“Hardly,” Addie scoffed. “You should try being here after my late-night hot-yoga class. He’s always hanging around on the railroad tracks, just staring me down.” She licked her thumb and tried to rub graffiti from the fridge. “I’m sure he’s responsible for this damage, and I never walk to my car alone now.”
I caught Laney’s eye. She shrugged in confusion.
Addie pointed to the roofline of Namaste. “I’ve installed surveillance cameras in the front of the building and up there. I’m going to catch him in the act one of these days. Trust me, you’re going to want to keep an eye out for him. I make one of my students come with me, because I’m waiting for him to attack.”
“Attack?” Laney laughed, making her long braids shake. She wore her dark hair in braids tied with small pink hibiscus flowers. “I’ve known the Wizard for years. He’s a gentle, tender soul. If anything, he’s a bit of a free spirit. But dangerous—never.”
Sterling, who had been quiet thus far, backed her up. “Yeah. I’ve run into him a few times and he seems like he’s kind of in his own world, dancing to his own beat as they say, but I’ve never gotten a dangerous aura from him.”
“That’s because he’s harmless,” Laney insisted. She untied her raspberry sherbet–colored apron and folded it neatly.
“I totally disagree. He’s weird.” Addie scowled and rubbed the spray paint on the fridge harder. It was futile. Removing the graffiti was going to take more than scrubbing. An industrial cleaner was in order. “Anyway, what do you think of the space? Should we get an agreement put together?”
“Well, I don’t know.” I floundered. “I would have to discuss things with my mom, as she’s a partner in the business, and run some numbers on the viability of opening a second coffee spot so close to the bakeshop.”
“This isn’t that close, boss,” Andy chimed in. He had flipped his faded red baseball hat backward. Strands of auburn hair escaped from beneath it. “And it would be an awesome space for a summer ice cream shop. Am I right, Sterling?”
“For sure.” Sterling’s piercing blue eyes studied the space. I had a feeling he was making calculations in his head. “That back wall could be transformed into a larger menu. We could hang a Torte banner there.” He pointed above us. “It definitely needs a deep cleaning and gutting, but there’s potential here for sure.”
“Yeah, and imagine if we string twinkle lights from the front gate to the awning,” Andy added. “Boss, you’ve got to give this some real thought. This could be really cool. We could serve our signature concretes, ice cream sandwiches, and a very small line of coffees so that we’re not competing with ourselves. I’m thinking cold brew, affagatos, and blended coffee milkshakes.” His face lit up as he spoke.
“It’s a good idea,” Sterling said, using his hands to measure the counter space. “We could easily fit a cold case here. And, if you wanted to go crazy and offer cold sandwiches or pasta salads for summer picnic lunches, we could probably swap out this half fridge with a tall narrow one.”
Laney smoothed out a crease in her folded apron, which she had set on the dilapidated counter. “Smart staff you have here, Jules. They’re right. You can create an entirely new Torte experience. And coffee and ice cream would go beautifully with my teriyaki pork and fried jasmine coconut rice. Like I said on the phone, it would be great for business. Bringing the Torte brand to the Railroad District would give us real cachet.”
Their excitement was contagious. I couldn’t help but picture the garden courtyard tables filled with the sound of happy customers. I could almost see young kids sitting on the grass with dripping ice cream sandwiches and their parents sipping refreshing cold brew on a hot summer afternoon. “It would be fun,” I admitted. “We’d have to make sure that our offerings were unique, and it is going to take some serious muscle to rip down the dead ivy and get this place sparkling again.”
“We can do that, boss. No problem.” Andy gave Sterling a fist bump. “Give us a day and we’ll come up with a Torte Two menu for you.”
I grimaced. “If we do this, we’re going to need a better name.”
Sterling closed his eyes for a minute. “I’ve got a couple ideas on that too.”
“So, should we go put paperwork together?” Addie brushed her hands on her yoga pants.
“Not yet. Let me talk this through with Mom and the rest of our team. Can we have a couple days to think about it?”
