Читать книгу A Recipe for Reunion - Vicki Essex - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

STEPH’S PAYCHECK DIDN’T allow for extravagances like bottles of good French merlot, but today, she seriously needed to indulge.

Her friend Maya Hanes watched as she dumped the last three inches from the bottle into the bowl of her oversize wineglass. “Should you be drinking so much with your early start tomorrow?”

“I don’t see how I couldn’t be driven to drink considering the ignor...arro...arrogance of that man.” Stumbling over the word in front of Maya only added to her frustration, but her friend kindly ignored it. She’d told Maya about how Aaron had made it clear where they stood: he was going to be her boss, and she had no say in the matter.

Maya reached for another one of Steph’s chocolate-dipped macaroons. “Maybe this is a good thing. I mean, if he hadn’t come back and something happened to Georgette—”

“Why does everyone keep thinking the worst? Georgette’s fine. She’s had a stroke, sure, but she’s nowhere near...” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it.

“All I’m saying is that Aaron means well, and he’s doing what he thinks is best. It’s not as if he’s fired you.”

“He might, though. I don’t know what he has planned.” She took a bracing gulp. “He could replace me.”

“Hon, c’mon. I know you’re upset, but I doubt Aaron would go that far. You’re the only one apart from Georgette who knows her recipes.”

“He doesn’t like me. He’s had it in for me since high school.” She sat back and stared into her wine, brooding. “I wasn’t very nice to him.”

“That was a long time ago. I’d think—or at least I’d hope—you’d both have grown beyond that.”

Maybe. Sometimes, everything about Steph’s life felt stalled, as if she still had one foot stuck in high school. Aaron’s return brought that home. It seemed fitting somehow that the past should come back to ruin her future.

“You need to give this time to work itself out,” Maya said. “See how Aaron handles things. You said it yourself—he’ll be busy with the bookstore side of the business. That probably means you’ll be free to run the bakery by yourself.”

“As an employee, maybe. But I want to own Georgette’s and run it on my terms.”

Maya tilted her chin. “Why’s that so important to you?”

“You own your own business. I want the same things you have—to be my own boss and make my own hours.” Steph didn’t know how to explain that in her eyes, Georgette’s was the epi...epistle...epitome of independence. Owning the bakery had been a longtime fantasy before the elderly baker had gotten sick, but now that dream was within her grasp. And she felt ashamed for thinking that way.

“I’m kinda surprised you haven’t opened your own shop,” Maya said, holding up a macaroon. “Your recipes are fantastic. I bet your folks would lend you the start-up money, too.”

Steph shook her head emphatically. “Oh, hell, no. I don’t want my parents to have a stake in any business of mine. Anyhow, I would never go into competition with Georgette. She taught me everything she knows. I can’t stab her in the back.”

Maya chuckled. “If you want to own a business, you have to be a little mercenary sometimes.” Maya would know. She’d bought the consignment shop on Main Street for a song about nine months ago. She now specialized in vintage clothing and wore the most awesome outfits. She’d even helped dress all Helen’s friends for a Mad Men party she had thrown. “Do you even know what it takes to keep the bakery going?” Maya asked, peering at Steph through her cat’s-eye glasses.

“Of course I do,” she said, then faltered. “I mean, I’ve worked there a long time...”

“Well, you baked and did all the front counter stuff, sure, but you didn’t handle the background responsibilities. Making sure the shop complied with health regulations, filling out tax forms...”

“I can learn to do all that if Georgette gives me a chance. Or I can hire someone.”

She knew Maya was only trying to make her see the reality of the situation. Even so, Steph couldn’t help but feel affronted, as if Maya didn’t think much of her abilities or ambitions. People were always waiting for Steph to make a mistake and give up.

“So what are you going to do?” Maya prodded. “Quit?”

“And do what? Go home a failure?” She gulped her wine and exhaled a heady cloud of vapor. “No way. Aaron can’t scare me away. And neither can my parents or you, for that matter.”

Maya grinned. “Good. I hate it when you play helpless little rich girl.” She toasted her. “Sorry to act all mean, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t...”

“Being a flake?” Steph supplied.

Maya’s lips quirked. “Your words.”

She knew she could rely on Maya for the honest truth. They hadn’t been close in high school, but Steph appreciated her bluntness—and patience—now. She needed a regular dose of reality, something that had been lacking in her life, living at home with parents who gave her anything and everything she wanted. No one had ever criticized her, either, or if they had, it had never been to her face.

Or maybe she’d simply ignored it. She’d been frustrated by her grades, of course, but so many other parts of her life had been great, like her relationship with Dale, cheerleading and all the clubs she’d been in. Her parents hadn’t minded the Cs and Ds on her report cards, though they had frowned at the handful of Fs she’d earned. In hindsight, she wished her parents had been a little tougher on her, but she knew her poor academic performance was all on her.

She understood now that if she really wanted something, she had to earn it, the way she had with her job and her apartment. Hard work and discipline had been the key to her independence, and now that she’d had a taste, she wasn’t about to give up any of it. She had to win Georgette’s favor if she was ever going to take over the bakery.

