating) their deadlines.

  “Will you be ready to transfer baking down here? Is there anything else that you need done before we begin that transition?” Roger asked.

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll check with Mom.” I surveyed the space. It looked nothing like it had only a few months ago. “How long will it take to build the new stairs?” The next phase of construction would involve building the internal stairs and then redesigning the space above. Our goal was to avoid disrupting service as much as possible.

  “Not long. I would anticipate a couple of weeks. Could be more if the city is backed up. The building inspector will have to come out and make sure the structure is up to code before we can actually build out the stairs.”

  “After that you’ll begin to repurpose the old kitchen, right?”

  He nodded. “Yep. I have the new set of plans for you and your mom to review. They include those minor changes we discussed, like adding in the bar along the back window.”

  “Great.” I took the plans from him. “And how much will this disturb our customers?”

  “It shouldn’t be too bad. We’re going to do the bulk of the demo at night and in the early-morning hours. That will minimize the impact on your business. The teardown is going to be the worst part. It shouldn’t change anything you do in terms of your baking since you’ll be down here. You might have to put up a few signs that say something like PLEASE EXCUSE OUR DUST, but otherwise we’ll get moving and have you up and running like new in no time.”

  I hoped he was right. “What about the espresso bar? When you get to that stage, any suggestions on where we should set up a temporary coffee counter?” Since the second phase of construction involved reworking the upstairs floor plan I was nervous about losing revenue during our busiest time of the year. Too many beloved Ashland restaurants had succumbed to the city’s seasonality—flush with cash during the height of the summer, only to lose everything in the bank come the slower winter months. Fortunately our loyal customer base had kept us bustling through the slow season, but I didn’t want Torte to become another statistic.

  Roger motioned me to the half wall that divided the seating area from the wood-fired pizza oven. He ripped a piece of paper from his clipboard and sketched out a layout of the kitchen. “The espresso bar is basically going to flip,” he said, pointing to the paper. “Instead of running horizontally here, it’s going to run vertically along this wall with space for customers at either end to place their order or wait for their drinks. The window here will have a counter-depth bar and seating. Your pastry cases will be at this far end next to the stairs going down. That’s going to open up this entire area in the front for seating.”

  He was right. Torte looked three times the size in his rough sketch. “My thought is that we set up a temporary coffee station and pastry section right here where the dining room currently starts. That will allow us to demo and rebuild everything in the current kitchen and still allow you to stay open. What do you think?”

  It was going to be tight, but hopefully it would only be a few weeks. “I think we can make it work,” I said to Roger with a nod. Andy’s creativity would definitely be put to the test, because if the sketch was to scale it looked like he would only have about four—maybe five—feet to move around in.

  We finished our walk-through and I headed to the bakeshop to give the team the good news that we had passed our final inspection. As I crested the stairs, I heard a familiar voice. “Juliet, darling! You’re just who I wanted to see.” Lance stood with one lanky arm propped up against the exterior brick wall. He looked different. His angular face was clean-shaven, his dark hair cut short, and his face was tanned. Instead of his standard three-piece suit he wore a pair of indigo jeans rolled up at the ankles and a casual linen shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned.

  “Lance! You’re back.” I hurried to hug him.

  He smelled like sunscreen. I noticed a pair of expensive sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket of his crisp, white linen shirt.

  “Where did you go? Bermuda? You look tan.”

  A slow smile spread across his thin cheekbones. “There’s so much to tell. Where do I start?” He linked his arm through mine. “I believe a pastry is in order.”

  We headed inside. I left Lance at one of the window booths to grab us coffees and a plate of Bethany’s blueberry cornmeal muffins.

  “Tell me everything,” I said, returning to the booth with two gorgeous golden muffins bursting with juicy berries.

  Lance helped himself to a muffin. He tore off a bite and stared pensively onto the plaza. “She looks different.”

&
nbsp; “Who?” I followed his gaze.

  “Ashland. She’s changed in my absence.”

  That was a stretch. I took a sip of the medium roast and waited for Lance to expand on his theory.

  He dabbed a crumb from his lip with a paper napkin. “She looks lonely, doesn’t she? Like she needs a pick-me-up.”

  I stared at the bright, sunny plaza where tourists had begun to gather. Ashland’s resident poet troubadour had taken up his usual spot next to the Lithia bubblers. He was famous for his ability to wordsmith a poem for anyone who happened to pass by. His setup was a simple card table and folding chair with an old-fashioned typewriter and a stack of creamy paper.

  “Where did you go?” I ignored his observation. “I want to hear about your vacation.”

  “Vacation?” Lance scoffed. “I wouldn’t say vacation. Let’s say I’ve been around.”

  “Around where?” I pressed.

  Lance raised his eyebrows in unison. “Medford,” he whispered.

  “Medford? As in ten miles away from here, Medford?”

  “Shhhh. Darling, keep your voice down.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you were going on vacation. You’ve been in Medford for three weeks?” Medford was the nearest town with ample big-box stores and a large hospital. Ashlanders experienced the best of both worlds with a small, walkable city with tons of family-owned shops and businesses. But when you needed to stock up on supplies or bulk groceries a quick trip to Medford gave you access to any amenity or product found in a big city.

  “It was a vacation of sorts. Perhaps the better terminology would be a trip down memory lane.”

  “What?” I leaned my elbows on the table. “Why Medford?”

  Lance polished off his muffin. He took his time brushing crumbs from his fingers before he continued. “Juliet, I have a confession to make, but you have to promise that this little secret will stay between the two of us.”