Chapter 15
Most people use their last paycheck for sensible things like rent or groceries—I’m betting mine on cinnamon rolls and saving a resort that’s been flirting with bankruptcy since the Carter administration, which tells you everything you need to know about my decision-making skills.
The kitchen at six in the morning smells like yesterday’s desperation mixed with today’s ambitious delusions, seasoned with a hint of whatever died in the walk-in cooler last week and has been haunting us ever since.
I’m elbow-deep in flour that’s getting into places flour has no business being, Ruby is attacking butter with the intensity of a woman settling old scores with a particularly offensive ex-husband, and Lani is measuring cinnamon like she’s defusing a bomb that could take out the entire North Shore.
The tropical breeze holds the scent of plumeria through the screen door, which only makes our current situation more surreal—paradise outside, potential food poisoning inside, the eternal duality of island life.
“The scent alone will bring them in by the droves,” Ruby announces, wielding her butter-covered spatula like a prophet’s staff. “People smell cinnamon rolls, they lose all rational thought. It’s basic human psychology.”
“These can’t be mediocre cinnamon rolls,” Lani adds, dumping what appears to be half a bottle of vanilla into her mixing bowl with the confidence that comes from years of making things work with limited resources.
“They need to be the best cinnamon rolls anyone’s ever tasted.
Life-changing. Relationship-ending. The kind that makes people question their dietary choices and their marriage vows. ”
“And they need to be big,” I say, kneading dough that’s fighting back with personal vendetta, like it knows what I’m trying to do and resents being part of my scheme. “They need to be the size of your head. If someone can finish one in a single sitting, we’re not thinking big enough.”
The kitchen door swings open with a sound like a dying seagull, and Melanie appears in all her morning glory—which is to say, she looks like someone who’s been personally offended by the concept of dawn and is seeking legal counsel.
Her hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it could be classified as a weapon or perhaps a form of self-punishment, and her expression alerts me to the fact that she’s already mentally calculating how our little project will somehow cost her money or ruin her day or both.
“What,” she says, surveying our flour-covered battlefield, “the fresh hell is this?”
“Salvation,” Ruby says cheerfully, not even looking up from her butter massacre. “In cinnamon roll form.”
“Entrepreneurship,” I add, not looking up from my dough wrestling match because eye contact with Melanie before coffee feels like inviting bad luck.
“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a health code violation waiting to happen,” Melanie concludes with certainty, as if she sees violations everywhere she looks. And she might.
“Relax,” I say, finally achieving what might charitably be called dough consistency. “I bought the ingredients with my own money.”
What I don’t mention is that we found the restaurant supply store yesterday, also known as Costco, and charmed our way in through a combination of Ruby’s tragic widow act, Lani’s professional kitchen credentials, and my own ability to look pathetically desperate while wielding a credit card.
Something tells me Melanie won’t approve of our creative procurement methods.
And great news, I’m now a member of that prestigious club.
“Your own money,” Melanie repeats, like I just announced plans to sacrifice a virgin to the coffee gods or possibly burn the resort down for the insurance payoff.
“Shocking concept, I know. Personal investment in workplace success. Revolutionary thinking, really.”
She makes a sound that might be a snort or might be her soul leaving her body in protest, then disappears back into whatever cave she calls an office to presumably plot our downfall or update her résumé.
“Charming as always,” Ruby observes.
“The woman could sour milk just by looking at it,” Lani says, setting her dough aside to rise in a bowl we’ve covered with a damp towel, like we actually know what we’re doing. “Speaking of which, we should check on the ice cream situation while we wait for these to do their thing.”
We migrate to the barista area, which looks like it was designed by someone who’d heard about coffee shops but never actually seen one.
The espresso machine squats in the corner like a metallic toad, surrounded by equipment that ranges from questionably functional to why hasn’t this been condemned yet, with a brief stop at probably haunted.
“This all needs a deep clean,” I say, running my finger along a surface and immediately regretting the contact.
“Define clean,” Lani says, poking at what might once have been a milk steamer and is now more accurately described as a petri dish with abandonment issues.
“You know, that thing where we remove the ecosystem that’s currently living in the equipment and establish dominance over the bacteria.”
Ruby disappears behind the counter and emerges with a triumphant expression usually reserved for people who have just discovered buried treasure. “Ladies, feast your eyes on this beauty.”
She’s pointing to what appears to be an industrial ice cream machine that’s been hiding behind a stack of boxes labeled Definitely Not Broken Equipment.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask, even though hope is a dangerous thing in this kitchen.
“Commercial grade, soft-serve capability, probably worth more than Pele herself, or the entire resort,” Lani says, running her hands over it like she’s greeting an old friend. “This thing could churn out ice cream faster than tourists can eat it, which is saying something.”
“Ice cream,” Ruby breathes, her eyes taking on the gleam usually reserved for husband hunting or clearance sales at stores she’s already been banned from. “Do you know what the markup is on ice cream?”
“Illegal in seventeen states?” I guess because that seems to be the theme of everything profitable.
“Better,” she counters. “We’re talking profit margins that would make a drug dealer gasp with envy and seriously consider a career change.”
We spend the next twenty minutes plotting our ice cream empire flavor by flavor.
Pineapple upside-down cake with vanilla, because the best way to celebrate island life is by merging desserts into something that requires medical supervision and quite possibly a cardiac event.
