Was she kidding? The bread was freaking fantastic. Crusty on the outside, soft in the middle, and still warm from the oven. “Nope. Now give it back to me.” He reached out and tugged the plate back.
“What about the flavor?”
“It tastes like bread.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“Okay, fine. I taste malt and maybe a little honey. Not too yeasty. I actually think it’s bold in the flavor department. Yet, it doesn’t overwhelm the palate.” Oh, for Christ’s sake, he sounded like one of those douchey foodies who were always talking about mouthfeel and throwing around words likeartisanalandcurated.
“Wow, you got the malt. Is it too much?”
Jeez, how was it that one of America’s most famous chefs was so damned insecure? “Nah, I thought it was pretty balanced.”
“I used less yeast and I retarded the fermentation by refrigerating the dough to help the flavor stand out more. But I still think it sucks. You don’t, huh?”
“Nope. Then again, I wouldn’t turn down a Little Debbie variety pack. So what the hell do I know?”
He saw her face fall and kicked himself for being an asshole.
“It’s as good as anything I’ve ever had at La Brea, Röckenwagner, Tartine, Acme,” he quickly amended, ticking off every great California bread bakery he could think of. “You planning to bake bread full-time?” When she shook her head, he said, “So what’s the big deal?”
She deliberated, then said, “I’ve got a thing about being perfect.” She took a long pause as if she’d just come to that revelation, then added, “It’s sort of exhausting, if you want to know the truth.”
“Yeah, I would imagine so. I’m guessing this has to do with your mommy issues.” He wasn’t much for armchair analysis, but it didn’t take Carl Jung to figure out that Gina’s mom had turned her daughter into a head case.
“Probably” was all she said about it. “What about you? What’s your kryptonite? Or are you perfect?”
“Pretty much.” He winked and then for no reason at all said, “My sister went missing five years ago. The thought of her out there, alone and in trouble, keeps me up at night. The alternative, that she’s dead, is even worse.”
Gina jerked back in surprise. “My God, Wendy never said anything. How…what happened?”
That was the question he’d been asking himself for years. “One day she just stopped calling. It was as if she vaporized. No money trail, no social media presence, no contact with her friends, no nothing.”
“Do you think…could it be that someone hurt her?”
“Maybe. But there’s information to indicate that two years ago she was involved in this group, some kind of communal farm that was off the grid in New Mexico. As far as I can tell it doesn’t exist anymore. And that’s where the trail ends.”
“Was she close to your family? I mean, why wouldn’t she call?”
“We were close. That’s why none of it makes sense.”
She pulled the baked ziti out of the oven and served them both before joining him at the counter. “What about that communal farm? I mean, not to judge, but it sounds kind of sketchy. Especially because it’s the last place she wound up.”
You think? “Yup. Angie has always been attracted to weird shit. Normally, I wouldn’t find a communal farm all that weird, or sketchy, just a bad remnant of the seventies. But I’m with you on this one. I just spent the last two days digging around Taos and there’s nothing on these people. Not so much as a footprint. They were either ghosts or shady as hell.”
“That’s where you were, huh? Maybe you and your family should hire a private investigator.”
“We have. At least a dozen of them. The last one came up with the Taos lead. I confirmed it with a former resident of the commune, who had a picture of Angie. But she’s not saying much.”
“What about the police? Can’t they get this woman to talk?”
He shook his head. “There’s no law that says she has to speak with us.”
He took a bite of his ziti and another one after that. Maybe somewhere an Italian grandmother made it better, but it was the best ziti he’d ever had. For all her nutty insecurities, Gina DeRose could cook.
“This”—he stabbed his fork at his plate while he chewed the rest of his mouthful—“is incredible.”
“It’s in my frozen food line.” She ladled a second helping onto his plate. “Back to your sister. I think we should make another trip to New Mexico.”
