Читать книгу Bet on My Heart - J.M. Jeffries - Страница 11

Chapter 2

“I got the job,” Hendrix said to her grandmother, Olivia Prudhomme Beausolie. She cradled her phone against her shoulder while she sprinkled food into her fish tank. Her tiny little fish rushed to the surface to eat. She’d never been a cat or dog person. Animals had fur and fur traveled into every corner of a house. Her kitchen was immaculate.

She’d rented the cottage because the cheerful blue-and-white kitchen was huge while the rest of the cottage was tiny. The owner had liked to cook and knocked out a wall to create one large room from two smaller ones, doubling the size of the kitchen and then retrofitting the expansion with industrial appliances. The problem was that as a rental, the kitchen was a detraction unless the space was rented by someone who cooked and didn’t mind the small living room and bedrooms at the front. That someone had been Hendrix after the cottage had stood empty for a number of months.

“A hotel!” Olivia said. “Why a big hotel? I thought you were happy with Mitzi Baxter. You had told me she and her bakery were wonderful.”

“Mitzi’s kids didn’t like me. They thought I was going to take over and force them out.” Mitzi Baxter had offered to sell half the bakery to Hendrix, but a stroke had seriously damaged her health and her daughters had taken over. Quitting had probably not been the smartest action, but Hendrix couldn’t stand the way Lisa and Susan had hovered over her as though worried she’d steal a cup of flour and some raisins. “This way, I’m making double the money and can set something aside to open my own bakery.” Opening her own bakery had been her original goal. Rows of cakes, pies and tarts filed through her mind. Someday, she promised herself.

“Sound’s exciting,” her grandmother said, though she sounded doubtful.

“It does, though I think he’s going to be a little dictator. The executive chef is Cordon Bleu trained and you know how rigid they can be when you breathe around their food. Hopefully, as a pastry chef, our paths won’t be crossing that much. He’s even planning to give me my own kitchen so my desserts don’t get contaminated by the odors in the main kitchen.” Though for the moment, she’d be sharing his kitchen since he wouldn’t have one ready for her just yet.

“That’s good. He won’t be standing over you. I know you work best when left alone.” Her grandmother sounded amused. “I’m proud of you, Hendrix.”

“Thank you.” Hendrix grinned.

“Are you going to keep your experimenting to a minimal?” her grandmother asked.

Hendrix liked to dabble in the kitchen and see what she could come up with. The problem was, she often forgot what she did since she seldom wrote things down and too often couldn’t reproduce what she’d done. “I plan to stick to my established recipes. I know them by heart, and I’ll wait until I’m thoroughly certain he won’t get upset before I start mixing things up.” She tried to be more methodical about what she did, but too often she’d be caught up in the thought of the taste without paying attention to amounts. She liked having little surprises in her cakes. Her champagne cake had a very basic structure to which she added different ingredients in order to create more subtle tastes.

“Give your boss a chance to know you before you go creating things you can’t duplicate,” Olivia advised.

“I’ll rein it in.”

“Hendrix Marie Beausolie,” her grandmother said with an undertone of amusement, “sometimes you just have to play along to get what you want.”

True, Hendrix thought to herself, though she was shocked that her antiestablishment, unconventional grandmother would tell her that. Her grandmother had spent her life doing the unexpected and delighting in the fallout that followed.

Hendrix had to keep her goal of having her own bakery foremost in her mind. She would do anything for her dream.

They disconnected and Hendrix called her mother next. Her parents were world travelers searching for unique items for their import-export business. Currently, they were in Tanzania on a buying trip. She couldn’t reach them, her call going straight to voice mail. She tried to calculate the time and figured her parents must be sleeping. She left a message telling them the good news. Her mother would get back to her when she had time.

* * *

The night manager had given her a white jacket and a toque with the hotel logo on them. She looked odd with the jacket fitting a touch too tightly over her bright yellow dress.

“I know I promised you a kitchen,” he said, when he greeted her at the beginning of her shift, “but I don’t have one ready just yet. I hope you don’t mind sharing my office with me for a month or two while I’m getting yours ready.”

