“You’re right,” I said. “But I still like working for you.”
“I’m promoting you from the back back kitchen to the front kitchen. The one the customers view when they walk to the rear of the restaurant,” Mort said.
My hand flew to my chest. “The front kitchen? You mean the one that everyone sees on their way to the bathrooms?”
“The very same, kid. Can you handle the pressure? You up for the promotion?”
“Oh my God!” I said. “Yes, yes. But—look at me?” I wore white from head to toe, my hair was covered in a net, and a surgical-style mask was pushed down from my mouth onto my neck. “I look like a beekeeper. I have nothing to wear!”
“Ahem!” Mort coughed and pulled a package from behind his back and held it out in front of him. “This is for those folks who work in the front kitchen. Your promotion includes an hourly pay increase as well as some health benefits. I hope they all fit perfectly.”
I wiped a tear away from one eye, took the package from him, and unwrapped my new outfit. “Thank you, Mr. Feinberg. Thank you so very much!”
The very next day at work I wore my fancier uniform. The chef’s outfit was made of cotton that sported a higher thread count. My hair was still tied in a net behind my head, but I no longer had to wear a mask. The shoes were Crocs—not all that girly, but very tasteful and functional.
It took a little getting used to being in front of the public eye, but Mort was right: this was a great step to getting my moxie back. I was tasked with organizing To-Go and delivery orders, and there were a lot of those. On occasion I’d be called into the back back kitchen to supervise bakery goods.
I worked just as hard as I had in the back back kitchen—simply in a different capacity. I spotted a few familiar faces as they made their way to the restrooms; that actress who was known for being high maintenance, throwing temper tantrums, and making show runners throw their hands up in the air and quit a TV show; the conservative male talk-show host who famously yelled at his guests when they disagreed with him, and that super cool and really cute comedian frequently featured on Comedy Central. I’d glance at them, and then look away, hoping against hope that no one would recognize, or address me as “The Cupcake Killer.”
When suddenly an odor wafted through the air that didn’t normally exist at Mort’s. It smelled like something fresh, new, and kind of leathery. But for the life of me, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
When I heard a familiar voice that sent tingles (not the good kind) up and down my spine and I cringed.
“Bless my sorry eyes, but if it isn’t Annie Rose Graceland in the flesh. Rrrr! Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in your town!”
Aw, crap!
SOS, Diary. SOS!
Annie
Chapter 10
Mothers and Daughters
NANCY
Dear Diary,
When my only daughter, Annie, finally returned my voicemail—the previous two went unanswered—we chatted for too short a time because she is very “busy” with her exciting life in Lost Angeles. (No—that’s not a typo…)
I reiterated to Annie that my friends’ children live simply miles away from them. Mrs. McGillicuddy spends every Sunday with her twin daughters, Bertie and Adelaide, in our hometown of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Gloria spends holidays with her son, Miller, and her two precious grandchildren. Dot Fettleman even traveled with her youngest daughter for an overnight getaway and relaxing spa retreat to Potawomie Resort and Casino in Milwaukee.
Did I mention I do not have grandchildren? My son, Carson, is obsessed with hunting and doesn’t seem all that interested in dating. Annie’s busy divorcing Satan.
I’m the only member of my Wild Women’s Group whose child lives over one hundred miles away, and yes, that disturbs me.
After Annie promised to come home soon for a visit, she burbled on about her boss giving her a meager promotion that boosted her from slave status to poverty-stricken. It’s heartwarming to know that the pricey college education I paid for with a second mortgage on my house has gone to such good use!
She also told me about NaNoWriMo—the novel writing event that occurs every November. I mentioned it to Gloria, the fearless leader of my Wild Women’s group, and she was already on it. She’d spent some of our dues and purchased cute, but inexpensive diaries from Wal-Mart, so we might attempt penning a novel, a poem, a short story, or simply journal.
Which is why, Dear Diary, I am writing to you, as well as on your pretty pages today.
You know, before Annie got the baking bug, she used to love to write. Maybe NaNoWriMo could inspire her to try that again some day. A mother can only hope.
