“Shall we read on?” The Professor nodded to the journal.
I dressed in a hurry the next morning, putting on my best pair of black slacks, and a collared shirt and sweater. Helen used to tease me when we were in college that I dressed like a professor, not a coed. It was a fair assessment. I had always felt like I was ahead of my time. It hadn’t been until my college years that I had found like-minded friends.
As I stared in the mirror, I found something else, a single gray hair in my mustache—a sure sign that stress was already getting to me. At twenty-eight I shouldn’t be going prematurely gray. Hopefully, this partnership with the Cabaret would prove lucrative and start bringing in more cash flow.
Helen and Juliet were in the kitchen drinking coffee and a vanilla steamer when I came downstairs. Juliet was dressed in a pair of overalls with a rainbow-striped shirt. She wore the flower crown I had given her last night.
“I’m wearing this for show-and-tell today, Daddy.” She pointed to her blond head.
“Great idea. It’s perfect for my pea blossom princess.” I kissed her on the cheek and went to pour myself a coffee.
“Do you have time for breakfast?” Helen asked, motioning toward the counter where she had sliced a loaf of sourdough for toast.
“Not this morning. I’ll get Torte open and we can trade off once you’ve dropped Juliet at school.” I ruffled the top of her golden blond hair. “Have fun today. I want a full report after school, okay? And, don’t forget our magic espresso machine is coming later. You will get to help Mommy and me test it out.”
Juliet sipped her steamer and grinned. “Okay, today is art so I’ll draw a picture for you.”
“Most excellent.” I left with a wave. It was still dark outside as I drove down Mountain Ave past Southern Oregon College and turned onto Siskiyou Boulevard. Ashland was the perfect-size town to raise a family. In the few years Helen and I had been here we had made lasting friendships with parents at Juliet’s preschool, fellow shop owners, and people like Doug, who I had met in my midnight actor’s group. Once a month we met at the Black Swan Theatre to do readings of Shakespeare’s work or provide feedback on new plays that members were writing, producing, or auditioning for. Ashland’s small size didn’t diminish its thriving underground artistic community.
The group had nicknamed Doug and me “the Bard brothers” because we both enjoyed reciting sonnets and soliloquies. I had found my people here, which was yet another reason that Torte had to be successful.
When I pulled into a parking space across the street from the bakeshop, I spotted a familiar face, Chuck Faraday, an actor with the Festival as we locals referred to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and its company members. Helen had once told me that all of the women in town thought that Chuck was Ashland’s version of a young Burt Reynolds. This morning I could see the resemblance as he strutted toward me wearing a white turtleneck, blazer, and skintight white pants.
“Morning, Chuck. You’re out and about early.”
Chuck stopped and looked from me to my VW van and then to me again. “Hey, Will. What are you doing?” His skittish body movements reminded me of the hummingbirds that hovered around the feeders Helen had hung on our deck.
“Opening the bakeshop.” I pointed across the street to the pristine red and blue awning with the Torte logo Helen had designed.
“Oh yeah, yeah, sure, right. How’s the bakery doing?” He stroked his thick handlebar mustache with jittery hands. “I’ve heard pretty good things. I need to come by and get a slice of that pineapple upside-down cake I hear everyone talking about.”
“We haven’t seen you at the Midnight Group for a while. Too busy with the season at the Festival?” I asked.
Chuck’s eyes were bloodshot. I wondered if he was ending his night as I was starting my day. “Yeah, I need to come back to the group. It’s a cool vibe there. Pretty rad. You must not have heard. I’m not in the company this season. I’m performing at the new theater that’s about to open—up on Hargadine Street in the converted old pink church—the Cabaret. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m heading up that way later this morning. We’ve been asked to potentially help with desserts for the opening show.”
“Rad. Rad. That’s a relief. Have you met Chef Ronald? He’s a nutjob. The guy thinks he’s working at the Ritz. I totally don’t know how Shelley and Stewart are keeping a handle on him. Glad to hear that you’re getting on board, Will.” He clapped me on the back. “The premiere show is going to be great. We’re doing Dames at Sea. Do you know it?”
