Angie followed Mel with paper and pencil while Mel checked their supplies. This was going to seriously deplete their reserves, and she certainly hoped that Tate had made it clear to Ian Hannigan that they were not paying for the ingredients. She was still going to have to bake for the shop, and she had several special orders due that weekend. She felt her stress level ratchet up, and she had to force herself to close her eyes, calm down, take a deep breath, and find her baker Zen.
Angie stood beside her, tapping her pencil against the pad in her hand. “Better now?”
“Much,” Mel said.
“I’d be a better editor in chief than that shriveled-up old hag,” Amy was muttering to herself.
She was slouched on a stool at the recently vacated steel table, looking like the whiny kid on the playground who no one wanted to play with.
Mel would have felt sorry for her, but she found she couldn’t feel sympathy for someone who seemed intent upon bringing about her own misery.
Mel had done the corporate thing, and the simple fact was that Amy wasn’t helping herself by going over Brigit’s head to Hannigan. Brigit was obviously unhappy with her, and it was apparent that no one else on the staff had the warm fuzzies for her either. Even as an outsider, it was painful to watch someone so young committing career suicide.
“Pistachios,” Mel said to Angie. “We’ll need at least sixteen cups of shelled nuts.”
“Wow,” Angie said. “Should I plan to buy in bulk at Sprouts?”
Mel gave her a look. “You’re going with the others?”
“Yes, and preferably before the boss man gets here,” she said. “Much as I love a good butt-chewing, I think I still have scars on my rear from the last time he let us have it.”
“Fine,” Mel said. They finished the inventory, and Angie went into the front of the bakery to gather the troops.
Mel was left alone with Amy while Brigit and Sam were still holed up in her office. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, and suddenly the bakery which had always been her sanctuary was feeling overly crowded and a bit claustrophobic.
It was a relief when the bakery opened to the public and Marty arrived for the morning shift and Tate followed him shortly thereafter. Marty headed straight out to the front to unlock the door and fire up the jukebox, while Tate lingered in the kitchen, perusing the cupcakes in the walk-in cooler.
Tate considered one of the perks of being the chief investor in Fairy Tale Cupcakes to be that he could help himself to the goods whenever the need arose. Judging by the three cupcakes he’d stacked on his plate, his need was greater today than usual.
He took a seat at the farthest end of the table, away from Amy, and bit into one of Mel’s signature cupcakes, the Blonde Bombshell, an almond cupcake with almond buttercream.
“Where is everyone?” he asked through a mouthful. “I thought you’d all be elbow deep in cupcake batter by now.”
“I. Don’t. Cook!” Amy said as if he’d been talking to her. “I’m going outside to meet Ian.”
With a toss of her long dark hair, she strode out of the kitchen to the front. Tate blinked after her.
“Ian Hannigan is coming here?” he asked. “Why?”
“As far as I can tell, because Amy tattled on Brigit, who has taken over my office with Sam Kelleher, the features guy, while everyone else ran out of here to go buy supplies, including Angie, in a lame attempt to hide from Ian Hannigan, who is probably going to go ballistic. In fact, I am expecting everything to blow up on me any moment now.”
“Hannigan is definitely on his way?” Tate asked as he reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth. He actually sounded nervous.
“I suppose. Unless he doesn’t get any of the numerous messages from Amy or he has something better to do. Tate, are you scared of Ian Hannigan?” she asked.
“No. Maybe. Not exactly,” he said.
Mel studied him and realized he wasn’t wearing his usual superhero investment-guy power suit with his matching platinum cuff links of wealth. Instead, he was in jeans and a charcoal gray Henley, looking very much Saturday-night-movie casual instead of Tuesday-morning power broker to the rich and richer.
“What’s going on with you?” she asked. “Are you sick or something?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. “I just don’t think I should be here snarfing down cupcakes when—”
The kitchen door swung open and in strode Ian Hannigan. His face was set in lines of seriously unhappy.