“So, what are you going to do about Aaron?” Maya prompted.

“I’d like to pour a bowl of batter over his head.” That was the wine talking, of course. She heaved a sigh. “I’ll stay on, I guess. What else can I do?”

“Well, if things get intolerable, quitting is always an option.”

“Didn’t you just say I shouldn’t quit?”

“You shouldn’t quit without really thinking about it, is what I meant. But I wouldn’t want you staying there if you were miserable, either. No one would judge you for leaving if you were unhappy.”

Steph didn’t believe that for a moment, because she’d judge herself. Working at Georgette’s wasn’t just a job to her. It represented everything she was working toward—financial independence, security, stability and professional pride. Maybe to some people her job looked like a way for a rich girl to pass time. But Georgette’s Bakery was an institution. One that would fall apart in Aaron Caruthers’s hands if she didn’t make sure she was involved.

And to do that, she was going to have to play nice.

* * *

AARON ARRIVED AT Georgette’s at quarter after nine. He would have been there when the bakery opened, but he’d wanted to go with his grandmother to her doctor’s appointment and hear what the specialist had to say. Georgette would be visiting a physical therapist once a week to work on her mobility issues, and she would need to do daily exercises to get back the strength in her hands. The doctor assured them she was well on the road to recovery, but Aaron was going to keep a close eye on her.

He entered the bakery and found Steph chatting up a customer. She excused herself and brought him a steaming mug. “Fresh coffee?” She smiled brightly.

“Uh...thanks.” He took the mug and headed to the office. Steph followed.

“Listen—” she lingered in the doorway “—I want to say I’m sorry if I’ve acted nastily toward you. I think it’s great that you’re back for Georgette.”

He blinked. She sounded like she meant it, but then he wasn’t sure she’d ever given anyone a smile that wasn’t carefully calculated to extrude the maximum result.

Oh, hey, Aaron, can I borrow a pen? Can I borrow your notes?

Can I borrow your heart so I can stomp all over it?

“Okay,” he responded noncommittally. He’d apologized plenty for his poor behavior already. Still, it didn’t feel right not to reciprocate. But with each second that passed, it got harder and harder to jump into that conversation. They lapsed into an awkward stalemate.

He picked up the binder of invoices his grandmother kept for supply orders and set up his laptop. He didn’t realize until he looked up that Steph was still standing in the doorway watching him. “Something you want?” He cursed his curt tone. Tell her you’re sorry and that you appreciate her, too, idiot.

She smiled faintly. “Just curious about what you’re up to.”

He patted the binder, glad for something else to talk about. “I’m looking at cutting some costs, getting quotes from other suppliers.”

Steph gasped. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t...change things.” She gestured emptily, her movements shaky. “We have long, established relationships with our suppliers.”

“If that’s true, they should be offering you a better deal for what you order.”

“They already do.” Her voice rose, almost threateningly.

Aaron struggled to keep his tone even. “Not good enough. Not after nearly fifty years in business.” Was she going to question and fight him on every decision? “Look, all I’m trying to do is make sure the bakery stays in the black, but it’s dangerously close. We need to reduce our expenses.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re going to cut our hours?”

That wasn’t what he’d said—her reaction was typically self-centered. He opened his mouth to reassure her that her job was safe, but realized he couldn’t make any promises. Not until he’d gotten a real handle on the financial situation. “You should get back to the front,” he said instead, glancing past the door and not feeling particularly sorry to end this conversation. “There are customers.”

She looked as though she was going to say something else, but then whirled and made a quiet huffing noise.

Five minutes later, though, she was back. “I’m sorry...again. I’m used to doing things a certain way and...you’re right,” she admitted with effort. She rubbed a palm up and down her hip and grudgingly added, “Cutting costs is good for business.”

He studied her. She was really trying. To what end, he wasn’t sure. But Gran had wanted him to work with her, so he had to make the effort, as well. “Sit down. I want to hear your thoughts. You must have some ideas on how to make things more efficient. You’d know where best to make cuts.”

She sat gingerly, gripping her knees. “Well...I’m not really sure. We can’t change the recipes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He knew how proprietary Gran was of her recipes. She kept them in a binder in her safe at home. She wouldn’t even type them up on the computer, afraid a hacker would somehow steal her life’s work. He’d tried to explain that it didn’t work that way since she didn’t have internet access at home—something he’d soon change—but she was a bit of a Luddite.

Stephanie paused. “I’ve always thought it would save us a little work to prepackage some of the bestselling cookies during the summer months for the tourists, to help move them through more quickly.”

“That’s a good idea.” He wrote it down.

“Labels for the bagged goodies would be nice, too. Like pretty stickers we could put on bags and tie with some gold ribbon.”

That would cost money, and wouldn’t necessarily translate into sales, but he noted it.

