Читать книгу Sugar Rush - Elaine Overton - Страница 11

As Eliot entered the front door of Mayfield Bakery the next morning he collided with a thin teenager with a severe case of eczema.

“Excuse me” the boy called out, as he hurried away, his arms laden down with boxes.

Eliot turned and watched as the boy climbed into a beat-up, old van with a slightly confused expression on his face. Stepping outside, he glanced up at the sign that read Mayfield Bakery. He’d checked the local business directory on his laptop and this was the only Mayfield bakery in Selmer. This had to be the place.

He went back inside and glanced around. The glass counter was filled with fresh baked pastries, loaves of bread, cakes and pies. He closed his eyes and took in the delicious aroma. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d actually been inside a real bakery.

Fulton Foods, although considered a bakery, was in fact a large industrial machine that happened to produce baked goods, but it was not what Eliot considered a bakery. This was a bakery.

A breeze blew by him as the boy came back through the door. “Someone will be right with you,” he called over his shoulder, as he disappeared into the back.

Eliot stood in the middle of the vinyl floor, studying his surroundings and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Could this possibly be the same Mayfield Bakery that had stolen three of his top contracts? Was this the Mayfield Bakery that was giving his uncle indigestion? Was this the newest threat to Fulton Foods? He almost laughed out loud as he shook his head in relief. Getting rid of this little shop was going to be a piece of cake—no pun intended.

The teenage boy came charging back through the store, his arms once again laden with boxes. This time he was followed by a short, chubby girl, also carrying a stack of boxes. She smiled at Eliot as they went by. She had a girlishly cute, light-brown face, but there was a blankness to her brown eyes that Eliot noticed right away.

The commotion and clatter of the back kitchen was easily heard from where he stood. He wondered if all that industrious noise was the result of their newfound business.

“Can I help you?” An older woman appeared in the entrance leading to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. A slight smudge of flour smeared one cheek, and her gray hair was twisted and pinned on top of her head.

There was something instantly familiar about her untidy appearance. She looked like just what she was, someone’s grandmother baking goodies. Or…someone’s mother.

It suddenly hit Eliot why she seemed so familiar. He could remember many days coming home from school and being greeted by his mother looking just this way, right down to the flour-smudged cheeks.

He felt a rock drop to the pit of his stomach, because deep inside of him he knew without a doubt that this was Mae Anne Mayfield. Uncle Carl had sent him to destroy his mother’s reincarnation. His lips twisted in frustration, like he didn’t already have enough reasons to burn in hell.

“Are you Mae Anne Mayfield?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“I am.” She’d started walking toward him when someone called to her from the back to the store.

“Mama Mae! I need your help now!”

Putting up a finger meant to hold him in place, she turned and scuttled back into the kitchen. Eliot waited a few seconds before following.

Slowly he entered the kitchen, not sure what to expect. He was shocked to find a small space crammed with new equipment. Everything from shiny, new reversible dough sheeters and dough rounders to bread slicers and stainless-steel preparation tables. The only things that looked worn and well used were two large convection ovens and the small, white kitchen stove against a far wall. On the opposite wall was a third, newer-looking double-decker oven, and a large, burly man was bent over and was peering inside the bottom oven.

“Damn this thing.” Wiping his hands on a rag, he leaned back on his knees and looked up at the older woman. “I told Sophie I didn’t trust that salesman. This thing is a piece of junk.”

Behind him the teenage boy reappeared. “Wayne, I’m four boxes short!”

“I’m trying to—” The man at the oven turned to the boy and caught his first glimpse of Eliot standing in the middle of their kitchen. His dark eyes ran over Eliot’s long length in one swoop, and then narrowed in suspicion. “Can I help you?”

The older woman turned to him, as well, surprised to see him in the kitchen. They were a study in contrast—the unsuspecting curiosity in her eyes and the wary distrust in his.

For reasons he would never understand, instead of simply announcing who he was and why he was there, he began to pull off his jacket. “I think I may be able to fix it—temporarily at least.”