“This is good,” she said her eyes narrowing as she appraised the kitchen.

He was proud of the stainless-steel appliances, walk-in refrigerators with wheeled racks, industrial mixers and a worktable that looked to be ten feet long.

“The fire extinguisher holders are empty,” she said.

Donovan sighed. He opened a closet, pulled out two boxes, opened them and hung the fire extinguishers where they belonged making a mental note to let Scott know that this had happened—again.

He then handed her a recipe box. “These are the recipes I want you to use. The ones in the last divider, I developed to appeal to people on a variety of different diets—they accommodate guests with allergies and diabetes and those on gluten-free diets. The ones in the front are more traditional dessert recipes.”

“Okay,” she said taking the box gingerly. “What about my recipes?”

“I want you to incorporate your recipes, as well.” He opened the box to show her the neat sections of index cards inside. He pulled a few out and spread them over the surface of the work table.

Her lovely lips pursed. “But...but this is Reno. People don’t come here to diet.”

“People who come to Reno want safe fun. They don’t want to die from a nut allergy because you used almond paste and didn’t declare it. We want our guests to come back.” Alive, he added silently.

“I suppose so,” she said with a tiny frown.

He watched her turn his statement around in her head. Her face was as expressive as it was beautiful.

The casino was open twenty-four hours a day, which meant the kitchen was open twenty-four hours a day. The night crowds didn’t eat as much as the day crowds, but they still wanted good food.

She twitched a bit, her shoulders rolling. She scratched at her long neck. Was she nervous? Donovan studied her closely. She didn’t look particularly uncomfortable, but neither did she seem to be at ease. He handed her a clipboard with the day’s needs on it. She glanced at it.

Donovan watched her for a moment and decided she would be fine. He’d already shown her where the baking supplies were stored.

“I have some errands to run,” he said. “If you need anything, here’s my cell phone number. Just give me a call if you have any problems, or...if...you just need to talk.”

She seemed surprised when he handed her a piece of paper with his cell number scrawled across it.

“Thank you,” she said frowning slightly.

As he left, his last glimpse was of her standing in front of the huge table sorting through the recipes in the box with a slight frown on her face.

He headed to his car. He had an appointment with a rancher and then a butcher. As he opened the door, he paused. He’d given her his private cell phone number. No one had it except his family and the restaurant managers. Why did he do that?

He stepped out into the morning air. The sun was just cresting the horizon. The air was cool and crisp. He sat in his car for a moment.

To be honest, she was sort of cute and a little quirky. And she’d looked a little lost when she’d first shown up this morning. She’ll be fine, he told himself as he started the car, backed out of his parking spot and drove out of the parking lot. She’ll be fine.

* * *

For her first day on the job, Hendrix wore her bright yellow vintage 1950s dress fashioned after one of Coco Chanel’s classic chemise dresses. It was her good-luck dress and she’d worn it for her first day on every job since she’d found it in a hidden store a block from her grandmother’s tea shop.

Hendrix spread the cards out in front of her trying not to wince. Boring. The recipes weren’t bad, just too conventional for her taste. Yet, her grandmother had warned her to play along. Could she? Was the compromise worth the job?

She sorted through the recipes, setting aside those she thought had possibilities. Would he really notice if she added something to give them an extra pop of flavor? She flipped open her laptop to check out information on food allergies and then began adjusting the recipes to her own ideas of what they should taste like without using ingredients that might cause allergic reactions.

The jacket itched. She scratched at her shoulders. Maybe she should just make them the way he preferred. And then when he liked her, and he was going to like her, she could start flipping ingredients around, nothing extreme. She wouldn’t be outrageous. She would play it safe. Yeah, I can do that.

She made a list of ingredients, pushed a wheeled cart to the storage area and filled it with what she needed to get started. Once back in the kitchen, she started work despite the itching from the scratchy jacket. She wanted her own jacket. This one didn’t fit right and she was going to be a hot mess by the end of the day.

