The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5)

by Krista Sandor

  Monica gave him a wicked grin.

  He took a step toward her and lowered his voice. “Jesus, Mon! Remember, as far as everyone is concerned, we can barely stand each other.”

  She kept her features neutral then threw him a mischievous wink. “I think we’re ready to start, Zoe.”

  Zoe set a large bag on one of the stools and unzipped it. “Is it okay if I set a mic on the counter? I don’t want to contaminate anything, but we also need to be as far as we can from the refrigerator. Kitchens are a little tricky for getting audio. They can be loud, and the mics are sensitive.”

  “Why don’t we sit at the work table closest to the front of the shop,” Monica offered. “It’s far enough away from the hum of the big fridge.”

  Zoe moved the mic. “I’m going to start recording, but I’m just going to ask you a few random questions to check the sound levels. After that, I’ll slate the tape, and we’ll start.”

  “Slate the tape?” Monica asked.

  “Zoe’s going to give all the basics: date, location, names,” Gabe answered.

  Zoe nodded. “That’s right! We’ve got Mr. Hollywood Chef here. I almost forgot I was working with a star.”

  A muscle twitched on Gabe’s cheek, and Monica had to bite back a smile. Pretending to dislike each other may be more fun than she thought—especially with Zoe throwing barbs.

  “I thought it might make for good radio if Monica and I made something while you interviewed us,” Gabe offered. “We need to get started on the strudels, and I’ve got the puff pastry all ready to go.”

  Zoe slid on a pair of headphones. “I like it. We’ll pick up some of those great kitchen ambient sounds below your voices.”

  “What if a customer comes in?” Monica asked.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep recording. It would be great to get you interacting naturally with bakery patrons. We can always edit it out if someone objects.”

  “You’d want just random chitchat?”

  “Yeah, it can be a great way to lead into a story. Next time you listen to KPR, pay attention to how much we use ambient sounds especially before we introduce a story.” Zoe played with the sound levels. “Okay, I’m going to start with some random questions, get the levels all worked out, and then I’ll slate the tape.”

  Monica threw a quick glance at Gabe. Even though this was radio, he had on his TV chef face, and it irked her. That wasn’t his real smile.

  “How’d you sleep last night?” Zoe asked but kept her gaze on her recording equipment.

  Monica glanced at Gabe. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I, for one, slept well, really well,” Gabe answered. His words sounded clumsy and disjointed, but at least they filled in the void.

  Zoe placed a pad below the mic and gave them a quick smile. “This is just the idle chitchat part, boys and girls. These questions won’t be on the test.”

  Monica nodded. “Yeah, I slept great, too. I’m back in my childhood room. All alone in my childhood bed.” She wanted to cringe. Now she was the one blabbering on like an idiot.

  “I figured Gabe stayed here,” Zoe said, fiddling with a mic cable. “I talked to Sam this morning, and he said you didn’t crash at his place. Well, I guess it’s your place, too, Gabe.”

  Gabe shot her a wary look. Luckily, Zoe was still busy with the equipment.

  “With how early we have to start baking and with everything that needs to be done for Oktoberfest, Monica and I decided it would be easier if I slept on the couch in the apartment. You know, close proximity to work.”

  “There,” Zoe said, giving the recorder one last check. “I think we’ve got it.”

  Monica caught Gabe’s gaze out of the corner of her eye. Had Zoe even heard what Gabe had said? She didn’t seem at all phased by Gabe bunking on her sofa.

  Gabe shot her a confused look.

  Zoe clapped her hands like a kindergarten teacher calling the class to attention. “Okay, folks, let’s slate the tape. I’m Zoe Stein from Kansas Public Radio. This is the Langley Park Oktoberfest Storytelling Project, episode one. I’m with Monica Brandt and Chef Gabe Sinclair. We’re inside The Little Bakery on Mulberry Drive in Langley Park, Kansas.”

