Live and Let Pie Read online

“We’d like to officially make you head barista and offer you a raise.”

  Andy fist shot in the air. “No way. Awesome. This changes everything. Wow, I mean, this could not come at a better time.”

  I hadn’t expected Andy to react so strongly to the news. I didn’t want to disappoint him with the dollar amount of his raise. “It’s not huge, but you deserve it, and like I said earlier, I’m really going to be leaning on you to train Sequoia on how things run at Torte and get her up to speed.”

  His body language shifted completely. “You got it, boss. Thank you so much. You have no idea how great this is for me right now.” He jumped to his feet and gave me a salute. “Head barista reporting for duty.”

  “Congratulations, Andy.”

  I smiled to myself as he returned to the coffee bar. Hopefully the raise and new role would appease him. I did wonder whether something might be going on in Andy’s personal life. Was he having financial difficulties? I was going to have to figure out a way to broach the subject, but for the moment I would let him revel in his new role as our lead barista.

  Sterling and Stephanie reacted positively. Even Steph cracked a real smile when she heard about the raise. Torte returned to homeostasis. Soon the scent of applewood smoke and baking bread wafted upstairs. I met with the work crew to discuss the ramp they would be installing at the front of the bakeshop for accessibility. Torte was like hallowed ground in my humble opinion. We were a safe space for anyone entering our doors, and we wanted to make it as easy as possible for our clients to access the bakeshop. The construction foreman took me outside to show me how they would grade Torte’s front entrance so that a wheelchair could easily maneuver through the front door.

  We were in the final stretch. Once the last finish work was complete inside the crew would install the ramp and we would officially be ready to open the basement space and say good-bye to dust and the sound of jackhammers forever. I did a little happy dance.

  “Juliet!” I heard a woman’s voice call from across the street.

  I froze and turned to see a petite woman in her sixties waving. It was Pam, the owner of Nightingales Inn, one of Ashland’s oldest bed-and-breakfasts, located in a gorgeous restored Victorian mansion just around the corner from Torte.

  Pam propped an oversized tote bag on her arm and crossed the street. She had long strawberry hair and a heart-shaped face. A bright yellow and blue sailboat necklace hung from her neck. A matching yellow-and-blue striped beach towel was tucked into her bag.

  “You caught me in the act,” I said, feeling my cheeks warm.

  “I liked your dance. It’s a good day for dancing.” Pam mimicked my dance moves.

  “Or a swim,” I said, pointing to her beach bag.

  “Oh this?” Pam patted the top of the towel. “I’m off to the lake and thought I would stop by Torte for one of your delicious picnic lunches.”

  “How’s the inn?” I asked, stepping to the side to let a group of teenage girls enter the bakeshop. I had a feeling these were some of Andy’s coffee groupies.

  “Wonderful. We’ve been booked all summer. Today we have guests from Japan, L.A., and Canada. It made for a lively breakfast conversation.”

  “I bet.” Nightingales was known for Pam’s breakfasts. She didn’t skimp when it came to hospitality. Every morning she prepared a hot breakfast at the inn complete with savory potatoes and red peppers, sticky buns, and granola with fresh fruit. She often stopped by Torte for boxes of dessert for her evening literary salons where she invited guests and locals to nibble on pastries, sip chilled wine, and mingle with a visiting author.

  Pam’s face hardened when a woman in a business suit marched past us. The woman gave Pam a curt nod and continued on without saying a word.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, watching the woman push her way through a crowd of tourists gathered in front of Puck’s Pub where a street performer dressed like a medieval knight was showcasing his sword-wielding techniques with a fake metal sword.

  “Stella Pryor.” Pam shook her head in disgust. “Don’t even get me started on that woman, Juliet. I’m so mad at her I could scream. I could honestly scream right here in the middle of the plaza.”

  “Really?” I was surprised to hear the disdain in Pam’s tone. Pam was typically upbeat. Andy referred to her as Ashland’s cheerleader. Pam knew everyone in town and made a point to get to know newbies, sharing tickets to the theater, welcoming them to lunch at the inn, and hosting wonderful garden parties.

