In a flash, Megan ducked behind the Merry Windsor and disappeared. I stuck her card in my jeans pocket. She reminded me of an actor playing a spy. Something about her demeanor didn’t add up.
“Julieta!” Carlos’s voice rang across the plaza. He and Ramiro were en route to Torte. I crossed the street and caught up with them. Even in casual attire, a polo shirt and crisp white shorts with navy stripes, Carlos looked as if he had stepped out of the pages of a GQ ad.
“How did you guys sleep?”
“Ah, wonderful. Sí, it was a great sleep for me.” Carlos kissed my cheeks. I drank in the scent of his aftershave with hints of woodsy smoke.
“Did you eat?”
Ramiro grinned. “Sí.” He wore a pair of board shorts and a yellow T-shirt with the cutout of a surf board and a “hang loose” sign. “I like your blueberry muffins.”
“He ate the entire plate that you left for us. I did not even get one bite.” Carlos patted Ramiro’s hard stomach. “I don’t know where you put it. Feel this stomach. His abs are like steel.”
I didn’t imagine that Ramiro wanted me to touch his abs. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said to Carlos.
Ramiro shot me a look of relief.
“Glad you liked the muffins. What’s next for you guys? Should I put you to work or do you want the grand tour first?” I waved toward the plaza where a group of through hikers was practicing qigong. Nearby two “travelers,” as locals referred to Ashland’s rotating population of young street people, sat braiding each other’s hair, with a mangy dog curled up on their backpack. They had crafted a sign out of cardboard that read: THERE’S MUCH ADO, BUT WE GOT NOTHING. I had to give them credit for the playful Shakespearean pun. However, I didn’t drop any money into the hat propped next to their sign. Ashland’s vagabond population had been an ongoing debate at city council meetings and at OSF. Most of the travelers were harmless, but panhandling had become a problem on the plaza. Some days it was impossible not to be accosted with requests for spare change on every corner. Travelers would beg tourists for their boxes of leftovers or, as one sign in front of Torte had read: I WON’T LIE, IT’S FOR WEED. The Professor and Thomas had been trying to crack down on the issue, while still maintaining a professional relationship with the travelers.
“Good sign,” Ramiro said as we passed by. One of the travelers flashed him a peace sign.
“Put us to work. We have plenty of time after the wedding to see Ashland, but I think there is not much time for cooking now, no?” Carlos said, putting an arm around Ramiro’s shoulder. One of the things that I appreciated most about Spanish men was their ability to show physical affection. Carlos never flinched when it came to holding my hand or kissing me on a crowded sidewalk. He expressed his love for Ramiro with the same abandon.
“If you’re sure, I would love the help. But you didn’t fly thousands of miles just to cook. There’s so much I want to show you. I was thinking we could take a day trip to Crater Lake, cross into California. I want to show you Mount Ashland and the old western town of Jacksonville.”
Carlos nodded. “Yes, but there is time for this later. The wedding is in two days and we are here to be of service. We have almost a week together after the wedding. We want to help.”
Ramiro agreed. “It’s true. I’m happy to be in the kitchen with Papa.”
As much as I wanted to take off and show them my beloved Southern Oregon, I was relieved that they were still up for the task of wedding prep. I told them my plan for the day and that I had invited the team for a work party at Uva later.
“I’ve been wanting to try American pizza,” Ramiro said. “They say it is nothing like the pizza we have in Europe.”
“Is pizza popular in Spain?” I asked.
He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. “No. Not so popular. More like a flatbread. My family and I go to Italy in the summer and that is where the best pizza is found.”
I felt a tiny twinge of jealousy. Ramiro already had a family. He had grown up with his mother and uncles, aunts and cousins. I was just his father’s wife. What was my role in his world? Carlos and I had talked a few times about the idea of having children. It never made sense when we were living on the ship. That vagabond lifestyle was no way to raise a child. For the first time, I found myself longing for a family of my own.
“Well, I don’t know how authentically American the pizza here in Ashland is, but you will have to give it a try and let me know how it compares.” I plastered on a smile. “Should we head inside?”