  Zoe added the time and date to the slate, and Monica’s mouth went dry. She was a natural in front of the camera, but the thought of speaking on tape sent her nerves into overdrive. She reached for her locket and glanced at Gabe. His hand had gone to his chest. A quick gesture, but one she’d seen before when she’d arrived back at the bakery and…on television. She’d seen him do it at least two or three times on TV. The tips of his fingers grazed the M, and then he crossed his arms. She didn’t think much of it at the time but knowing about his ink and her M loosened the tension inside her. Monica let go of her locket and released a slow, steady breath as a calming warmth filled her chest.

  Zoe leaned forward and went into reporter mode. “Today we’re going to make some strudel and learn a little bit about Langley Park’s German bakery from the baker’s granddaughter, Monica Brandt and Chef Gabe Sinclair who have teamed up to spearhead Langley Park’s first ever Oktoberfest. If I’m not mistaken, Monica, you grew up here, baking alongside your grandmother.”

  Go time.

  “That’s right,” Monica answered. “My grandparents emigrated here from Germany and opened this bakery back in the early sixties. After my parents passed away when I was five, I came to live here with them in the apartment above our bakery.”

  Our bakery.

  She’d never called it that before.

  The entire town knew her history. Her mother and father’s deaths made all the papers. Free climbers from all over the globe sent their condolences. But she had never spoken publicly about their passing. Apart from Gabe and Courtney, no one had ever heard her talk about her loss.

  Zoe gave her a reassuring nod, and a peacefulness set in. There was something freeing about telling her story. Something cathartic in accepting and embracing who she was. She’d spent her childhood embarrassed about where she came from. How many nights had she gone to sleep praying she would wake up someone else’s granddaughter in one of those Mission Springs mansions? How many cupcakes had she iced while fantasizing about being like her classmates, enrolled in expensive dance classes or horseback riding lessons? But that all seemed trivial, and those insecurities and silly aspirations melted away.

  All of the things she used to see as her weaknesses, she now saw as strengths.

  Zoe directed the next question at Gabe. “Chef Sinclair, didn’t you work here in the bakery when you were younger?”

  “That’s right, Zoe,” Gabe chimed in. “This is where I got my start when I was eighteen years old. I braided my first strudel and knocked out my first batch of sticky buns right at the work table we’re sitting at now.”

  “How was he at strudel making, Monica?” Zoe asked, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Terrible,” she answered with a chuckle.

  “Oh, come on, I wasn’t that bad,” Gabe said with the hint of a smile in his voice.

  “You see,” Monica began, “my oma that’s German for grandmother, makes everything from scratch. She’s pretty rigid and very entrenched in her ways, but now I see that it’s because she’s honoring her traditions. She’s honoring the recipes and techniques of her mother and her mother’s mother, going back generation after generation.”

  “Let me guess,” Zoe added. “Chef Sinclair burnt his first strudel.”

  Monica chuckled. “I think my grandmother could have forgiven him that, but when she asked him if he knew what puff pastry was, he told her he thought it was something you could buy in the frozen section of the grocery store.”

  “It wasn’t pretty,” Gabe said, shaking his head. “But I think I’ve redeemed myself.” He went to the refrigerator and pulled out two perfect rectangles of rolled out puff pastry dough. “I took the liberty of making a batch of puff pastry this morning, and I made sure to follow Oma’s recipe precisely.”

/>   Monica met Gabe’s hesitant gaze. He wanted to know if she was okay with this.

  “We thought your listeners would enjoy learning how to construct an authentic German strudel,” Monica added.

  Gabe’s look of apprehension morphed into one of pure joy.

  She was getting the hang of this. This interview may have been a total surprise, but Zoe didn’t need to know that.

  “If public radio listeners are passionate about one thing, it’s pastry,” Zoe said with a wide grin. “At least we in the newsroom at Kansas Public Radio are. Let’s go! What do we do first?”

  Gabe had all the components ready. He’d prepared everything while she was at the hospital visiting her grandmother. He reached over and set a leather knife roll on the table.

  “The chef is unrolling a sort of cylinder pouch. Are those your knives?” Zoe asked.

  “They are. A chef doesn’t go anywhere without them,” he answered as he selected a gleaming silver specimen from his collection. Without missing a beat, he talked Zoe through cutting off the top corners and notching the bottom. “Puff pastry,” Gabe continued, “is basically butter and flour. You want to use a good, high-quality butter because that’s where you get the texture and the flavor.”