  She looked around us as if she was concerned that someone might be listening. “Have you heard that she’s trying to get her grubby hands on Edgar’s property? She already owns half of Ashland. I have no idea why she wants Edgar’s place.”

  “No, and I’m not sure I know who Edgar is, to be honest.”

  “Come with me, I’ll show you.” Pam adjusted her tote and pulled me toward Main Street without waiting for my response. She led me up two blocks. Nightingales sat on the next corner. It towered over the street surrounded by hundred-year-old pines. Cement steps led up to the creamy yellow Victorian, with another sweeping set of steps leading to the front porch. The historic house had been painstakingly restored to its original beauty. Bright white trim lined the sash windows. A stone pathway wrapped from the front to a miniature English garden in the back. Flowers spilled from ceramic pots and sunlight danced off a stained-glass window cut in the shape of a hexagon on the third floor. Visits to Nightingales as a kid had always made me feel like I was stepping into the pages of a fairy tale. The inn’s intricately carved wooden archways and massive dining room table that sat twelve to fourteen guests rivaled that of any castle I’d read about in books. Pam had adorned the living room with black-and-white photos of her ancestors and the inn’s original owners. There was a friendly ghost said to haunt the upstairs bedrooms. I had been convinced that the ghost’s identity was hidden in one of the photos.

  I remembered playing tag behind the giant pine trees at one of Pam’s many summer garden parties. She and my parents had been friends long before I was born. Her parties were the stuff of legend. China platters would line the dining room table, overflowing with roasted pork loin infused with rosemary and garlic, braised chicken and leeks, brown butter mashed potatoes, fennel and tomato salad, and cornmeal rolls. There were terrines of butternut squash soup and smoked-salmon chowder. And then there were the desserts. Pam displayed desserts in glass cake stands on bistro tables tucked throughout the garden. It was as if the desserts had sprouted among the blooming white baneberry bushes.

  A flash of a memory of my father surged through me. I could hear his voice through the sturdy trees and see him kneeling next to a pot of rosemary and lavender in the back gardens. “Juliet! Come quick.”

  I remember the smell of honeysuckle and weaving through grown-ups sipping wine.

  My father’s impish eyes met mine when I darted past my mom and Pam who were dancing along with the band.

  “Juliet, look what I’ve found.” My father waved me over.

  I crouched next to him. “What?”

  He pointed to the pot. “Look closely. What do you see?”

  I studied the flower pot with its leafy greens and pops of colorful flowers. “What? The flowers?”

  “No, look closer.” He ran his fingers along one of the leaves. “Do you see it?”

  The leaf appeared to shimmer with tiny flecks of something sparkly. “What is it? Gold?”

  “Fairy dust.” My father’s eyes twinkled with delight. “Do you know what that means?”

  “No.” I shook my head, rubbing the leaf with my fingers.

  “It means that a fairy lives here. Do you know what Shakespeare said about fairies?”

  I stared at the golden residue on my fingertips. “No.”

  “‘Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing and bless this place.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  He stood and kissed the top of my head. “It means that the fairies are here. If you close your eyes a
nd listen, you can hear them sing.”

  For the rest of the party I sat with my eyes shut tight, listening to the sound of singing fairies. Anytime after that when my father and I happened to pass by Nightingales, we would pause, close our eyes, and listen for the fairies. He believed in magic and created a world for me to believe, too.

  “Nightingales is here,” Pam’s voice pulled me back into the moment.

  “Right.” I blinked back a tear and shook my head to try to ground myself.

  I wasn’t sure why Pam was giving me a geography lesson on the inn’s location. I’d been inside dozens of times.

  Pam pointed to her left where there was a huge open lot. A small, rundown house that looked as if it was slipping off its foundation sat at the edge of the lot. Wild deer used the empty lot as their grazing grounds. “This is Edgar’s property.”

