Just Desserts (Main Street Merchants Book 4)

by Amelia C. Adams

  Main Street Merchants

  Book 4: Just Desserts

  by Paige Timothy

  Cover design copyright © 2014 by Jenni James

  This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2014 by Paige Timothy

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  Quinn set down the piping bag and stepped back to analyze her progress. She’d been studying a new technique for latticework, and she really liked the effect. Plus, it had taken her about a third less time to complete this wedding cake than it had her last one. She loved finding time-saving tricks, especially when she was in charge of this place and had very little time to spare.

  But now she needed to find a way to bring more revenue into the bakery. She’d been talking to some of the other merchants along Main Street, and several of them had made the same comment—they were having trouble staying afloat because of the economy. They also depended on the resort on the mountain for a lot of their business—people came from all over the world to ski at Aspen Ridge Lodge, and they’d trickle into town and boost the sales of every business along that stretch. But this was summer, and in the summer, the skiers didn’t come, so sales were down everywhere.

  She’d had one idea to bring in a little cash and perhaps increase visibility for the shop, and that was to offer cake decorating classes. Cara from the jewelry store had said she thought that was a great idea, and Quinn certainly hoped it was. She’d placed an ad in the Aspen Ridge Reporter and had high hopes of selling out all the class slots, but the first session was that night, and she still had four openings. Maybe word would spread. She sighed—there was only so much she could do.

  Managing D’Angelo’s Bakery was the most difficult thing she’d ever done. She loved her work and wouldn’t trade it for anything, but there were challenges that came along with the position. The major one, the one she’d never anticipated, was that Mr. D’Angelo was starting to lose his memory. His long-term recall was fantastic and he could tell her the recipe for any pastry he’d ever made, but he couldn’t remember from one hour to the next if all the orders had been filled or if he’d turned off the oven. Sometimes he thought he was still in his twenties, and couldn’t remember that he was now a grandpa.

  Maggie, his patient wife, was being driven nearly to distraction trying to keep up with his needs, and Quinn knew that her position as manager of the bakery was more critical than ever before. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to this sweet couple she’d come to love as her own family, so she handled all the hard parts of running the business and asked Mr. D’Angelo non-crucial questions so he’d still feel like he was in charge. But everyone else knew Quinn was the real boss.

  With this wedding cake completed, that was the end of Quinn’s early morning to-do list. The chocolate chip cookies were cooling on racks, the cupcakes were already in the display case, and she’d finished the cream puffs the night before. She was ready for another day of work, and it was just in time—the hands of the clock ticked into place just as she thought that, and she crossed the store to flip the “open” sign and unlock the door. Then she readjusted the ponytail in her dark hair and put on a clean apron—she’d gotten more than a little covered with powdered sugar that morning.

  Not five minutes later, the phone rang, and she moved to answer it. “D’Angelo’s Bakery,” she said, reaching for an order pad. “How can I help you?”

  It was a man’s voice on the other end. “Are you the ones doing that cake decorating class?”

  Oh, thank goodness. Another signup. “Yes, we are. It starts tonight at seven.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He hung up before she even had the chance to tell him about the enrollment fee. That was really odd. She shrugged it off, though, as Laurie from the bridal shop across the street came in to pick up their daily assortment of pastries. Today Quinn had a raspberry-crème-filled baklava that was sure to hit the spot.

  “Hey, Laurie,” she greeted. “Have you set a wedding date yet?”

  Laurie grinned. “January fifteenth. And you realize you’re doing my cake, right?”

  “Well, I should hope so. It would be pretty weird if you went somewhere else.” Quinn stepped into the kitchen and washed her hands, then pulled a piece of baklava from the case and watched Laurie’s eyes grow wide as she tasted it. “Good, huh?”

  “Heaven. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Quinn shrugged. “I just took one of Mr. D’s recipes and added in the raspberries with a sugar glaze and a little orange zest. It wasn’t hard.”

  “Wasn’t hard? I doubt that. You have a gift, girl. Don’t downplay it.”

  “Okay—it was really hard and time-consuming, but it turned out awesome because I’m magical and talented.”

  Laurie threw her head back and laughed. “That’s much better. I’ll take a dozen of these and a dozen cream puffs. Those always go over really well.”

  Quinn grabbed a bakery box and a piece of wax paper and began packaging up the order. “So, I’m sure you have your dress all picked out.”

  “I do. In fact, I was wearing it when Logan proposed.”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Seems a little backwards, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never done things the traditional way. But the dress is gorgeous—I can’t wait to show it off.”

  With all the pastries nestled in the box, Quinn closed the lid and put a “D’Angelo’s Bakery” embossed sticker on top. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks so much. When should I come in to talk about the cake?”

  “Mid-December would be great. If we do it too far in advance of the wedding, you might change your mind about the flavor or design.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll see you tomorrow for more cream puffs and stuff.” The bell over the door jingled as Laurie let herself out.