Seven
Marty was hot on his heels. “I told him not to come back here, but he said you were expecting him.”
Mel nodded at Marty to let him know that it was okay and that Hannigan had told him the truth.
Marty glared at him from under his bushy gray eyebrows and stomped back into the front of the bakery, yelling, “If you need me to do some clean-up just holler.”
“That’s some feisty counter help you’ve got there,” Hannigan said.
“The older ladies like him,” Tate said.
“Good business.” Hannigan nodded in understanding, and Tate sat up straighter, looking pleased.
Amy had followed Hannigan into the room and was standing beside him with a smirk on her lips, like she was the teacher’s pet ratting out the kids who’d been smoking in the parking lot on lunch break.
Mel had never been a smoker, but she’d done her share of skipping school to hit the local convenience store for a candy bar fix between classes, and the same kind of tattle-pants had ratted her out to the principal back then. She did not like tattlers and snitches, and she was really beginning to dislike Amy Pierson.
“Brigit!” Hannigan barked.
Mel glanced at her office door. There was no sound coming from within. She wondered if Brigit would just ignore him. She felt her stress level rise while Amy looked even more smug.
“You have five seconds to come out or I’m coming in,” Hannigan yelled.
“Good luck with that,” Mel said under her breath to Tate, who shushed her.
The door banged open and out strode Brigit, looking like she was about to tear someone’s head off. Mel backed up to stand behind Tate.
“What do you want?” Brigit asked.
She planted herself right in front of Ian with her hands on her hips, looking like she was more than willing to go toe-to-toe with him.
Ian leaned forward. “Cupcake boot camp means you learn how to make cupcakes. What did you not understand about that?”
“I am trying to turn out a magazine,” she said. “Or, as the owner, do you not care about that?”
“I care,” he said. “I also care that the staff on this magazine has zero morale, which affects the work that they do. You can’t coax good stories out of your staff by browbeating them.”
“I do not browbeat,” Brigit argued. “I merely set my standards high and expect them to be met.”
“You’re a bully,” Ian said.
“I can live with that if it means that this magazine survives while those around it slink off into obscurity,” Brigit said. “What’s the matter, is your little pet unhappy?”
She glared at Amy, who huffed in outrage. Hannigan ignored both of them.
“Amy is not my pet,” Hannigan said. His voice was low as if he was trying to control his temper. “I am trying to build a stronger sense of team amongst—”
“Oh, stop!” Brigit snapped. “You are such a liar. This isn’t about the magazine. You could give two hoots if this magazine lives or dies. This little boot camp whatever is about punishing me, and we both know it.”
“My god, your ego is mythic!” Hannigan roared.
“My ego?” Brigit leaned forward, meeting him glower for glower. “That’s unbelievable coming from you. You are one of the richest men in the world. You could have bought any magazine you wanted, but you bought mine. Why?”
Hannigan didn’t answer. He turned away, but Brigit wasn’t about to let him escape her. Mel was riveted watching the two titans of the publishing world go after
each other. She had a feeling the argument wouldn’t be over until someone lay bleeding.
“I’ll tell you why you did it,” Brigit said. “You bought SWS so that you could destroy it. I’ve spent my life building this magazine into what it is, and nothing would make you happier than to see it fail. Well, let me tell you, it will be over my dead body.”
“If need be,” Hannigan said. His voice was low and lethal and made Mel want to hide under the kitchen table.
“Brigit, come on. Ian, be sensible,” Sam said. He wedged himself in between them, forcing them to back up. “You two need to stop. There’s more at stake here than an old score to settle.”
“Really, Sam?” Hannigan asked. “It seems to me you chose whose side you were on a long time ago.”
Sam looked pained, and Mel sensed that the history between the three of them was long and scarred.
