“Mi querida, do not cry. I will be here with you soon. Everything has been arranged. I will take a six-week leave from the ship and come be with you. Our future is the only thing that matters to me, si?”
I had kissed him goodbye and promised to work out the details.
As to our future? I still wasn’t sure. There was one thing that I knew—Ashland was home for me. I had put down roots and had no intention of leaving. I loved Carlos too. So much so, that being apart from him had left a lingering ache that I wasn’t sure would ever fully heal.
I knew that we couldn’t drag things out forever. It was time for us to make a decision about our future, and the only way to do that was for him to come to Ashland and stay. I desperately wanted things to work with us. Having Carlos and his son Ramiro in Ashland would be perfection. But was it nothing more than a fantasy?
My inner voice had been nagging me for a while now. I wasn’t sure that Carlos was meant to be somewhere small. He was made for the world. Maybe it was one of the reasons I had been living in limbo. If Carlos was away at sea I could pretend like he still belonged to me. If he came to Ashland and didn’t love it then I was opening my heart to breaking all over again.
Mom had told me once that love was always worth the risk. I had a feeling I was soon going to learn the depths of that risk.
Chapter Two
After Lance left, I made quick work of the dishes. Then I returned upstairs to finish decorating my new bedroom. A fluffy tangerine down comforter and matching feather pillows softened the gray tones. Prints from my global travels framed the far wall. Mom had mentioned that she had left a few boxes of assorted vases, some artwork, and a set of lamps in the basement, so I went downstairs to see what I might be able to salvage. Otherwise, I had agreed to donate whatever I couldn’t use.
I squeezed my thick cabin socks into a pair of slippers and headed downstairs. The basement was accessed through a door off of the entryway. Unlike the rest of the house, where the old floors had been resurfaced and stained, the basement stairs were rickety with open slats at a steep angle.
I yanked a string that clicked on a dim yellow light to illuminate my way. Maybe at some point I would have to tackle a basement remodel. For the moment, I ducked my head to avoid smacking it on the beams and made my descent into the cool space.
The basement was partially unfinished. Half of the dark and musty space had dirt floors and exposed ductwork. Linoleum covered the remaining half of the floor. This section had also been sheetrocked and painted. The basement had been a great hiding spot for childhood games of hide-and-seek. Two large wooden shelves stood near the washer and dryer. I dug through boxes of old Christmas and Halloween decorations and tubs with dishes, towels, and silverware and found the two bedside lamps that Mom had left for me. They had dark walnut bases and cloth craft shades in a creamy off-white. With a little dusting, they would work perfectly in my new bedroom. At this rate, I might not have to go furniture shopping at all.
I set aside the things I wanted and began to restack the boxes. The last box wouldn’t fit back on the shelf. I tried shoving it harder. No luck.
“Get in there,” I said aloud, trying to force the box into the narrow space. It was futile, so I tried a new tactic. I made space on either side to try and squeeze the box back into place. It still wouldn’t fit.
There was only one solution, I was going to have to restack the entire shelf. I carefully removed box after dusty box and set them on the dirt floor. Each box was labeled with old yellowed masking tape. There were boxes labeled, JULIET BALLET, THANKSGIVING DECORATIONS, and TORTE. It was a walk down memory lane to see faded cardboard boxes containing trinkets from my childhood and stacks of family photos. Mom had promised to come spend a weekend sorting through the memorabilia with me. She had teared up when offering her services.
“I’m sorry to leave you with this project, honey. After Dad died, I couldn’t face the basement alone. It’s become a wasteland down there. I promise, I’ll come help you look through everything.”
At the time, I had told her not to worry about it. She and the Professor had gifted me the house, the least I could do was take a few boxes to the Goodwill and organize the rest. And, there was no time like the present to get started.
Once I had taken all of the boxes down, I realized why the box wouldn’t fit back in. A broken piece of wood had fallen from the shelf above and gotten lodged at the back of the rickety shelving unit. I tossed the wood on the dirt floor. Dust tickled my throat. I coughed and waved the tiny particles of debris from my face.