  Quinn jotted down Laurie’s total in the account book and noted that she’d need to prepare statements within the next few days. Her regular customers loved being able to run up a tab, but sending out bills did take a lot of time away from her regular duties. Oh, well—at least they paid on time. That made it worth the effort.

  It was time to start the cake for the Monroe twins’ birthday. She was running low on éclairs, too. Never a dull moment in the bakery business.

  “Hey, Kenny,” she called out as her helper came in the back door. “Can you get two dozen eggs out of the cooler?”

  * * *

  An hour later, Marco D’Angelo bustled into the shop, tying a white apron around his middle. It was amazing—even though he’d been a baker his entire adult life and had to taste his creations, he was still as trim as a thirty-year-old man. His shock of white hair was just as thick and snowy as ever, too. Quinn’s father would be jealous.

  Maggie D’Angelo, shorter and a little more round than her husband, trailed behind him and
took a seat at one of the two wrought-iron tables out front, looking worn out. “Morning, Quinn!” Mr. D called. “What’s on the docket for today?”

  Quinn pulled out an order she’d set aside for him. “We’ve got an old-fashioned wedding cake for tomorrow afternoon’s delivery. They want piping, latticework, quilting, beading—all your specialties.” Really, no one could pipe a cake like Marco D’Angelo. Even at seventy-five, his hand was as steady as ever, and he never second-guessed himself. That’s where Quinn still struggled, even after all her schooling.

  The cake, already covered in teal fondant, was to be piped in cream with gold accents. The idea was very vintage, and she couldn’t wait to see how it would turn out. While Mr. D got to work, she busied herself with mixing up another batch of brownies. One lady had just walked out with a full two dozen, leaving their display case a little lacking. The Monroes’ birthday cake and the éclairs were on the counter, cooling.

  Once the brownies were in the oven, Quinn poured two cups of coffee and went out front, taking a seat across from Maggie. “Hey. How are you holding up?”

  Maggie took a sip of coffee and then gave a wan smile. “We had another episode this morning. He just can’t understand why I won’t let him drive. He says I hid his license from him and wants it back. He won’t believe me when I tell him the driver’s license division took it away, not me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maggie.” Quinn reached across the table and patted the older woman’s hand. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Maggie gave a laugh that was more of a snort. “You’re already doing so much. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even have a bakery. Thank you, Quinn. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Quinn glanced away so Maggie wouldn’t see the sudden moisture that had sprung up in her eyes. She loved this place. Sure, it took every minute of her time and she wondered if she’d ever have a life outside of frosting and crumb topping, but she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. She often felt like the D’Angelos were doing her a favor by letting her work here, not to mention paying her for the privilege.

  “How are you, dear? How’s your mom?”

  “Oh, she’s great. She can’t decide what kind of pie to have me make for Thanksgiving, so I get about two texts a day with her new ideas. Dad insists on a coconut cream, so at least one of them is in the bag, but who knows about the rest.”

  Maggie looked confused. “Thanksgiving? That’s a little bit down the road, isn’t it?”

  Quinn laughed. “My mother takes her pie very seriously. She starts thinking about it as soon as she’s done putting away the Fourth of July leftovers.”

  “You had me a little worried there. I’ve been so wrapped up in caring for Marco, I wondered if I’d lost all track of time.”

  “Nope, it’s still just August.”

  “Good to know. Well, give your mother my best.”

  “I will. Oh, there’s my timer.” Quinn stood. “Can I get you a refill?”

  Maggie held up her coffee mug. “Yes, please.”

  Once Maggie had been given her refill and the brownies had joined the other baked goods cooling on the counter, Quinn stepped over to Mr. D’s side to check on his progress. The cake was a masterpiece.

  “Will I ever get as good as you are?” she asked, and Mr. D chuckled.

  “You’re much better than you know,” he said. “You’re looking at years of practice here. How are those macaroons coming?”

  “Macaroons?”

  “For the Johnsons’ party. They ordered three hundred macaroons. You remember, Quinn—I took the order myself on Wednesday.”

  Quinn made a show of checking the tickets. They didn’t have any such order—Mr. D must be having another moment. “All done and packaged,” she said.

  “Good, good. And I believe this top layer of the cake is done.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” Quinn told him, wondering if he really meant it about her own skill level. When she looked at what she’d done that day and compared it to this, she felt clumsy and inexperienced, even though she had an impressive string of credentials herself.

  Two more ladies called to register for the cake decorating class as the afternoon wore on, and Quinn was finally starting to feel that the class might not be the most giant waste of time ever. She said good-bye to Mr. D and Maggie as they left for the day, and made sure all the new pastries were arranged just so in the display case. The oatmeal raisin cookies were turning a little crispy, so she packaged them up and would drop them off at the soup kitchen on her way home.