They followed me into Torte and were welcomed by my staff. After they left to start prep work at Uva I went downstairs to touch base with Roger.
He and Clarissa were locked in what appeared to be a lover’s spat. They stood in front of the wood-fired pizza oven, talking in hushed, angry tones.
“I’ve had enough,” Clarissa seethed, thrusting her index finger into Roger’s chest.
I tried to tiptoe away quietly, but Roger spotted me. He moved away from the pizza oven. “Jules, we were just talking about you.”
Clarissa spun her head in my direction. Her icy glare made a chill run down my spine. I had obviously interrupted something. “Roger, we’ll continue this discussion later.” She twisted an expensive diamond watch on her petite wrist. “I’m late.”
“Hopefully I’ll see you at Uva’s launch party,” I said as she brushed past me.
Roger answered for her. “We’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Clarissa didn’t answer. Her stilettos echoed on the floor as she made her exit.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pop in unannounced,” I said to Roger.
His eyes followed his wife out the door. “This is your property. You can come and go as you please.” He dropped the subject and moved to show me the painter’s progress. The basement property was coming to life with its creamy walls and rustic brick fireplace.
“Everything is on track. We are slotted to move the kitchen equipment this weekend. You’re still planning to close for the wedding?”
“Yep.” The basement smelled of drying paint. “As long the timing works for you guys, it’s great for us. You can get everything moved and put in place here by Monday?”
“Not a problem. I have a group of heavy lifters scheduled to be here tomorrow morning. And you’ll be glad to know that I sent your mother on a wild-goose chase in search of handles and pulls with my contractor right before Clarissa arrived. She should be busy looking at dozens of cabinet pulls for at least an hour or two.”
“Thanks.”
Roger brushed dust from his pants. “I have to say that she didn’t appear very pleased with me when I told her that I needed a decision by close of day and that the hardware store had boxes of silver, ceramic, plastic, and glass pulls for her to look through.”
I grinned. “We’re evil.”
We walked through the new kitchen layout one final time. Mom and I had opted for white quartz countertops. They would be durable and a bright workspace for detailed designs like painting fondant and molding modeling chocolate. I had faith in Roger. He had kept me informed throughout the entire process. Plus, we had been through this before. When we upgraded our kitchen equipment a few months ago, we had closed the bakeshop for a long weekend to paint and install the ovens. Fingers crossed, everything would go according to plan.
“Unless you have any other questions, I think we should be set,” Roger said.
“I do have one question, but it’s not related to construction.”
“What’s that?” He ran his finger along the smooth countertop.
“I noticed Clarissa meeting with a woman I met this morning, Megan. Are you familiar with her?”
Roger shook his head. “No, but Clarissa is president of the Ashland Arts Council. She’s always meeting with business owners and donors for her galas and fund-raising drives.”
Part of me wanted to bring up the fact that Megan was a PI, but I decided against it. I didn’t want to get involved in a potential marit
al dispute. I also wanted to find a time to speak to Clarissa alone. Could she have crossed paths with the Brown family through her work at the arts council? It was too much of a coincidence that she happened to be meeting with the same PI whom Lance had hired. Was there a chance that any of these coincidences tied into Lance’s father’s death? There had to be some connection, and I intended to find out what it was.
Chapter Nine
Later in the evening, the mood at Uva was alive and electric. Carlos blasted Latin samba music. Walking into the kitchen was sensory overload. The scent of rosemary flank steak made my stomach rumble with hunger. Sterling stood at the gas stove searing the thin-sliced steaks. Ramiro was filling fluted cups of filo dough with a savory herb-infused couscous with cherry tomatoes and sweet corn. Carlos danced over to me. “Julieta, the food it sings to life. This will be the most beautiful wedding anyone has ever seen. Except for our wedding.” His apron was spotted with sauce. His eyes were bright. Carlos belonged in the kitchen.