For the next few hours, she made cakes, rolled out dough for pies, peeled fruit for fillings, made custard and crème brûlée. She filled the ovens with the aromatic smells of a dozen different pastries. On the side, she made cupcakes. Her special cupcakes filled with nuts, vanilla, cinnamon and a touch of ginger. She could do most things Donovan’s way, but she needed one thing for herself.

The door opened and Donovan stepped into his office. A small, white-haired woman accompanied him. She had the look of an empress with her head held high, her brown eyes soft and mysterious and her tiny, slender figure elegantly dressed in a blue silk, formfitting sheath. The woman was so different from her own grandmother, Hendrix paused in rolling out the dough for another pie to stare.

The elderly woman approached. “You must be Hendrix. Donovan has done nothing but rave about your baking. When do we get to try something?”

“Hendrix, this is my grandmother,” Donovan explained.

“Everyone calls me Miss E.,” the tiny woman explained.

Hendrix watched as Miss E. eyed a nearby cupcake. Hendrix had been decorating them with white icing and little fondant butterflies. Mariposa did mean butterfly, didn’t it? she thought. She would have to get a Spanish-English dictionary and check.

“Here.” Hendrix thrust a cupcake at Miss E.

Miss E. grabbed the cupcake, peeled the paper wrapping away and bit down into it. A surprised look appeared on her face. “This is wonderful. Are they going to be on the menu today?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to cook up something that—” Hendrix caught herself in time “—that...was a little different.” A little unexpected, she mentally added. She’d followed Donovan’s directions, but the cakes and pies were dreadfully average. She’d resisted the desire to inject surprising ingredients to alter the flavors—almost. She couldn’t help adding a little something extra to his apple-custard tarts and chocolate mousse.

“We discussed the menu,” Donovan said with a sharp glance at Hendrix, who fidgeted, scratching at her wrists.

“Are you allergic to anything?” Hendrix asked Miss. E.

“No food allergies.” Miss E. broke off a piece of the cupcake and handed it to him. “Try this.”

As he popped it into his mouth, Hendrix thought about running away and hiding.

He chewed and frowned. He chewed a bit more. “This is good.” His sharp glance took in Hendrix’s face.

“I’m trying,” Hendrix burst out. “I’m trying to cook the cakes and pies you wanted, but I can’t. They’re boring. They’re too conventional. They’re—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in a little voice.

Donovan stared at her. “You can do better?”

Hendrix swallowed hard. Why couldn’t she just stay silent for a change. “Your recipes are fine. I made them.” She opened the refrigerator to show the pies and cakes cooling on different shelves. “Try one. You’ll see.” She started scratching again.

“You’re scratching. Why?” Miss E. frowned at her.

“This jacket itches. It’s driving me crazy.”

Donovan frowned. “It’s just a cotton jacket.”

“It’s not my cotton jacket.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Mitzi always let me wear my own jacket.”

“This is a perfectly acceptable jacket,” Donovan said.

“It’s not you. It’s not the jacket. It’s me. It throws my Zen off.” Now he’d really think she was a nut job.

“Donovan,” Miss E. said, resting her hand on her grandson’s arm. “Leave her alone. If she wants to wear her jacket, let her. Who’s going to know? She can wear a tutu and combat boots for all I care, I just need another cupcake”

Hendrix brightened. “Combat boots? Awesome.”

“No combat boots,” Donovan snarled at her.

She took an involuntary step back. “Fine, just my jacket...please. I’ll leave the combat boots at home.” Not that she had combat boots, but the idea was intriguing and Mitzi would have let her wear them if she’d insisted on it. She shrugged out of the jacket relieved to escape from the itching. She would bring her own jacket tomorrow—she cringed—assuming there was a tomorrow.

“Have you ever done a wedding cake?” Miss E. asked.

“I’ve done several different themes, wedding cake pops, wedding cupcakes and a seven-tiered marble cake.” Weddings at casinos had become quite popular. Did the hotel have one scheduled?

“Scott, another of my grandsons, is getting married. When you have time, his bride-to-be, Nina, and I would like to discuss a wedding cake.”

Hendrix grinned. “I love doing wedding cakes.” Her champagne cake was perfect for a wedding. She could use pink champagne and decorate it with roses and daisies...her imagination began to soar. “I can cook up some samples for you try.”

