“I can have someone run a pound of sugar over to you but I still don’t understand why you won’t let me give you some frosting. I have loads of chocolate buttercream here.”
“Because it needs to be homemade,” I ground out.
“I can come to your home and make it there. It will take me ten minutes.”
I rubbed a hand over my forehead. “I can’t do that either.”
Technically, I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I could ask Nyomi to bake and frost a birthday cake for Shay and I would willingly admit the bakehouse prepared it because my culinary skills didn’t extend beyond canning and preserves. I didn’t have to do this simply because Jaime threatened to send the mafia after me.
But I was going to do this. I was going to get it right.
“You’re the boss,” she sang. “Try adding a dash of milk. Start with a tablespoon. Mix for a few minutes. Add another tablespoon, mix again. And don’t forget to taste it. You’ll know when it’s right.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Nyomi chuckled. She enjoyed laughing at me. She’d been doing it since I hired her a couple of years ago, right after she dropped out of pastry school. “Remind me again how you make jam.”
“Jam is scientific,” I replied.
“Baking is scientific,” she countered.
“You just defined a dash of milk asprobablyan eighth of a cup.”
“Sounds scientific to me,” she replied with a laugh. “What is scientific about raspberry rose jam? It must take dozens of test batches to get the rose right.”
“Not really.”
“So, then, your first batch comes out flawless and nothing accidentally tastes like soap?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a batch that tasted like soap.” I rested my forehead against a shelf. “I can’t discuss this right now. I have to solve my buttercream problem.”
“Should I send someone over with sugar?”
I scowled at the bowl. “Yeah. Just in case. But tell them to be quiet about it.”
“Do you have much history with noisy sugar deliveries?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” I grumbled. “Just send the sugar. All right?”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said. “And if a pint of chocolate buttercream disappears from my kitchen with that extra-quiet sugar, no one will be the wiser.”
I didn’t argue with her because there was a strong possibility I’d need that assist.
Exiting the pantry, I listened closely for any sound of Gennie or Shay. Gennie had promised to keep Shay upstairs for today’s tutoring session, and while I trusted my niece, I knew there were limits to the child’s persuasive powers. Also, her attention span.
Back at the counter, I measured out a precise tablespoon of milk and mixed it into the frosting. Though I doubted it would do anything, the consistency loosened up. It was still uneven but I let the mixer run, gradually adding small amounts of milk. It was thicker than frosting ought to be and some of the sugar wasn’t completely incorporated but it wasn’t grout and it wasn’t a mudslide either. Progress, possibly.
One of the baking assistants arrived with the sugar as I switched off the mixer. Dante waved through the kitchen window but said nothing, which meant Nyomi had put the fear of god in him. And that was why she was the best baker in the state. Fear—and kickass pies.
I opened the door, spoonful of frosting in hand. “Taste this,” I said.
“Tastes like chocolate,” Dante said around the spoon. “It’s good. Whip it a little longer. Needs a dash of vanilla too.”
“So that’s an eighth of a cup of vanilla, right?”
“Hell no.” He handed the spoon back. “More like an eighth of a teaspoon.”
“Nothing makes sense,” I muttered to myself. I took the sugar and the backup buttercream stored in an ice cream pint container. “Thanks for this. And thank Ny for me.”