I had fallen for him almost immediately when I met him on the ship. It wasn’t only due to his sultry eyes or his classic features. Carlos loved food. He saw it as his mission in life to create dishes that inspired. Watching him dote over a simmering stew or caress a fillet of fish with butter and lemon made my knees go weak. It was hard to resist his charms most days, but in the kitchen, it was nearly impossible. He managed to maintain control of his staff while infusing life and fun into his food. Sometimes if my shift ended early on the ship, I would leave the pastry kitchen and stand in the doorway of the galley and watch Carlos work. He was like a conductor, orchestrating a grand arrangement as he danced between the line cooks and waitstaff, singing in Spanish and adding a final sprinkling of chopped herbs to each plate.
“You guys have made great progress.” I nodded to the platters of stuffed olives, mini-quiches, and vegetable skewers. The distraction of having Carlos in the kitchen was welcome. I felt like I was about to reach my maximum level of stress. Every time I had a few minutes of head space my thoughts went to Lance. How was he holding up? The day that my father died would be forever etched in my memory. I remember a wave of wooziness assaulting my body when he took his final breath, Mom dropping to her knees, and the sound of his heart flatlining on the machine. To think that Lance’s brother could murder their father was unimaginable.
Carlos’s silky voice brought me back to the moment. “Sí, it has been wonderful to work with Sterling again. You were right, mi querida, he is becoming a true chef.”
Sterling gave Carlos a half bow. “I’m learning from the master.”
“They call him the maestro in my village in Spain,” Ramiro said, sharing a look with his dad.
“Maestro. That’s good.” Sterling added a spear of rosemary to the grilling flank steak.
“No, no. This is no good. I am not a maestro. Cooking is not about being an expert. It is about getting your hands dirty. You must try and fail many times. This is something only the best chefs understand.”
Chef Garrison, who had been reviewing the wine list with his staff, removed his white coat and joined us. “Carlos, it’s been a pleasure to cook with you today,” he said, shaking Carlos’s hand. “Jules, I think we’re set. I should get back to the restaurant. I’ve tasked Adam with finishing the wine list. He should be done soon. Unless you need anything else, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks so much, we couldn’t have done this without you.” I gave him a hug.
“Happy to be part of it.” He waved to the rest of the team and left.
I went over to Adam. Even though he was wearing an Ashland Springs uniform I could still picture him in his black leather biking gear from earlier. He was stacking rows of Uva wines on the far counter. “Hey, how’s it going?” I asked.
He flinched and moved to block my view of the wine. “Fine.”
“Do you need any help?” I wasn’t sure if it was because of Lance’s assertion that he had been followed, but there was something about Adam that made me uncomfortable.
“Nope.”
“I’m happy to pull one of my staff over if you need an extra set of hands,” I pressed.
“Chef told me to inventory these. Then I’m outta here.”
Why had Chef Garrison asked him to inventory our wine? I had made it clear that his waitstaff could open as many bottles as was necessary to keep the wine flowing tomorrow night.
Adam turned back to the wine and started counting bottles. I half expected him to stuff a bottle into his pocket. There was something strange about him. I considered telling him that I’d seen him with Megan earlier, but Bethany appeared from the front of the house. She was carrying a tray of sugar cookies cut in the shape of wedding cakes. The cookies were precariously stacked.
I hurried over to help her.
“Thanks, Jules.” She sighed with relief when I caught the side of the tray. We placed it on the empty square of space on the countertop. The cookies would be frosted with royal icing and adorned with flowers to match the sugar flowers on the actual cake.
“That was a close one.” She took half of the stack off and made a few smaller piles of unfrosted cookies. “I’m excited to try the piping technique you showed us earlier.” I had taught them how to flood the cookies with royal icing. The process is very simple. Just like it sounds we created a thin royal icing and flooded the top and side of the cookie with it to coat the entire surface with icing. Once the icing hardened we then piped an intricate lace design onto each cookie by hand. “Andy and Steph are on their way.”
“Sounds like I should order pizzas, then.” I pulled out my cell. “Any requests?”
Sterling glanced at Ramiro. “Make sure you get something really American for him. You know, like Canadian bacon and pineapple.”
Ramiro stuck out his tongue. “Pineapple on a pizza?”