  “That’s right,” Monica added. Her grandmother’s lessons were coming back to her. “The flour adds structure to each layer, and it also has the important job of keeping the dough from sticking.”

  “I’ve always wondered why it was called puff pastry,” Zoe remarked.

  “The steam,” Monica and Gabe answered in unison.

  Oh, how she’d missed this. The rhythm and the ease in which they worked side by side. But even before that, when Gabe was just a boy delivering the newspaper on the bakery’s doorstep, his presence centered her, excited her, completed her.

  “Go ahead, Mon,” Gabe said, his eyes tender.

  She held his gaze a beat then turned to Zoe. “When the pastry is baking, steam escapes from the butter. This steam makes the spaces between all the pastry layers. It essentially puffs it up.”

  She and Gabe talked Zoe through adding the apple and rum-soaked raisin filling, and then it was time to braid.

  “Monica and I differ on our assembly techniques,” Gabe said with a chuckle.

  She bit her lip and grinned, remembering their first strudel making session. “What the chef means by that is, his X’s are too loose, while mine are perfect.”

  “Sounds like we’ve got a challenge here,” Zoe said.

  “Bring it,” Gabe dared. He was using his best TV tough guy, chef’s voice.

  “I hope you remember who you’re talking to,” she shot back.

  A glint of something raw and primal flashed in Gabe’s eyes.

  “This may be the first KPR bake-off,” Zoe added. “I promise, we’ll post pictures on the website. How about we let the listeners decide which strudel looks the best?”

  Monica dusted a few specks of flour from her apron. “Fine with me.”

  Zoe raised her hands like she was officiating a drag race. “All right, ready.”

  Gabe glanced over. Now, a competitor’s glint flared in his gaze.

  “Hold on,” Monica said. “I should take off this apron. I don’t want anything getting in my way.”

  She removed it and, in the process, hiked up her skirt. Zoe was on the other side of the table and couldn’t see the extra inches of thigh she revealed, but Gabe did. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and something akin to victory surged through her.

  “Okay!” Zoe called out. “Ready, set, go!”

  Gabe stood frozen a few beats.

  “Eyes on dough, chef,” Monica said, trying to keep her voice even. It had been a while since she’d done this, but her fingers remembered. She pulled the pastry strips across the filling leaving a trail of perfect X’s.

  She finished a few seconds before him, but he wasn’t able to stop himself from blushing, and she knew why. She glanced at the hidden spot behind the ovens. That same memory was causing her to squeeze her thighs together as her core tightened with anticipation.

  “I’m no strudel expert, but they both look great to me,” Zoe said, her gaze bouncing from pastry to pastry.

  “The true test will be the bake,” Monica answered.

  “First we’ll add a little egg wash to make the crust a rich golden brown,” Gabe added, swiping both strudels with the brush.

  “And into the oven, they go,” Monica said. She lifted the parchment paper beneath each constructed pastry and arranged them on a baking sheet. Gabe opened the preheated oven, and she slid them in. She glanced over her shoulder to find Gabe smiling, not the TV smile, but the real smile of the boy she’d loved.

  Zoe looked ready to ask another question when the door to the bakery swung open, and a sharply dressed blond woman entered.

  Perfect! They could get that ambient chitchat Zoe had mentioned.

  “Can I help—” Monica began, but then she stopped.

  The woman removed her sunglasses and folded them into a Louis Vuitton case. “I heard you were back, Monica. It’s been a long time.”

  17

  “Court!” Monica exclaimed. She didn’t wait for a reply. She rounded the display case and threw her arms around her old friend.

  The air in the bakery shifted. Courtney hugged her back, but something seemed different.

  Back in high school, Courtney didn’t flaunt her wealth. Even though she was raised by au pairs, spoke several languages from all her time abroad, and could purchase anything she wanted in the blink of an eye, she always seemed to go out of her way to appear ordinary. But now, everything about her screamed money and privilege. After years spent modeling, Monica recognized the feel of high-end couture, and her friend’s blouse did not come off a rack.