  As soon as the shop closed at six, she ate the sandwich she’d brought with her and then set about preparing for her students. First, she put away the mess that remained from the day of regular business. She set up two long tables in the front area, wishing there was more counter space in the kitchen. Then she brought out the eight-inch round cakes she’d already baked to get ready for tonight. For now, her students would concentrate on decorating. Later in the course, she’d teach them how to make cakes from scratch. That’s where the real magic of the bakery came from—there wasn’t a mix in the place.

  Her students showed up right on time, four bright-faced women who chattered excitedly about how great it was to be learning cake decorating from D’Angelo’s, because after all, D’Angelo’s was famous for their cakes, and so if they were going to learn from anyone, it might as well be here. Quinn stopped listening, feeling like she was eavesdropping anyway, and finished bringing out the frosting and the piping bags. Then she was ready to begin. Or she hoped she was—public speaking had always been hard for her.

  “Ladies, thank you for registering for this class,” she began. “I’m Quinn, and I’ll be your instructor. I studied at the Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts, where I specialized in pastry.” She’d leave it at that—no sense in boring them with her entire career history. “I have to say, though, that I’ve learned more from Mr. D’Angelo than anywhere else.”

  One woman raised her hand. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you? You look so young to have already graduated from culinary school.”

  Quinn smiled. She got that a lot. “I’m twenty-six. And thanks for the compliment.”

  The women tittered a little bit.

  “We’re going to start by learning how to spread the base coat of frosting on your cake so you can get ready to decorate it. This is called ‘dirty icing,’ even though there’s no dirt involved.”

  The women laughed again. Quinn smiled, feeling the first-class nerves start to dissipate.

  “These cakes have been chilled, so they won’t be as crumbly as a warm cake. This is buttercream frosting—”

  Just then, the front door to the shop opened, and a man strode in. He wore a plaid flannel shirt, denim jeans, and steel-toed boots, and he looked more fitted to the outdoors store down the street than to a bakery that specialized in dainty pastries. Quinn assumed he’d been sent in by his wife to pick up a dessert for dinner. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed now. Can you come back tomorrow between ten and six?”

  “I’m here for the class,” he said. “I was told on the phone that it started tonight at seven.”

  Quinn blinked a few times. “You’d like to register for the class?”

  “Yeah. I see you already got started—sorry for being late. I got held up at a job.”

  “Oh? What kind of work do you do?” one of the ladies asked.

  “Construction.”

  Quinn could have guessed as much. It was either that or lumberjack, and she couldn’t detect any sawdust in his scruffy short beard.

  “My name’s Jonah Owings,” he said, striding forward and offering Quinn his hand. She was so surprised, she took it, not remembering until it was too late that she’d just washed her hands and now she’d have to rewash them before handling the food products.

  “Hi, Jonah. I’m Quinn,” she replied. Then she turned to the ladies in the class. “And these are . . .” She paused. She’d been so anxious about diving into the lesso
n that she hadn’t taken the time for introductions. Melba was the only lady she’d known before registrations began, and she hadn’t matched up the names on her list with the other faces in front of her.

  “I’m Melba,” said the oldest woman in the room. She was a cute little lady with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses held around her neck by a bejeweled chain. She owned the bookstore just up the street and always called Quinn to let her know when the new edition of American Cake Decorating Magazine came in. Jonah stepped over and shook her hand, and she simpered like a teenager. Quinn shook her head. He wasn’t that charming.

  “I’m Kathy,” said the lady who had asked Quinn her age. She was about forty-five, with jaw-length red hair that looked prone to frizzing in humid weather.

  “And I’m Helen.” The middle-aged blonde didn’t seem shy at all about introducing herself to the backwoodsman wannabe. She scooted to the edge of her chair and stuck out her hand eagerly, and Jonah shook it in turn.

  The last woman, probably in her late thirties, with dull brown hair gathered in a clip at the nape of her neck, didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about much of anything. “ReAnne,” she said, just her name, and she didn’t offer her hand. Jonah didn’t seem too bothered by that, though, as he took one of the remaining chairs Quinn had set out in hopes that someone else would come along. Well, someone had—just not who she’d envisioned.

  “Okay, we were just talking about icing cakes. It’s easier to ice a cake when it’s chilled, so these have been in the cooler for a few hours. I’ve mixed up some buttercream frosting, which will be our base. I’ll demonstrate, and then you can all give it a try. But first, to the hand-washing sink. That’s the first rule of any kind of food prep—keep your hands clean at all times. If you sneeze, if you touch your face or hair, if you handle something other than a clean kitchen utensil, you have to wash your hands.”

  “Oh, I’d never be able to do that at home,” Melba said. “I’ve raised six children, and you only have a few minutes to get meals on the table. I’d be spending all my time washing my hands and not enough time making the food.” The other ladies nodded their agreement.