“It’s a thing.” Sterling shrugged. “It’s not my favorite but people love it. You have to try it.”
“I’ll get a small,” I said to Ramiro, whose scowl made it clear that he was not sure about the idea of pineapple on pizza.
Steph and Andy showed up after I hung up with the pizza place.
“Put us to work, boss.” Andy had flipped his SOU cap backward. “You know I can’t bake to save my life, but I’ll do whatever you need.”
Andy knew how to brew a killer cup of joe but baking wasn’t his forte. “That’s okay, I was hoping to put you in charge of setting up the chairs outside.”
“You just want me for my muscles.” Andy flexed. “I see how it is.”
“Hey, if you got them, I’ll put them to work.” I walked him outside to show him where to arrange the chairs. Then I set up a workspace closest to the front of the house to finish my sugar flowers. I drank in the smells and sounds of the happy kitchen as I rolled and pressed dainty sugar flowers. Customers often ask why wedding cakes are so expensive, but if anyone watched how much work went into the process of designing a custom cake they wouldn’t question the expense. Every wedding cake that we created at Torte was unique. Our goal was to tell a story about the bride and groom through the flavor and details on the cake. Some brides opted for more traditional cakes like a classic three-tier cake frosted with French buttercream hand-piped with an elegant star tip, while others preferred to express their creativity in cake. Some of my favorite nontraditional designs included sculpted cakes and geometric shapes like squares and triangles. The sky was the limit when it came to wedding cakes. If a bride could dream it, we would bake it.
I had forgotten how much fun it was to have Carlos running a kitchen. His laughter was contagious. Hearing my team crack up every few minutes at one of his jokes brought a smile to my face.
I thought about Mom. She and the Professor had been banned from Uva. I didn’t want either of them anywhere near the winery until tomorrow night. She had promised me that they were going to have a simple dinner and take an evening stroll through Lithia Park. Would Lance’s father’s death change their plans? I wished I had had a c
hance to talk to the Professor. Lance had mentioned that he been helping dig into the family’s estate, but had Lance had a chance to loop him in? It was such crummy timing with the wedding tomorrow.
The pizza arrived about an hour later. We took a welcome break. I noticed that Adam had left. I must have missed his exit. Carlos poured glasses of wine for those of us of drinking age, and I cracked open root beers, ginger ales, and cherry sodas for the rest. Ramiro scrunched his nose at the sight of the Hawaiian pizza. “People think this is good, yes?”
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “No. It’s gross. It’s like an eighties trend. It’s totally dead now. Foodies wouldn’t touch that stuff.”
She should know, I thought. Stephanie kept abreast of the latest food trends. She was also a secret Pastry Channel junkie. If I didn’t think it would send her into a sour mood, I would have teased her about it.
Ramiro held out the slice of pizza like it was alive. “You think I should try it?”
Andy reached for a slice. “Dude, it’s awesome. Don’t listen to Steph. She’s a food snob. She likes her pizza with truffles and arugula.” He made a “hang loose” sign and pointed to Ramiro’s shirt. “You’re a surfer. That means you must be a pretty chill dude. Trust me, this is beach pizza.”
“Yeah, because any good chef would tell you that I’m eating real food, not canned pineapple,” Stephanie said, taking a slice with chunks of fresh mozzarella and basil.
“Right, if you want to spend like ten thousand dollars on one slice of pie.” Andy tore into his piece with his teeth.
I knew their banter wasn’t anything serious. The two of them bickered like siblings. However, I also knew that they would protect each other at a minute’s notice.
“Try it,” Andy said through a mouthful of pizza.
Ramiro took a tiny bite of the pizza.
“You didn’t even get any of the good stuff.” Andy frowned.
Sterling sipped a root beer. “This feels like some kind of hazing ritual. You don’t have to eat that if you don’t want to, man.”
Ramiro squinted. He braced himself and took a big bite. Everyone watched with bated breath. He opened his eyes after a second and grinned. “I like it. It is very good. Surprising. But good.” He took another bite.
Till Death Do Us Tart Page 9