“I’m sending out a camera crew,” Hannigan said. “We’re going to have still shots of the boot camp for the next issue of the magazine, and I’m sending out a video crew to put short spots up on our website. I expect to see everyone suited up and in the kitchen, or I’ll start handing out pink slips. Am I clear?”
“As clear as cheap crystal,” Brigit said. She cast him a look of such loathing that Mel was surprised Hannigan didn’t drop dead on the floor right there.
“Cheap, yeah, that sounds about right coming from you,” Hannigan said.
“Ian, there’s no need—” Sam blustered, but Hannigan interrupted him.
“There’s every need,” Hannigan snapped. “I own the magazine. I call the shots. Not you, Brigit, and you’d better catch on to that fact, or I’ll have to replace you with someone—oh, how do I say it?—younger.”
“I’m not replaceable,” Brigit said. Her dark brows arched with a stone-cold confidence that left Mel awed. “You tried once before and failed. Are you really going to make that mistake again?”
Sam sucked in a breath, and Hannigan looked as if she’d just kneed him in the crotch. Brigit ignored them both, spun on her heel, and stormed out the back door to the alley, slamming the door behind her.
“Ian, I’m sorry, that was a low blow, even for Brigit,” Sam said.
Hannigan held up a hand. He closed his eyes and shook his head as if trying shake loose whatever pained him.
“I’m going now,” he said. “Make sure she does what I said. I’d hate to have to fire her.”
“Would you really?” Sam asked. His voice was skeptical but not argumentative.
Hannigan didn’t answer but strode back out into the bakery with Amy Pierson on his heels chattering like a squirrel in a nut war the entire way.
“Mr. Hannigan, Ian, I do have some ideas—” Mel heard her saying as the door swung shut.
“Ugh, he’s created a monster with that one,” Sam said.
“Sam, what is going on?” Mel asked. “It’s pretty clear that the three of you have a history. Care to share?”
Sam looked at her. His sallow skin and wiry build were accentuated by the overhead lighting of the kitchen. He looked like someone who could use a cupcake.
“Sit,” she said.
To her surprise, Sam did.
She went to the cooler and pulled out a tray of her favorite, Strawberry Surprise Cupcakes. She put two on a plate and poured a cold glass of milk. She plopped them down in front of Sam.
“Eat,” she said.
He gave her a small smile. “You sound like my mother.”
“Did you like your mother?” she asked.
“Loved her,” he said. “Fabulous woman.”
“Okay, then,” Mel said. “So, tell us about the three of you while you eat.”
Sam took a nibble of the pink buttercream and asked, “Strawberry?”
Mel nodded.
“That’s my favorite,” he said. “How did you know?”
“Hunch,” Mel said. Actually, she had just thought the man needed a boost of pink in his life; maybe it would help even out his jaundiced skin tone.
Sam took a bite, and when he smiled Mel saw the happy little boy he must have been some sixty-odd years before.
“You were going to tell us about the history between the three of you,” Tate said.
“Not mine to tell,” Sam said. He pointed to the back door. “Go ask her.”
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Mel said to Tate.
“No.”
“Oh, come on. One of us has to find out why Hannigan and Brigit are at each other’s throats, or this is going to be a very frustrating and possibly catastrophic week,” she said.
“Yeah, and that would be you,” Tate said. He picked up one of his remaining cupcakes and took a big bite.
“Why me?” Mel asked. “You’re the one who got us into this boot-camp thing.”
Tate swallowed and then said, “No, technically you and Angie created the situation that required me to save you from having to pay back the thousands of dollars the magazine wasted on that fiasco of a photo shoot. You’re in charge of the boot camp. You go deal with the diva.”
“There’s a reason she’s a diva,” Sam said around another bite of cupcake. “Every other magazine in the country is tanking but hers survives. She’s brilliant. She’s able to mix in real news about the world and keep it interesting. That’s no small feat in a world where you are now expected to distill information in a hundred and forty characters or less.”
