Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ten thousand dollars. Enough money to cover his rent increase for months. Enough time to build his business. A lifeline. The day had started out on a horrible note thanks to his landlord’s brutal letter. He wouldn’t have dared to hope a solution would present itself a few hours later. What’s more, he wouldn’t have guessed he’d get to spend the day chatting up Elena Voss, or that she would be more fun than he’d originally thought. Knees weak with relief, he scanned the crowd to see where Elena had gotten to.
At some point he’d left his table to get closer to the front of the room while the editor provided more details on the contest. He wound through small clusters of women, everyone shorter than him, but he still couldn’t see Elena. A little blonde grabbed his elbow, said she had a question about the bakery.
“One moment, please, I’m looking for my—” For my what? His eyes fell on Elena’s table. Everything was gone, neatly packed away and carried off. It made sense she wouldn’t need to stay. She’d given out all her samples, and as a representative of a national chain, she wouldn’t be eligible to compete for the cookie prize.
Why, then, did it feel like a gut punch that she hadn’t stopped to say goodbye? Adrenaline swelled, quickening his pulse as he wondered if he should run out to the parking lot, see if she was still around. No. No, he better not. He had to remember she had come for work and her work was done. If she’d enjoyed spending the afternoon with him—her smiles and jokes appeared real—it was over now.
And what the hell was he thinking? He wouldn’t need ten thousand dollars if she weren’t here doing her utmost to make Sparkle Cookie succeed. What was the end game? Start dating her, only to have to break up when Sparkle ran him into bankruptcy and he had to move into Nana’s basement? He couldn’t imagine a woman that put together and well-spoken would want to date a guy who couldn’t keep his bakery open.
He did his best to give the blonde a polite response to her question. Then he circulated the room, saying quick goodbyes. Marilyn gave him a hug.
Cleaning up his table, he began to feel like he’d been up for a hundred hours. The floor was a magnet, pulling him down. Too much socializing, too much straining to come up with clever remarks to make Elena smile. On the second smile, he’d noticed she had dimples. Despite everything looking up from this morning, he was drained. Good or bad, spending the whole day out among people instead of in the bakery kitchen took its toll.
Half an hour later, he shuffled into the bakery on heavy feet.
“Hey, boss, you look like you’ve been through it,” Carmen said the moment he walked past her. Sugar followed in his wake, her head also low. His whole body shook as a yawn coursed through him. Carmen yawned in automatic response. “Don’t start that, Lawrence, or we’ll both fall asleep.”
“I’m sure I’m not as tired as you,” he said.
“Can you believe those kids had me up at four in the morning? It doesn’t make sense from an evolutionary standpoint that the young try to kill their caretakers with exhaustion. But don’t worry about me. I kept the place running.”
Open hours had ended before Lawrence returned. While Carm wiped crumbs off the bakery case shelves, Lawrence took out the broom to sweep under the wrought-iron caf é tables peppered around the front of the house. “I don’t suppose those locusts left us any coffee?”
“You know they didn’t. But I made a half pot for us.”
“What would I do without you, Carm?” He meant it as a sign of appreciation for her hard work. He also literally wondered if this place would still stand when Carmen retired.
“Don’t worry about that for now, mijo. I’ve got some life left.” She filled two Styrofoam cups, stirred in sugar from the old tea tin they used as a canister. “Unlike you. Your nana told me you grilled her about making small talk with strangers and how to appear confident when you feel like … how did she say you described it?”
“Like a nervous bowl of jelly on the inside and a perspiring freak on the outside.” He dumped the sweepings in the trash, then pulled out the bag and tied it off. He would haul it to the alley dumpster later. Right now, he needed to sit and drink that coffee. Carm brought their cups to the table beside his tree. “Nana said, ‘Be yourself.’ Turns out, a whole day of being myself is too much.”
