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Meet Your Baker
By Ellie Alexander St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2015 Ellie Alexander
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-5724-7
CHAPTER 1
They say it takes a while to recover your land legs after years spent at sea. I sure hoped mine would come back soon.
It had been twenty-seven hours and forty-two minutes (not that I was counting) since I left the ship, my husband, and everything I'd known for the last ten years.
Nothing felt solid. Not my feet on the familiar pavement of my hometown. Not my stomach with its constant churning like I was still stuck on rough waters. Not even the welcoming sight of the cozy shops and storefronts lining Main Street were enough to shake the haze that had settled over me.
I couldn't even blame the haze on the fact that it was 3:45 in the morning. Most people would have an excuse to feel groggy this early. Not me. I'm used to working bakers' hours, and I was fairly confident that the foggy feeling assaulting my body had more to do with my life having been turned upside down.
Not much had changed downtown in the past decade. I took my time walking to the bakeshop, in part because of my unsteady gait, but also because I wanted to soak in the idyllic village as it sat in an early slumber.
Ashland, Oregon, my hometown, is nestled in the foothills between the Cascade and Siskiyou Mountains. It's home to the world-famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival, an eclectic community of artists, outdoor adventure seekers, college students, farmers, hippies, rich retirees, and a constant stream of tourists. At nearly two thousand feet in elevation, its Mediterranean summers make it the perfect spot to watch Shakespeare under the stars or hike one of the nearby peaks. In the winter, Ashland attracts skiers and snow lovers to its nearby ski resorts and backcountry trails.
Growing up here made for a comfortable and imaginative childhood. Our family bakeshop, Torte, has served actors, playwrights, artists, students, and pretty much everyone else in town for thirty years. I remember the heat from the ovens warming my hands after school on cold winter afternoons, delivering cakes and pastries to the theater on opening night, and the comfort of chatting with my parents over the counter as they orchestrated an assembly line of baked goods in the kitchen. All this time away might have me idealizing my childhood, but honestly, it was pretty perfect.
It was an easy and quiet life. This morning I found myself wondering why I left.
Maybe it was hearing the foreign accents and stories of far-off corners of the planet from travelers stopping by our quaint little town. Their tales sparked a desire for me to get out there and see the world for myself. So, the day after I graduated from high school I took a giant leap and enrolled in culinary school. After I expanded my baking skills I landed a job as an apprentice pastry chef on a European cruise ship. I've been sailing the seas ever since.
And your legs are proof, aren't they, Jules? I thought as I twisted the handle on the front door of Torte, causing a bell above my head to chime.
"Mom, I'm here!" I called, and flipped on the front lights.
She didn't answer.
Torte is located in the heart of the old-fashioned plaza downtown, just a block from the Elizabethan theater and in a perfect spot for grabbing a coffee or a muffin before perusing the shops or wandering along the river path that cuts through Lithia Park. The front of the bakeshop houses a coffee bar, bistro tables and booths that line the windows. In my unbiased opinion it's the best spot in town to catch a glimpse of all the action.
Corrugated metal siding wraps the counter and the walls are painted in royal colors—teal blue with bright, cranberry-red accents. It makes the space cheery and pays homage to my dad's obsession with all things Shakespeare.
He died when I was fifteen. Mom pays a subtle tribute to him with her rotating quote of the day on Torte's massive chalkboard menu.
Today's read, "Torte—where everyone is above the salt."
I didn't recognize the obscure reference. That's what Dad used to be good at, making Shakespeare's words accessible to everyone. All these years later, it looked like Mom was continuing the tradition.
"Good morning, Mom," I called again. I could see her working in the back. Torte's industrial kitchen is open so that customers can watch Mom rolling out dough or sidle up to the counter that divides the front from the back to gab over coffee.
The air-conditioning chugged, attempting to keep up with the heat rising in the ovens and creeping in from outside. July in Ashland can be a scorcher, but mornings and evenings tend to be cool. Not today. A heat wave had settled in, making me wish for a saltwater breeze.
"You beat me," I said to Mom, taking in the scent of brewing coffee and yeast and grabbing an apron from the hooks hanging on the wall. "Whew, it's hot out there."
Mom started. "Juliet! ... Sorry ... Jules."
Okay, let's just get this out of the way now. My real name is Juliet.
Wait. It gets worse.
Juliet Montague Capshaw.
I know. It's ridiculous.
When I was a kid it seemed sort of sweet and fitting for the town. Plus, it made my dad proud. As soon as I left, I quickly realized a name can make or break you. I have firsthand experience working as a sous-chef for a nasty pâtissier. He made me the laughingstock of the kitchen, singing "Romeo, Romeo" whenever I made a mistake.
I shortened my name to Jules. Thankfully, it fits.
Mom shifted the stainless steel mixer to low. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."
"All these years of working in a loud kitchen is making you deaf, Mom."
