Another One Bites the Crust Read online

  Before I could reassure her, Bethany spoke up. “Actually, I think that sounds kind of fun. I’ve always wanted to see the inner workings of the costume department, and just imagine the photos we can get for social media. They could go viral.”

  “See,” I said to Stephanie. “There you go, no need to worry.” I smiled at Bethany. “Thanks for volunteering.”

  Andy pointed at Sterling. “Does that mean we don’t have to wear tights?”

  Sterling crossed fingers on both of his hands. “Please, Jules.”

  I laughed. “You are all off the hook. Bethany and I will take one for the team.”

  “I owe you,” Stephanie said to Bethany.

  Bethany shook her head. “No, I’m excited. I think it will be fun.”

  The smell of simmering onions, sherry, and thyme made my stomach rumble. “Great.” I handed her the printout. “On that note, Lance wants you to go get a fitting at the costume department.”

  “Really?” Bethany beamed. “This is going to be like being in a show. I can’t believe it.” She untied her apron. “Do you think I can bring my phone? Or are photos prohibited?”

  “I’m sure that Lance would love for you to create a custom hashtag for the event,” I said with a chuckle. “You can ask at the costume department, though. They’ll tell you if there’s any kind of an issue.”

  Bethany skipped for the door while Stephanie exhaled. “That girl is crazy.”

  “She seems genuinely excited,” I noted. “That’s why we’re a team. Everyone brings something different and unique.”

  Stephanie tucked her violet hair behind her ears. “Jules, you don’t even like dressing up.”

  She had a point. “True. Serving in an Elizabethan costume wouldn’t be my preference, but I’m doing it as a favor for Lance, and hopefully some of Bethany’s enthusiasm will rub off on me.”

  “You’re a good friend,” Sterling commented, returning to the stove to stir the heady onion soup.

  Andy shoved the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth. “Truth.” He gave me a salute. “Thanks for not making us wear tights. I’d never live that down with the guys on my football team.”

  “Or the ladies,” Sterling interjected.

  “Right.”

  I made a few quick notes about some minor changes for the party. Last night I had served the fruit and custard trifle in a clear glass bowl, but for the party I wanted to find a tall vase or maybe a crystal serving dish to display the layered dessert. I also wanted to embellish the apple tarts with a Shakespearean scroll made of shortbread, frosted with royal icing, and dusted with edible gold powder. Once I finished my notes I set to work estimating proportions and ordering supplies. We could work on the marchpanes first as they would keep for a few days. I sketched out a production plan and assigned roles to each team member. It was an ambitious project, but we’d successfully accomplished bigger tasks in the past.

  Once I finished our plan of attack for Lance’s party I tucked my notes in the office and headed for the basement. Mom and I had an appointment with the architect to discuss which walls were staying and which were going and to talk about flooring. Our small office had been taken over with samples for paint, flooring, countertops, and more. I hadn’t anticipated how many decisions were involved with a major renovation.

  When I stepped outside onto the plaza the signs of spring were everywhere, from the scent of fresh cut grass to the tulips blooming in the window boxes. Galvanized tins flanked each side of the bakeshop with cascading greenery. Bistro tables with canvas umbrellas sat on the sidewalk. Bright teal-colored Ashland visitor maps had been placed on every windowsill along the plaza, a sure sign that the tourist season was upon us. The free maps showcased Ashland’s shopping district, hotels and B and Bs, and a plethora of outdoor activities nearby, like river and lake kayaking and trail running. Spring fever had hit me. I couldn’t wait for alfresco dining under the stars and afternoon picnics in Lithia Park.

  The sidewalk changed to brick as I rounded the corner to the basement. Moss coated the pathway and stairs. I held on to the iron handrail as I made my way down the aging brick steps. We had yet to decide what to do with the exterior of the building. Mom and the architect were already waiting for me when I made it to the landing and peered through what used to be a solid metal door.

  “Hey,” I called, stepping through the opening.