What would Nana think of his conversation with Elena, his camaraderie with the enemy? Nana always gave people the benefit of the doubt, and she would probably advise him to give Elena a chance. Elena, Elena, Elena. Enough of her for the day. He slapped his hand on the tabletop, surprising them both.
“I’m going to get an early start tomorrow, no matter how tired I am,” he informed Carm.
Her brows knit, the line between them deepening. He told her about the rent increase, about the Home Baker’s Quarterly contest. Sugar yipped when he mentioned the prize money, reacting to the charged air and Carm’s sharp intake of breath.
“Incredible, boss! I know you can come up with something great.” Carmen stood, snapped her towel at him. “Don’t just sit there, get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She might call him boss, but Lawrence knew he answered to her. If she said it was time to get to work, it was time to get to work. Without waiting for direction from him, Carmen went to the kitchen to put away the latest stock order.
When he got in the kitchen, he felt grounded and his energy began to build back up. He poured eight ounces of white sugar, followed by eight ounces of grainy brown sugar, into the stand mixer bowl. He used a metal bench scraper to soften butter, kneading it back and forth on the bench before adding it to the bowl. Was there anything more beautiful than sugar and butter creaming? Sugar crystals breaking into the butter, lightening it, the mixture fluffing before his eyes.
From the hooks by the mixer, he grabbed a clean spatula, then he scraped down the sides and sent the ingredients for a second spin. Back at his bench, he sifted flour into snowy mountains, measured the leavening. The aroma of ginger bit into the air as he grated it fresh from a knobbled root. This was his happy place; he would do anything to protect it. His stress began to float away and his tight shoulders loosened. The world seemed okay when he focused on his ingredients.
Moments later he had orange peel in pretty spirals simmering in simple syrup. He jotted down a note to source dried cranberries. Could he use this candied orange and ginger cookie recipe for his contest entry? The batch he’d tested earlier had a great kick from the ginger, but would it be too overwhelming for a holiday cookie? He might scale back on the ginger, although that could mean the cookie would be too sweet, overpowered by the sugar and candied peel.
He tapped his pen on the workbench. Carm’s cell phone rang, and she stepped out to take the call. Besides salt, what else could he add to cut the sweetness? The acid from the orange peel wasn’t doing it.
When Carmen returned to the kitchen, Lawrence could tell she needed to leave early, even if she didn’t want to admit it. Carmen darted from shelf to shelf, rotating ingredients as she put them away so the freshest were in the back and those about to expire got used first. Without pause, she moved on to wipe down the stovetop.
Watching her frantic activity, Lawrence felt pity. “Does Dr. Garcia-Peters need an emergency babysitter?”
“I told her I have to work until six.” Carm huffed, crossed her arms. “She’s the on-call doctor.”
He looked at the wall clock above the big flour bins. Dr. Garcia-Peters wouldn’t miss helping a patient on his account. “It’s almost five. You can skip out.”
“I owe you one,” Carm said, untying her apron without further argument. On her way out the back door, she said, “Don’t forget to scoop the snickerdoodles. I’ll bake them off first thing in the morning.”
He would have to work twice as fast for the next hour to make up for Carmen’s absence. No time for experimenting with his new recipe. He ticked off the never-ending list as he worked. Line up four-ounce snickerdoodle balls, then put them on the rolling cart in the walk-in cooler. Make a fresh bucket of sanitizing solution. Double-check the register. Check to make sure tomorrow’s orders were boxed.
In ten minutes, sweat rose on his brow. A crick pinched his neck. He kept working, stopping long enough to blot his face on his apron before charging to the dishwasher to rinse his mixing bowl.
Yes, Lawrence would do anything to save his bakery. Even work two jobs. Even keep things with Elena Voss professional. If he dwelt on the dress, her mouth, how she thawed when he found common ground between them, he’d forget all about what was best for the bakery. He had to stay focused on work.
For the most part, he managed to keep his attention on the recipe, although memories of Elena tossing her hair over her shoulder still popped up when he least expected them. He lost count of how many times he had to shake his head to chase them away.