Do you have a mother, Dear Diary? Do you write to her on a regular basis? I bet you do. I hope you remember that even though mothers and daughters have their differences—underlying those arguments, disagreements, and miles—is love.
And as all of us who reach a certain age know, real love is not perfect. Real love has wrinkles, and warts, and more drama than a teenager’s first week at high school. But real love endures.
That’s why I cashed in some frequent flyer mileage and will be travelling to L.A. to spend Thanksgiving with my only daughter. I’ll tell her the next time we talk. Maybe we can go to Disneyland. It will be so much fun.
God bless, Diary.
Sincerely,
Nancy Jean Graceland
Strawberry Tiramisu
by Joan Olive Yallop (Cheryl Moore’s mama)
Ingredients and Directions:
Blend 2 pints of sliced strawberries, 3/4 cup sugar and 3 tablespoons cream de cacao. Reserve 3/4 cup.
Pour remainder into pie plate.
In medium bowl mix 1/2 cup mascarpone cheese (room temperature) and 1/4 cup powdered sugar.
In a large bowl, whip 1 1/2 cups heavy cream and fold in mascarpone mixture.
Trim and soak 24 ladyfingers in the berry mixture in pie pan.
Fit 12 ladyfingers side by side in two rows on bottom of 8 X 8 baking dish.
Spread 1/2 reserved berry mixture and 2 cups mascarpone mixture over ladyfingers, and then layer the remaining lady fingers with remaining strawberry mixture and mascarpone.
Cover and refrigerate, cut into squares and garnish with shaved dark chocolate.
Chapter 11
BH 90210
ANNIE
Dear Diary,
I am sweating like a pig, and freaking out like when I was six-years-old and I attended my first sleepover at Suzie Baloozie’s house, and she played us the movie Scream.
I cannot believe Mack is in my freaking workplace. Mack thinks he is “in the house,” but trust me, if he screws up my first day in the front kitchen, I will slice him down like an old rotted tree in the yard outside of the house, and feed him to the wood chipper. What the hell is he thinking by coming here? And that scent? It was his cologne but it still reminds me of something else that I can’t put my finger on. He didn’t wear it when we were dating—I would have remembered. And, of course, Mack looks older and fatter than his picture on Facebook. We all do.
“Oh, hey, Mack,” I said. “Shocker that you’re here—but so, um, nice, to see you after all these years. Feinberg’s Famous Deli is the best in L.A. Enjoy your meal. Where’s your table? I’ll send you over a toasted bagel with chive cream cheese—on the house. Super yummy. I’m at work. Let’s talk later, yes?”
I smiled at him, turned back to packaging orders, lifting my jaw off the floor, and getting my job done. “Order for Chestnut Hill Productions ready!” I shouted to the staff behind me and tried to focus my attention on checking ten bags filled with an assortment of salads, sandwiches, and hot plates. I swiveled and Mack was still standing in the same spot, a goofy grin on his face. “What are you doing here?” I hissed.
“Waiting until you get a break, so Mack can hear more of that sweet voice of yours.”
“My sweet voice says that you’re interrupting the first day of my new job promotion. Do you want to get me demoted? Or,
even worse—fired? How did you find me?”
“Your Facebook page says you work at Feinberg’s Deli in Beverly Hills. I found a lot of delis, but only one Feinberg’s. I’m in town for WEPOC.”
“WEPOC?” I asked.
“Come on, girl. Everyone knows WEPOC. Western States Previously Owned Cars—the biggest online dealership that has physical locations, actual car dealerships, in the western United States. It’s our annual convention and it’s perfect timing, yes?” Mack said. “I get to see you, hopefully meet that gorgeous cat of yours that I helped rescue, and pick up my trophy at the WEPOC annual banquet. I’m Numero Dos Salesman Honcho. Which, by the way, is quite a big deal. I’d really like it if you’d go to the awards ceremony with me.”