Miss E. grinned. “We’ll be in touch.”

Donovan’s mouth was compressed in a hard line and he didn’t look happy. Hendrix went back to her triple chocolate-nut brownies completely forgetting him as thoughts of how she would decorate the wedding cake floated through her mind.

* * *

“I don’t think she’s going to work out,” Donovan said to his grandmother in the hall after he closed the door so Hendrix wouldn’t hear. Not because of her cooking, but because she was too much of a distraction. He found himself thinking about her at odd times and he didn’t like it. When he was in his kitchen, he needed to think about food, not some cute pastry chef and her cupcakes. Did he just think that? He did. She would have to go.

“She’s going to be just fine.”

“Grandma, it’s my kitchen. You told me...”

“I know what I said, but if you don’t keep that young woman around, I will be unhappy. People are going to eat here just to have one of those cupcakes.”

Donovan glared at her helplessly. “But...”

“You used to be so experimental and creative in your own cooking. I let you have fun in my kitchen, even though sometimes I was cleaning goop off the ceiling at three in the morning. Maybe it’s time you cleaned someone else’s goop off the ceiling.”

“Miss E...”

She held up her hand, her voice firm. “Just let’s see how this works out.”

“I’ll be repeating those words to you when the kitchen catches fire.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Donovan? You used to be so much more carefree in the kitchen.”

“Guests have certain expectations,” he replied. “They like conventional and don’t like surprises.”

“This hotel is about gambling. Everything else is gravy. If the extras can attract people, then the percentage that comes in for those cupcakes will also drop money in the slot machines. We’re in the business of providing the fantasy, and food is as much a part of the fantasy as the gambling. When people feel special, they spend money. I want them to spend all their money here, not across town at some other casino.”

“I’ll keep her on a trial basis.”

Miss E. patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you will. She’s going to work out and she’s going to surprise you in a way you’ll never expect.” With that parting shot, she stepped into the elevator and waved merrily as the doors closed.

He returned to his office, his thoughts a jumble. Hendrix stood in the middle of the kitchen looking oddly hesitant.

Without preamble, he said, “My grandmother loves your cupcakes.”

She nodded. “Awesome. But you’re not so sure, are you?” She pointed at him, a spatula in her hand. “You’re still on the fence about me. You think I’m weird, quirky and kooky.”

“I try not to judge.” Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Usually he was decisive and at times uncompromising when it came to food, but this woman put him off his game. The decision to hire Hendrix was either going to rock his world or blow up in his face.

“I know I’m a little unorthodox...”

“Is that the word you like to use?”

She smiled, a mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. “No one has ever complained about the end result. I have a process and I know it’s not always easy to understand. You have your own process. As much as we put spices, herbs and other ingredients into our food, we put our personality in, too.”

She was shooting down every argument he could muster before the words left his mouth. “If you would give me a minute, I could express my concerns.”

“Do you have any more?”

Defeated, he shrugged, “Not really.”

She walked over and patted him on the arm. “That’s how teachers teach chemistry in school. How to think logically and blow something up spectacularly.”

“There will be no blowing up of anything in my kitchen. Ever.”

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I’m cool with that.”

“I hear you.” He didn’t quite believe her. He had the feeling his grandmother was right. He’d be cleaning gunk off the ceiling at three in the morning.

“You don’t trust me yet, but you will.” She turned back, walked over to the ovens and started opening them. Watching her move around the kitchen, it was almost as if she was dancing. There was joy in every movement as she pulled out pie after steaming pie and set them on the counter to cool.

The most amazing scents washed over Donovan. He knew without one shred of evidence she hadn’t followed his directions as explicitly as he’d demanded. Was that a look of guilt on her face?

She disturbed him on a level he didn’t understand. She was unsettling and unconventional. He didn’t like feeling so out of control. This kitchen was his domain. He needed to get her into her own kitchen. That way if she didn’t follow instructions, he wouldn’t know. He would see the end result and wouldn’t have to agonize on how she got there.