Chapter 6
James’s hand paused on the wheel as I came around and got onto the passenger seat.
I loved my brother Ryan, and I didn’t want to upset him or make him feel betrayed. But this wasn’t about that. This was about the business May and I were doing together.
I also hated seeing how my hesitation had affected James. Whatever he’d done in the past, I didn’t want to be the kind of person who was vindictive or hurtful back.
He’d be gone soon anyway.
Together—silently—we unloaded the trailer. I stole a couple of glances at him, trying to match up the man I was seeing with the one I’d known years ago. They didn’t fit. It looked like James had been put into a computer program and stretched. But it wasn’t the physical difference I was hung up on.
He was so…subdued. Somber.
What had he been doing for the last eight years?
“Where do you want the flour?” he asked.
“You can leave one out, but the rest can go in the large cupboard.”
One by one, he set three of the bags in the cupboard. “Can I ask you something?”
I hesitated. “Is it why I was in that cupboard yesterday?”
“Maybe….”
I turned to my empty canisters and opened one. “Then no. You can’t.”
A breathy laugh came from him, taking me by surprise.
There had been a couple moments since yesterday where I’d caught a glimpse of humor or amusement from him, but they’d been quickly replaced by that stoic, tight-jawed look—because of how I’d reacted.
I didn’t want that to happen again.
I poured brown sugar into the canister. “If you must know, it was a combination of nostalgia and measuring.”
His brows went up. “Measuring…”
I took a second before responding, then turned to him like I was facing my poor choices head on. “How many bags of flour could fit in there.”
He looked at me for a second, then opened the cupboard door to show the three bags. “Did you measure right?”
I shook my head. There was definitely room for more bags than I’d estimated.
He shut the door. “And the nostalgia?”
I smiled. “That cupboard was my super-secret spot when we used to play hide-and-seek. No one ever found me.”
He raised his brows. “Really?”
“Yup.” I put the lid on the canister like it was a mic drop.
“I found you.”
I let my eyes slowly move to him. “Because I was banging on the door and yelling for help.”
He smiled slightly. “You need anything else?”
“No, but thank you.”
He raised a dark, skeptical brow.
“Really this time.”
He gave a nod, then made his way out of the room.
I stared at the open doorway for a few seconds, then got back to work organizing and putting ingredients in canisters.
My plan was to try my cream puffs again, but this time, I wanted to make four small batches, each with a different grade of maple. I didn’t know much about the grades beyond that they had unique tastes, but I was curious just how much it would affect the result.
I slipped on my apron and put my wavy hair back in a claw clip, then started baking to the sound of James working in the other room.
My mind wandered as I baked, thinking ahead to selling products—something I hoped was in my future. I had no concept of how many visitors the maple farm got each year. I knew people liked to see the process, but just how many? What could we realistically count on selling?
Four batches turned out to be an ambitious endeavor. To test things the way I wanted to, I had to make different batches of dough, filling, and topping. I decided to forgo the topping and settle for a simple syrup glaze instead.
It was strange, working like this without Mrs. Keller’s voice in my head or her quality control looming over me. Just for the fun of it, I left the choux pastry balls a little wonky.
They came out of the oven full of…character.
What could I say? I lived my life on the edge now.
It was getting dark by the time I’d finished.
After spending hours with choux pastry and cream filling, I had no desire to eat my creations. It was the baker’s curse.
I tried all four of them anyway, closing my eyes to focus on the subtle differences in taste.
A knock brought me out of my tasting trance.
James stood in the open doorway. “You still working?”
“Are you?”
“Just finished. For the day, at least. I’m going to head up to the house, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
James Carver was very thoughtful for a jerk.
“I’m good,” I assured him.
He turned to leave, and I glanced at my cream puffs.
“Actually…”
He stopped and looked at me.
“Do you have a minute?”
His only answer was to walk toward me.
“I just made these. They’re maple cream puffs.” I took one from each batch and set it on a plate.
“They look amazing.”
“I don’t care how they look. Well, I do, but I care more about how they taste.”
There was a pause where we stared at each other.
“You want me to…” He gestured to the cream puffs.
“Yes, James,” I said, half-laughing. “I need you to tell me which one is the best. Each one is slightly different. I think.” I handed him the first of the puffs—the one with the golden maple.
He turned it in his hand, then took a bite, his brows knit.
I watched his face like it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe.
The man chewed and chewed and chewed, torturing me slowly with his indecipherable expression and flexing jaw.
“Well?” I finally said when he’d swallowed.
“It’s delicious.”
“But?” I prompted him with my raised brows.
He hesitated for a second, his eyes searching mine. “The maple is too subtle. I can taste it—I assume you used a golden for this one—but my palate has been trained on this stuff since birth. It’ll fly under the radar for most people.”
I nodded and reached for another cream puff. My hand hovered over the next in sequence. I darted a glance at him, then moved between him and the puffs so I could choose one without him seeing.
I handed it to him—the darkest of the syrups—and he popped it in his mouth.