If I was already this far into reorganization I might as well give the entire shelves a good dusting. Thick empty patches where the boxes had been revealed deep layers of dust. It reminded me of an archaeological dig site, where years of evolution were apparent in each striation.
I went upstairs to grab a rag and cleaning supplies. Then I proceeded to remove every cardboard box and plastic tub. Mom had labeled most of them, but some of the labels were faded and hard to read, so I sorted through each box and placed new labels on them. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I discovered pictures from Torte’s early beginnings, family vacations, and even some of my baby clothes. Mom had mentioned that she was leaving some token of my childhood for me, but I hadn’t seen many of the pictures in years. Tears welled in my eyes as I leafed through photos of my mom, dad, and me at the beach and Lake of the Woods. My favorite photo was of my parents in front of Torte on the day they opened the doors to the public for the first time. They were holding hands and beaming. My dad was tall and thin with light hair like mine. A trace of a mustache graced his upper lip. Mom looked much the same. She came to my dad’s shoulder and leaned into his body. Her hair was longer in the picture and her honey highlights looked as if they’d been kissed by the sun.
I squinted to get a better look at the grainy picture. Torte’s cherry red and teal blue logo was etched in the front window of the bakeshop. A vinyl sign hung above the front door announcing: ASHLAND’S FIRST ESPRESSO MACHINE!
I’ll have to frame this one and put it on my nightstand, I thought, adding it to my “keep” pile and returning the tub of memories to the shelf. I was about to call it a night when another box caught my eye. It was stuffed at the very back of the shelves and covered in a half inch of dust. This box clearly hadn’t been touched in years.
In order to free it, I had to move the shelving unit a few inches from the wall. The thin cardboard box dropped to the ground. I picked it up and peeled off yellowing masking tape. It wasn’t labeled, or if it had been the label had completely faded. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anything in the box other than some old newspaper clippings, but when I removed the newsprint, I found a leather-bound journal inside.
My heart rate quickened as I unwound the leather string on the journal and let it fall open. I recognized my father’s handwriting immediately. It had been years since I had seen his cursive scroll. Seeing it made my eyes well again. I ran my finger over the words as if the touch of the ink on my skin would connect us again.
“Miss you, Dad,” I whispered, flipping through the pages of the journal. He had practically written a book. Every page was filled in completely. Were these his personal thoughts? Should I read it?
I didn’t want to violate his privacy, but he’d been gone for so many years now that the thought of reading his words in his voice was too enticing to pass up. Losing him in my formative years had forever changed me. Grief had defined and shaped my adolescence and set me on a course to see the world. Dad had always talked about traveling. He made up bedtime stories about Kathmandu and remote islands in the middle of the Bering Sea. His visions of wanderlust ignited my yearning for adventure. In part, I had decided to go to culinary school in New York because of him. He and Mom had never really traveled, since they were tethered to Torte and Ashland. Setting sail for tropical ports of call made me feel like I was paying homage to him.
I finished organizing the boxes and took my newfound
treasures and Dad’s journal upstairs. It wasn’t terribly late, so I made myself a steaming-hot mug of apple cinnamon tea, put on my pajamas, and tucked myself into my new cozy bed with my father’s journal. Was it a bad idea to venture into his past?
What if the journal contained details about my parents’ relationship? What if he had intentionally hidden it in the basement? Maybe it contained a long-forgotten secret. Was it fair to dredge up the past?
In the same breath, I knew had to read it. Because my dad had died in my teen years, there were so many things I wished I could have asked him. So many questions left unanswered. Like, how did he silence the voice of worry in his head? Or what was his recipe for the perfect sourdough starter?