"Honey, you worry too much." She brushed flour from her hands and wiped her brow. "I still can't believe you're really here. I want to pinch myself." She squeezed the skin on her petite wrist to prove her point.
Do I worry too much? No. If anything, I have a tendency toward self-reliance much like her.
Being away made me realize that the last few years had taken a toll on her. Don't get me wrong, she looks amazing for fifty-five. She wears her dark hair, streaked naturally with silver, in a shoulder-length bob. Age is leaving its subtle mark on the corner of her walnut eyes, and her gentle smile now has soft lines.
"I'm all yours." I sighed, cinching my apron around my waist. "Want me to jump in?"
Mom shut the mixer off and started scooping buttery dough on the wooden island that sits in the center of the kitchen. "No, no, I've got this under control. You look like you could use a cup of coffee."
"Yeah, an extra kick might help." I tried to keep my voice light, hoping that our being oceans apart for so long would make her less likely to see through me.
I poured myself a cup of the nutty brew, adding just a splash of cream. "What's the 'above the salt' quote?"
"Oh, that's an old Shakespeare reference." Mom sprinkled flour on top of the dough and began rolling it with a well-used wooden rolling pin. "Back in his time, salt was a valuable seasoning. It was placed in the center of the table—close to the king and his family. Everyone else was seated below the salt."
She finished rolling the dough and began pressing the tart crust into twelve-inch pans, taking extra care to work it into the indentations in the sides. "I think it speaks to our philosophy: everyone's royalty at Torte."
Sips of Mom's expertly brewed coffee helped take the edge off. "Definitely." I paused, taking another gulp of coffee. "I see raspberries over there. I'm feeling nostalgic for that raspberry Danish Dad used to make. Are you game?"
She put her hand to her heart. "That sounds delicious. Yes, of course. Look at us, right back where we left off."
"Okay, but Mom, remember—this is only temporary. I'm only here until I figure out what I'm going to do next. I don't want to jump in and mess up your routine or anything."
She stopped forming the tarts and held up a dough-covered finger. "Listen, honey, I know you're—you're ..." She paused. "Working some stuff out, but please, let's not tiptoe around each other. Okay?"
"Yes, captain." I saluted her.
When I called her last week to tell her I was coming home, I took her by surprise. It's not like we haven't tried to maintain a relationship. We've had a standing Sunday-evening phone call since I left. But mainly we just covered the highlights. There wasn't time to dive deeper.
Going back to work on the tarts, she chuckled. "Plus, no one else in town has a world-class pastry chef manning the kitchen, now do they?"
I polished off the bottom half of my coffee and scoffed. "Hardly." I twirled the antique platinum wedding ring on my left hand.
Mom placed a tart pan in the oven and came around the island to me. She squeezed me tight, floured hands and all. "Juliet, you're going to be fine. And, at some point you're going to have to talk about it. I'm here when you're ready."
"I know." I looked at my feet.
She released me from her grasp. I didn't move.
"Okay, we'll leave it for the moment."
I'd forgotten how Mom can be equally pushy and patient with me.
She clapped her hands together. "So, let's get baking."
Over the next hour we started to find our rhythm. I was surprised by how quickly we eased back into our old routine. It must have been cellular memory. My hands instinctively remembered that measuring spoons are in the second drawer down and that the spatulas and wooden spoons hang on the far back wall.
Baking on solid ground certainly had its advantages. Like not having to worry that muffin batter will spill out of the pans if the ship lists to one side. Or having to clutch onto utensils so tightly they leave marks on your hands, because you're afraid that if the ship hits a wave the wrong way they'll go flying and take out a poor busboy's eye. Not to mention baking for thousands at a time in a hectic kitchen.
Maybe life on land wasn't so bad after all.
By the time we opened at six A.M., we'd cranked out enough pastries to feed the entire town. The glass cases were stuffed with morning buns, cinnamon scones, rhubarb muffins, cherry tarts, savory quiches, almond crescent cookies, and my raspberry Danish.
Andy and Stephanie, the college students Mom had hired to help, arrived before the first customer.
"Hey, you must be Ms. Capshaw. How's it going?" Andy stashed his backpack behind the cash register. His long strides with his shoulders hunched slightly forward were a telltale sign he hadn't grown into his height yet. He tugged off a tattered Southern Oregon University sweatshirt and grabbed an apron. Torte's aprons are fire-engine red with blue stitching and a chocolate torte on the front.
"You can call me Jules," I said, trying to wink. "I think I'm a few years past Ms."
He grinned and fired up the espresso machine. "Yeah, but you're, like, my new boss and my mom always says I should treat a boss with respect." He covered his shaggy, sand-colored hair with a baseball hat.
I pointed my thumb to Mom. "I'm not the boss. She is."
Stephanie barely made eye contact as she shook my hand. In fairness, her jet-black hair, streaked with plum highlights, fell in front of her face. Hopefully she'd brought along something to tie it up with.