Addie blew out a long breath, as if she was trying to center herself. “I guess, but don’t take too long. There are a lot of other interested parties, but because of my yoga vibe, I’d like to keep the garden pretty chill. Laney highly recommends you, so if you want it, we can make it happen. But if you don’t, I’m putting it on the market on Monday.”
“Deal. I’ll let you know one way or the other before Monday.” I shook her hand.
We parted ways. Laney left me with a hug and a promise to stop by Torte and help brainstorm if we wanted any other input. Sterling and Andy chatted about concrete flavors and potential shop names all the way back to Torte. I did appreciate their enthusiasm and I could definitely see the potential, but I had to be realistic too. Was I ready for another new venture? Things at Torte had finally started to feel settled. We had an easy routine and a highly capable staff. Did it make sense to disturb that balance?
And there was one more major issue that I hadn’t voiced—Carlos. My husband had opted to take an extended leave from his work as head chef on the Amour of the Seas. He had been in Ashland for the past three weeks to give things a go. This was our last chance to try to figure out what we both needed from our relationship, or whether it was time to say goodbye for good. If I took on yet another project, would I be intentionally sabotaging any hope for a future with him?
Chapter Two
The last time I’d seen Carlos had been when he’d surprised me by showing up on Christmas Eve with his son, Ramiro, in tow. We had enjoyed a magical week of snowshoeing on Mt. A, skating at the ice rink across from Lithia Park, and staying up late eating Carlos’s famous paella and playing board games with Mom and the Professor in front of a crackling fire. Our time together felt too short. Before I knew it, they were boarding a plane for Ramiro to return to Spain and Carlos to return to the ship. But Carlos had made me a promise as he kissed me at the gate. “Mi querida, I am coming again. It is arranged. I have four weeks of leave. I will come to Ashland. It is the only way. We must try, si?”
I couldn’t argue with him. For nearly two years I’d been torn between two worlds—my life in Ashland and what I’d left behind on the sea. I knew that Carlos and I couldn’t keep up this dance. Something had to give. It was time to make a decision once and for all. The problem was me. I couldn’t give up Ashland. I didn’t want to. And yet it wasn’t fair to ask Carlos to do the same. He had sailed the oceans for decades, soaking in tropical waters, briny air, sandy beaches, and each port of call. His food was a reflection of his global travels. When he cooked, his passion came through in every bite. Watching him in the kitchen was like watching an artist layer colors on a canvas. I hated asking him to give up a life that I knew he loved.
He had assured me that he wanted to experience Ashland for a longer stretch of time. “It will be wonderful, you will see. I can cook at Uva and spend time pruning the vines and connecting with the dirt. I will embrace the land and the mountains. The Rogue Valley it is abundant with new tastes and flavors for me to savor. Do not worry, Julieta. I will do anything for you, my love.”
I didn’t doubt that he would. What I doubted was whether Ashland was right for Carlos. The nearest beach was hours away, accessible by a narrow winding road carved through the colossal redwood forests. While Ashland and the surrounding valley had a plethora of cultural activities, from the theater to music festivals, art shows, culinary retreats, and an eclectic dining scene, we were no Madrid or Paris. Torte’s busiest day in the kitchen paled in comparison to a slow day in the ship’s massive kitchens, with chefs shouting orders to their line
cooks like drill sergeants barking out orders to their troops. It was hard to imagine Carlos settling into the slower pace of life I had come to cherish. What I worried about most was him putting on a show for me. If we were really going to make our relationship last, it had to be authentic for both of us, and I had a sinking feeling that even if he was miserable he wouldn’t tell me.
True to his word, he arrived the third week of March, shortly after I had finished moving into my childhood home, a two-story house tucked into the conifer canopy on Mountain Avenue. It didn’t take long for us to fall into step. Carlos, like me, required little sleep. We spent the first few days together sipping glasses of Tempranillo and getting reacquainted until the wee hours of the night.
Our time apart hadn’t diminished our desire. Curling up in Carlos’s arms felt like coming home. His sweet accent lulled me to sleep every night. We eased into a comfortable routine. He would drop me off at Torte before the sun came up and spend the bulk of each day studying and shaping Uva’s organic, fertile vineyards. He seemed happy enough. Our conversations in the evenings were filled with news of the first buds on the vine, his ideas for summer wine dinners, and ideas about potential partnerships with local restaurants and suppliers.