“Wayne,” the teenager called to him again, “We are four—”

“I heard you the first time, Dante! But until I can get an oven going, you’ll just have to wait. Now get the rest of the order loaded up.”

“Why don’t you fire up one of the other ovens while I try to get this one going,” Eliot offered, as he kneeled beside him.

Without a response, Wayne jumped up and rushed across the room to start one of the newer ovens.

Just then a phone rang loudly, somewhere in the back. “I’ll get it,” Mae said, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried off.

In his peripheral vision, Eliot saw the teenagers rushing back and forth, loading their arms with the full boxes and carrying them outside to the van. Obviously, they were on a tight schedule to get out an order and he had a pretty good idea which order it was. Tuesday was Centerfield’s delivery day.

As he rolled up his sleeves, he considered how easy it would be to sabotage the oven and make the delivery incomplete and late. That alone might be enough to make the school cancel the new contract.

Reaching back in the oven, he found the coil he was looking for. Just as he’d suspected, it had dropped down and was causing the food to cook unevenly. He pushed it back up, a trick he’d learned in his first year working in Uncle Carl’s factory.

Once he pushed the coil back into place he sat back on his heels. “There, that should hold long enough to finish your last batch. But you’ll have to have a repairman come in and fix it permanently.” He glanced over to find Wayne watching him carefully. Despite his offer to help, he could tell the man did not trust him. “With that oven, if you turn up the heat about two degrees per square inch for every fifteen minutes of cooking time left, it will finish in half the time.”

Movement caught his eye, and he realized the chubby girl had come in and was standing in the doorway, watching him with her blank doe eyes.

Seeing the black grease smeared on his hands, Wayne offered his rag. Eliot took it gladly and wiped his hands, grateful for the knowledge his experience had given him. Despite the fact that he was Carl Fulton’s nephew, he had worked his way up from the kitchen like every other executive in the company.

“Who are you?” Wayne asked.

“I think he may be our new baker.” Just then, Mae slowly walked in. Her head tilted at an angle as she gave Eliot a curious look.

So the new baker was supposed to start today, Eliot thought.

Wayne turned to her in surprise. “What new baker?!” Behind him the teenage girl was folding a box together, and the boy was holding a piping hot tray of bread loaves between oven mitts. Both froze in their tracks, and all wide eyes were turned to him.

“Apparently, Sophie hired a new baker,” Mae continued. “That was the agency on the phone asking to have him call them when he arrived.” Then Mae glanced at Eliot, her eyes showing the first sign of suspicion. “They say they haven’t spoken to you since last week.”

Eliot shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, his mind working furiously, thinking how to use this situation to his advantage. The new baker would probably show up soon, but until then—whether he had a few minutes or a few hours—he could use the opportunity to learn as much as he could about the inner workings of Mayfield Bakery.

“Sophie didn’t say anything to me about any new baker,” Wayne insisted.

Eliot did not miss the slightly hurt tone of his voice. Who is Sophie? He wondered.

Mae looked up at Eliot in bemusement, then turned and hurried into the back office again. “I’m going to call Sophie and see what she has to say about all this.”

Thinking fast, Eliot called out to her, “Could you give me the phone number to the agency, so I can give them a call? I don’t have it with me.”

She motioned over her shoulder for him to follow her.

As he passed through the doorway, he heard Wayne mutter to himself, “He doesn’t look like any baker I know.”

Eliot pretended not to hear the remark, although he was pretty sure Mae Anne Mayfield was the only baker Wayne knew.

As they entered the office, Eliot noticed a large, heavy-looking book in the middle of the desk. It looked like an ancient relic with its worn cover, which was pieced and taped together in places. He saw the word recipes scribbled across the top in black marker, and suddenly realized he was looking at Mae’s recipe book.

There it was! Right there in plain sight for anyone to see…or grab. What professional chef in this day and age still used a recipe book? Most of the bakers he knew kept their recipes in custom-made software programs with two or more passwords protecting them.

