A second beep from my alarm clock jarred me back to reality. I shook my entire body, as if trying to shake off the memory. That was the past, and in this moment I needed coffee, a shower, and gobs of Advil—in that order.
The welt on my head felt like it had doubled in size overnight. Washing my hair involved not touching anywhere near that area and letting the hot water caress the top of my scalp.
My mind returned to the possibility that someone was intentionally trying to hurt me.
It couldn’t be true. Could it?
I’ve had my fair share of arguments, even staff members who didn’t like me. That comes with the territory, but I’ve never been in a position where someone would actually try to harm me. If that’s really what happened last night (and I was crossing my fingers and toes that it wasn’t) I didn’t know where that left me.
What could I have possibly done or said to make someone attack me?
The only answer I came back to was nothing. Nothing. It must be connected to Nancy’s murder.
I tugged on a clean pair of jeans, yet another short-sleeved black T-shirt, ran a brush through my hair, parted it down the middle, and swallowed four Advil before leaving for Torte.
The morning air felt thick and oppressive. A forest fire was burning in the hills surrounding Ashland. I could smell a hint of smoke from the fire even though it was burning miles away. Not only was this day going to be hot, but humid as well. That’s never a good combination.
People assume that it rains twenty-four-seven in all of Oregon. Sure, people who live in the upper valleys—Eugene, Portland, and on the coast—get inundated with rain, but not us. We’re nestled in a quiet southern corner of the state where the sun shines more often than it rains and we’re treated to four distinct and mild seasons each year.
I made a beeline for Torte. I wanted time to talk over what I’d discovered last night with Mom before Andy and Stephanie arrived.
The police tape had been removed from the front door. A warm light glowed from the windows, and as I pushed open the door, the scent of garlic cheese biscuits hit my nose.
Torte was back in business.
I sighed with relief. Hopefully this was a sign that things were returning to normal. I laughed internally—did I even know what “normal” was anymore?
“Mom, you here?” I called, closing and locking the door behind me. I wasn’t taking any chances after last night.
“Making biscuits,” she shouted from the kitchen island. Her arms were coated in flour up to her elbows.
“I know. They smell amazing.” I snagged an apron from the hook and wrapped it around my waist.
“Comfort food.” She plunged her hands in the sticky dough. “I have a feeling we’re going to be slammed today.”
“Agreed. What can I do?”
“For starters can you toss me some more flour? This is the problem with dough. It never wants to stretch.” She gave me a meaningful look and nodded at the flour canister. “The place looks good. I hope you weren’t here too late last night. How did it go?”
Suddenly I didn’t want to tell her what really happened last night. I could hear a happy lilt in her voice. The bags sagging under her clear brown eyes didn’t seem as pronounced. There wasn’t a reason to burden her with more worry right now—was there?
“Fine.” I concentrated on twisting off the cap on the flour canister. “Uneventful.”
“Juliet.” She raised her eyebrows and steadied her gaze on me. “Do you really think you can fool me that easily?”
“What?” I shot her my most innocent expression.
“Thomas called me. I was testing you.” She pounded the lump of dough for dramatic effect. “You fail.”
“Sorry.” I felt like I was in high school and had been caught sneaking in the house after curfew. “I didn’t want to worry you. It’s no big deal.” Unconsciously I rubbed the lump on my head.
She grabbed the marble rolling pin and wielded it like a weapon. “Stop right there.” She threatened me with the rolling pin in jest. “This is not how we’re going to do this. Remember our conversation from the other day?”
She waited. I nodded.
“Right. I’ve given you space on Carlos.”
I started to protest.
She waved the rolling pin in the air. “Let me finish. I wasn’t going to say anything about that.” She took a deep breath. “We made a deal after Dad died, remember?”
I felt tears well in my eyes. I did remember. After Dad died we agreed that we’d have each other’s back. It didn’t mean that we couldn’t fight or disagree. I was still a teenager then, but it did mean that we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other and would lay any disagreement we had on the kitchen table and work it out just like we work the dough. The thing is, neither of us really did. I think we’d been trying to protect each other. Obviously, it wasn’t working.