  “Okay. And how does Stella play in? Is she a real estate agent?”

  “Worse. Much worse.” Pam’s voice turned almost shrill. “She’s a developer. A greedy developer who could care less about preserving Ashland architecture. You are aware that property is at a premium in Ashland?”

  I nodded. Ashland had enacted strict urban growth boundaries decades ago in order to protect the integrity of our small town and the wild mountainous spaces around us.

  “Look at this lot.” Pam’s finger shook as she pointed. “It’s nearly flat. That’s unheard of in Ashland.”

  That was also true. Much of the town was built on the hillside, which meant that in nearly any direction you ventured you had to trek uphill one way—or sometimes both.

  “It’s a prime location. Two blocks from the plaza. Level. Half a city block.”

  “And Stella wants to develop it?” I added.

  Pam tucked her finger around a loop in her beach bag. “Yes. She wants to build upscale tiny houses. Can you imagine that, Juliet? Tiny houses. One of our neighbors said that the plans include fifteen houses. That will be terrible. Absolutely terrible. It’s already impossible to find street parking here. How in the world could anyone think they could cram fifteen tiny houses in this space?”

  I could see why Pam was upset. The driveway to the back of Nightingales Inn paralleled one side of the open lot. Pam’s property butted up against the northernmost edge of the lot closer to Edgar’s house—or perhaps a better term would have been shack.

  Pam noticed me staring. “I’ve been pestering the city for years to have Edgar’s place condemned. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see that eyesore torn down, but adding fifteen tiny houses to this neighborhood isn’t the answer. Nightingales was built in 1880. We spent years restoring it to its original beauty. Our guests expect a certain level of elegance. It’s part of the Ashland experience. That will be completely destroyed by a bunch of ugly, modern boxes.”

  Before I could respond, Pam continued, her face beginning to flush. “I called an emergency meeting with our neighbors. Everyone is up in arms. The city can’t do this to us.”

  Most of Pam’s neighbors were also B and B owners. Like its urban growth boundary restrictions, Ashland was equally rigid about zoning for vacation rentals. Since the city relied heavily on tourist dollars, hotels took precedence. Short-term vacation rentals were only allowed on major arterials streets. The section of Main Street where Nightingales was located housed dozens of bed-and-breakfasts, most in old converted historic houses.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you poison Stella or Edgar with one your pastries for me?” Pam laughed. She stared at me for a second. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Juliet. I would never do something like that. I’m just venting, but I would appreciate your help.”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Can you keep your ears open? Everyone gossips at Torte. If you hear anything about Edgar’s property coming up for sale, will you call me right away?”

  “Of course.” Although I wasn’t sure that I would have much luck.

  Pam blew me a kiss with her hand. “You’re a doll. I should let you get back to work and pick up my lunch order.”

  We returned to the bakeshop, but I gave the empty lot one last stare. I hated that there was drama in our idyllic village and hoped for Pam’s sake that the situation would sort itself out soon.

  Chapter Five

  The next few days had me running up and down our newly installed stairs. I kept watch over the new hires in the kitchen and at the espresso bar. Our test run seemed to be going smoothly, although I refused to say that aloud for fear that Andy might launch into a dozen reasons why Sequoia wasn’t going to be a long-term match. For the moment, I took it as a small miracle that they were able to work side by side. In my observations I had noticed that they said very little to one another as they pulled shots and steamed milk. Andy kept his head turned toward waiting customers, chatting them up, and sending a not-so-subtle message that he was dealing with Sequoia’s presence but wasn’t happy about it.

  By the end of the first week, I felt like we were hitting a good rhythm. I couldn’t believe how much more we were able to produce and accomplish with three extra sets of hands. So much so that I was kicking myself for not hiring extra help sooner. When Mom called to ask me if I had time to go look at a house on Emigrant Lake, I could actually say yes without feeling guilty. She and the Professor had decided that rather than move into one of their houses they would buy something new together. I thought it was a brilliant idea—starting new and fresh instead of trying to fit into an old life.