She rattled off a few more ideas—most of them were more about how the bakery looked rather than how it functioned, but he agreed the place could use a new coat of paint and maybe a change of curtains. “These are good ideas,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He put his pen down. Now that he had her attention, he needed to make an effort to be friendly. “So what happened to you after high school?” he asked. “We haven’t really talked.”

“You first,” she insisted. “You went to college, right?”

“Harvard Law School,” he confirmed, not without a little pride. He’d received a handsome scholarship and had worked part-time to feed and clothe himself. He’d been inching his way up the corporate ladder at the firm, but when Gran had gotten sick, he’d dropped everything. The truth was, he’d never really been into his job. He was an entrepreneur at heart.

Steph prodded, “No girlfriend?”

That was an awfully personal question. “Nope.”

“No one? Not even someone you’d categorize as ‘It’s complicated’?”

“That sounds exhausting.”

She rested her chin in a hand. “I take it that means no. How about a dog? Cat? Hamster?”

“I’m allergic to animal fur.” Irked by her pitying frown, he added, “I’m not lonely. I date occasionally. I have friends.” And then he felt stupid for getting defensive.

The truth was most of the women he’d been with hadn’t captured his attention. Not the way Steph did, perched on the edge of her chair, her focus on him. She’d always been like that, making you feel as if you were the only person in the world she wanted to talk to. But she’d been manipulative, too, knowing she could get what she wanted if she made you feel special enough.

It infuriated him that he should feel a twinge of attraction now.

“So, what about you?” he asked, turning the questioning back onto her. “Did you go to college?”

Her chin dipped. “No.”

“Oh. I’d have thought you could study anywhere in the world.”

“I didn’t have the grades. Actually, I never finished high school.”

Aaron sucked in a breath. He knew she hadn’t graduated with the rest of their class, but he’d assumed an extra semester would have solved that problem. “How many credits did you have left?”

She picked at her apron strings. “Just one.”

He caught his jaw before it dropped. “And all this time later, you still haven’t completed it?”

“Why bother?” She scowled.

“Why—” He wiped a palm down his face. “You need a high school diploma. That’s a basic requirement for any job.”

“Says who?” She tipped her nose in the air. “I didn’t need one to work here.”

“But...basic math skills...” He bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to say anything about that.

Steph’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘basic math skills’? You think I can’t add or something?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve made some mistakes on the till, is all. I thought maybe...” Lord, he hadn’t intended to bring this up now. He’d had some suspicions, but he hardly knew what to say. Unable to veer off this course, he asked, “You had a hard time in math, didn’t you?”

“Really? We’re going to compare report cards now?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Since you’re asking, I had a hard time in lots of things.” She sniffed. “But I don’t need a piece of paper to prove I can bake.”

“You could at least have gotten your high school equivalency diploma. Don’t you care what people think?”

“Are you judging me?”

“No, of course not.” But he’d taken a second too long to answer, and now she pierced him with a dagger-eyed look.

“You think I’m dumb, don’t you?” Her voice was dangerously low.

Uh-oh. “I never said that. Maybe you have...issues.”

Her expression shifted from angry to stone cold. “What the hell do you mean by issues?”

He hastened to correct himself, not wanting to go into that territory. Not now. “All I meant to say was that a diploma is important.” He struggled to put into words why it was so important—to him at least—but instead he said, “It seems silly to me that you didn’t finish your credits when you were so close.”

“So now I’m silly and stupid.”

He cringed. “What I meant—”

“I’m a good person, y’know. I have skills. Lots of people don’t have diplomas and do fine, Mr. Harvard Law School.”

“Of course you’re a good person.” He fought to keep his exasperation in check. “All I meant was that you could’ve gone to any school...” He took a deep breath. The fact that he’d had to work so hard to get what he wanted while she’d squandered her opportunities made him bitter and frustrated, but that didn’t give him any right to judge her. “Education is important. Basic language and math skills, sciences, geography—”

“Stop explaining things to me like I’m a child!” She shot out of her chair. “I don’t have any issues. I know what I want and I work hard. But you’re never going to see that, are you? You’re always going to look at me like I’m a dumb blonde cheerleader who dropped out of school and will never amount to anything.”

She was being deliberately obtuse, hearing what she wanted to hear so she could be mad at him. He raked his hands through his hair. With a brittle, maddened laugh, he uttered, “One credit and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“That’s right. One credit. And you’re acting like it gives you the right to pick on me. Well, I hope your law degree taught you enough to run this place on your own—” she tore off her apron “—because I quit.”

“What?” Aaron’s heart stopped. He jumped out of his seat. “W-wait a minute—”

She threw her apron against his chest and stalked out of the office. He followed, calling her name. Two customers stared as she grabbed her purse and jacket and marched out.

“Steph, I didn’t mean—”

Her one-fingered salute shut him up.

Aaron stood on the bakery steps as she threw herself into her mini SUV and peeled out of the parking lot, kicking up icy gravel in her wake. The cold air seeped through his clothes and into his skin, slowly freezing his blood.

Crap. What the hell was he supposed to do now?