Mom bustled to the front in a clean apron. "Andy, you're here. Can you start pulling a double espresso? Lance should be here any minute now." She peered out the window. "Oh, and it looks like Caroline is with him. Stephanie, can you bring a stack of pastry boxes to the front?"
Stephanie chomped on a wad of gum and shuffled to the back. "Uh-huh."
Andy patted the espresso machine. "She's already warmed up and ready to roll, Mrs. C. Drinks will be on the bar in two minutes."
True to his word, Andy poured perfectly balanced shots of thick espresso and steamed soy milk.
As the bell on the front door jingled, he placed the artistically designed coffees on the bar.
I took a deep breath and steadied myself on the island. It had just occurred to me that stories about why I'd returned were sure to be circulating. I should have prepared better for the onslaught.
"Good morning, Lance, Caroline." Mom greeted them from behind the counter.
"Helen." Lance reached over the bar and kissed Mom on both cheeks. "You are my morning muse. Look at this! My coffee is waiting and it smells divine in here. What would I do without you?"
I'd peg Lance to be in his mid-forties. He adjusted his thick, black-framed glasses and smoothed his dark goatee. His navy suit looked as if it had been hand-stitched and cut exactly to his lean frame.
Caroline, the woman next to him, I recognized. She's about ten years older than Lance and a fixture in town. Just my luck that she would be the first person I'd see. Her reputation as an actress and as a busybody who likes to exaggerate is legendary.
"I thought I was your muse." Caroline flicked Lance in the arm with perfectly manicured fingernails and removed her coffee from the bar. Her lush ginger curls fell to her chest. She was dressed in flowing white from head to toe and her makeup looked as if it had been expertly applied.
"Soy. Exactly how I like it." She turned to Mom. "Thank you, Helen."
"What is that gooey, sticky raspberry delight?" Lance asked, pointing a well-manicured finger at the raspberry Danish.
Mom pulled me forward. "I don't think you've met my daughter yet. Lance, this is Jules."
Caroline squealed. "Juliet!" She raced around the counter and embraced me in a tight hug. "I didn't even recognize you! You look fantastic. Oh, everyone is talking about you!" She caught Mom's eye. "We're all so happy to have you home."
"The Jules?" Lance mocked. "The world-famous Jules whose pastries have launched a thousand ships?"
He surveyed my appearance. "Helen, why didn't you tell me your daughter was as lovely as she is talented?"
Caroline waved him off. "Juliet, don't pay attention to him. He's a charmer." She patted my shoulder and returned to the other side of the bar.
Lance grabbed my hand, and stretched out my fingers. "The bone structure. So elegant. Fine lines. Stunning cheekbones. Those eyes. Men could lose themselves, really lose themselves, in those eyes." He dropped my hand and studied my face. "You remind me of a young Gwyneth Paltrow. That hair. It's absolutely ethereal—golden, white. Can you take it down?"
I reached my hand up to my ponytail protectively and shook my head. "Can't. Wouldn't want to leave a hair in a cheesecake or something."
Growing up around theater types like Lance and Caroline had given me a healthy mistrust of gushing compliments like Lance's.
"What a Mona Lisa smile you have," Lance gushed.
"Leave her alone, Lance," Mom chimed in. "She gave up her acting days years ago." She elbowed me in the ribs. "He's right, though, how long have I been telling you that you need to actually smile?"
I ignored them both.
Lance made a tsk-tsk sound. "What a shame. We won't let that stop us from convincing her otherwise, will we, Caroline?"
Caroline smiled through pursed lips. "You're embarrassing her, Lance."
Mom kicked me behind the counter. "Now about that raspberry Danish. You two go sit and I'll bring you each a slice. Jules just pulled it out of the oven."
While Caroline and Lance took a seat I grabbed wedges of Danish. I couldn't resist finishing off the plate with fresh raspberries and a sprig of fresh mint. Mom cut bread dough with a large knife and plopped the loaves into a big plastic tub. She covered the tub with a clear plastic bag and set it on a baking rack to rise.
"Who's Lance?" I whispered.
"He's OSF's artistic director. He's been here maybe five or six years."
"I figured he had to be part of the theater."
"Whatever gave that away?" Mom kept a serious look on her face, but her eyes twinkled.
"And Caroline's still a stage diva?"
"Yep. She likes to make it known that she's been with the company longer than any actor on record." A timer buzzed. "I think that's you." Mom motioned to the oven.
I removed another batch of Danish from the oven. The crust came out tawny and firm. The raspberry sauce glistened on the top, left the sweet bread slightly gooey. I drizzled vanilla glaze over the top.
"I'll take these out, Mom. Can you keep an eye on the shortbread?"
Lance and Caroline had settled in the farthest booth from the front door. He patted the red vinyl bench as I placed the Danishes in front of them. "Join us, Jules. We've heard so much about you from your mother."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Meet Your Baker by Ellie Alexander. Copyright © 2015 Ellie Alexander. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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