Читать книгу Icing On The Cake - Laura Castoro - Страница 9

It’s been a strange month. Ted’s death threw me, for all the usual reasons, and then some. You gain a new respect for life when one is snatched away by careless happenstance.

For instance, I’ve been driving a careful five miles under the speed limit. My response to the blare of car horns and ugly looks from fellow drivers is simply to smile and wave, as they are evidence of my very vital life. I always stopped for squirrels crossing the road. Now I stop, get out and shepherd them to the other curb. Live and let live, right?

I’ve made a few other changes. Pork paninis are behind me. And I decided to take a few risks.

I went to the bank this morning, with thoughts of expanding my credit line for equipment replacement and refurbishing.

“Your income has increased in recent months,” my account manager began, which seemed to be encouraging. “However…”

This is when I knew that what followed wasn’t going to make me smile.

So my Monday morning has begun with a fizzle.

As I am entering the bakery, it’s scant balm to my pride to see that racks of ciabatta and sourdough are emptier than usual at 10:30 a.m. You can’t exactly use photos of bread racks as evidence of improved sales.

“So, how did it go?” Celia asks as I slide behind the counter.

My neck warms. “Just because I was a few days late with a couple of mortgage payments last year I’m a ‘risk factor.’ Try back in six months was my consolation prize.”

“Oh.” Emotion registers in Celia’s fair skin as if she’s a mood ring. This mood isn’t a good sign.

I glance about to be certain we aren’t ignoring a customer, then grab Celia by the arm and pull her back into the corner. “Okay. What is it?”

“A couple of things. But first, just so you know,” Celia glances back toward the front then whispers, “we didn’t get a flour delivery today. Our check bounced. Shemar called and did everything but promise them his firstborn. We’re just going to have to find another way to pay the bill.”

We didn’t get a delivery? Our check bounced? I have the most loyal staff in the world. And so, of course, I swell with tears.

“There, there, Liz.” Celia pats my back but doesn’t offer a shoulder to cry on for she’s in a floury apron and I’m wearing my only decent suit, a Dana Buchman, so the bank wouldn’t think I’m as desperate as I am. “It’s going to be all right.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will—”

“No, it won’t.”

“It will.”

“Won’t!” I sound like a hormonal fifteen-year-old.

“What’s up with Miz T?” Shemar frowns as he notices us huddled in the corner. “You’re not sweating the delivery?” He scowls at Celia. “Didn’t you tell her?”

“I was trying to.” Celia reaches out and pats my cheek.

“Tell me what?”

“I paid for it.” Celia flushes a natural pink.

An employee paid my bill? I feel worm high.

“It’s all good, Miz T.” Desharee has joined us.

Celia nods. “There’s even better news. When I went into the city this morning to pick up our cheese shipment at Murray’s I decided that we should stock up on an a couple of extra items for the Fine Arts and Crafts Show this weekend.”

She reaches into the cheese case and pulls out a piece that looks, with its rough moonlike surface and a bright orange interior, like a slice of cantaloupe. “This is two-year-old Mimolette! It’s rare to get a piece this old.”

Rare translates as expensive. “We can’t afford this now, Celia.”

“We can if our display snags us the attention we deserve.” Celia beams like a Girl Scout who’s earned a new merit badge.

“That funky cheese will catch attention. No doubt.” Shemar waves off the strong smell with a hand.

Desharee scrunches up her face and backs off. “Looks like maggots been at it.”

“Actually, cheese mites do make the rind craggy. But the cheese has a sweet, dense, caramelized taste that matches perfectly with a microbrewery dark lager or chocolate malt, and slices of our eight-grain country loaf.” Celia is in expert mode. “I also picked up wedges of Hoch Ybrig and Pont l’Eveque. No food scout will bypass us with these on the shelf.”

“That’s a long shot.” I can’t keep the sour grapes mood out of my tone.

“No, It isn’t.” Celia beams. “I heard talk at Murray’s that food scouts will definitely be checking out vendors at the local fairs this weekend!”

Desharee turns to me. “What’s a food scout?”

“Consultants that major food companies hire to evaluate new food products in the field.” Desharee give me a “speak English” look. “It’s like when professional sports teams send out scouts to check out a high school pitcher or college quarterback for possible recruitment.”

Desharee’s usually bad-mood expression brightens. “Straight up?”

Celia nods. “Haven’t you heard? Liz almost had a deal with General Mills four years ago. She was going to be famous.”

“Actually,” I say dryly, “they were going to hire a celeb to front the line.”

“Celebrity endorsements? I’m all over that!” Shemar flashes me a really sexy grin.

“Why not?” Celia says with an enthusiasm ungrounded by experience.

Another chance at the big time! My mind boggles with possibility. I know better. I really do. I’ve been burned. But there’s something about a dream lost. It’s the sexiest thought on the planet: what might have been.

While I’m daydreaming Celia gives Desharee a short history lesson in food franchising.

“This is how franchising starts. The modern potato chip originated in a restaurant in Saratoga Springs, New York. Cracker Jacks first showed up at the Columbian Exposition at Chicago. And the Hidden Valley Guest Ranch near Santa Barbara, California, originated Valley Ranch. Oh, and Dave started Wendy’s.”

“What about KFC?” Shemar folds his arms together. “That old dude in the lame white suit started that?”

“Yes. So you see it’s completely possible for our little bakery to hit the big time.” Celia is nothing if not a positive thinker.

“Aw-ite!” Shemar snatches up a ciabatta, slaps the flat side of the rounded loaf against one buttock and starts rotating a bump and grind like a hottie in a video. “We def-initely calling our new item the JLO Loaf.”

I burst out with laughter. Then we all start boogying around, as if it’s a done deal.

Okay, so maybe we’re thinking too big. While the Fine Arts and Crafts at Anderson Park is a great fair, Naomi’s rhubarb pie isn’t likely to become the next Stouffer’s frozen pie. Still, I’ve been approached by corporate before. So, why couldn’t I…?

“Liz, there is something else.”

Celia’s suddenly somber face pricks my elation. “You got another of those registered letters from Dunlap, McDougal and Feinstein.”

She reaches under the counter and pulls out a slick plastic envelope. “This time they sent it by private courier.”

“Thanks.” I take it gingerly, as if it might be contaminated.

This isn’t the first letter I’ve received from Ted’s attorneys since his demise. Sarah and Riley got them, too, and say it concerns the reading of Ted’s will. I can’t bring myself to open any of them. The firm handled Ted’s side of the divorce. Probably I’m being pressured to sign some papers returning my share of Ted’s IRAs when I’m fifty-nine and a half, or something equally depressing.

When Celia and Shemar and Desharee have moved discreetly away, possibly with thoughts that I might open it, I toss the package aside. Sarah and Riley are attending the reading of their dad’s will today. They can tell me what I need to know.

A while later the notes of “She Works Hard for the Money,” playing on my cell phone interrupt me mid-preparation of a special order for heart-shaped scones. The readout says Sarah. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Mom, where are you?”

“Where would you expect me to be at this time of day?”

“At the reading of Dad’s will.”

“I told you there’s no need for me to be there.”

“Dad’s attorney thinks there is. He’s refusing to read the will until you arrive.”

This I need like another hole in my head. “I’m really kind of busy. Tell him I said to go ahead without me.”

There’s a pause, then Riley’s voice comes on line. “Mom, get over here now!”

“Jeez! Okay. I’m coming.”

I give three seconds’ thought to changing out of my baker’s white back into the Dana Buchman I carefully hung out of harm’s way, but why bother? I am what I am. If this is so bloody important, what does it matter what I look like?