  Mom was standing in front of a wall that currently divided the space horizontally. “Juliet, good, I’m glad you’re here. We were just discussing whether we should completely remove this wall or leave one section at the end with a pass-through.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, waving to Robert, the architect.

  He greeted me with a firm handshake. “Follow me.” We walked to the far end of the basement. Robert pointed to the vintage brick oven. “One idea is that instead of tearing out the entire wall here, we can leave a section to provide you with some privacy in the kitchen. I would have my subcontractors cut out a six-by-four window if you like. That way you can have the seating area out here and your customers can get a glimpse of what you’re working on, but you’ll still maintain some privacy.”

  “That could be good.” I looked at Mom. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. You said that this wall isn’t load-bearing, correct?” she asked Robert.

  Robert knocked on the rotting Sheetrock. “Correct. You’d be in a bad way if it was. I could punch through this with my pinkie. If you want to do the pass-through we’ll rebuild this section, but either way this entire wall will come down.”

  It was hard to visualize what the space could become. I turned back to face the direction we had come from. That’s where the new stairs connecting the basement would be located. Everything to my left would be the kitchen and the space to my right would be additional seating. Portable shop lights cast a shadow on the floor. Gone was the smell of mildew. An earthy scent remained, but I figured that would dissipate once new Sheetrock went up and flooring was installed.

  “When do we have to decide?” Mom asked. I appreciated her practicality and keeping us on task.

  “You’ve got some time. The next round of subcontractors arrives tomorrow. They’ll tear everything down to the studs and then we’ll start framing everything in.”

  “Can we take a day or two to think about it?” Mom asked.

  “Of course.” Robert pointed to the concrete floor, which was brand-new and dry as stale bread. “What do you think of the subfloor? Nice to see it without water, huh?”

  Mom and I both laughed in unison. “More like a relief,” I said.

  “Any decisions on flooring yet?” Robert asked.

  “I think we’re leaning toward the Pergo that looks like distressed barn wood, right, Mom?”

  Mom nodded. “I know you and your team keep reminding us that our water issues are behind us, but I think we both feel safer going with a waterproof floor.”

  The flooring option that Mom was referring to was a modern laminate. It was completely waterproof, but made to look like rustic barn wood. Not only would it provide another water barrier but also the design should go well with the classic brick fireplace that would become the centerpiece for the basement kitchen.

  “Good choice,” Robert said with a nod of approval. “Should I go ahead and order it then?”

  Mom frowned. “What do you think, Juliet? How many hours have we been starting at floor samples?”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Too many.”

  Robert smiled. “I assure you, it’s normal.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said to Mom. “If I don’t say yes now I’m going to run upstairs and spend the rest of the afternoon second-guessing myself.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Mom squeezed my hand. “One decision down. Two hundred to go.”

  “I think you’ll be pleased with the performance and aesthetic of the Pergo. It’s a great choice,” Robert assured us. “Now on to the fireplace.” He proceeded to explain a variety
of techniques he could use to sandblast and seal the bricks as they were now, as well as options to resurface them with everything from salvaged bricks to a tile façade.

  “This one is easy,” Mom said when he finished. “We want to keep the bricks as they are. We love the rustic look.”

  “Sandblasting it is.” Robert made a note.

  By the time we were done with the walk-through my mind was spinning with decisions—the pass-through, lighting, paint colors, and much more. Mom and I decided to take a short stroll along the Calle Guanajuato. The rushing sound of the creek, swollen from mountain snow melt, murmured to our right. Antique street lamps lined the walk. Local artists had been commissioned to create custom pieces for the pedestrian pathway. During the off-season, a European-style outdoor market, the Lithia Artists Market, pops up next to the creek, drawing craftspeople selling everything from ceramic pottery to leather shoes, along with hosting live poetry readings and music.

  “How are you feeling about all of this, honey?” Mom looped her arm through mine. “Your eyes look a bit glazed.”

  “It’s just so many decisions, you know?”