I shook my head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“It’s a throwback to the 1930s. Musical. Big production value. Huge! Like super-retro stuff. It’s going to bring down the house. Mark my words right now. The Festival is going to be shaking in their boots once they see what we’re doing up at the Cabaret.”
I had been under the impression that the two theaters were symbiotic. Everything I had heard about the Cabaret’s opening from our friends at the Festival had been nothing but positive. It was wonderful to have another venue in town and Ashland and the surrounding valley would certainly support more artistic endeavors. In fact, Stewart, the owner, was a set designer for the Festival, and Shelly, the artistic director, had been a guest director at Shakespeare for many years. As far as I knew the Cabaret’s vision was unique—the intimate theater would offer traditional Cabaret dinner and dessert service along with each musical. There was room for more than one theater in town in my opinion.
“Look, I should jet.” Chuck pulled his jacket sleeve back to reveal a neon green Swatch watch on his wrist. The colorful plastic watches had become all the rage with teenagers in town, but I was surprised that Chuck was following the trend. He was younger than me, but only by a couple years, which if my estimate was right would put him in his mid-twenties. “It’s been a late night if you catch my drift. See you at the theater, maybe.” He started up Main Street toward the Mark Antony Hotel, then stopped, turned around, and came back. “You don’t happen to have a quarter on you, do you, man? I think I’ll call a friend for a ride.”
I reached into my pocket and handed him a quarter for the pay phone. “Enjoy the day.” I crossed the street and unlocked Torte. Chuck’s description of the Cabaret seemed off, but I could assess the situation for myself later this morning. I’ve never pretended to be a perfect man, but one thing I had always known about myself was my ability to read people. If things were in bad shape at the Cabaret, I would bow out gracefully. We had enough to focus on at the bakeshop without getting sucked into someone else’s drama.
Starting my mornings in a quiet kitchen had been one of the best things about opening Torte. Helen claimed that I could charm my way into the heart of a rabid dog. I did enjoy chatting with customers and introducing them to our handcrafted style of baking. It wasn’t always easy. Just last week I had a guy come in asking if we served Wonder Bread. Helen and I had made a pact that we would only serve the freshest, locally sourced products. Our philosophy was baking with love. Luckily, I had been able to convince the customer to try a loaf of our white bread and he came back two days later for more.
Due to the design of our small bakeshop, Helen and I were able to talk to customers in the open-concept kitchen, while kneading bread dough or frosting cupcakes. I took great pride in seeing friends’ faces across the counter and catching up on the news about town. But I equally appreciated the early morning calm of an empty kitchen. I took the time by myself to center my thoughts.
We’d been baking standard items and trying to work in new recipes throughout the week. My Wonder Bread conversion had given me an idea for something that might appeal to Juliet and her friends—Torte Ding Dongs. I wanted to try my hand at a more refined version of the popular after-school snack.
Our goal at Torte was to ensure we served our customers handcrafted food. We had made a commitment not to use any processed ingredients or artificial flavorings. I knew that Ding Dongs were a fav
orite in the kindergarten crowd, so would start with a basic chocolate cake batter, fill them with marshmallow cream, and drench them with melted dark chocolate.
We had acquired a used commercial mixer from a bakery in Yreka. I added butter, sugar, and vanilla into the heavy mixer. Then I incorporated eggs, milk, cocoa powder, salt, baking powder, and flour. The chocolate batter smelled delicious. I spread it into greased six-inch pans and set them to bake for twenty minutes.
Next, I melted marshmallows on the stove, adding butter and vanilla to give the filling a nice creaminess. I allowed the marshmallow mixture to cool before whipping it together with our house buttercream.