The Rogue Valley was located in what vintners referred to as the Goldilocks zone. Our latitude of forty-two to forty-three degrees put us on the same latitude lines on the map as the most revered growing regions in the world, like Argentina, New Zealand, and Southern Europe. Uva was a boutique winery with five acres of south-facing grapevines on the east side of town. The drive from my house at the top of Mountain Avenue to the winery took less than ten minutes, but it felt like a different world. Every time I steered the car in the direction of Uva, I drank in the magnificent views of a snow-capped Grizzly Peak and the rustic golden pastoral grasses where herds of cattle and sheep grazed. The two-lane road took me past rambling farms with free-range chickens, stacks of firewood, crumbling barns, and old Ford trucks—relics of years gone by. The pièce de résistance was cresting the hill and making a sharp right turn onto Pilot View Road, where the iconic Pilot Rock and Mt. A jutted up amongst the dark green ridgeline of the Siskiyou range.
We didn’t produce enough wine to expand our reach outside of southern Oregon, but Carlos had grandiose plans. “Imagine, Julieta, if we could deliver our wine to San Francisco and Seattle. It would be wonderful, no? We must submit our Cab Franc and red blends to the San Francisco Chronicle. We will win gold for sure. It will be amazing for Uva. It will put us on the map.”
“Sure, but that’s a lot more work, and then there’s the issue of Richard Lord,” I had retorted.
“No, no. Do not give that man a thought. He is nothing. He is no problem, and not worth any of your time. We will be done with him soon. You will see.” Carlos had sounded so confident as he swirled blackberry-colored wine in his glass.
I didn’t share his optimism. Richard Lord, the vile owner of the Merry Windsor, who had been the one and only person in Ashland who had gone out of his way to make my transition home as miserable as possible, was a part-owner of Uva. My friend Lance, the artistic director for OSF, and I had been racking our brains for ways to buy out Richard. It would have been one thing if Richard actually cared about Uva. He didn’t. He just wanted to make sure that neither Lance nor I had an opportunity to make the winery a success.
After my meeting with Laney and Addie, I didn’t say anything to Carlos about the possibility of taking over the outdoor space. I told myself it was because he was already too wrapped up in Uva. I didn’t want to burden him, but the truth was I needed to sit with the idea. Alone.
Did that mean something? Did normal couples keep things from each other? We’d never been a typical married couple. Our life on the ship didn’t allow it, but now that Carlos was in Ashland, I kept trying to fit us in boxes that refused to close up neat and tight. Part of me wanted to believe that we were in the middle of figuring out a new path forward while the other part worried that keeping anything from Carlos was a sign that our future was doomed.
I slept on it. The next morning I woke with a new resolve that Carlos had to be part of any decision. If he was willing to give us a chance, I had to do the same.
After a quick cup of coffee, I got dressed and waited in the car for Carlos to drive me to the bottom of Mountain Avenue. From there I would walk to Torte and he would continue to Uva or return up the steep hill and go back to bed. Bakers’ hours are torture.
“Julieta, you are quiet this morning,” Carlos noted. He was dressed for a cold morning amongst the vines in a pair of jeans, leather ankle boots, a red-and-black flannel, and a black vest. His skin was naturally olive in color, his hair was dark, and his eyes constantly held a hint of mischief.
“You are starting to look like a true Oregon mountain man,” I replied, flipping the collar of his vest down.
“Si. It is true. I have learned the value of layers, as you say.” He winked.
After years on the ship, it had taken me a little while to adjust to Ashland’s cooler springs with below-freezing temps in the morning and evening. Layering was key. This morning I wore a pair of leggings, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and a Torte sweatshirt that would likely come off before noon.
“Is something bothering you?” Carlos asked as he steered the car toward the sidewalk to park next to Southern Oregon University.
“Not exactly. There’s something I want to talk to you about. A new opportunity that’s come up.” I stared out the window to the spawning front lawns of the SOU campus.
Carlos stopped me. “No, no. We do not need to talk about this now. I do not want you to worry.”