  “I know.” She squeezed my arm. We walked in silence, drinking in the sound of birds flitting between trees and the succulent scent of blushing pink hollyhock. The pathway ended adjacent to Lithia Park. We turned the corner to return to the plaza where a group of Southern Oregon students had staged an impromptu protest. They were dressed in toxic-sludge costumes and waved signs reading NO OIL. KEEP ASHLAND GREEN. Ashland was no stranger to rallies. As an artistic, collegiate town it attracted a population that embraced civic engagement. One of the things that made Ashland unique was its openness. Every year, any group was invited to march in the annual Fourth of July parade, from churches to proponents of legalized marijuana. I loved watching our eclectic community finding commonalities while waving American flags and dancing down the street.

  We passed Puck’s Pub and then A Rose by Any Other Name, the flower shop where bundles of fragrant roses and lilies sat in buckets.

  Mom paused in front of the flower shop. “I’m having the same momentary panic about the wedding.” She stared at the flowers for a moment. “I keep telling myself to make one decision at a time and stick with it. Maybe years or even months from now I’ll be drawn to peonies, but if my heart wants roses today I should go with roses.”

  Her words were true of so much more than flowers or flooring. They were a mantra for living. Make a decision today and stick with it. I could do that. I had done that. After going back and forth about my future and what I wanted from Carlos, I had finally decided in the moment what I wanted, and I was getting it—the bakeshop, a new expansion, and a joy-filled occasion for celebration, Mom’s wedding. I resolved right then and there to stop worrying about making the wrong decision about the basement. There were too many wonderful things to look forward to. I wasn’t going to let worry get in the way.

  Chapter Six

  The rest of the week passed in a blur of happy activity. Mom’s wedding plans were coming together, minus the venue. We went to dress fittings, outlined a potential menu and guest list, and started looking at invitations. True to Ashland fashion, everyone had distinct offerings for her, like Save the Date cards written in medieval script that read, “Hear Ye, Hear Ye, Herald the Happy News,” and were sealed with bloodred wax. Mom’s cheeks glowed and her steps looked lighter. I loved seeing her so excited and full of energy.

  Demo began in earnest in the basement. Once Robert’s team removed the old Sheetrock and opened up the entire space, my excitement began to build, too. The space was huge. I started daydreaming about constructing six-foot tiered cakes and mass-producing macarons. Even my dress fitting for Lance’s party wasn’t as painful as I had anticipated. He had picked a silk sheath in pale pink with a shimmering silver bodice. The dress had an empire cut and long, narrow shear sleeves. I had to admit that it accentuated my tall, thin frame in all of the right places. Like Bethany, I also had to admit that I felt a bit like a princess in the ethereal costume.

  When the night of the party finally arrived, the entire team helped load and trek carts of our regal desserts and supplies up Pioneer Street. The party was taking place under heated canopies on “the bricks,” an outdoor space in front of the Elizabethan and Bowmer theaters where the Green Show takes place every summer. A variety of performers from jugglers to African dancers keep the crowd entertained on the bricks before the main show.

  For his soiree, Lance had completely transformed the outdoor space. A white canvas tent covered every square foot of brick. Topiaries and gaslit torches flanked the perimeter. The “show” began with an entrance fit for a king, complete with a spiraling staircase leading to the party down below. I couldn’t believe how true the design was to Thad’s original sketches. No detail had been spared on the exterior design, from stained-glass window panels to ornate wood-carved balconies shimmering with iridescent lights.

  The team and I unloaded via the back entrance, which fortunately did not require navigating the twelve-foot staircase. Inside the tent, heaters shaped to resemble ancient rock fireplaces blazed with warmth. Wrought-iron chandeliers dripping with flowers and ten-inch tapered candles hung from the ceiling. Old-English–style wooden tables and benches were positioned in a U-shape with servants and dogs in the middle. There were keg barrels, silver wine goblets, and platters of fruit on every table. A minstrel band warmed up on the stage. The space was lit entirely by candlelight, giving it a romantic and almost otherworldly feel. Shadows and silhouettes danced on the tent walls.