  Courtney released a sigh. A lonesome sound caught between pleasure and pain.

  Monica pulled back, and Courtney glanced at her outfit. “Is that your Sacred Heart uniform?”

  Monica could feel the heat of a blush creeping up her neck. “Yeah, I thought it would help with the interview.”

  “Interview?” Courtney echoed.

  Monica gestured to Gabe and Zoe behind the counter.

  Courtney’s eyes widened when she saw Gabe. “Are you two…”

  Gabe joined them. “We’re working together to organize Langley Park’s first Oktoberfest. Monica’s grandmother had the idea, but she fell and injured herself. Monica and I agreed to take over while she recuperated. Zoe is reporting on it for Kansas Public Radio.”

  “Is your grandmother going to be all right?” Courtney asked.

  “The doctors think so, but she has to do several weeks of rehabilitation. Because of her mobility issues, her doctor suggested she stay at the Senior Living Campus.”

  Courtney nodded. “So that’s what brings you back to Langley Park?”

  “It’s a pretty big undertaking,” Zoe remarked, cutting in. She’d left her equipment and joined them. “We want it to be a family-friendly event but still have many of the trademarks of the original Oktoberfest in Munich.”

  Courtney nodded. “How are you doing with sponsors?”

  “Pretty good,” Zoe answered. “Sam Sinclair from Park Tavern is coordinating most of that. Many of the local merchants are also contributing in some way to the event.”

  “I would love to help,” Courtney said. “Are you looking for sponsorship in any particular area?”

  Zoe chewed her lip. “No one’s stepped up to fund the children’s activities yet.”

  “That would be a perfect fit for us. My family’s foundation would be happy to donate the funds for all the children’s activities.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Court! Are you sure?” Monica asked.

  “I’m active in the philanthropic arm of my family’s businesses. It would be an honor to support the Langley Park community.”

  “Is it still the Wilkes Foundation?” Zoe asked, scribbling on a notepad.

  Courtney reached into her ha
ndbag and passed Zoe a business card. “It’s the Wilkes-Vanderkamp Foundation now.”

  “As in, Bryson Vanderkamp?” Monica asked. Caught off guard, she couldn’t hide the shock in her voice just as the sparkle of an enormous diamond on Courtney’s left ring finger caught her eye.

  “Yes, Bryson’s my husband.”

  Monica did her best not to look too surprised, but the sound of Andrea and Bryson screwing in the bushes was seared into her memory. Before she could fall back in time, the door to the bakery opened, and two young boys ran inside.

  “Mom!” they called out in unison, flanking Courtney. “We hid from Senorita Fernanda. She’s still looking for us in the town square.”

  Tall and lanky with fair skin and Courtney’s wheat-colored hair, the twin boys looked to be around six or seven years old and were the spitting image of Bryson Vandercamp.

  “Brock, Holden,” Courtney said, lowering her voice. “Go and find Fernanda. You know she dislikes it when you trick her.”

  The boys looked around. “Can we get a cupcake first?”

  Courtney’s shoulders sagged a fraction before she regained her posture. “Of course, boys,” she said and pulled out a Louis Vuitton wallet that matched her sunglasses case.

  Monica waved her off. “It’s on the house.”

  “Right over here, kids,” Gabe said, corralling the excited twins near the display of cupcakes.

  “You’re a mother,” Monica said, still a little shocked.

  Courtney slipped her wallet back into her purse. “I’m not sure how good I am at it. Fernanda is our third au pair in as many months. We’ve lost Patrice from France and Tatiana from Russia.”

  Monica glanced at Gabe as he handed each boy a cupcake. “They seem lovely. They’ve got your hair and your coloring.”

  Courtney gave her the hint of a smile. “They’re good boys.”

  “Mom, these cupcakes are better than the ones we had last week at Pier 39!”

  “Yeah, way better! I wish Daddy could have come with us. It was no fun with just mommy and Senorita Fernanda,” the other twin replied.

  “Senorita Fernanda got sick on the carousel,” the first twin added with a grimace.