She dropped the rolling pin and wiped her flour-coated hands on her apron. She walked around the island and hugged me.
Unexpectedly, tears poured from my eyes. I didn’t even know what I was crying about—my dad, Carlos, finding Nancy, being assaulted last night, worrying about Mom, all of it?
Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I sobbed in Mom’s arms, my face turning puffy and red, snot dripping from my nose and my body convulsing in little shakes. Mom stood firm, taking it all in, like she always does. Like she used to do. When did I lose sight of how lucky I am to have her?
When it felt like my tear ducts were drained of water, I swallowed hard and Mom softened her grip on me.
“Feel better?” she asked, returning to the biscuit dough.
I chuckled. “Yeah, but where did that come from?”
Mom smiled knowingly. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Your body was holding all that emotion in. It needed to let it go. Love, relationships, marriage—it’s all hard work.”
I blew my nose into a napkin. “Not for you and Dad.”
“Oh, honey, yes for me and Dad.” She rounded biscuits in her hands.
“No, I remember how much you loved each other. You made it look easy.”
As she placed the biscuits on parchment-paper-lined cookie trays, Mom’s voice turned solemn. “True, but that’s the gift of memories, isn’t it? We filter out what we don’t need to carry with us, letting time and distance cleanse the rest.” She adjusted the space between biscuits. “They aren’t necessarily a true reflection of the past.”
She paused. “Watching you float around the kitchen makes me feel like he’s here. You’re so like him. You look like him. You move like him. You cook like him.” Her words caught. She put her hand to her chest and blinked back tears. “I’d forgotten. I miss him. I miss
you.
”
My eyes welled. “Me too, Mom.”
We both stayed with the silence. Something had shifted between us. Broken open. Maybe from here on we could follow through with that promise we made the year Dad died.
After a few moments, Mom continued. “Can I try to offer you one little piece of advice?”
I nodded.
“I know you’re confused about Carlos right now. One thing I’ve learned over the years is how to be more comfortable not knowing. What if you sit with not knowing for a while? We don’t always have to know. What if you didn’t?”
“But that’s just it. I don’t even know what I want for dinner right now. Let alone what I want to do with my life. I’m trying to find my way back into balance, but I don’t know how.”
“Exactly. Sit with that. Some of the greatest gifts in life come from not knowing.”
She made it sound easy, but it wasn’t that simple. I’d left my husband and the only job I’d known. Sooner or later I was going to have to make a decision. If I waited too long, I might not have either.
Mom returned to her biscuit dough. “So, you want to tell me what really happened last night?”
Words spilled out of me just like the tears had.
Satisfied that she’d extracted the emotional response she was hoping for out of me, Mom hand-cut more biscuits and popped another batch in the oven. She removed the first batch, which had baked to perfection with golden, brown tops oozing with melted cheese.
I did feel remarkably improved, but I’m sure I looked horrible. I busied myself with making a pot of coffee and wiped my eyes in the bathroom.
Now it was Mom’s turn. Our promise worked both ways.
I reviewed the menu for the day and prioritized what needed to be made next. Torte’s recipes have been passed down from generation to generation. Mom’s recipe book is well-worn. Its pages are dog-eared, splattered with vanilla, and contain notes in the margins—a little less flour, an extra splash of cream, suggestions on the perfect water temperature for rising yeast and double-boiling melted chocolate. I ran my hand along the pages crusty from cake batter. I’d have to ask Thomas if he could help me scan the recipes onto an iPad.
While flipping through the cookbook I gave Mom a look from her own playbook.
“What about you?” I asked, tapping the pencil in my hand on the butcher block.
“What about me?” She looked surprised.
“Our deal works both ways, right?”
“Of course.”
“So you want to tell me what’s going on with money?”
Her eyes widened and she pretended to study a recipe card in her hand.
“Come on, you know that recipe by heart. Dish. What’s up?”
She looked resigned. “All right.” She set the recipe card down. “Will you pour me a cup?” She motioned to the coffee. “Where do you want me to start?”
“How about the beginning?”
As Mom crinkled her brow and pulled a bar stool over to the kitchen island, I heard a knock on the door.