  “Wow,” Bethany said with her mouth hanging open. “This is … um … um…”

  I couldn’t blame her for being speechless. Lance had outdone himself. Waitstaff in Tudor costumes circulated the room with brushed-nickel trays loaded with savory hand pies and carafes of rabbit stew. Two peacocks paraded through the tent, their feathers puffed out in a show of color. Carved wooden crests and ten-foot banners with calligraphy scrolls of Shakespeare’s most famous quotes were interspersed among giant candelabras flickering with golden light.

  “It’s Lance,” I offered in reply. Topiaries dripping with jasmine vines infused the tent with the sweet smell of spring.

  “Yeah, wow. I mean I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like this. I can’t even think of a hashtag to use for this.” Bethany gawked as a fire dancer on stilts walked past us.

  “Over the top?” I shifted a box of royal marchpanes.

  “Well, yeah.” Bethany pulled a cart of supplies behind her as we made our way to the table reserved for the dessert buffet.

  Sterling and Andy lugged in the heavier boxes. “Dude, this is insane,” Andy said, gaping at the ten-foot potted trees strung with white paper globes behind our table.

  “Seriously.” Sterling set a box on the floating wooden floor. “Are those real birds?” he asked, pointing to hanging bronze cages with pairs of mourning doves.

  “I think so,” I said as one of the birds fluttered his white wings.

  “How much do you think something like this costs?” Andy asked, with his jaw still open.

  “A lot.” Bethany nudged him as a crew member passed by with twelve cases of champagne.

  “I almost wish I would have agreed to wear tights just to stay and watch this,” Andy said.

  Sterling grabbed his arm. “No you don’t, man. Let’s get out of here before you do something you might regret.” He grinned at me and Bethany. “Have fun!” With that they raced out of the tent.

  Bethany stared after them. “He would look cute in tights, don’t you think?”

  “Who, Andy?”

  Blotchy red spots rose on her chest. I took that as my answer.

  “What should we do first?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Let’s unload the trays and then we can start arranging everything.” I enjoyed watching a blank canvas, in this case two pedestal tables made of hemlock, come to life. Dessert has always been my medium and for Lance’s par
ty we had pored through pages of cookbooks and the Internet to make sure that our pastries and sweets resembled exactly what people would have noshed on in the height of the Elizabethan era. Bethany and I set up gorgeous crystal bowls of trifle layered with silky vanilla and orange cream custard, berries, and pound cake soaked in rum. Small royal marchpanes had been designed in the shape of fruits and vegetables as well as large ones like a chessboard and chess pieces and a replica of the set for Antony and Cleopatra per Lance’s orders. I had learned in my research that these would have been the main part of the dessert course at a Shakespearean feast. They were often glazed with a combination of rose water, finely ground sugar, and egg whites—what we know as royal icing today. Stephanie had painstakingly crafted each marchpane by hand. The final result was like a fairy tale, from intimidating-knight and statuesque-horsemen chess pieces to a two-foot stage that looked too real to be made from sugar.

  We finished out the dessert tables with puddings, tarts, trifle, clotted creams, tea cakes, and cheese and fruit boards. Bethany added touches of greenery and more tapered candles.

  “Hashtag stunning,” she said, taking a step back to survey our work and snap a few pictures.

  “You all really outdid yourselves for this one,” I said.

  “Stephanie deserves all the credit,” Bethany replied, pulling out a chair and standing on it to get a shot from above. “These marchpanes are the dessert version of Madame Tussauds’s wax statues.”

  I was about to agree with her when Lance swept in. “Darlings, this is très magnifique.” He clapped his hands and blew us both kisses. “These royal marchpanes are absolutely delightful. How will we ever eat them?” Instead of a three-piece suit he wore a Renaissance nobleman’s costume with black pants, knee-high leather boots, a black velvet tunic with faux fur trim, a purple satin cape, and a Renaissance-style hat with an ostrich feather attached.

  “Lance, look at you!” I’d never seen him in costume before.