“That’s super cool,” I said. That’s super confusing, I thought. “But we need to talk about these things when I’m off work. And, I already have a boyfriend, so… I don’t think I can be your date. Don’t you know someone else in town?”
“Only a distant relative and she’s too busy to hang out this weekend. When do you get off work?” Mack asked.
I sighed and looked at the large clock on the wall. “Four more hours.” I said. “You don’t want to wait four more long and tedious hours.”
He winked at me. “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in the BH 90210 house! I can totally take a tour of the ’hood and be back in four hours to meet you.”
“That’s thoughtful. But after work, I usually go home, feed Theodore, work out, and then meet up with my boyfriend, and/or some friends.”
“Oh.” He looked down at his feet, dejected. “Okay. Yeah. I should have called first. I tend to get a little carried away. Sorry. It was great seeing you.” He turned and shuffled back toward the counter.
I felt a little twist in my heart. Mack had been through a divorce, was probably lonely, and I was being too tough on him. So I made up my mind and held out a tiny olive branch. “Wait!
He turned and faced me, tears glistening in his eyes, which confirmed my fears and made me feel even worse.
“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s meet up at the end of my shift. Nothing fancy. Nothing long. We’ll just take a walk and chitchat for a bit. How does that sound?”
“I think it sounds perfect, Annie.” Mack rubbed the corner of his eye with his fist. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I can’t wait to catch up.”
Catching up with old friends can be fun, Diary.
Xo,
Annie
Chapter 12
A Belle Dame
JULIA
Dear Diary,
I was seated at the mahogany bar, sipping a little cocktail when my Zoosk date, Pierre LePeuf, sauntered into the bar at Vito’s Ristorante on Ocean Park Avenue in Santa Monica.
His eyes narrowed to accommodate the room’s dim lighting. He peered around, crinkled his nose in disgust and sniffed—his nostrils expanding and narrowing so quickly he appeared to be part bloodhound.
The second I laid eyes on Pierre I knew that my date with the French cosmetics salesman would be short-lived. I didn’t, however, expect it to be non-existent.
Let me tell you about Vito’s, Diary. It’s been a beloved, old-style Italian restaurant and watering hole in the friendly Ocean Park neighborhood for over thirty years. The food is fabulous, the drinks delicious, the service impeccable, and Florence Henderson dines here almost nightly. (If you don’t know who Florence is, you need to Google her, immediately.)
If you ever take on human form, (oh, trust me, Diary, I’ve seen enough strange and magical things in my day to know this is a possibility,) I beg you—take your taste buds for a twirl and try Vito’s fettuccine carbonara and the calamari fritti. Heaven.
Pierre grimaced, checked his watch and then peered at every woman seated at the bar. Until his gaze fell on a twenty-something, twizzle-stick blonde girl who had tats up and down one arm, sported gigantic boobs, and wasn’t even wearing a bra.
I waved at Pierre, lady-like, but he was smitten by the booby blonde, who was at least ten years younger than me. He approached her, smiled widely, bowed his head and said with a thick accent, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Julia. It is I: Monsieur Pierre LePeuf. It is my greatest pleasure to meet your company.”
The girl threw back her head and laughed. “Pleased to meet you as well. But my name’s Joanna, not Julia.”
Excuse me, Diary? Pierre and I chatted on the phone—how in the hell could he mistake her truck driver-like voice for my feminine, slightly southern accent?
“Joanna—I apologize for my mistake. Might I buy you a glass of French wine? I know this restaurant is Italiano, but, my fleur, you are a belle dame—I do not know how to say this in English—”
“A hot chick?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“That too. Perhaps, Joanna, we could go to an American restaurant, instead. My sense of smell is so refined that the coarse Italian scents give me a headache.”
She popped off her barstool and smiled up at him. “There’s a Counter Burger just a block away, Pierre. The French onion rings will knock your socks off.”
He glanced down at his loafers. “But, I am not wearing socks.” And he followed her like a smitten puppy out of the restaurant.
Bye, bye Pierre. Au revoir to my dreams of living in Paris, hanging out at chic cafes, visiting the Louvre with my fabulous French lover, and eating too much Brie.