Coconut cream pie mixed with vanilla, for the tourists who want their tropical experience to come with whipped cream.
And chocolate with cookie dough and big chocolate chunks and macadamia nuts, because as Lani points out, “You just can’t go wrong with more chocolate and nuts. It’s scientifically impossible.”
“We’ll need to undercut the competition,” Ruby says, pulling out a notebook that appears to be held together by optimism and electrical tape, much like everything else in this resort. “But not so much that people think we’re serving a frozen dairy substitute instead of the real thing.”
“The cinnamon rolls will bring them in,” I say, checking our rising dough with the anxiety of a barista whose entire financial future depends on yeast performing correctly. “But the ice cream is where we make the big bucks.”
“And we don’t just want resort guests,” Lani adds, wiping her forehead.
The kitchen temperature has reached levels that should require hazard pay.
“We need to open up to the public. We’ve already got a beachfront location and tourist traffic.
Now we need a captive audience with disposable income and poor impulse control. ”
“That’s a whole lot more wallets we’ll be dealing with,” Ruby says, and her smile is the kind that probably made husband number two propose on the spot and husband number three empty his bank account.
The timer for our cinnamon rolls chooses this moment to announce that our dough has achieved the proper state of readiness. We transfer our masterpieces to baking sheets with the care of people who’ve invested way too much hope in baked goods.
“Remember, we want these the size of your head,” I remind them as we shape rolls that could double as small throw pillows.
“Check,” says Lani.
“And enough cinnamon to be tasted from space,” I add.
“Double check,” says Ruby.
I nod. “And a glaze that will require a chisel to remove from clothing.”
“Triple check,” they say in unison.
Into the oven those fluffy cuties go, our hopes and dreams wrapped in dough and covered in enough sugar to power a small carnival.
Soon enough, the kitchen fills with the scent of cinnamon and possibility, and for approximately twelve minutes, I allow myself to believe that we might actually pull this pastry thing off, that maybe my nickname is just a coincidence and not a prophecy.
Which is when the oven decides to have what can only be described as a mechanical nervous breakdown.
The temperature spikes from a perfectly controlled baking environment to surface of Mercury experiencing a heatwave in the time it takes me to say, “Is that smoke?” The smell changes from heavenly cinnamon goodness to charcoal with delusions of grandeur faster than my last relationship went from promising to restraining order territory.
I yank open the oven door and am greeted by what were once cinnamon rolls but are now more accurately described as hockey pucks with abandonment issues.
Black.
Smoking.
Probably radioactive.
Definitely not what the food truck lady would recognize as sweet treats.
“Well,” Lani says, staring at our carbonized dreams. “I’m starting to think this place is jinxed.”
Both Lani and Ruby turn to look at me with expressions that clearly say they’ve just connected some very unfortunate dots, like detectives in a murder mystery who’ve just figured out the killer was in the room the whole time. And I’m suddenly not a fan of locked room mysteries.
I shrug. “Hey, I didn’t get my nickname for my sparkling personality.”
The oven chooses this moment to make a sound like it’s given up on life, followed by a small explosion that sends a shower of sparks across the kitchen floor like the world’s least festive fireworks display.
Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows what sounds suspiciously like laughter, and I swear that every bird on the island has it out for me.
A hiss cuts through the kitchen like an angry snake, followed by a sound that can only be described as the heavens opening up, but inside and with worse timing.
The sprinkler system kicks in.
It starts to rain.
Inside.
Water explodes from the ceiling with the enthusiasm of a personal trainer who’s discovered cocaine, drenching everything in a three-foot radius. Which, unfortunately, includes us.
“On the bright side,” I shout over the sound of the indoor shower, “at least we know the sprinkler system works!”
Ruby stands there, hair plastered to her head, mascara running down her face like she’s auditioning for a horror movie. “I HATE EVERYTHING!”
Lani just closes her eyes and accepts her fate, water streaming off her nose like a particularly depressed garden fountain.
The charred cinnamon rolls sit on the counter, now wet charcoal, smoking slightly less but looking considerably more pathetic as water pools around them like tears.
And somewhere in the distance, that darn rooster crows again.
Ruby looks at the charred remains of our cinnamon rolls, then at me, then back at the rolls. “Jinx, honey, I’m starting to think your nickname might be less cute and more of a warning label.”
I offer her a wry smile. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
“I’m a slow learner,” she says. “It’s part of my charm.”
The kitchen fills with the sound of the smoke alarm pitching a fit, not to mention the water from the ceiling, and I can’t help but think that if someone wanted to destroy this resort from the inside, they may have already achieved their goals.
But at least we still have the ice cream machine.
A loud THUNK echoes through the kitchen as the door to our precious ice cream machine decides this is the perfect moment to give up on life entirely and crashes to the floor with the finality of a dying dream.
I close my eyes and count to ten. Then twenty. Then I start wondering if there’s a support group for people whose very presence causes mechanical failures.
“Well,” Lani says after a moment that stretches longer than my last marriage, “at least we still have... um...”
“Don’t,” I say, eyes still closed. “Don’t say we still have anything. The universe is listening, and it thinks I’m hilarious. And for Pete’s sake, don’t mention the hot detective. The last thing we need is important parts falling off that body.”
That is, before I can properly utilize them.