Since I expected the long wait this time, I felt less on edge. I watched him for any flicker of disgust or ecstasy, but he was too good at concealing whatever he felt.
“Very dark,” he finally said.
I stared. “Can you expound?”
“The maple grade you used. Very dark, right?”
“Oh! Yeah.” This man knew his maple, even after all these years away.
He looked at me for a couple of seconds. “It’s too much.”
Should I have been offended? I wasn’t. I didn’t need someone to pat me on the back. I needed brutal truth so I could make something worthwhile.
“Do you need a carrot or something?” I asked. “A palate cleanser?”
He shook his head, and I handed him the next one—second lightest syrup on the four-grade scale.
“Better,” he said. “This would probably be your best bet. Amber, right?”
“Is that the second lightest?”
He nodded as I took the final puff and gave it to him.
I’d probably spent two straight minutes watching James Carver chew. He didn’t seem to mind. He was focused. Forehead sloped in a v. Eyes focused on nothing in particular. Jaw working like a machine.
I’d admired that jaw from a young age, but the thick stubble accentuated its angles and shadows more than ever before.
I pulled my eyes away.
“It’s a good contender. Stronger flavor with the dark syrup, obviously. Real maple lovers will probably prefer this one, but it might be too much for some people.”
It was like having Anthony Bourdain in the sugar shack. I was tempted to keep James on retainer so I could get his feedback with every product I tried.
“Which one’s your favorite?” he asked.
I blew a breath through my lips and looked at the assortment of puffs. “I don’t know. I think I liked the…did you say dark for that last one?”
He nodded and went over to the stacks of syrup, pulling different grades out one by one. “Golden, amber, dark, very dark. Or some people prefer”—he pointed at them in turn—“delicate, rich, robust, and strong.”
“Hoity-toity people?”
He chuckled. “Pretty much.”
I looked at the bottles again. “What’s the difference? Besides the color, obviously.”
“When it’s harvested. The lighter the syrup and the more subtle the taste, the earlier in the season it was tapped.”
“You’d think I’d know this given how much time I spent here.”
His gaze darted to me, then away again.
I kicked myself for bringing up the past, but he was looking at the cream puffs.
“How exactly did you use the syrup?” he asked.
“Well”—I turned and rested my back against the counter—“it’s in the dough, and it’s in the filling. Normally, I’d have a glaze on top—and then if you’re a real maple fiend, you would pour syrup over it too—but I want to get the dough and filling right first.”
He nodded, rubbing a pensive finger on his chin. “I’d try the very dark in the pastry dough, then go with amber for the cream.”
I looked at him for a second, then hurried over to the few cream puffs I hadn’t filled. I took a syringe, filled it with the amber cream, then injected it into one of the very dark puffs. Then I did it again.
I turned to James, who was watching me.
He dropped his gaze.
“Like this?” I handed him one and kept the other for myself.
Facing each other, we took bites and chewed.
The flavor started with a subtle but detectable dose of maple as the cream hit my tongue. As I chewed, the flavor deepened.
I covered my still-chewing mouth with a hand. “You’re a genius.”
“It’s good,” he said. “Really good.”
A flash of excitement shot through me, and I put up my hand. “We may just have created our first official product.”
He looked at me with a curious light in his eyes, then high-fived my waiting hand.
Our gazes met, and my chest tightened with the awareness that high-fives weren’t exactly keeping things professional. Mrs. Keller and I certainly hadn’t done that sort of thing.
I grabbed another unfilled puff and injected it. “Would you take your mom the options and see what she says? I’d feel more confident if she chose the combo as her favorite too.”
James’s phone vibrated, and he reached into his back pocket to pull it out. “Speaking of…just a sec.” He turned and answered. “Hey, Mama. Yeah. We’re just finishing up.”
There was a pause.
“I really don’t think she…”
I tried not to look like I suspected they were talking about me, gathering up the dirty dishes and setting them in the large sink.
“I’ll tell her, but—” There was a pause, then a chuckle. “Understood. Love you too.”
I busied myself with rinsing.
A few seconds of silence passed before James spoke. “She insists you come up to the house for dinner.”
“That’s super nice of her, but I should get home.”
“She said, and I quote, ‘I won’t stand for backtalk from either of you.’”
I let out a laugh. “I’ll bet she did.” I scrubbed a mixing bowl. Dinner with the Carvers felt like a pretty clear breach of professionalism. Unless it was, like, a business dinner?
It would be good to discuss things and get a sense for what May thought we could sell. And James’s input would be nice to have while he was still around.
Also, it would take a woman braver than I was to go against May Carver when she’d made her expectations clear.
“She made chicken and dumplings and cornbread.”
I was salivating before he’d even finished talking. I’d remembered May’s sweet tea but forgotten what a great cook she was.
“Your mom drives a hard bargain,” I said. “Let me just finish up these dishes, and I’ll come join. You can go on ahead.”
James’s footsteps approached, and he came up next to me at the sink.
I should’ve known. He had the same stubborn streak as his mom.