For a baker or chef, their recipes were their lifeblood. For the very best, recipes were what separated them from the crowd. You did not leave your most precious treasure lying around in fat, album-styled books, Eliot thought.

Mae shoved a piece of a paper at him, and Eliot realized she’d been trying to give it to him for some moments. He accepted it with thanks, deliberately turning his back on the recipe book.

He started to leave the office, but she grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “I’m sure Sophie is going to want to talk to you.”

Damn. Who the hell is this Sophie anyway?

Nowhere in his research had he come across that name. Eliot stood nervously by her side as Mae dialed the number. The mysterious Sophie could ruin everything with one word. Particularly if she was the person who had actually hired the real baker. His eyes strayed back to the recipe book. This was crazy. Why was he even playing this game? Because you want her recipes—that’s why.

“So, the bakery business must pay pretty well outside Selmer, huh?” Wayne was leaning against the doorjamb with Eliot’s suit jacket in his hand. “Here’s your jacket. What’s that? A three-four-hundred-dollar suit you’re wearing?”

“I wanted to make a good impression,” Eliot said with a slightly lifted brow. Intuitively, he knew this man was going to be a problem.

“Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?” Both men fell silent listening to Mae, whose first concern was for her granddaughter.

Eliot glanced at Wayne in silent question.

“She fell yesterday and broke her ankle,” Wayne volunteered. “Otherwise, she would be here. Seems like Sophie is always here.”

“Oh, that’s great news.” Mae looked around Eliot to Wayne. “She said they are releasing her around noon. Can you pick her up?”

“Of course,” Wayne said without hesitation.

“Sophie, were you expecting a new baker to start today?” She glanced at Eliot. “Uh-huh…uh-huh…Well, why didn’t you say anything to me?”

Now Wayne was standing straight up, his attention fully engaged. Glancing at him, Wayne’s eyes met Eliot’s for a moment, and it was clear to Eliot that Wayne was not a fan.

Eliot’s mouth twisted in smug satisfaction. He hoped he could pull off this charade, if for no other reason than to irritate Wayne.

“Yes, he’s right here.” She handed Eliot the phone, and he took a deep breath.

“Hello?” he said, and waited for several seconds. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

But Eliot did: Alberto Montagna. “You can call me El.” He decided his nickname was close enough to Al, if it ever came up.

“Well, welcome, El. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to greet you. Did you find your way to the store okay?”

Her soft, sultry voice was not what he expected. “Yes, thank you.”

“Well, I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I plan to be back in the store this afternoon, so we can talk then. But again, welcome, and I look forward to meeting you in person.”

The idea of meeting the woman that went with the voice brought a rare burst of excitement to his senses. “I look forward to meeting you, as well.”

Handing the phone back to Mae, he excused himself from the office. Even after speaking to her, hearing her sexy, soft voice, he still wasn’t sure who she was. She sounded young, but not too young.

He walked back through the store and out the front door just as the delivery van loaded down with Centerfield’s completed order and the two teenagers screeched out of the parking lot.

He leaned against his car, dialed his attorney, Steve, and put him right to work discovering the identity of the mysterious Sophie. Then he called his assistant, Kara, to let her know he would be out of the office all day and to contact him only in case of an emergency. Then his last call was to the employment agency.

Eliot quickly introduced himself, and of course they recognized the name instantly. He then made a very large counter-offer for the talents of one Mr. Alberto Montagna, but only if the baker could start today. He made sure they understood that the offer had to be made immediately, even after they insisted they had no way to contact him. He gave them four hours to find the man. Eliot was assuming he would need no more time than that to get back into the office and grab the recipe book.

When he turned to go back into the building, he found Wayne standing at the glass window watching him. He considered what he must look like to Wayne in his expensive suit, standing next to his expensive sports car. There was a mistrust in the depth of those brown eyes that would not be easy to dismiss. His intuition was right as usual. Wayne was going to be a problem.