Once my cakes had cooled, I scooped the marshmallow filling into a pastry bag, poked a hole into the side of the cake, and carefully piped the filling into the cake until a little puff of white filling appeared on the edge, letting me know it was full. For the final step, I melted semi-sweet chocolate until it was glossy. I placed the filled cakes on cooling racks and flooded them with melted chocolate. When the chocolate set, I would pipe a swirled pattern on top with more buttercream to mimic the design of real Ding Dongs. I hoped Juliet would like my creation.
I was halfway through baking another batch of six-inch round chocolate cakes when Helen breezed in.
She tugged off her puffy coat and hung it on the rack by the front door. Her olive cheeks were flushed with color. “Sorry I’m late. Juliet’s teacher stopped to tell me that the Festival is looking for some young kids for their upcoming production of The Sound of Music and they are interested in having Juliet audition for Gretel. What do you think?”
I skimmed the edge of the cake pan to allow the chocolate sponge to slide out onto a cooling rack. “Our daughter onstage? That is the stuff of dreams, isn’t it?”
Helen tucked her brown hair with streaks of gold behind her ears. “It would be a time commitment though. She’d have to be at the theater for rehearsals and one of us would accompany her.”
“Such a terrible responsibility. I suppose if I had to be there with her, I could make the sacrifice.” I winked.
“I’m serious, Will. Should we let her?” Helen tied on a blue apron.
“Let’s talk with her later. If she wants to do it then I’m fully in support of it, but I don’t have any intention of becoming a stage dad either.”
“A stage dad, ha ha, you wish.” Helen’s dark brown eyes twinkled. She gave me the look that had made me fall for her. “Look at the time—you’re supposed to be up at the Cabaret in five minutes.” She pointed to the clock on the wall.
“It will only take me five minutes to walk up there.” I glanced at my cakes. “I still need to make more marshmallow filling for these.” I gave her a quick rundown of my special creation I was making in Juliet’s honor.
“Ding Dongs, you’re a brilliant man, Will Capshaw. Juliet will have a face full of chocolate as soon as she sees these, but more importantly these will probably be a huge hit with customers, especially the college kids.” She pushed me toward the door. “Get going. I’ll take over. I can handle a little marshmallow cream.”
I didn’t argue with my wife. There was no point in pretending that Helen wasn’t the boss in the kitchen. “Just leave those cakes cooling. I’ll finish them when I return. The bread is ready to go in the oven and the first batch of croissants and muffins will be done in a few.”
Helen practically pushed me out of the kitchen. “Don’t be late. I’ll be eager to hear how it goes.”
I reached for my coat and went outside. The sun had risen, giving the plaza a resplendent glow. It was mid-March, fortunately we had survived the ides, which meant that spring in all its glory was starting its first flush. I crossed the grassy courtyard where the sulfur waters from the Lithia fountains bubbled. There were two benches and a cropping of sturdy oak trees to provide shade on warm summer afternoons. On the other side of the courtyard a new hotel—aptly named the Merry Windsor—was under construction. A pizza shop, bookstore, and Italian restaurant rounded out the lower section of the plaza.
As I walked along Main Street, I passed the Festival’s welcome center and the Black Swan. The Festival had recently announced that it was opening a second location in Portland, which would make it the largest not-for-profit company in the country. It had recently won its first Tony Award and implemented a new fan favorite—table-side dessert delivery at intermission at each performance. It was astounding that our little town was home to one of the most innovative theaters around.
I strolled on toward the movie theater where posters advertising not one but three movies Helen wanted to see—Rain Man, A Fish Called Wanda, and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. I made a mental note to arrange a babysitter soon and take Helen out to dinner and a movie.
When I reached the Mark Antony Hotel, I turned the corner. The upper end of Main Street was in need of a face-lift. Many buildings had sat abandoned for years. Graffiti and broken windows added to the seedy vibe. Aside from a mini market, vacuum store, gas station, and furniture shop, nothing was thriving. Hopefully the addition of the Cabaret would breathe some much-needed life into this side of town.
I turned off Main and headed up the steep hill of 1st Street. A young couple, who I assumed were tourists given their fanny packs and the large map they were trying to decipher, stopped me to ask for directions to Lithia Park. I explained that they were headed the right way and then continued on.