“Worry?” It was still dark, so I squinted to try and read Carlos’s face. “What do you mean?”
“The ship. It is nothing.” He kept his hands on the steering wheel, even though we were parked.
“The ship?” I repeated. “I think we’re talking about two different things. I was going to tell you about a new space for lease in the Railroad District that could make a great walk-up ice cream shop.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Carlos sounded a bit too eager to change the topic. “Tell me more.”
I gave him a brief recap of my meeting with Addie. When I was done, he was full of enthusiasm. “Si, this is a wonderful idea. Why would you not try it? Two shops will bring in more revenue.”
“And more work,” I countered.
“True, but you like a good challenge, Julieta. You get bored easily—this project will invigorate your spirits. What does Helen say?”
“I haven’t discussed it with Mom yet. I’m going to share the proposal with her this afternoon.”
“Good. Good.” Carlos looked at the clock on the dash. “I will drive you to Torte this morning. It is getting late.”
Late was relative, but I didn’t refuse his offer. “What about the ship?” I asked as he pulled away from the curb and turned onto Siskiyou Boulevard.
“The ship? It’s always something. They want me to call and speak with the chef. Apparently, there is drama in the kitchen.” He made a gesture with his right hand. “What can you do? You know chefs. They can be very demanding, and it seems that my replacement he is not so fun in the kitchen. I will take care of it.”
I got the sense there was more that he wasn’t saying. Was he considering returning to the ship already? Could that be why he was being evasive? I decided not to press it for the moment. I had enough to think about.
“Julieta, let me know what Helen thinks of the ice cream shop, okay?” He left me at Torte with a kiss. “I will see you later, si?”
“Of course.” I kissed him back, letting our lips linger for a moment. Then I went to unlock the bakeshop.
The early hours before we opened served as my morning meditation. The leisurely process of warming ovens, kneading bread dough, and mixing vats of cake batter calmed my mind. Carlos was right about the fact that I tended to thrive with multiple pots on the stove so to speak. While I added bundles of app
lewood to the built-in fireplace and got it started, I thought through the logistics of two spaces. The garden wasn’t far. My staff could easily walk, and with some careful scheduling we should be able to manage with hiring a few extra part-time workers. It was going to come down to the numbers. I needed to pencil out hard costs for revamping the garden, supplies and equipment, and salaries.
That could wait. Duty called. I rolled up my sleeves and tied on a fire-engine–red Torte apron. We liked to serve a hot breakfast dish along with our signature pastries and sandwiches. I had set aside a few loaves of brioche and knew exactly what I wanted to bake—a wood-fired French toast served with fresh berries and mascarpone cheese.
I went to the walk-in and returned with heavy cream, eggs, butter, and berries. Instead of individually grilling each slice of brioche, I cut the day-old bread into cubes then set them aside. Next I whisked eggs, heavy cream, honey, fresh lemon juice, and vanilla until the mixture was light and frothy. I added a pinch of cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. Then I layered the cubes of bread in an oven-safe baking dish and poured the egg mixture over the top. I slid the French toast into the wood-fired oven to bake for twenty to thirty minutes. My goal was to create a nice crunchy crust with a gooey center, almost like a bread pudding.
While the casserole baked, I added a container of Mascarpone cheese to one of the electric mixers. Then I slowly incorporated honey, vanilla, and fresh orange and lemon juice and zest. I whipped the cheese until it was lush and silky. I dipped my pinkie into the cream for a taste. The slight tang of the Mascarpone paired beautifully with the hints of citrus and vanilla. Once the French toast baked, I would serve a heaping scoop with a dollop of Mascarpone cream and berries.
Soon the kitchen was bursting with activity as everyone began to arrive. Sterling took command of the stove, searing beef for a lunchtime stew. Marty, a jovial San Francisco transplant in his mid-sixties, managed bread production. Not only did we bake enough bread to keep the pastry case stocked, we also delivered to our wholesale accounts on the plaza. There was rarely a moment when the bread racks weren’t stacked with loaves of rising sourdough, honey wheat, rosemary olive, and our classic white.
Chilled to the Cone Page 2
