Chapter 2
Alex
I’ve traveled to a lot of places over the years, including Paris, where I spent a year learning culinary practices, but none of the hotels I’ve stayed in ever gave me the vibe of being home again. This quaint little inn is charming, in a ‘trying too hard to impress tourists’ kind of way. The fake plants are so convincing, I’m almost tempted to water them. It doesn’t have a TV, but I’m guessing the owners of this establishment expect their tourists to spend more time roaming the streets of Elmwood Falls and checking out the shops and restaurants than locked away in their rooms. After walking around yesterday in this quiet town, I can definitely say I’d rather spend more time outdoors.
The room has a coffee maker, which I regard with the same skepticism a sommelier might reserve for boxed wine.
Thinking about the bakery I visited last night, I decide to go back. Yesterday, I got there too late to see how the business is run, although I can’t stop thinking about the cute young woman who works there. I don’t mind seeing her again. In fact, I really hope I do.
After showering and dressing, I make my way to the lobby, nodding at the clerk behind the counter—I think her name is Madison—who’s in the process of organizing various gift cards on the circular rack.
“How was your night, Mr. Carter?”
“Suitable. The pillow was quite soft.” I say, opening the door to leave.
“Have a nice day,” she calls out after me.
“Thanks. You, too.”
Outside, it’s cool, and the breeze brushing against my skin feels good. The Elmwood Falls Inn, with its porch and fluttering curtains, fades behind me as I make my way down Maple Street. The cobblestone pathways are lined with flowering dogwoods. As I walk, I see shopkeepers sweeping their front steps, and in the distance the sound of a bell from the town hall echoes softly.
Halfway to the bakery, the path takes me through Willow Park. I spent some time here last evening, sitting on one of the rustic wooden benches, listening to the soft gurgling of water in the distance. I noticed a trail with an old wooden sign announcing that it’d take me up to Elmwood Falls. According to the sign, the waterfall that’s there was voted top five nicest places to visit in a magazine I’ve never heard of. If I have time, I might decide to explore it, however, I’m only here for a week, and I have pressing matters.
Suddenly, I’m stopped by an older woman licking her fingers with a contented sigh. “Just delicious,” she mutters. “I don’t know how she does it.”
“Sounds like you had a little taste of heaven,” I say to her with a smile.
The woman looks up, her eyes wide as though she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have. “Oh!” she says, then she laughs giddily. “I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.”
“What is so delicious?”
“A delightful Cinnamon Apple Strudel. I haven’t had anything like that since my mother was alive. She used to make strudels just like these. Why, I’ve known that child her whole life! I’ve never known her to bake like this.” The woman tilts her head toward Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery, visible now just a few more strides down the cobblestone path, its sign swinging gently above the door. “Of course, her dear grandmother was Louise Fletcher. I suggest you try and see if you can have just one.“ She shows me a box, opening it. “I’ve eaten half a dozen already. My scale isn’t going to like me.”
“Well, some secrets are too sweet not to keep, especially between you, the tart, and your taste buds,” I say.
Then she narrows her eyes at me. “You look familiar. Are you any relation to Mr. Johnson?”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “I’m just a tourist of sorts. I’m here for work.” It’s not exactly a lie, and it’s something I’m used to saying, so the statement doesn’t come off as unbelievable.
“Well, do yourself a favor, young man. Go to Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery. You won’t regret it.”
I give her a courtesy nod. “Thank you for the recommendation. I’ll consider it.”
We walk away from each other, and when I reach the bakery, I see the crowd is already keeping the business busy. It interests me because it’s only ten in the morning. Quite early for a business rush, I’d say.
For several long minutes, I look through the window, watching as the woman from last night laughs at an elderly man, then hands him a pastry. She’s watching him, like a child might watch to see if a magician will appear out of thin air. Finally, the man nods, and she tilts her head back as she laughs. She says something, and he walks away carrying two bags of desserts. As the man opens the door, the bell jingles and he looks back. “Emma, if I weren’t already married, and I was forty years younger, I’d ask you to marry me.”
“And I just might say yes.”
She winks at him, then her eyes meet mine. As the customer leaves, I step inside, the aroma of baked bread and chocolate greeting my senses. When the business is going, it definitely smells good, I decide, looking around. The walls are painted in a cream color and have several old photos hanging around. It’s hard not to like it.
I return my gaze to Emma, who’s smiling at me.