Two businesses were shuttered at the base of the hill, but a relatively new restaurant and jazz club—Rumors—had opened last year. It shared a connecting wall with the Cabaret. The still blue sky above me was disrupted by a thin white contrail from a plane in the distance.
It had been a while since I had walked this way. I had to stop for a moment to take in the transformation and catch my breath. The old pink church looked completely different. Its stucco façade had been painted a deep, warm gray. New stained-glass windows reflected the sunlight. One massive stained-glass window with a theatrical pictorial took up most of the main floor of the building with the word CABARET carved in the center of the stained glass. Arched wooden doors had been refurbished with a mahogany finish. Black antique lamps flanked the entryway. I wasn’t sure how much money Stewart had invested in the renovations, but it must have been a pretty penny.
Stepping inside, I was immediately greeted by the sound of hammering and drilling. The old church had been given a facelift inside and out. A small lobby looked as if it was nearly complete, minus a stack of boxes and pile of construction tools. I ventured into the theater where the scene was chaotic. A glass chandelier at least ten feet in diameter anchored the room. The place where the baptismal font was had become the stage. Tables, many with missing tops, and chairs had been placed in four ascending tiers from the stage. Additional table seating to the left and right of the stage and upstairs in the balcony was still in cardboard boxes waiting to be unpacked.
A group of actors were rehearsing as construction hummed around them in every direction. Walls were being painted, carpet nailed to the floor, and lighting hung from above. The last I had heard, the inaugural show was set for the weekend. There was still much to be done. I wondered if Stewart was considering pushing back opening night.
“William, William, over here!” Stewart called from the far end of the theater. A single row of barstools and high tabletops lined the back wall.
“This is really something,” I said when I reached Stewart and extended my hand. “It’s quite the makeover.”
He smoothed his black turtleneck. Stewart was a professional dancer who had gotten his start on the Festival’s stage, initially as a performer and now as a choreographer. He had even been hired by the college to teach dance. I didn’t need to know his history to surmise he was a dancer, though. It was evident in the way he held his body and moved in a fluid, flowing motion. “Honestly, William, my jaw will be on the floor if we get this place finished in time for opening night. We’re supposed to have a dress rehearsal tomorrow and I don’t think there’
s a single spot in this entire building that doesn’t need something done. Look at the floor.” He stretched his arm out in almost a bow to showcase a half dozen construction workers wearing kneepads as they secured forest green carpet to the floor. “We can’t set any of the tables in place until the carpet is done. It’s a disaster in the making. I can’t even tell you what a struggle it’s been. Why did we think we could turn a church into a theater? It’s so Judy Garland, isn’t it?”
I nodded, not exactly sure what he meant by the reference.
“It’s like hey we have a barn, let’s do a show.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded forced. “We had no idea what we were getting into. So many challenges. Rigging lights, in a building that wasn’t designed for theater lighting. We realized partway into production that nothing fits through the front doors. We had to build the sets offsite in pieces and then try to load them in through those round doors.” He buried his face in his hands. “Just wait until you see the kitchen.”
“We had similar issues with the bakery.” I tried to reassure him. “Obviously your project is on a grander scale, but I bet you’ll be surprised by how quickly some of the last details can come together.”
“I hope you’re right because I’m about to murder someone—or everyone—if they don’t pick up the pace.” His eyes landed on the stage where Chuck Faraday looked like he was asleep. He was slumped on a prop pillow with his legs dangling off the end of the stage. One of his fellow cast members stepped over him as she rehearsed her line. “I’m a glutton for punishment.” Stewart sighed. “Come with me.”
We squeezed past a guy holding a ladder for another worker who was rigging lights in the balcony. Bathrooms were to our left and the kitchen to the right. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but the kitchen was in worse shape than the theater. Exposed electrical wiring hung above the stove. There were huge chunks of missing tiles on the floor and a vacant spot where an industrial refrigerator should be.
Nothing Bundt Trouble Page 5