I had never questioned the big things. I knew that he loved me—deeply, unconditionally. I knew that he loved Mom too. Their story could have graced the pages of Shakespeare. On the rare occasion that they had fought, they quickly mended things with a love note left at the coffee bar or a bouquet of wildflowers on the dining room table. They had been steadfast supporters of each other. At least through my eyes.
What if my memories weren’t true?
There’s only way to find out, Jules.
I took a long sip of my tea and opened the journal to the first page. The leather felt heavy in my hands.
It was dated March 14, 1988.
Some quick math informed me that I would have been five at the time.
Beneath the date were the words “Feeling conflicted.”
I almost flipped the journal shut, but I couldn’t stop myself, so I read on.
What should I do? I should have told Doug no when he asked for my help, but he’s a trusted friend and I never would have imagined that a small favor would lead us here.
My heart thudded in my chest. Doug, as in the Professor, Doug? As in Mom’s new husband?
I had known that Doug was good friends with both my parents. He had said as much himself when he asked for my permission to marry Mom. I’ll never forget our conversation, when he had confessed that he had loved her from afar for many years. He had barely admitted it to himself at the time because he and my father were best friends. His revelation had made me admire him even more. To have never acted on his desires and stand by Mom in the years after Dad’s death, offering support and a comforting shoulder for her grief, was the true test of enduring love, in my opinion.
I took another deep breath and read on.
“The Pastry Case,” as Doug and I have agreed to refer to it, has spun out of my control. I fear for Helen, for Torte, and for Juliet. Yesterday when I returned to the bakeshop a man was seated in a booth at the front window. He wore a baseball cap to shroud his face from view. I asked Helen how long he’d been there. She said he’d been drinking the same cold cup of coffee for at least forty-five minutes. I knew right away something was off about him. He didn’t meet my eyes when I offered him a refill. I could barely hear what he said. I think he mumbled something about being done anyway. He vanished minutes later. I had made my rounds in the dining room and when I walked past the booth again, he was gone. Thank goodness Helen was in the kitchen. When I picked up his coffee cup I noticed that he had written something on his napkin. I thought maybe it was a tip at first, but the words on that napkin have shaken me to my core. “Mind your own business. Stay out of it before someone else gets hurt.” What have I done? How could I have put Helen and Juliet at risk? I’m going to talk to Doug tomorrow and tell him that I have to get out of this—now.
The phone rang. I was so startled that I dropped the journal on the floor and let out a scream.
“Hello?” I answered the phone.
“Oh, hi, honey. It’s not too late to call is it?” Mom’s voice greeted me on the other end of the line.
“No. Not at all. I was just reading.” I glanced down at the journal on the floor. Suddenly it felt like a bomb that was about to explode. The tips of my fingers were white. It wasn’t particularly cold in the bedroom, especially since I was wearing pajamas and under my fluffy down comforter. I reached for my tea to try and warm my fingers.
“Are you okay? You sound kind of shaky. You haven’t been knocking back late-night espressos again have you?”
I chuckled. “Nope. As a matter of fact I’m drinking a nice cup of calming cinnamon tea as we speak.”
“Good.” I could hear relief in her voice. She worried too much. “I won’t keep you, but I wanted to check in on tomorrow’s schedule. Doug has an early morning meeting, so I thought I would come in with him and that way you don’t have to open. You could actually sleep in.”
“Thanks, Mom, but you know me. I’ll be up anyway. However, I’d love to spend the morning with you and I could use an extra set of hands on the specialty wedding cake I’ve been working on.”
“It’s a date. See you then and sleep tight, Juliet.”
She hung up. How was I going to face her in the morning? Mom and I didn’t keep secrets from one another. And she had an uncanny knack for being able to read my emotions.
What had Dad and the Professor gotten mixed up in? The Pastry Case. What did it mean?
I thought about reading on but decided that if I was going to spend the morning under Mom’s watchful and all-knowing eye, it would have to wait. The less I knew about whatever my dad and the Professor had been involved in the better—at least for the short-term.