“Welcome back to Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery. Glad my ‘too hard to mess up’ brownie didn’t deter you from giving us another go.”
“Of course not.” I walk up to the counter, looking at all the treats. The ovens behind her are humming, and I can see she’s baking several different things. “I learned to give everything at least two tries before I make my decision.”
A note of irritation flashes in her eyes when I glance at her.
“And besides, I’m not quite fond of brownies.”
She frowns. “Then why did you buy it?”
“It was all you had.”
She’s appearing to look much more frustrated, so I change the subject. “What types of coffees do you have?”
She points above her head. A large blackboard is hanging on the wall with a handwritten menu. She’s having a sale on a blueberry crumpet. Ignoring the food, I look at the drink section of the menu. “I prefer an Artisanal Chai Latte, but since you obviously don’t sell that, I suppose I’ll settle for the original.”
Her nose twitches like a bunny’s would, but she tries to hide it behind her smile—which I know is forced.
“Coming right up.”
She turns her back to me and starts making the drink. Turning around again, she grabs a can of whipped cream from the counter. “Yes or no?”
“Why not? I’m on vacation of sorts,” I say. “I don’t mind living on the edge.” She says nothing as she begins to pour the whipped cream into my latte. “I’ll also take one of everything in the display case.”
Her head jerks up, finger still pressing against the can’s trigger.
“You’ll what?”
“Uh,” I nod toward her.
She glances down, her hand trembling slightly, coated in a sticky, creamy mess from the overzealous application.
Her face turns red as she sets the cup on the counter. In a flustered attempt to fix the whipped cream debacle, Emma grabs a nearby spatula, aiming to scoop off the mountain of cream. Her movements, however, are more frantic than graceful. As she scoops, a dollop of whipped cream launches off the spatula and lands squarely on my nose.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence as she and I both process what just happened. Then Emma’s eyes widens in horror. “Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry!” she stammers, reaching for a napkin.
I take it and wipe my face.
“Sorry, you caught me off-guard. I’ll make you another.”
I watch as she washes her hands in the sink, then makes a second chai latte.
“So everything in the display case?” she asks, still sounding shocked.
“If that’s allowed.”
“Sure thing. Here’s your chai latte, and I’ll box up your order.”
I take the latte, keeping my eyes on Emma. She slips on fresh plastic gloves, then leans over, gathering one of every dessert she has. Except the brownie. I raise my eyebrow when she puts the two boxes she used on the counter.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Nothing. You just forgot about the brownie.”
“Oh. Well, you said you didn’t like it.”
“True, but who am I to break a set? Consider it a tribute to your culinary repertoire.”
She frowns, but says nothing as she reaches in to include a brownie with the rest of the desserts.
“Will there be anything else?” she asks.
“I believe that covers it all,” I say. “How much do I owe you?”
She taps the screen of her register monitor, then looks at me and gives me the price.
“Perhaps a dash of cream on the nose is part of the local hospitality? Should I expect a discount for this unique experience?” I fish my wallet from the back of my jeans and remove my credit card to pass it over, enjoying the shade of red on her face.
“Well, I can—“
“Relax. I was only joking.”
“Right,” she mutters. After she hands me back the card, she says, “I hope you enjoy everything.”
I acknowledge with a nod, then go sit at a small booth by the corner. Taking my notepad from the bag I always keep with me, I set it on the counter and open to a fresh page. I lift the lid on the first box. Emma had neatly arranged everything in its place, wrapped in a layer of baking sheet. I make note of the detailing.
I start with the blueberry crumpet, the special of the day. It’s soft, with a hint of sweetness, but frankly, it’s nothing extraordinary. I jot down, blueberry crumpet: decent, lacks a unique touch. Good for average palates, but unremarkable. I take a small bite of each treat, analyzing their flavors with a critical eye. Or in my case, a critical tongue.
The lemon tart has a nice tang, but the crust is slightly overdone. Lemon tart: bold flavor, but crust not on par. A near miss. I scribble in my notes, then take a short break to look around the bakery. It’s still quite busy. Emma, although I see her shooting a curious glance in my direction, is friendly to the customers. It’s obvious she’s well-known and well-liked in this little town.
“Good day, Emma,” a woman about her age says in a sing-song voice as she enters the shop.
“Charlotte!” Emma goes around the counter and pulls the woman into a tight hug. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“How are you?” Charlotte says, holding onto Emma’s hands. “It’s been so long.”
“Oh, I know. Where has time gone?”