Sam’s tone left them no doubts about how he felt about new media. Mel had to admit that, although she found all sorts of things on the Internet entertaining, sometimes she just wanted to unplug it and have peace.
“Fine, I’ll go,” she said. Then she glared at Tate, and added, “But if she bites me, you’re taking me to the emergency room.”
Mel opened the back door and cautiously stuck her head out. She half expected Brigit to kick the door shut in her face, but when she looked out, she saw Brigit pacing up and down the alley, smoking some sort of black cigarette with a gold tip and muttering.
“What?” she snapped when she saw Mel. “Am I not keeping my secondhand smoke twenty feet from the entrance?”
“No, you look to be at least forty,” Mel said. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. She stood on the small landing. Three steps down and she’d be in the alley with Brigit, but if she took the staircase on her right that went up to the second floor, she could hide in her apartment and snuggle Captain Jack until all of the mean people went away.
Somehow, she figured that wasn’t an option. She took the steps down into the alley, which had the usual alley stink of sour milk and rotten fruit, and stopped at the bottom to sit on the lowest step.
Brigit paced by her once, twice, three times before she finally stopped and glared at her.
“What?” Brigit asked as she stubbed out her cigarette and threw the butt into the Dumpster.
Mel’s inner adolescent chubster wanted to crawl under the steps and hide from the gorgeous haughty woman in front of her. Brigit MacLeod was everything Mel was not: She was strong, assertive and confident. When she walked into a room, no one could ignore her arrival. Mel was not like that. She wasn’t confident, she was definitely not assertive, and she preferred coming in the back entrance so as not to be noticed.
“You scare me,” Mel said.
Eight
Brigit blinked at her, obviously surprised at her candor. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Why?” Mel asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to manage people if you didn’t scare the bejeezus out of them?”
Brigit looked at her and studied her for a moment. “Not in my business. I’m not baking cupcakes. I’m fighting to survive in a world that is constantly changing, and every young, dewy-eyed little coed out of grad school thinks she can do my job better than me. There is no room for niceness in my world.”
“I suppose not,” Mel said.
They were both silent. Brigit leaned on the railing beside Mel.
“Why have you tied yourself to a bakery?” Brigit asked.
“What do you mean?” Mel asked.
She felt nervous having Brigit standing so close to her. The lingering scent of Brigit’s cigarette mixing with the exotic perfume she wore wrapped around Mel like a heavy cloak.
“I knew Vic Mazzota,” Brigit said.
“Oh.” Mel nodded. She was surprised by the sudden constriction of her throat. Vic had been her mentor and had been murdered six months before. She still missed him. The hurt was still raw.
“He raved about you and your genius,” Brigit said. “He wanted you to be a star. He was right. You and your partner could be stars on the Food Network.”
“I’m stunned you think that after our less-than-stellar photo shoot.”
“That was Amy’s mistake,” Brigit said. “I would never have dressed you up like two show ponies. It compromised the essence of who you really are. I would have done the shoot in the kitchen, in your regular clothes with you elbow deep in cupcake batter.”
Mel felt herself warming to the editor in chief.
“Keeping it real,” Mel said.
“Exactly,” Brigit said. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why not foodie stardom?”
“That’s not for me,” Mel said with a nervous laugh. “I’m happy right where I am.”
“Slinging cupcakes?” Brigit asked. She sounded dubious.
“There’s an artistry to it,” Mel said. “And I get to be my own boss, make my own hours, and live an uncomplicated life.”
“But you could be the boss of others,” Brigit argued. “Hundreds of others.”
“I don’t think that’s really in my DNA,” Mel said.
Brigit studied her, and Mel hoped like hell there was nothing stuck in her teeth and no pimples were popping up on the horizon.
“What a waste,” Brigit said with a shake of her head.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“If you change your mind, I can teach you how to be a leader, how to go after what you want and how not to take no for an answer.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but that technique doesn’t really seem to be working with your new boss,” Mel said.
Going, Going, Ganache Page 5