Somehow, I managed to fall asleep, but my dreams were riddled with images of threatening notes on napkins and my dad running around Ashland wearing a deerstalker cap and a trench coat.
The next morning I woke up groggy and even more confused. I took a shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and my red Torte hoodie, tied my long blond hair into a ponytail, tucked the journal into my bag, and headed for the bakeshop. Maybe my normal daily routine would help push the thoughts of my dad’s journal to the back of my mind. I didn’t want to read another word until I had had a chance to talk to the Professor.
Ashland in the early morning is always sleepy no matter the season. I loved the quiet calm of the plaza dimly lit by the antique streetlamps and the soft orange halo of a waking sun. The first signs of spring had started to appear. Hundreds of pale pink buds waiting to burst to life dangled in the trees. Trickling water had returned to the Lithia bubblers now that we were past the season of hard freezes. I had to stop on Main Street to wait for a flock of wild turkeys to pass. I smiled at them as they squawked and puffed out their tail feathers.
The front of the bakeshop was dark, but the large bay windows were lit with the pale yellow overhead lights we leave on at night. Our holiday display had been replaced by a tribute to the Bard. The Oregon Shakespeare Festival, or OSF, had launched its new season early in the month and every shop in the plaza had decked out our storefronts to celebrate. Bethany and Rosa had partnered for Torte’s homage to the theater by creating ribbons out of parchment paper. They had written sonnets on each piece of parchment and hung them from the ceiling. The twirling strings of antique paper and golden twinkle lights gave the front of the bakeshop a lovely amber glow.
We would need to swap out the display soon. I was leaning toward something for St. Patrick’s Day and made a mental note to ask Rosa about ideas when she arrived. Then I rounded the corner that led to the Calle Guanajuato and Ashland Creek. Torte sat at the corner of the busy pedestrian walkway. I took a moment to drink in the sound of the gushing creek before heading down the side stairwell to the basement.
Mom was already at the bakeshop when I arrived. She and the Professor were sharing a cup of coffee in the kitchen. The bread ovens warmed the basement and the scent of rising dough and strong coffee brought a smile to my face.
“Morning,” I called, tugging off my coat and looping my bag over my shoulder. We used the basement entrance that led directly to our newly remodeled kitchen in the mornings. Once we were ready to open the doors to the public, we would turn on the lights and unlock the front door upstairs.
“There she is.” Mom waved. She wore a fire-engin
e red Torte apron. Her short bob was tucked behind her ears, revealing a simple pair of emerald stud earrings. “You’ll be happy that I’ve already made the coffee.”
“That’s for sure.” I greeted them both with a kiss and went to pour myself a mug. “When you said you were going to be here early, you meant really early.”
The Professor cleared his throat. “I’m to blame. I agreed to speak at the chamber’s breakfast meeting and it seemed a shame to drive two cars into town from the lake.”
“We’re so far away now.” Mom winked.
Their new house on the hillside above Emigrant Lake was less than a ten-minute drive from Torte, but in Ashland anything longer than five minutes is considered a “commute.” Just as “traffic” usually referred to having to wait for a herd of deer or a flock of turkeys to cross the street.
The Professor glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. He was dressed in his typical style: a pair of slacks, a crisp button-up shirt, a tweed jacket, and loafers. “I should probably be on my way.” He went to kiss Mom goodbye. “I shall return for you sometime after lunch, milady.” He gave her a bow.
Mom blushed. “No rush. I’m having lunch and a spa day with Janet and Wendy.” Janet was my friend Thomas’s mom who owned the flower shop A Rose by Any Other Name. She and Mom had been friends for as long as I could remember. Thomas and I had grown up together. Mom and Janet loved to show us photos from our preschool days. I don’t think they were surprised in the slightest when Thomas and I dated in high school, but our breakup came as a shock to everyone and sent us in entirely different directions. Since I had returned home, Thomas and I had rekindled our friendship and put memories of our romantic past behind us.
Nothing Bundt Trouble Page 2