The sound made me jump.
Andy waved through the window and motioned to the door. Drat. Mia must still have his key.
I turned to Mom. “You’re not off the hook. We’re not leaving here today until we finish this conversation. Got it?”
“Got it,” Mom agreed.
I wound my way to the front of the shop, wondering why the universe was conspiring to make sure that Mom and I couldn’t finish our conversation. Customers wouldn’t be too far behind Andy. Plus, I couldn’t have the kind of conversation I needed to in front of him. Before opening the door I swore to myself that I wouldn’t leave until Mom and I went through Torte’s books line by line and that I would keep a close eye on Andy and Stephanie.
I didn’t want to believe that either of them could be stealing from us, but I couldn’t rule it out either.
“Hey, thanks, boss.” Andy looked sheepish. “I, uh, need to get my key from Mia. Well, yeah, you know that.”
“You’re here early.” I noted the clock read five
A.M.
An hour before Andy usually arrived. He must be genuinely worried about his job. No kid I knew came in early of his own accord, especially at five in the morning. If I didn’t like him so much I’d think he was trying to kiss my ass.
“Yeah, I figured maybe you’d need an extra hand to clean up from…” He trailed off. Then his eyes surveyed the bakeshop. “Whoa—it looks awesome in here. Did you pull an all-nighter or something?”
“Something.” I closed the door behind him and secured the lock.
Andy noticed. “Locking the door, huh? Is it serious? Does this mean Mia’s off the hook?”
I ignored his barrage of questions and waved for him to follow me to the kitchen. “I’m not sure but the new deal is we’re going to keep the door locked during nonbusiness hours. Got it?”
Mom greeted Andy with a floured hug, leaving white marks on the orange T-shirt he wore. It had a photo of a pop bottle shooting Mentos candy.
“Andrew.” Mom stretched out his name like a piece of taffy. “I’m so glad to see you this morning.”
Brushing flour from his shirt, she gave him a nod. “Let’s put yesterday behind us. What do you say?”
Andy blushed. “I’d just like to say one last time that I’m real sorry and I’m going to work extra hard to make it up to you, Mrs. C.” He caught my eye. “You too, boss.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mom insisted. “We could use some help baking. Right,
Jules.
”
Hearing her say my name shook me to the present. I hadn’t realized that I’d been staring intently at Andy. Was he really the innocent kid he appeared to be? All my instincts told me yes, but what about the missing money? Mom was trusting—to a fault. Pocketing a few extra bucks throughout the workday would have been a pretty easy gig. Andy had been vocal about his financial situation.
And what about Nancy? She’d been awful to him. Was there a chance that he could have murdered her?
No way, Jules. Drop it.
“Right.” I cracked my knuckles, a habit I developed when I was young. Now it’s my tell.
Mom shot me a look to say she didn’t approve.
I busied myself with the checklist of recipes. “How are you with figs, Andy?”
“Uh, I don’t think I’ve ever had a fig,” Andy replied.
“They’re fantastic, although an acquired taste. Kind of like the water in town. People either love or hate them. I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s impartial to a fig.”
Andy wrapped an apron around his tangerine shirt.
“Nice shirt.”
He laughed. “Yeah, every time I wear it one of my friends wants to run out and grab a bottle of Coke to explode. It’s a guy thing.”
“What is it with guys and blowing stuff up?” I asked.
Andy shrugged. “Okay, so figs? What am I doing? Where are they?”
“In the fridge.” I motioned to the stainless steel refrigerator. “But, be careful. They bruise easily.”
He removed the box, cradled it in his hands, and gently placed it in front of me on the kitchen island.
“You’re good. They’re not that fragile.”
“Hey, you said to be careful.”
The kid could follow directions.
Mom joined in the banter. “He’s right. You did.”
I threw my hands in the air. “Fair enough, can you grab the other box?”
This time Andy rocked the box from side to side in his arms as if he were swinging a baby.
Mom and I cracked up. This morning was already drastically improved.
I removed a greenish-brown fig from the box and held it to the light. “See how it almost looks like it’s rotten?”
Andy nodded. “It looks gross. I see why some people hate them.”