I sighed, signaled the bartender for my tab and tossed my credit card onto the bar. It was still happy hour and the cocktails were half price. Yay for me, as dating these fools could burn a hole in one’s pocket. I pulled the phone from my purse and hit one number. Thank God she picked up. “Annie, I need moral support. Where are you? Can you meet me for a quick bite?”
“Oh, hi Julia! Wow—it’s been so incredibly long since we’ve talked. Like forever-HELP ME! I miss you so much. Is it that EMERGENCY health situation where you need me to come and be with you IMMEDIATELY?”
“You’re speaking girl code,” I said. “What’s the problem? Do I need to call 911?”
“NO on the numbers, darling. Of course I will drop whatever I’m doing and race to your side, my dear BFF,” Annie said. “I know you would do the same for me. PLEASE!”
A male voice blared in the background. “Julia Devereux? Sweet! Put that cutie-pie pumpkin girl on the line, pronto.”
“I don’t think so,” Annie said. “No, don’t take my phone from me. Hey—stop it! No. Ick! Phooey! Hah-hah! Don’t do that! I do not like being tickled by a guy I haven’t seen in eighteen years. Take your hand off my waist, pronto. Ack! Hah! This is not funny! No! Do not touch my armpit. Hah! Stop it!”
I heard scuffling sounds in the background, a few of Annie’s signature squeaks, and then…
“Well, hello, Ms. Devereux. Good luck seems to be shining on all of us today. Because Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in the house,” he said.
I practically fell off my barstool, but righted myself, fanned my forehead, and amped up my former southern accent. “Oh Mack, bless your heart. I do believe I need to meet up with you and Annie.”
“You gorgeous Georgia peach. Mack would really like that. We’re on Hollywood and Vine. Mack’s never been on Hollywood and Vine before. I can see the Hollywood sign up in the hills, in the near distance. Hey, Annie! What are you doing running away from me? Come back here, girl! Don’t you want your phone—”
The call dropped.
I hustled out of Vito’s because I was headed toward Hollywood, which was about a forty-five minute drive from Santa Monica if one scored average traffic. Grady lived closer by in West Hollywood, and after Annie’s tickling debacle, I decided to give him a shout. I didn’t think Mack was the molester type, but Annie sounded more than a bit stressed out. At least her latest drama didn’t involve dead people.
“Hey, Grady,” I said when he picked up, “Annie needs your help.”
“Liam and I just ordered a pizza,” he said. “Is it urgent? Can it wait?”
“On the scale
of one to ten with one being there’s a spider in her apartment and ten being that she sliced off her finger in a baking accident—I’d say it’s a six and ½,” I said. “Her ex-boyfriend is semi-stalking her.” I jammed the keys in my car’s ignition and fired up the engine,
“Happens all the time online,” Grady said.
“Yeah, but this time it’s in person.”
“Crap. Where is she?”
“She’s on foot, somewhere around Hollywood and Vine.” I checked my rearview mirror and pulled out onto Ocean Park Avenue, two lanes running on either side.
“Liam!” Grady said away from the phone. “Here’s a twenty for my half of the bill. I’ve got a code orange alert on Annie. I’ll make it quick. Thanks for understanding. No, don’t wait for me! You’re like the best boyfriend, ever.”
I heard silence and then hushed kissy noises.
“Stop with the PDA and get a move on,” I said.
“It’s not a PDA if we’re in the privacy of my apartment,” he said. “I’m out the door. I’ll call Annie and get her coordinates.”
“Not possible. She’s currently phone-less. You might want to check alleys and doorways. She’s quite possibly looking for a place to hide.”
He inhaled sharply. “Is she in extreme danger?”
“Only if you can die from tickling, or having your ear talked off. Hanging up, now.” I pulled a U-ie at the next intersection and headed east.
It’s kind of nice, Diary, that even though we’re all so different—we’re still there for each other.
Hugs,
Julia
Chapter 13
House of Wax
GRADY
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 4