  She picked me up at Torte late in the afternoon on a Saturday. Emigrant Lake was a short drive just outside of town. Mom looked refreshed when I hopped into the passenger seat and tossed my things in the back. “You packed snacks?” I asked.

  “The property we’re going to see is on the hillside near the old cemetery. I thought it might be nice after we look at the house to take the long route and walk around the lake, through the graveyard, and have a little picnic by the lake if you have time?”

  “That sounds great.” Emigrant Lake was one of my favorite places in the Rogue Valley. I had many childhood memories of spending summer days on the water slides and lounging on the dock. The lake was a popular spot for water lovers of all kinds—swimmers, divers, rowers, and families with young children who splashed in the shallow water along the lake’s banks.

  “How goes the house hunting?” I asked as Mom steered the car out of the plaza.

  “Not great.” She sighed. “Doug and I can’t seem to agree on what we want.”

  “Really?” This news surprised me. Mom and the Professor were usually so in synch.

  “Oh no, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I don’t mean that we are arguing, but everything we see is a contender. At last count I think we’ve toured twenty properties. There are only a couple that we’ve crossed off the list. There are so many good options. Too many good options.”

  We passed new construction at the north end of the plaza. “Like that,” Mom said, pointing to the three-story structure. “Those are going to be modern open-concept condos with balconies and a rooftop garden.”

  “That could be cool,” I said. “It’s a great location. You could walk to everything.”

  “Exactly.” Mom tucked her hair behind her ears. “That’s the problem. Doug and I can envision ourselves in a modern condo and in an historic Victorian up in the forest. We can’t decide.”

  “I don’t think you should stress about it,” I reassured her. “When you find the right house, you’ll know it.”

  Her cheeks creased when she smiled. “I’m sure you’re right, honey. I suppose I thought it would be easy, but after being in the same home for over thirty years, I’m not sure what I want next. Maybe something smaller like a condo would be fun, but maybe a cabin up in the woods would be equally enjoyable.”

  “It’s understandable. Have you made a decision about your house yet?”

  She took her eyes off the road for a minute. “Have you made any d
ecisions about the house yet?”

  When Mom and the Professor decided to purchase something new together they had taken me out to dinner and asked if I had any interest in moving into my childhood home. The conversation had taken me by complete surprise. The truth was that I hadn’t ever thought about it. I had imagined that Mom would stay in the house for many years to come, so when the Professor slid an envelope across the table to me and Mom sat beaming next to him, I wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “What is this?” I had asked.

  “Open it.” The Professor nodded at the creamy envelope.

  Inside was the deed to Mom’s house. “I don’t understand.”

  Mom nudged the Professor. He cleared his throat. “Juliet, your mother and I want you to have the house.”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t. That’s very generous of you both, but no, I couldn’t take the house.”

  “Doug, I told you she’d say no.” Mom sounded disappointed.

  The Professor looked thoughtful for a moment. “Juliet, I’m reminded of this quote: ‘The best journey always takes us home.’”

  “That can’t be Shakespeare?”

  “No, but I do ask that you think about those wise words and consider our offer for a while before you make a decision.”

  I agreed. They were wonderful. They didn’t try to pressure me, or nudge me in a particular direction, but rather made it clear that if I wanted the house, it was mine. I refused that very kind and generous offer. But ever since, I’d been dreaming about the house.

  My tiny apartment above Elevation, the outdoor store, had served me well. It had been the perfect landing spot while trying to regain my footing on solid ground. I loved that it was a short walk to Torte and to Lithia Park, but lately I’d been feeling ready to put down more permanent roots. I knew that Ashland was home. I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. If ever. And, having more space would be nice. I didn’t think it was an exaggeration to say that if I stretched my arms as far as they could reach, I could probably touch each wall in the living room. The apartment’s tiny galley kitchen had been great for cooking quick and easy meals, but if I ever wanted to have friends over for a dinner party or to hang out there was no place to put them.