Charlotte laughs as she looks around. “This is a very charming place. Do you own it?”
Emma lets out a sigh. “No. The owner’s away on a cruise, so she left me in charge.”
“Is your baking as good as I remember?” Charlotte asks.
“Why don’t you come and try something?”
I watch, trying to make myself not too obvious. Emma gives Charlotte an éclair. I observe the reaction as Charlotte takes a bite.
“I’m in love,” she says, her mouth full. “This is better than what I remember.”
I chuckle to myself, then resume my notes. I choose the chocolate éclair next. It’s rich, maybe too rich. Chocolate éclair: overwhelming in its richness, lacks balance.
I reach for the cinnamon roll, expecting a burst of flavor, but it’s just…okay. Cinnamon roll: average, expected more layers of flavor. Disappointingly mundane. As I make my way through the box, my notes are a mix of mild praise and pointed criticism. Nothing stands out as exceptional.
Lastly, I reluctantly try the brownie, the one I claim not to like. It’s surprisingly better than I expected, but I won’t admit that to Emma. Brownie: surprisingly edible, but still falls short of impressive.
After making my notes, I sit back, pondering. The treats were good, but not great. Decent, but not memorable. I close my notebook, my mind already formulating the review.
I gather my things and leave the bakery, deciding to take another leisurely stroll through Elmwood Falls. Sauntering down Maple Street, I smell the fragrances of blooming lilacs and the morning’s fresh brew from the nearby River’s Edge Café. I come to a halt outside Blossom Florist, captivated by the riot of colors bursting from buckets and baskets, when an elderly gentleman approaches me.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” he asks, his eyes twinkling. “Martha’s pride and joy. She’s won the town’s flower contest five years running.”
I smile. “They’re impressive. Do you garden too?”
He chuckles. “Oh no, my expertise is in tasting pies, not growing flowers. You must try the apple pie at the diner down the street. Best in Elmwood Falls, if not the whole state.”
I raise a brow. It surprises me to run into someone who isn’t raving about Emma’s baking. But I suppose this guy may be a creature of habit.
“What about the Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery?” I ask him.
The man shrugs. “They don’t have apple pie.”
With a chuckle, I extend my hand. “Alex Carter.”
“Walter McCarthy. Nice to—“ He interrupts himself, widening his eyes. “I know you. Yes, I’m sure I do. You run that column The Traveling Taste. You’re that food critic!”
I hold my hands in front of me as if to surrender. “Guilty.”
“Do you have a specific place in mind where you’re going to critique? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“We’re doing a series of small-town articles. So, any dine-in establishments of my choice will be featured in The Traveling Taste.”
“Ha ha! I love your column. You don’t hold back, do you? I loved what you said about The Bistro Nouveau: ‘regrettably memorable for all the wrong reasons.’” Mr. McCarthy whistles, shaking his head. “I sure hope you’ll be kinder to our little establishments.”
“I’ll be honest in my review. Speaking of which, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. McCarthy, I must get back to the inn and start working. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”
“I’ll be watching for it,” he calls as I walk away.
I do plan on eating at select businesses in town. It was the truth, what I said earlier. I am here both for vacation and work. I’m not looking forward to dealing with what I need to deal with at home. Elmwood Falls is the perfect escape. A place where I can gather my thoughts.
On my way back to the inn, I meet a few more townies, then I end up running into a woman. Actually, she runs into me.
I grasp her elbows to keep her from falling back as her grocery bags slip from her hand. I’m hoping nothing’s broken.
“I’m so sorry!” she gasps, using a hand to sweep her long hair from her face. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It’s fine.” I stoop to gather her bags.
“Oh, no, my eggs,” she says.
The bag her eggs were in is now scrambled in yolk.
“I’ll buy you another,” I offer.
“No, no, you don’t have to do that,” she tells me. “This is completely my fault.”
“I think we can be considered equally at fault,” I say.
She smiles at me, her cheeks still showing embarrassment. “I’m Rhonda Watson.”
“Alex Carter.”
She narrows her eyes, studying me. “Have we met before?”
“No.”
“You sure? I feel like I know that name. Well, I guess it’s common enough.” She smiles again at me. “I hope I run into you again. This time, not so literally.”
I laugh. “We’ll see about that.”
She takes the bags I hand her, then makes her way back to the store with her broken eggs. I go home to the inn. I need to get my review written and sent to my editor at the paper in two hours.